I

The day I died was just an average day.

I remember waking up with the morning sun shining through my bedroom window. I remember how it warmed my back as I got dressed. I even remember stopping for a second, and thinking: ‘Maybe - just maybe - today will be different. Maybe today will be a good day.’ In my heart I knew it wouldn’t be, though.

I grabbed my backpack, and headed to the kitchen for breakfast. Breakfast was the same as always: quietly sitting across from Dad without a single word or a ‘Good morning’ being said. I went to the sink, washed my bowl, and grabbed the lunch money off the counter. I remember pausing and turning around a little at the door, hoping for a ‘Have a good day’ - even a wave or smile - but like every other day, it was not to be found.

Oh well, I guess it’s just an average day.

II

I remember waiting for the bus, and the lump in my throat as I saw the bus coming down the road. I knew I would be sitting all alone as I did every day before. As we stopped at each of the kids’ homes, I knew none of them would say ‘Hi’ to me as they walked past me, going to their seat. I remember them all laughing happily behind me.

Oh well, I guess it’s just an average day.

III

In school it was no different. It felt just like so many days before. Running from class to class trying to hide from a couple of bullies that didn’t like me, for some reason I never could figure out.

My luck ran out late in the morning that day. I saw HIM in the hallway waiting for me. I remember thinking: ‘What will it be today? A punch, slap, or kick; spit in my face; or just belittling me with hurtful words.’

As I headed to what had been my life for a couple of years now, something in me snapped, as I thought: ‘Not today.’

As I got closer to him, I heard him say: ‘Come here, and get what you deserve.’ Then he reached out to grab me. I jumped forward, and pushed him as hard as I could; and he fell to the floor, hitting his head on the lockers. I ran to class as fast as I could, and never looked back. I remember sitting in class feeling really good, I even smiled for the first time that day.

I thought: ’Now that I finally stood up for myself maybe - please God - maybe they will leave me alone. Maybe we can even be friends - wow, that would make me so happy...

‘Maybe this will be a better than average day.’

IV

Lunch was usually my most favorite time of the day. I really enjoyed sitting and talking with the couple of friends that I did have. I found out from them that word of what I did was going around the school. I finished most of my cheeseburger, and said to my friends that I’d be right back.

‘I just need to go to the bathroom.’

As I stood at the urinal, I heard the door open. I looked around, and saw it was him. I let out a sigh, and thought: ‘Okay, let’s just get this over with. Whatever it will be - a slap, punch, or typical name-calling.’

As I turned around, I started to say: ‘I am sorry…’ - but he lunged forward, and thrust a knife deep into my stomach six times. I grabbed my stomach with both hands, and fell to the floor. The pain was so bad. As I laid there, trying to breath, all I could think was…

‘This is definitely not an average day.’

V

As I opened my eyes, I remember how confused I was.

I was looking down at myself - so strange, I had never been able to do that before. I was such a mess. Blood was everywhere, and coming out of all the holes in my stomach. I was angry because I saw he had put rips in my favorite shirt.

I could see teachers, policemen and firemen running all around. I wondered why they would not talk to me. I kept asking them questions, but they just kept ignoring me.

‘Oh well, at least it does not hurt anymore.’

Things went dark for a while. With a bump, I woke up in a very strange, cold room. Off in the distance, I could hear my Dad’s voice.

‘Help, Dad - help me, please - I am so cold, Dad.’

I saw Dad standing over me, crying and repeating my name over and over. I had never seen my Dad so broken.

‘What, Dad? What is wrong? I am right here, Dad - please answer me.’

He put his head on my chest and said: ‘I love you so much.’

‘I love you too, Dad - I love you too.’

Why can’t he hear me?

’Wait, stop - please stop - do not pull that sheet over my head. I am scared of the dark. I can’t be dead - I just can’t be - I’m only fourteen. Please, God, please - I’m sorry if I did something wrong. I promise I will be better. Please, God - please give me...

‘Just one more average day.’

***

A story about why we should never allow bullying.

Ethan

Once upon a time, there was an old dark forest, which was home to a whole host of scary monsters.

And in the deepest part of the old dark forest lived a powerful Wizard: the old, old Man in the Moon.

The Man in the Moon had retired to a gloomy castle that stood decaying in the heart of this ancient forest.

And all over the walls of the decaying castle there grew a evil ivy that was very much alive. When any intruders came near, the vines would entrap them.

Now the old Moon Lord was very ugly. Of course, you’ll understand that already, if you’ve ever looked up at the moon in a telescope, with all its cracks and craters and wrinkles! And he knew that anyone who saw him would straight away take fright.

So that, you see, is why the bitter old Wizard would only ever come out of his castle at night, wearing a strange evil mask, so that even the scary monsters of the forest would not see what he looked like.

One night, the monsters of the forest decided to hold a contest to see who was the scariest monster of them all, and to find out who was willing to challenge the Moon Lord. Boastful Count Dracula, of course, was quite certain it would be HIM.

One after another they journeyed to the castle, and tried to scare the Man in the Moon. But even the biggest and most scary of the monsters went running away, wailing and crying, when they came face to face with the powerful old Wizard.

The Jack-O-Lantern’s light blew out when he encountered the Wizard; and the poor Zombie returned a little later, shuffling along the leafy floor of the forest. ‘I was so frightened,’ he said mournfully, ‘my legs fell off and I had to crawl away!’

The Vampire was the next to come forward. He flew disguised as a bat to the castle battlements, and tried to sneak up on the Wizard to take a bite out of his neck; but instead, he was attacked by the pack of Demon Wolves that roamed the castle grounds.

‘Ouch! Fangs for the memory!’ cried Count Dracula, and he shut himself away in his coffin, refusing to come out.

The monsters gathered together once more, and wondered what to do next. But as all this was happening - with no warning at all - a super-loud scream came, way up high, from the tall tower of the castle.

The old Man in the Moon had called for reinforcements - and the young Man in the Moon (his son) had sent a shooting star. And inside the shooting star, there was an entire legion of Space Spiders!

Hundreds of red-eyed Space Spiders came down on the monsters, and started biting them all with their big blood-covered fangs. The battle was fierce - for the monsters knew now they were fighting for the very survival of their forest!

The monsters retreated, and they realised that they would need help if they were to defeat the vicious old Man in the Moon. Reluctantly, they realised they needed the aid of a SUPERHERO!

The monsters decided to send three of their number in search of the Superhero, but the Zombie refused to go without his legs (which were being slowly pulled apart by the evil ivy), and the Count was still hiding in his coffin. So the first to volunteer was the Dragon.

The Dragon had always been brave and was willing to go on this mission. He flew up into the skies, his wings making a noise like a rushing wind. Soon after, the bellowing bad-tempered Ogre became the second monster to set off on the Superhero hunt.

But for a long time, no other monster was willing to come forward. At long last, Ghoulie the somewhat timid Ghost decided he would join the Superhero quest too. ‘W-w-well, I’ll t-t-try my b-b-best,’ he stammered.

Meanwhile, the Moon Lord looked out from the castle. The Wizard could see hundreds of fearsome red and yellow eyes shining in the darkness. Would the Space Spiders listen to him, and do his bidding? Even he started to feel fear in his black heart.

The old Wizard felt tired. How he wished he had been left alone in his crumbling castle! Standing on the battlements, he shivered as he saw more and more giant spider-webs, glistening with moonbeams, spreading amongst the trees of the forest.

The old Man in the Moon raised his arms to cast one last mighty spell. Another loud scream came from the castle tower. The monsters looked up, and saw an army of Flying Monkeys pouring out of the window at the very top of the tower.

Some of the Monkeys were entangled in the tightening moonbeam webs, but others jumped onto the backs of the Spiders. Trees came crashing down, and streams ran black with spider-blood. The monsters were very worried indeed...

But the Flying Monkeys were outside the castle for the first time, and so the Moon Lord’s spell on them started to wear off. Angry with their former master, one by one they flew down to where the monsters of the forest were gathered, led now by Spooky the Skull.

The remaining Space Spiders had fled. Monsters and Monkeys together encircled the castle. The Zombie had found some new legs, and even the Count had emerged from his box again. Then Spooky pointed to the skies: ‘Look! THREE Superheroes - come to our aid!’

The Man in the Moon looked at the army surrounding his castle, and he knew in his heart that he could never win. Even with his remaining evil powers, he knew that that with the coming of the Superheroes he was sure to be defeated.

‘I surrender!’ he cried. ‘I’ll leave in peace, if you let me go!’ The monsters quickly agreed, and the Moon Lord promised to go back to the moon (to make sure his son was behaving). With his last magic, he turned the Demon Wolves into lovable puppy dogs.

The evil ivy was torn down from the castle walls, the last of the spider webs burnt, and even the meanest of the monsters promised the Superheros they would try to be good. ‘We promise - no more fighting Wizards!’ they said.

The castle was rebuilt by the Flying Monkeys, the Dragon and the Ogre, and made to look splendid again (though the Count insisted on his coffin being put in the basement). But how did the Wizard get back to the moon, without his magic?

Simple.

By rocket.

THE END

"Oh wow! What time is it? I can't believe I slept so long."

I get dressed and go downstairs, not noticing it's so quiet in the house. All I can think of is how bright it is outside.

"Mom...mom...where are you?"

Standing in the kitchen, listening. No sound of morning breakfast. No radio. Nothing.

Searching the house, there is no sign of mom, no sign of Ralph, my dog. This is weird. She wouldn't just leave without leaving a note.

"I'm starving." I get a bowl of cereal, some toast, and a granola bar. Look at the clock "11:00! It can't be! Well I'm not staying in here, if she can leave, so can I."

Putting my sneakers on, I go outside. I have to shade my eyes it's so bright out and the sky is so blue. A really dark blue.

Walking down the road towards my neighbours farm, all I can hear is the gravel under my feet. No wind in the trees. no birds singing, no dogs barking, nothing. This isn't right.

I get close to the barn, still nothing.

Steve, the farm hand is always there, always with a bottle of rum in his hand at this time of day.

The cows are still there, but they're not moving, not at all. But they're still standing. Not even any flies around.

My head is spinning.

I run outside to Steve's house. I look around and no is home there either. Nothing.

Still no other sound. No planes in the sky. No cars on the road. Nothing.

This is all too much. I walk down by the river and sit beneath a huge fir tree, the branches shading me from the ever brightning sun. It's getting so hot, my t-shirt is soaked completely through. Now the sky is turning purple. Dark purple. It's pretty but wrong.

I need to lay down. The ground is so soft. Just need to take a nap and when I wake up everything will be alright. My head is still spinning, feels like my head is actually swelling. I close my eyes and it feels like I'm sinking. Sinking in a pile of feathers.

Now sleep.

Sleep.......

@May 14, 2020

A body of a 14 year old boy was found yesterday, under a hay wagon, partially covered near here. It has been determined he died from an overdose of heroin found in his mother's purse. Charges are pending.

This story is fictional.....or is it...

You're a fool if you thought I would wait.

It's the last time I'll let you be late.

I've licked the gin from my lips,

Brushed my skirt down my hips,

And now you will see how I hate.

That finger of yours must be sore,

But it won't swipe right anymore.

It's just after two

And I'm coming for you,

Cock your ear for my knock at the door.

Knock-knock, and now I am in.

Your cat glares up from its tin.

Don't stare so that way,

You know what they say,

Revenge is never a sin.

As his wrist was lovingly snapped from the roomy door, and he sank like a frozen angel into the depths of the North Atlantic, who amongst us did not shed a salty tear for the passing of Jack Dawson?

I was so mesmerised when I first saw Titanic, that it began a weekly ritual of me stuffing my mother's shoulder pads into my training bra to pass for twelve, and solemnly making my pilgrimage to the cinema. Kernel after kernel of popcorn were slowly inserted into my mouth as I stared wide eyed at the screen, the flickering images of Leo's hair, Kate's tits, and icebergs reflected in my heart shaped pupils. Twenty one times I went to see it in the cinema. That is a lot of DiCaprio. Posters of Ginger Spice began to be plastered over by Leo's icy blues, and my Top of The Pops magazines lay in tatters around my bed as I snip snip snipped out anything Titanic related. I was obsessed.

And so imagine my surprise to discover that a most fascinatingly sinister little nugget of information had passed me by about the Titanic, after my years of maniacal interest.

While researching an article on Victorian spiritualists, I came across a passenger named William Stead. Stead (1849 -1912) was a newspaper editor and rather radical journalist for his time. He launched a campaign against child prostitution and had the legal age of consent raised from 13 to 16. Pretty nifty, eh? In fact, he was said to be an all round brilliant man, who spent his last evening on board the Titanic telling hair-raising tales of cursed mummies, and chortling through his eleven course meal. He had been on his way to a peace congress at Carnegie Hall, and it was said that he was due to receive a Nobel Peace Prize that year. As the boat sank he helped women and children into the boats, and gave away his own lifejacket to another passenger. Top bloke.

Here's the interesting thing. While in the 1890's he did go on to develop a strong interest in spiritualism, in 1886 he had had, as yet, no supposed contact with the supernatural. He had always claimed that he would die from either drowning or lynching, and in March of that year he wrote and published a short story called How the Mail Steamer Went Down in Mid Atlantic by a Survivor.

The short story is believed by many to portend the sinking of the Titanic nearly thirty years later, and it is easy to see why. Written to highlight the dangers of a ship with insufficient lifeboats, there are a number of parallels to the real disaster.

Shortage of boats. The real Titanic carried 2,208 passengers, and yet only had enough boats for half, 1,178. In Stead's short story the ship has 916 passengers, and enough lifeboats for 390.

Boats half filled. Despite having enough boats for half of the passengers, only 701-713 people survived the sinking of the Titanic, as chaos and confusion on deck meant that the lifeboats were launched only partially filled. This is also the case in Stead's story, and in both crew had to shoot male passengers who were trying to jump into the boats.

"Meanwhile the captain had reloaded—alas! what a pity he only had two barrels— and a third and fourth boat went off with half their proper complement."

The Steamers Sank At Night. The Titanic sank at 02.20am, and in Stead's story the boat goes down just before dawn, with many of the passengers still in their nightclothes as they swarmed terrified on the deck.

The Dark Haired Girl and JJ Astor. Stead writes of being drawn to an Englishman and his beautiful dark haired daughter;

"One Englishman of distinction attracted me strangely. He had his wife and family with him, and a more beautiful group I never saw. The eldest girl was a dark beauty about eighteen years of age, and it was a pretty sight to see the father beau-ing her about."

The last time that Stead was seen alive, he was clinging to a raft with John Jacob Astor, the richest man on the ship and potentially in the world at the time of his death. JJ Astor was on board with his new dark haired bride, 20 year old Madeline Astor, twenty seven years his junior. It is interesting that Stead's narrator is drawn to this passenger, when he so closely resembles the man that he would die with.

While there is some dispute as to the last words of JJ Astor, reports agree that one of his final acts was to give his place in the lifeboat with his wife to either a woman and her daughter or to two children. He was later seen calmly smoking a cigarette on the deck. The older gentleman in Stead's story behaved in a remarkably similar manner.

"Women first here. Thompson, you will steer her. Take four men, and no more. The young English lady was lowered down, although she clung hard to her father and begged him to let her stay. "No, darling, good-bye. Be happy!" he said, and then stood composedly amid the hurly-burly."

Tragically for Stead, one aspect of the story which proved not to be prophetic was his own survival. While his narrator does fall into the sea,

"I heard a humming noise in my ears, and with a gasp I was up amid a blackened, wriggling sheet of drowning creatures, "

He is rescued by a lifeboat that drifts past him. While Stead's body was never found, we do know that he was with Astor at the end, and drowned.

As a caveat to his tale, William Stead added an editors note at the bottom. It read,

[NOTE.— This is exactly what might take place and what will take place if the liners are sent to sea short of boats.—ED.]

Rather chilling, wouldn't you say? The Titanic remains one of the most fascinating moments in history for me, and having discovered Stead's haunting foreshadowing of the event, I think I love it now more than ever.

Terence Erskin has today been found guilty of the Murder in the First Degree of his niece, Rose Oliver, in one of the most sensational criminal cases of recent years.

Erskin, 47, who is an American History Professor at Corpus Christi College, was charged with the poisoning, and subsequent suicide of Miss Oliver, 17, who was living under his care. The media storm that engulfed the trial was fomented by the manner of poisoning with which Erskin had driven the deceased to end her own life, and its sinister ties to the past.

Formerly considered within academia to be the foremost expert on the Salem Witch Trials, Erskin’s work and teachings had been severely challenged by the publication last year of Linnda Caporael’s thesis ‘The Fungus Theory’. Caporael advocated that the Ergot fungus on the rye grain eaten by the Salem residents during the trials may have caused severe hallucinogenic reactions, therefore accounting for the mass hysteria which gripped the town during the 17th century. The hypothesis directly contradicted the findings of Professor Erskin, upon which he had built his career. He confessed to the court that in a bid to disprove and discredit Caporael, he had begun to feed the corrupted grain to Miss Oliver shortly after the paper’s initial publication.

Oliver, suffering under the escalating effects of the poison, and experiencing disturbing delusions in the week leading up to her death, was said to have believed that the world was coming to an end. There are several reports from Jericho residents stating that she was stopping passers-by and bursting into shops, screaming that there were only a few days left until mankind would be slaughtered.

‘It was getting really scary,’ said Julia, a classmate and sometime friend of Rose. ‘She was running around campus and grabbing people, trying to get them to listen. She said we were all going to die. It was horrible.’

The court heard how Miss Oliver, in a final desperate attempt to communicate her nihilistic fantasies to her fellow students, climbed to the roof of the faculty building on the 14th of July this year. With her arms spread wide, she shouted,

‘The clock is ticking, time is up!’ and jumped.

When asked why he didn’t cease to administer the fungus, when he clearly saw the devastating effect that it was having on his niece, Professor Erskin’s answer chilled the court.

‘If she had survived, she would have been in a position to communicate her experiences with Ergot poisoning to Linnda, and to participate in further studies. As the fungus clearly was a hallucinogen, this would have strengthened the academic reputation of my rival. That would have somewhat defeated the purpose, wouldn’t you say?’

Terence Erskin has been served a life sentence with no chance of parole.

This is a PSA.

I want to talk to you. Yes, you. How your day was, who‘s your favourite author, what’s your Hogwarts House?

But also if you ever need anything please reach out to me. For literally any reason. This community is very supportive, and it’s amazing for me, I want to help people if they need it.

Just shoot me a message, literally anything. “Hi”, “John Green is a legend” or “What are you reading rn?” works too. If you say “I need an editor”, “have any advice” or “I don’t know what to do,” I will help. I will try, my best at least. I am a little awkward, and make some mistakes, but hey, we could do that together?

So please reach out. If you need anything. A friend, a book recommendation or just someone to talk to. I’m here for you, and your writing and your works.

(Tag me in the comments if you want to start a convo or write “I got you” to show everyone else you’re here for them)

Thank you for your time and your support Prose. Please reach out people, we got you.

We used to be happy.

The lets walk around and just see what happens happy.

The I decided to call you for fun happy.

The you make me smile unconsciously happy.

The I’m in love happy.

And then something happened. If you asked me, I couldn’t exactly tell you what it was. Maybe it was me, or him, or just us together, but we never quite felt the same.

We broke the meaning of together. We didn’t quite breakup and there was nothing official originally, but together no longer had a meaning.

We could be in the same room but not speak to each other. Act as if the other person was invisible.

We could be walking in the hall a step away from each other but neither was willing to speed up nor slow down. We acted like strangers when I knew he only took his coffee black and loved the fifth Harry Potter book. And he knew I liked sunrises more than sunsets and couldn’t stand groups of people who take up all the sidewalk.

It was like we were playing an elaborate game of chess where we didn’t want to lose quite yet, but no one was willing to openly pursue victory. No one was willing to show that type of commitment. He didn’t want to lose his queen, and I wasn’t going to give up my king.

I’m not sure what changed the game. But something invisible and indescribable happened. Something that shifted “us”. We were still in the same position that we had been in and we weren’t separated, we just weren’t “us” or “together”. It was more “you and “me” or “him” and “I”.

That’s why, I can’t say we are happy.

“We” isn’t meaningful anymore.

I can maybe say “him” and “I” are happy, but that’s almost worse.

That’s why I have to say that we were.

We used to be happy.

By Linda Hays-Gibbs

There was a demented crook in the river where the water was shallow enough to cross. Just at the evening shade, a purple cloud of night enveloped the spot. When he really hated to be there.Many times he walked to the river to cross but never crossed it!

Today he studied the river carefully. It looked tormented like himself, full of fear. He had to go across and on his old mare, it should be safe enough.

He jumped back on his grey mare and prodded her to wade into the water. The horse took four steps into the water and stopped. He tried to smack her sides to continue but she didnt comply. Suddenly he felt someone jump onto the back of the horse and hold him tight in a frozen grasp.

He was struck with such fear he couldn’t move except to urge the mare forward. The horse complied and they galloped across the river. He was still frozen in fear at the weird terrifying touch of the unwanted rider.

Finally he reached the other side of the river but immediately his rider jumped off and ran back into the woods before he could see him.

He went on into the town,bought his supplies and started back. When he got to the river crossing it seemed deserted as always. He started crossing and got to about the same place when the rider jumped on the back and resumed his ride. Upon reaching the other side, the phantom rider jumped off quickly and disappeared again.

He continued on into the forest trying to make sense of the phantom rider with icy fingers, chest and breath. He got home late and took his mare into the barn to rub her down. He kept shaking his head wondering about his strange rider. He took the saddle and blanket off his old mare and started rubbing her down and brushing her fur at the same time. When he got to the place behind the saddle where his rider rode all the hair was burnt off the mare. He stared in disbelief! Why didn’t the mare scream with this kind of burn? It had to have hurt! He knew he didn’t like that place in the river.

He told his friends about what happened but they weren’t in the least surprised! They all said there was a strange spirit at that place in the river and everyone had taken him across at least once but hated talking about the incidence as they all agreed they dispised their unwelcome rider, whoever he was!

This is a true story.