“Somewhere out there, over that bridge and through the trees sits a whole new world. Our parents are there, too.” Flippo’s translucent pea-colored wings fluttered, Alf buzzed past him, nearing his face, and then flying around in circles. “Do you really think so, Flip? Do you? Huh, do ya’?” Alf was the most nervous of fairies but he and Flippo were brothers, Alf’s annoying behaviors could never break their bond. 

The two were separated from their parents during a storm, lightning, thunder and then a magnificent gust of wind carried them away. Flippo and Alf did exactly what they had always been taught, they stayed home and waited for someone to come for them, home, being Mrs. Rosea’s Garden. The family took up residency, years ago in an abandoned bird house that had fallen from the trees, more like a mansion, with multiple rooms and a skylight that allowed the warm sun in. They were always safe there, just alone.

“Come on.” The two flew back. “We need to come up with a plan to safely make it past Terrence. Terrence was a large German Shepard that belonged to Mrs. Rosea and every time she let him out to potty, he would prance back and forth across the bridge. They were sure Terrence was the only thing around that could see or smell them, their aroma, described as deliciously flattering. Whenever they were near, Terrence would run wild, jumping and barking, snipping at the air.

Home again, they practiced their escape by doing pushups and bench-pressing flower stems. “Look at this.” Alf formed a muscle. Flippo shook his head. “We’re about ready to fight that dog.” Flippo said. 

“What imaginary field trip are you guys on today?” The fair-folks glided in, laughing at their offsprings. 

“Mom, dad, you’re home!”

Oliver Sandy was eighty years old. He held an annual dinner to celebrate, by his definition, his resurrection. He stood at the head of the table, holding a giant mug of beer, his company, gripping crystal wine glasses, cheered him on. 

“You made the journey here for one reason, to remain youthful.” He looked outside, windows raging the length of the room. The moonlight allowed the artifactual church, eaten by elements, to be seen. “We’ll journey there after we indulge in this nutrition. No need to tarry.”

The staff dumped piles of bloody meat onto each guest’s plate.

“A blessing.” Mr. Sandy slurped his up using chopsticks. The table psychotically laughed. “Yum, yum, yum.” He chanted, they joined in.

A lady reached for her napkin to erase the mess from her face. Oliver slammed his mug. “No! You will be cleansed by the natural hellbroth.” Quiet took over the room.

“When I stand, you stand, we all stand.” Giggling, he stood and walked towards the door, chairs slid from under the table, the people fell in line. They marched towards the church, halting at the water’s edge. Oliver kneeled, his reflection reminiscent of his youth. He sighed heavily. “What are you waiting for? Get down here and clean yourselves up.”

The earth shook, the moon and stars quenched, the skies cleared, the suns heat beat upon the changed ones. Additional stones from the church collapsed. “He wouldn’t give me heaven, but He gave you free will to choose me. There’s nothing wrong with remaining beautiful for an eternity here on earth. Souls, a minimal price to pay.” He knew there was no such as eternal earth. He belched loudly responding to his thoughts. 

The born-again demons splashed and frolicked embracing their newfound youth. Oliver happily sang their assignments into their ears.

Trudy and Ms. Sinclair wore knee length black dresses with white frilly collars and aprons, rubber shoes with inch thick soles, management thought they’d help with back pain. 

Jobs were scarce in Gulfport. The ladies did what they could to provide for their children. 

“I was up past midnight stirring the pot.” Ms. Sinclair groaned, hand on her hip.

“This cart just keeps getting heavier; linens, bleach, soap, toilet paper, and do they expect we leave these on the pillow.” Ms. Sinclair held a melted chocolate wrapped in tinfoil. 

They laughed.

From sunup, the heat had no mercy. 

Trudy brushed by, taking the cart, pushing it to the next room. 

“Heavier, maybe, but we’re older……. Look coming here.” Trudy pointed towards the courtyard.

“Y’all get out there, sell them praline candies, two dollars apiece.” Mrs. Sinclair hollered down to her kids. “Junior, keep an eye on Fancy. Her daddy’s still at the bar, too drunk to keep her.”

“Yes ma’am.” Junior said. 

“Charles is good for nothing, got my kids working in the heat to make a dime.” Ms. Sinclair scoffed. 

“Not many of them are……worth anything.” Trudy raised her eyebrows.

They pulled the dirty sheets off the bed. Ms. Sinclair stopped to fan with a breakfast menu left on the nightstand. “I don’t know why these folks want to sleep in an antebellum home. Haven’t they heard the ghost stories.” Ms. Sinclair sat down; her bones popped. 

Trudy finished the bed.

“I made a special piece of candy for Charles, poured some antifreeze in his batch. I plan to kill him.”

Trudy kept working and laughed. “Oh, Ms. Sinclair, you’re not killing Charles.”

“Who ain’t? Took a policy out three years ago. While I’m at it, probably going to tell Mr. Devereaux to take this job and shove it.”

The tremendous, ridged glass peak stood mightily before the fortress of Saint Unique, a home for tortured souls, an immaculate castle situated against the water’s edge.  

Nothing in, nothing out…. This had always been law. Steel warning signs were secured tightly by railroad spikes at every possible entrance. Yet, thrill seekers attempted the climb at least twice a season. 

There is no help for the sick, those dying inside, their bodies still thriving no matter how disfigured their features, having attempted to climb the mount of glass against the warnings of those that knew them. The reward for arriving at the peak would’ve been the most pleasurable of all pleasures. But defeat was met feet from the top, the slippery slope denied any further grip sending its pursuers tumbling down the sharpest shards, ripping through their flesh, stopping only to allow their survival. A team of men formed together decades ago to retrieve their bodies and hide them within the walls of Saint Unique, providing medicine and sustenance to live. Yet, in such a condition, each remaining suitor stared hopelessly from their rock lined palace windows, wailing, scratching at the glass, begging for one last try. The erect alp was the only thing visible from St. Unique, adding to their torture. 

Their desire after destruction brought on by one woman flaunting her success, the only person alive to have reached the top. Driven mad with delight, she too was brought to the castle. She danced through the halls, whistling and singing of her triumph. A crown of foil was placed around her head by the guardians, she perceived it to be the purest of gold. She knew nothing but joy, day in and day out. 

“Long live King Colossal.” Stuttering, her eyes closed, then once again she began to dance. 

Every year during summer break, Cline and Coby tagged along with their Civil War enthusiast uncle to hike Lookout Mountain. This year was no different except he would allow the pre-teens to trek out a small distance on their own.

Exceeding their boundary, they made it to the top of the mountain. The view was magnificent. 

   “What’s that thing? A tiny Stonehenge?” Coby asked.

   “You’re dumber than I thought.” Cline laughed. 

Coby gave Cline a swift kick to the groin. When Cline could once again stand comfortably, the two engaged in a wrestling match until tired. Their red sweaty faces revealed their adolescent mentality. They shared some water and then Cline decided to explain the monument. 

   “In winter of 1863, during a battle known as Above the Clouds, the soldiers aligned, loaded and readied their cannon. The signal was given to fire. The cannonball didn’t clear the stack of stones but, instead went right through the first one. Wanna see?” Cline said.

Coby shrugged. They walked towards the mound. 

   “Look, it’s still in there.” Cline pointed.

   Coby leaned forward, being small enough, he stuck his upper body through the hole. “I don’t see anything.” His voice echoed. 

Cline grabbed Coby’s feet, raised his legs and forced him in. Cline placed his backside over the hole, trapping Coby. 

Coby screamed! He frantically pushed his cousin trying to move him. He was too heavy! In a panic, Coby beat every inch of his rock cell. He could feel the stone walls closing in on him, blinded, he lost his breath. Coby collapsed.

   Cline wiped dirt on his face, picked up a stick and whistled as he headed back towards camp. He ran the last few yards, appearing weak and frightened. “I can’t find Coby! He disappeared somewhere on the trail!” Cline cried. 

The End.

Markie and his younger brother Riley ignored their grandmother’s call. Two more innings and they’d glory as Wiffle-Ball champions.

An unsubtle darkness settled as they began their journey home.

Everything around them began to shake. Markie raised his arms to steady himself.

“EARTHQUAKE!” Riley gripped his brother’s hand. 

“Let go!” Markie pushed his sibling. The rumbling intensified, then came to a silent halt.

“Those twin warlocks, with matching cottages are cooking up potions to kill kids. The mixture causes a reaction, things tremble.” Markie laughed and helped his brother up. “Jokes aside, don’t hold my hand again. What if the fella’s had seen that?”

Riley glanced at the well-lit cabins. His brother’s story was possibly true… but…. There’s another tale that came to his mind. 

Suddenly, layers of green earth rose up like waves, steam soared from the small waterhole and the window shades on the little houses began quickly opening and closing. The atmosphere went from pitch black to faint lighting, repeatedly. The boys held one another tightly, tiptoeing past, praying the evil twins wouldn’t catch them.

Markie’s voice quivered, “Those aren’t win….dows! Those are eye….lids! Runnnnn!” He and his brother took off, screeching to an abrupt stop, seconds from tumbling into space. The night sky held the stars, moon and now Markie and Riley teetered on nothing’s edge. Swaying from side to side, they sat down, grabbed a tree trunk, and held on for dear life.

Snorting noises echoed through the air as steam once again rolled from the waterhole.

“Markie.” Riley whispered. “I hope your stupid game was worth it. Bad kids wake the beast, look, we’re holding on to a Dragon’s wart so we don’t die…… and……that’s not a waterhole……it’s a nostril.” 

The dragon lowered his head, let out a sneeze and sent the boys flying home.

Her heel snagged on the grass laced gravel that led up to the castle brought extinct by a dreadful outbreak of tuberculosis, no mercy shown to the royalty or servants who once dwelled here.

She swung the iron keys from left to right, glancing back to tell me stories of how the remaining officials turned the palace into a hospital for the ill.

“No patients survived.” She said.

“Mmmm.” I nodded.

The last key on the ring unlocked the worn and rusted gate, allowing us entry.

“You really want to purchase this eyesore, sir?” She said.

“Aren’t you a realtor?” Common sense should’ve been visible from the mind of an elegant businesswoman dressed in Armani.

“Sure.” She shrugged.

Feeling a breeze from overhead, I observed eight ghastly vultures swooping down to catch her sent. The day darkened, bringing a beautiful pastel sky into view, signaling their approval of the prey I had chosen. A generational task passed down, to feed our ancestors having died here of the plague, whose tormented souls had taken the shape of the only living creatures around, the birds. They’ve since haunted every ward.

She rushed to the foyer, the shattered glass ceiling allowed light to shine upon the healthy, vibrant indoor garden. “How is this possible?” She bent down to sniff a beautiful red rose, quickly returning to a standing position once the sound of wailing echoed within the walls.

She hadn’t been here before.

“Miss, your imagination is wild.” I snatched her backwards into my chest, wrapping my arm around her pearl choker, I snapped her neck.

“Feast.” I offered her to my kin. The air thickened, a translucent film hovered and the vultures reappeared. They ripped into her flesh, devouring every morsel except for the bits needed to fertilize the inviting and necessary garden.

The invitation list included everyone enrolled to live and learn at this place. I found little pleasure in anything here but looking at Rora Jinson. She was the prettiest girl in school. 

I would’ve given my right arm, okay… left arm, to take her to this year’s dance. Unfortunately, administration had other plans, a goal to boost the self-esteem of the girls. They were to wear their all-black hooded gowns that flowed to the ankles, inched up the neckline and covered their wrists. The males were instructed to sport the same tux as always, our hair slicked back, a tie, and the hideous cummerbund.

It was creepy when they introduced the charade mask for the females, making it next to impossible to locate Rora.

The ugliest girl in school could end up twirling the night away with the most popular boy around, that was the idea, and to make things worse, the guys had to choose the girl. 

 

“Hello.” Rora answered the phone, first ring. 

I swallowed hard. “Rora, George Flin here.” I spoke fast. “I had every intention on asking you to this year’s ball, until those in charge made other plans.” 

Rora sighed. 

I imagined her twirling her hair around her pointer finger, knowing why I called.

“I will draw a red triangle on my neck, George. Be first in line.” Rora said before abruptly hanging up. 

I fought Tommy Hughes for line leader. “Yeah, what? Boyyyyy!” My superpowered push sent him flying to the ground.

I straightened my jacket, strutted in, and stared blankly at the line of girls against the wall, all of whom had red triangles on their necks. 

“Let this be a lesson to all!” Principal Ferrier yelled through a megaphone. “You never know what you’re getting, look for beauty on the inside!”  

Her long white gown trailed across the forest floor as she quickly moved forward in desperation. The fallen wet twigs crunched underneath her bare feet, pressing into her soles. The pain, more bearable than his evil insults. His words hurt more than any punch he could throw.

She was a prisoner in her own home. 

Her tear-soaked hair followed her. She turned to make sure she was still alone. 

“He’s gone.”  She whispered.

“He’s gone?” She questioned herself.

“Please………” She no longer had a choice.

She pressed her back against the last tree before the clearing. She slid down and pulled her knees under her chin – covering her eyes, she wept. 

Dinner and a movie, that’s how it began. Years later, he was still there. He invaded her home, taking from her everything she worked for.  She couldn’t breathe. He sucked up every inch of her air. 

She had to go back and fight for what was hers.

She sat and waited, purposely flooding herself with memories of a stronger, more diligent woman, a fierce and powerful warrior for all of mankind. She refused to be destroyed by a squirrel of a human, a nibbler of the heart.

“A nibbler of the heart?” She laughed. Her spoken thought provoked a more satisfying resolution to her living situation.

“If he’s not gone. I’ll rid myself of him.” Her conversation heard only by the giant, naked trees.

She rushed back.

With all her might, she unwedged the ax from winter’s wood stump.

Fearless, she approached the back door of her home.  

Slowly turning the knob, she watched her muddied feet contact the hardwood floor. She dragged the ax behind her. 

 

“Uhhhhhhhh…..” She gasped, sat up in her bed and looked around, relieved, realizing he’d been gone for well over a decade. 

“Gather around, my little Ransackadias. It’s time that we make our appearance.” The fearless leader sang to the billions of his now emerged brood. He stood a half inch tall and about an inch in length, a couple of millimeters larger than his minions who replied by rubbing their wings together. Their color, tawny, changed to turquoise before every flight. 

     It had been seventeen years since their last attack upon humanity. The nymphs hatched from their eggs many moons ago, attached to the calcium carbonate of the highest mountain and grew stronger and stronger. 

     “Now!” The leader transformed before the many. 

     Their wings expanded as they set off to seek and destroy every thing suburbia. 

     Photographers in the land of Calcar snapped pictures when the tiny pests swarmed from their perch. A deafening noise emerged as parts of the mountain top crumbled, shaken by their fierce movement. 

     Finally, they blended in with the clear sky. They were on a suicide mission. 

     “Ransackadia!” Their song became louder.

     They broke off into groups and invaded every town known to man, crashing into cars, homes, landing in children’s hair, splattering themselves purposely on all surfaces.

     Screams could be heard around the world.  

     BREAKING NEWS interrupted every program.

     “We’re here at the Super Mart Supermarket, where the Ransackadia’s made their first landing. Excuse me, sir.” The reporter approached an unsuspecting patron carrying several bags.

     “Sir, how do you feel about this year’s invasion?” The reporter asked just as a group of Ransackadia dove in towards the man’s head. He dropped his groceries and sprinted towards his vehicle.

     “THEY’VE RANSACKED EVERYTHING!” He yelled back.

     “There you have it! This place is one of many – RANSACKED! This is Michael Strausser reporting live from Ransackadiaville.” The reporter laughed, standing securely under an umbrella.