Makayla is a lifelong reader, writer, and superhero enthusiast. Some of her other interests (of which there are many) include folklore, unsolved mysteries, classic literature, and dinosaurs.
The barricade won’t hold for much longer. Jim runs a shaking hand through his hair. The other is still locked tight around his pistol, and he keeps it pointed at Benji, even though the poor S.O.B. had stopped twitching ages ago. Jim can’t stop staring at the other man’s face—or, what’s left of it, anyway, because it had taken three headshots, three precious bullets of their rapidly dwindling supply, to get Benji All-The-Way-Dead instead of Part-Way-Dead like the ones outside—and he’s dimly aware that he’s muttering, whispering the same few words under his breath over and over and over again.
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of singing. It started with Scott. He frowned and tilted his head to the side, fingers dancing across the keyboards and screens in front of him. He tapped his headphones a few times, as if testing to make sure they were working properly, before checking the various wires and cords connected to the machinery.
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. From her hiding place in the bushes, Mary watched the flickering flame, face scrunched in a sort of confused fascination. Brandon, crouched beside her, fidgeted nervously.
It was monsoon season again. It rolled in slow and settled heavy. The critters felt it first, as they did every year—lizards and vinegaroons scuttled out from beneath their rocks to join the cicadas’ eldritch chorus, jackrabbits twisted deeper into the scrub—and it wasn’t too long after that the rain began to fall.
The way I tell stories is all your fault. When I write, it’s not a problem. Narratives flood from my fingertips as easily as breathing (maybe even more so, considering my asthma). They’re clear, they’re natural, and they’re printed on my mind in legible type. Words materialize without my having to hunt them down; they’re just there, a tidy line of ants marching along nice and orderly to the beat of my computer keys.
It was actually kind of cute. It wasn’t difficult to piece together what he was doing—just like it hadn’t been a shock to find out that he was a werewolf. What can I say? Gary isn’t the most subtle of individuals, and I’m not exactly an idiot. Once a month, he’d either make an effort to avoid me or just straight-up disappear from our dates. (I know trips to the bathroom don’t take six hours, Gary.) He always ate with the plastic forks and spoons from my cupboard, until I offhandedly mentioned that my silverware set was actually stainless steel and not real silver. He loved steak, like, even more than most dudebros I know, and ordered them rare. In all honesty, I thought he was trying to let me in on his secret, since he really couldn’t have been more obvious.