The Chocolate Death
Julie and I had been friends since the fifth grade. Though as we got older, she was the vibrant popular girl and I was the hanger on that slinked behind in her shadow. She was gorgeous. Everyone said so. Blond hair and blue eyes and a smile that would light up the room. Me? I was more of a wallflower with mousy brown hair, tortoise-shell glasses and braces.
Behind the Barn Door
Grandpa stood next to the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee while Nanny scrubbed the breakfast dishes, rinsing them thoroughly, then stacking them neatly in the dish drainer. I just finished my breakfast and stood up from the table, yawning and stretching.
My mother used to tell stories of vampires and dragons and werewolves. Burying my head beneath a quilt, I would nestle impossibly close to the comfort of her body, envisioning the fiends she described in my mind’s eye. When she would finish, I would peek over the blanket, searching the room for any wicked monsters lurking in the darkness, and finding none my mother and I would lapse into fits of giggles. That was before I learned that monsters do exist. They just look like us.