The Novella Life of Illuscia Nester Himawari

I naturally fell into babysitting around the age of 14. Through friends and family, I got leads for babysitting to score some cash, which definitely beat having to work at a restaurant. The job had its ups and downs, but overall it wasn’t a bad gig at all. Yet, as many good experiences as I had, they were all eclipsed by one night. A new family in town talked to my dad at work and it turned out that they needed a babysitter. I happily took the job and found myself watching their 10-year old boy a couple of weeks later. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the family themselves. They were the model citizens of suburban America, complete with the white picket fence and blue shutters. Nothing about their house was strange or even unique. Their son Avery was very mild-mannered and polite. Even their car was basic. Not that these were bad things, but I expected it to be a very boring night. What I did not expect was the uncomfort

  I passed James another beer from the cooler between my feet and cracked open another one for myself. “How’d you figure it out?” I asked him. “She told me,” James replied in a flat emotionless tone as he twisted the gold ring on his finger, “Told me the baby wasn’t mine and to start packing my stuff.” I didn’t say anything back to him. What could I say to someone who’d just lost his wife like that? I let the silence linger and continued sipping my beer while I watched the sunset behind the trees. James had us parked in a different spot from where we’d usually drink, which was Ashburn Park. That night James had us parked near the entrance to a trailer park about 30 minutes outside of town. I thought it was odd at the time, but I’m not one to give the man any grief about where we’d sit and drink our beers, he’d had enough on his plate. I finished two more beers before I tried to break the silence, “So where do you think y

    I've always been bound to death. On my eighth birthday, a shadow strode into my house and shot me and my family dead. I remember it vividly, every detail, every angle, etched and stained and carved into my memory. I sat very still with my knees to my chest, my gaze glued to my siblings. Lily and PJ looked like they were sleeping, and I could almost believe it. I didn't look at the shadow. From the comfort of my knees, I waited for my brother to lift his head. But his body was so limp, so still, every part of him faltering. My sister’s head was nestled in his shoulder, thick beads of red running down her face. They're just sleeping. I could tell myself they were— as long as I didn't look at the splatter of scarlet staining the back of the couch and pooling at their feet. BANG . Mom’s body dropped onto the ground. I lunged forwards, slamming my hands over my ears.

    I (26F) don't really date much. It's just never been my thing. But I'm doing well in most aspects of my life and I finally felt ready enough to actually put myself out there. I started with a few "test" dates with some guys I met on Tinder and Bumble. Just a way for me to dip my toes in the dating pool without getting too serious too quickly. I was completely upfront about this with guys and a few of them were totally cool with it, which was nice. Conversations and drinks flowed, and everything went well. Especially with one guy in particular. I hadn't thought anything of him initially. But he was kind and I loved the way he made me laugh. It also didn't hurt that he was very cute. We had gone on a few other dates after our initial one. And by our fourth, I felt safe enough to meet him at his place for a fifth date. Johnny (not his real name) lived about thirty minutes away, so I had time to clear m

  I'm at a loss, let me explain: I’ve had someone peeking at me for most of my life, he kind of reminds me of that poem by William Hughes Mearns. It goes: Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there! He wasn’t there again today, Oh how I wish he’d go away! That’s only the first of three verses, but it’s a short poem. The first time I saw Mr. Peeks, I was a child and that’s when I named him. You can’t really hold it against a 9-year-old when he’s being unoriginal. The name stuck, and his name is Mr. Peeks. I call him Mr. Peeks because he’s never told me his name. Mr. Peeks doesn’t speak, he only looks at me. That shouldn’t be a surprise. I’ve never seen the bottom half of Mr. Peeks’s head, only the top of his nose, his brow, and his eyes. I don’t like his eyes. I want to say that Mr. Peeks is a man, but I don’t know if he is or not. I refer to him as a he, because he seems li