The Novella Life of Illuscia Nester Himawari

    I have not slept since we left. I am already starting to feel the effects of having no sleep. I hope this message gets to you in time. You may hate me when you've finished reading. Or maybe you'll be grateful. Either way at least you'll know and that's all that matters now. Lux didn't agree… He said it would be better for everyone if they didn't know. There would be no feelings of impending doom. No fear, No tears or heart wrenching goodbyes. Everyone would just go on like it was any other day. But that seems so unfair…..  Why do I deserve to live, when so many others won't? All my friends and family. My teachers. Even Roc. I've had him for as long as I can remember, yet we can't take him. Lux said he wouldn't likely live through the journey, shock of it all I suppose. But Roc. He's the best pet anyone can ask for, and I have to just leave him for death.  It was so hard. Saying goodbye to everyone without really s

To say the scene was gory would have been an understatement.  The entire Cross family, slaughtered while they slept.  Well, not the entire family. The seven year old daughter was left alive. Mute and likely traumatized for life, but alive. A neighbor found Sadie at 2am, playing with her doll in the sandbox.   Blood stained her nightgown, though after a quick glance it was clear the blood wasn't her own. After checking the home, police found the cause. Both parents, brother and sister were dead. Stabbed to death in their beds.  I was there to help contain the scene. I stood by the front door, keeping nosey neighbors and determined reporters out. The kid sat on the living room sofa waiting for CPS. As a new father, my heart hurt at the sight of her. She was so tiny. And now, so alone. I hated to think what her future might hold.  I watched her rocking herself on the sofa, her bare feet still covered with sand, dangling off

  l stare down at my son's face, feeling the first hint of hesitation. My hand shakes, a tiny tremor but it was enough. It saw. There's a momentary flash of recognition in its eyes, and the corners of its mouth turn up just a little. It tried to hide it almost immediately but I saw. I know better.  I turn away from my son who is not my son, tossing the shovel aside and scooping the dirt onto him with my own hands.  "Daddy!" The thing who is not my son chokes out, as dirt rains down on him.  "What are you doing?" It whimpers in my son's voice. "I'm scared"  Tears sting my eyes, but I keep moving, dragging the dirt as fast as I can. It cakes underneath my fingernails, and I start to bleed as rocks cut my palms but I feel nothing.  "Daddy - it's hard to breathe" it cries, and for the first time I hear it struggling. ***  "Please. I wanna go home!", its words mu

  Suicide is a selfish choice, and never the answer - No matter how bad it gets.  Life can be cruel at times. Whether due to a lost job, the death of a loved one, a bad break up, or depression that gets so bad you ache for the quiet nothingness of death. But suicide is never the answer.  Most problems can be fixed with the help of friends and family, a therapist, medication, or just time. In time things will get better. Easier.  Suicide, you can't take that back.  Suicide is a selfish choice.  You may think you're ending the pain, the suffering. But all you're really doing is passing that on to someone else.  You leave a gaping hole in those you left behind. The questions, the guilt of not seeing the signs. Of not doing more.  Suicide is selfish.  I should have seen the signs when Amy stopped wanting to go out to do the things we used to love to do together. Hiking, and sitting on the beach in the winter, bu

    Etta lumbered up the path, feeling her age in her bones with every step. She made her way towards the bench where Hattie sat waiting.  "Hello Hattie. You look pleased. Did your son visit?" Etta asked.  "No." Hattie said, "But my granddaughter came. She's in college now, can you believe it?" A proud smile etched across her withered face Etta eased herself down onto the bench, her joints making the act difficult.  These daily walks were becoming harder and harder. She wished she could have her scooter here. At Heartpine senior care she'd had full access, though she hardly used it then. Her pride had refused to admit she'd needed assistance with something as simple as walking. Seemed silly now. "That's wonderful." Etta said, a pang of jealousy in her chest. Her own family hadn't visited in years, and before that it was very seldom. She didn't know when she'd s

  My daughter was 4 when she got sick, and doctors first used the word "Cancer".  She was 5 when her hair fell out and stayed out and doctors used the word "inoperable".  She was one month shy of her 6th birthday when she coughed up blood, and doctors used the words "palliative care".  It was only three days after that my Megan died.  Her mother left me two months after Megan's death. Losing Megan was like living in a waking nightmare, day in, day out. I'm sure I didn't make it any easier. I drank a lot. I just wanted to sleep. In my dreams Megan was alive. She could play, dance, and had hair. She never heard of Cancer, and never slept in a hospital.  I spent my days watching old videos. It was during one of those moments alone with my memories that I first thought of it. An old memory of Megan and I. It was a few months after we found out she had Cancer. She was scared, and so I lay beside her and

It was 2am when he'd been awaken. He rubbed his sleepy eyes, hurrying to his cruiser.  December air stung his cheeks, chasing away the remaining tiredness from his body.  "What's the problem?" He spoke into his walkie talkie, while the car drifted back down the driveway, crunching over the ice.  "You're needed at the bridge. Someone's in trouble." The female voice replied.  He felt his adrenaline pick up, and the car lurched forward, swerving on the ice for a moment before righting itself. He realized he had been gripping the door handle, and let go, embarrassed.  He wanted to ask what was going on at the bridge, but he could see it's huge silver silhouette in the distance. The car was moving faster now, and he could feel his heart hammering. He wished he could slow down just a bit, but he knew it was his job to help. So he said nothing, gripping the handle.  Finally the bridge lo

    I hadn't always been a hunter. The idea just never appealed to me. That is until my father in law took me along one day during our annual hiking trip.  I wasn't sold on the idea that day. The long quiet hours just sitting and waiting. The gunshot that nearly blew my eardrum. Or watching the deer die.  But I guess you could say I caught the itch. I read up on it, bought a bow, and chose the track and find approach rather than sit and wait. I loved it. Nature was beautiful. I know hunting isn't easy for some. But you have to tell yourself that you're helping. Population control. It's important. My last outing I was tracking a big buck, by the look of the prints, and after a day of hiking off-trail I found fresh prints headed toward a small stream.  It was getting dark, and usually make camp round that time, but I figured I would check the stream first.  As I made my way down a steep incline I heard the unmistakable

  It's been one year since my family was murdered. God, it feels as if they were just here yesterday. It's bizarre how fast your life can change.  My sister.... that's what this is all about. I've been asked to tell my story quite a few times, even offered hefty sums from popular News Networks, and Newspapers. I refused. It's not like I need the money. My parents left me the house, and a large amount of money in the bank, as well as some stocks.  I never planned to say anything about my family's murders, wanting to just let it go. Try to, anyway. But, (and as cliche as it sounds) my therapist suggested talking about it. Getting it out there, instead of keeping it all buried inside of me.  It's because of the nightmares, really. That's what's making it so impossible to come to terms with this whole thing. And due to my destroyed memory, I never know if a nightmare is just that, or a memory. For the most part the d

    I wanted to put my story out there, in hopes of possibly helping someone else. I'm sure there's at least a few people out there like me. It all started when I was a kid. My mother died in childbirth, and my father raised my brother and I. We lived in a small town, but lived a good distance away, so we pretty much stayed close to home. My brother and the other neighborhood kids played in the woods and creek by our house. I thought life would always be happy and carefree..... I first noticed them when I was 9. I was getting ready for school that morning and I happened to see it in the mirrors reflection. I was confused, but I wasn't scared, yet..  I just kept thinking it would go away. Probably a bug bite or something like it, and it would heal on its own. It wasn't big enough to be seen through my clothing, so I didn't bother mentioning it to dad.  I tried to push it from my mind, and being 9, it wasn't too hard

    They’re out there, somewhere. The big fish. Peering into the calm surface water, you might not see them in our midst. Though deep down, swimming and lurking, they wear the face of a common vertebrate, blending easily into the shoal like a bloodthirsty speck of sand in an ignorant bag of flour. As I dragged my dinghy along the white sand toward the edge of the water in the searing low-hanging sun, it was easy to believe I was in a fever dream. The swallowing, gurgling water that ebbed and flowed at my feet, the welcoming blue void that curved away at the horizon - fishing was like reminiscing with an old friend; it was like a warm kiss on a Sunday afternoon. A greeting beckoned me from somewhere down the beach, a voice that yelled with a slurred mouthful of rotten seaweed. That, or the voice was cracking under smoking two packs a day of vocal fry. The man came jogging up to me which left great boot prints upon wet sand in his

    You could always smell my wife before you could see her, her umbilical cord leaving the smell of iron upon our couches it had stained, the rotting fleshy rope sour with decay, her feverish body stale with the sweat from constant hysteria. They called it a medical abnormality. When our son Vincent was born and the umbilical cord cut, it grew out of her bellybutton like a pinkish beanstalk, always twisting, looking for a fencepost to cling on. According to my wife, it did find something to hang on. Our second child we never had. The nights that I spent lullabying Vince and tucking him in were the nights that she would stay awake, feeding it . Madness took my wife Cherelle, and I lived with it. A maternal hiccup, I would say, nothing more. My wife and I had been twisting and turning under our duvet on one humid summer evening. “Darling,” She sat up upon the headboard. “I know I’ve gone off the rails a bit lately.” I turne

    The mint condition and properly sleeved Isaac Bradley baseball card that I needed for my collection turned out to be listed from a seller in an absolute eyesore of a town. Sure, I’m legally obligated to wear my prescription glasses when driving, but in Gary, Indiana, I’ve never ripped them off my head faster than when I was driving round that shithole. It was an utterly haunting hellscape filled with abandoned ruins of houses and lost hope left, right and center – if I was breaking the law or not, I simply didn’t care anymore. My eyeballs couldn’t goddamn breathe. My GPS ended its journey with a ping . Gravel crunched and popped under my tires as I rolled into the driveway around half-past five. The place was downright decrepit. Cut brown fencing had fallen away from around the property, leaving sharp posts that could have been fit for Vlad the Impaler. Mossy fingers and growth climbed the dilapidated building, covering its wooden boarded walls