Don’t worry, I am still actively working on Stillard, 1946, and some other short stories, but I don’t want to guarantee I will post something if I will just inevitably miss my self-imposed deadline. So, stay tuned on some of those stories as I am wrapping up a few installments.

I’m also working to share some of the projects that I’ve been working on outside of Substack, which include my young adult dystopian novel, a gothic horror novel (maybe novella- still mapping this out), and a fantasy novel that I am brainstorming.

Safe to say, I have a lot to work on but I am excited to give more updates and behind the scenes of my creative process soon.

As always, thanks for reading!

(Photo by Joel Muniz on Unsplash)

“You’re telling me that all my parents had to do was call in sick or quit their jobs? I thought this was the neighborhoods doing!” Brady grabbed at his hair, frustration leaking from him as he paced around the living room.

“We don’t know for sure, Brady,” Ryanne soothed him, putting her hand on his shoulder as a few tears escaped his bloodshot eyes.

“They don’t have long; I just know it,” Brady choked out. He sniffled, wiping his hand under his snotty nose. “We have to figure this out.”

“This is just making me sick,” Mom whispered under her breath.

The living room grew silent, all of us stared at one another. Paralyzed to determine our next move. I didn’t want to share the camera footage, I didn’t want them to think I had anything to do with this, conscious or not. But clearly something was happening to me too.

“I think I know why this is happening,” I interjected, all eyes focused on me.

I took a deep breath and grabbed mom’s phone. She narrowed her eyes as I punched in her passcode and brought the footage up. I winced as I watched myself put something on the back of my parent’s necks in the dead of night. I still don’t know how I managed to lift them up from their dead sleep and not wake them up, but I guess that’s another one of Stillard’s mysteries.

Mom’s eyes darted back and forth as she stared at the footage and then me, her hand covering her mouth. When the footage ended, she looked up at me slowly, her features etched in betrayal. My heart thumped hard in my chest as she tore her gaze from me. I couldn’t stand how scared she looked, how she could barely look me in the eye over something I couldn’t control.

“What the hell Anthony?” Brady swore, breaking the silence first. His face scrunched up in disgust as he took a step back.

“I don’t remember this at all, Brady. I swear. They’ve must’ve figured out a way to control me. I bet this is probably happening to you too.”

Brady looked skeptic, but I watched as terror creep into him before he muttered under his breath, “Damn it.”

Ryanne didn’t know what to think and kept quiet during this exchange. My mom reached for the back of her neck, scratching frantically to rip off whatever I had put behind her neck.

“I got it, mom.” I walked over and she moved her hair away from her neck. On the middle of her neck was a small, translucent square patch. I gently peeled the patch; the skin underneath was irritated and had a tinge of red around the edges.

“What do we do now?” Ryanne asked.

My mom appeared relieved with the patch off her neck, though her hands were tight in her lap to prevent any additional scratching. “I think we should pay a visit to my workplace tomorrow morning, see if anything fishy is going on there.”

(Photo by Haberdoedas on Unsplash)

If you’re already in trouble at school, it’s probably not the best idea to piss on your principal’s head. I couldn’t have been more than 13 years old at the time. Old enough to realize I shouldn’t have done it, but young enough to not realize the severity of doing so. To be fair, he was really pissing me off. Giving me the lecture of how I shouldn’t be chewing tobacco in class (Everybody else around me was, but Principal Atkins only gave me shit for it because my mom wouldn’t go out with him in high school and now, I’m paying the price for it) I don’t blame my mother though, his shiny bald head, rotting breath, and Santa belly wasn’t too appealing.

Anyway, in my defense, we were talking about the latest book we had to read for class. After not reading it, I didn’t see the point in trying to pay attention if I was going to get lost. So instead, I spit my tobacco through the open crack in the floorboard (our school was going through a renovation), which hit the top of Jenny Hamilton’s head.

Ever since I got into middle school, he’s had a vendetta against me. Apparently, he can’t maintain a professional attitude towards students whose mothers turned them down repeatedly for a date. Again, I could see why she wouldn’t want to entertain a boring night talking to this insufferable man. After his daily torment over the past few years, I wish she would’ve.

Now I’m staring at Principal Atkins balding head; his nose and ear hairs are sticking out, and he was wearing an ugly, mud-brown suit. Like he always does, he’s practically standing on top of my toes and is breathing his awful breath on me. His clothes are wet cause of my little stunt and my parents are on their way. I hope I can get transferred to a different school.

(This is the third part of a retelling (somewhat fictionalized) of some of my grandparent’s memories)

(Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash)

I swear some of the games that come out these days are interesting. What happened to Monopoly, Sorry, and Chutes and Ladders? You know what I’m playing with my three granddaughters now? BeanBoozled. Essentially, in my opinion, it’s a game that lets you fool your family members by pretending the “jelly bean” you’re eating is actually good.

It’s Russian Roulette, really. Either you’ll get a good bean or a bad one. Some of the flavors were grass, dog food, and cotton candy, but the worst of all was the rotten egg.

My granddaughters begged me to try it, but they didn’t know I have a good poker face. We were a couple of rounds in before I somehow got the rotten egg. I bit it in half and was instantly overcome with the overwhelmingly disgusting spoiled-egg taste. How they got that much flavor in a small bean is beyond me, but I ate the half without making a face and looked at my granddaughters’ faces light up in confusion as they waited for me to say what flavor I got.

Julia, the youngest, asked, “Did you get a good one?”

I refrained from laughing, and I responded, “I think it’s popcorn. Have you had that one yet?”

She shook her head. “Well, try it. I think you’ll like it.”

She grabbed it from my hand and popped it in her mouth; her eyes watered immediately, and she gagged. She ran to the trashcan, eager to get the taste out of her mouth while I, my other two granddaughters, and my daughter-in-law burst into a fit of laughter, tears rolling down our faces.

I smirked as she sat back down in her seat. They wanted me to play the game, so I played it.

(This is the second part of a retelling (somewhat fictionalized) of some of my grandparent’s memories)

So, I took a break. And it was exactly what I needed. All this is to say that it’s important to take time for yourself to recharge and feel the love for writing again, and I am so happy to be able to say that now.

This month, I plan to continue with my creative nonfiction series, 1946. That is a series of a retelling of my grandparent’s memories and I’m excited to share more installments.

I know I said I’d be wrapping up Stillard last month, but I don’t want rush the story so I will continue to keep moving the story forward!

I might have another story or two to share but I want to go easy on myself and not put too high of expectations to share stories that might not be ready. Thanks for being patient and for reading my stories! ❤️

(Photo by Nikolas Noonan on Unsplash)

Did you know I was almost killed by a tornado? It was probably around March; our weather fluctuated a lot, and in Missouri we were prone to bad weather, especially tornadoes. So when the siren sounded, I wasn’t too nervous. Dad was in a church service, and Mom was in her knitting group. Being their only child, they placed far too much freedom on me, so I really did whatever I wanted. Well, except for post office day. On that day, typically a Wednesday after school, my mother would send me on my way to pick up our mail, the groceries, and whatever else we needed for that week. It’s not like she didn’t have time to do it during the day, seeing that my dad was the sole provider. He was a preacher, so I wasn’t really sure what he did all day during the week, but I’ve learned not to question him or her.

Today, I hadn’t even stepped inside the house when my mom shoved a few dollars into my hand, along with the grocery list, and pushed me toward the road. I picked up the groceries first; we only needed milk, cheese, ham, and bread, and luckily the basket on my bike fit everything. Being eight years old, I hadn’t quite mastered steering the bicycle with one hand, and the last thing I needed to do was to try to do that with all of this food. After a quick trip to the store, I headed on over to the post office. Mike, the main worker there, had a huge smile on his face when I walked in. He already had our mail set to the side, and I grabbed the stack and shuffled towards the door. He cleared his throat, and I turned back around.

“Aren’t you going to greet me, Keith?”

“Hi, Mike,” I whispered before turning back towards the door again. He cleared his throat once more to signal me to talk to him some more.

I huffed silently.

“I’m sure Annabelle teaches you how to properly greet someone?” Mike asked. He always had a sense of authority, like people should greet him like he’s royalty, and he took every chance he could to talk to my mom. My dad always said he had feelings for her; maybe that’s why I always pick up the mail.

I shook my head and shifted the papers in my hand.

“How about school? Do they teach you any manners there?”

I shook my head again, hoping he hadn’t noticed that I’ve been slowly backing up towards the door.

He nodded slowly. “Alright, well I expect you to learn some before next week, okay? I’ll see you then?”

I mustered up a small smile, my hand on the door handle when I noticed it was a little heavier than usual. Mike, seeing my struggle, came over to help me swing it open. He turned his head and paused at the door frame for a second.

“Hear that, Keith? Sounds like the tornado siren.” He paused again, trying to confirm what he heard before saying, “Yeah, the wind is picking up too. Best stay here until the weather dies down.”

The wind didn’t look any worse than normal; hell, I rode here in this wind. Maybe the wind would propel me faster? “I’m only three blocks away, and my mom’s expecting me.” I looked up at him. “Mom wants me home; she’s waiting for me. I got the groceries in my basket.”

“I’m sure your mom would want you here, Keith. I’ve got snacks in the back; I’m sure Rodney’s got a card game or two we can play.”

“I really think I should get going.”

“Don’t be stubborn now, Keith,” He replied. Although it was no use, my mind was made up.

He looked reluctant to let me go. But after my excessive pleas, he did so anyway, only on the promise that I would call him when I got back. Turns out there was no place to call back because the tornado blew through the post office only a few minutes after I left.

(This is the first part of a retelling (somewhat fictionalized) of some of my grandparent’s memories)

(Photo by Joel Muniz on Unsplash)

My mother recoiled upon touching my father’s hot skin, his stiff body motionless as he baked out in the blistering sun.

For the past five minutes, she had been trying various techniques to snap him out of it. She started with clapping her hands together in front of his face; now she’s resorted to lightly tapping him on the face as she yelled his name over and over again. He surely would’ve flinched from all this if he were fully conscious, no doubt embarrassed by my mother’s reaction. Had anyone else been outside, she would’ve drawn a crowd.

She’s ignored my comments as she’s tried to shake his unmoving body, knock him over to rid him of this spell. Her heavy breathing rang out in the air, her cheeks flushed red from the heat, before she slumped to the grass in a heap.

“I tried all of that when it first happened to you both.”

Mom glanced up, a horrified look on her face as tears sprang in her bloodshot eyes. With a huff, she slammed her hands on the half-dead grass and pulled herself to her feet. She took one last look at Dad, threw her hands up in the air in defeat, and stormed back to the house.

“Mom?” I said, before jogging to catch up. She wiped tears off her face when we reached our front porch and threw the door open before collapsing on the couch.

“What the hell is wrong with him?”

I shrugged my shoulders, wishing I had an answer instead of the million questions that were probably now swarming in her mind.

“That’s what Ryanne, Brady, and I are trying to figure out.”

Her bottom lip quivered as she wrapped her arms around her tight. “This has been happening since we moved here?”

I nodded, and she shook her head in disbelief, a shaky breath emitting from her lips.

A loud knock on the door startled the two of us; my mother’s right hand slammed against her chest.

“Anthony!” Brady’s shrill voice carried from behind the door.

“You okay? Why weren’t you at school today?” Ryanne added.

“Can I open the door?” I asked Mom, and she waved her hand to signal them to come inside.

Brady rushes in immediately, not noticing my mom, while Ryanne remained at the doorframe.

“Boy, it’s a scorcher out there. I don’t know how-” Brady’s jaw dropped the second his eyes landed on my mother.

His head swiveled to me in seconds, his eyes so wide I could barely see his pupils before he returned his focus to my mom.

“How are you here right now? How did this happen?”

“She called off work,” I replied, relieved I didn’t have to carry this on my shoulders anymore. Though I hated to see the unyielding worry plaguing her face.

“I can’t believe I had been doing that for months,” Her gaze remained on the living room window. “What has this done to my body? Your fathers? What about our jobs? Are we even bringing in money?” My mom started spiraling, her breathing growing rapid.

“What company do you work for?” Ryanne asked as a distraction.

My mother’s eyebrows knitted together. “Why does that matter?”

“My dad works in construction. He’s actually building the back half of this neighborhood, and he doesn’t do that. You know the shaking and zoning out.”

Brady gasped loudly and facepalmed. “Why didn’t I think about this?”

I turned to my mom, and she managed to stutter out, “I-I work at Li-Lindon Industries.”

Brady’s face turned green. “So do my parents.”

What’s on the agenda?

• Finishing my serial, Stillard

• A new piece of short fiction (maybe two!)

• Announcements of novels I’m working on outside of Substack (yippee!)

I have a lot geared up and I am so excited. Thanks everyone for your patience as I work back to a more normal publishing schedule! ☺️

I had spent thirty minutes on stage, making puns and impersonations about the subjects in the crowd. I came up with, might I dare say, hilarious material on the spot, and by the end of my act, my mouth watered at the thought of cooking up those gorgeous potatoes. The runner-up congratulated me and explained his odd routine, which for some reason involved a duster. Then the Saint swooped in to steal my bag when I wasn’t paying attention.

“That’s not yours! Gimme that!” I screamed, grabbing the end of the bag to begin a laborious game of tug of war. The Saint then reached over for the duster, waving it in my face, blowing a raspberry at me. Those pesky dust particles in the duster’s feathers blinded me, leaving the Saint to take off with my hard-earned potatoes. Stupid, little Saint.

It’s been a few days now, and my leads for the Saint are dwindling. Those potatoes can’t be that delicious anymore, but I don’t care. If my sleuthing was correct, he should be in the local bar, The Round Table, guzzling down a beer and hopefully not my potatoes. I threw open the door, and there he sat. He had a beer in one hand with the last potato in the other and let out a loud belch.

I wrote this short fiction piece for a Writing Battle with some fun prompts!

(Photo by Tima Miroshnichenko)

You don’t think about growing old when you’re five years old
All you care about is recess, eating ice cream, and learning how to ride a bike

You don’t think about growing old when you’re eighteen years old
All you care about is growing older
To have fun, freedom, to escape from the tiny microscope your parents have you under

You don’t think about growing old when you’re thirty-five years old
All you care about is getting your kids to school and practice on time, or having alone time to yourself

You start to think about growing old when your grandparents begin to pass away, and you watch the grief your parents face in their absence

You start to think about growing old when you begin to become the parent of your parents, when you notice they’re starting to forget things
A birthday. Zip code. Who the person sitting next to them is

You start to think about growing old when you become older than your parents were
When the wrinkled face that’s yours starts to look unfamiliar and older than what you feel on the inside

This is a summer that I am dedicating to writing! After being smacked with homework and switching jobs, I’ve had less time to write. Buttttt… I am really feeling the itch to get some stories written so stay tuned!

I plan on wrapping up Stillard this month (I’ve loved writing this story) and have some short stories written in some notebooks that I plan to type out as well.

What I’ve Been Reading:

The Last Day in May by Kate Clark Stone

Also p.s. I’m wanting some beta readers for a sci-fi novella that I am drafting and also for my dystopian and science fiction novel (especially for this story!). If you’re interested let me know!

(Photo by Joel Muniz on Unsplash)

“You okay, honey?” My mom asked, grabbing my left hand at the breakfast table. I had been staring at the tablecloth, my eyes lost in the patchwork design as I tried to comprehend the footage. My appetite had left me, as evidenced by the half-eaten eggs and untouched bacon. What did I do to them?

My mother rubbed her thumb against mine, urging me to answer. “I’m sorry, I don’t feel well.”

“Not trying to get out of school, are you?” My father teased, and my mom shot him an angry look.

“He doesn’t look great. I’m going to stay home with him today.” My mom stood up from the table, shooting a quick email to her boss. Do they still even have jobs? All they do is stand in that dead grass patch. Could we lose this house? Wait, maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing.

Dad gave a curt nod, patting me on the back as he stood up and put his dish in the sink. “Feel better, Anthony. I’ll see you both after work.”

Dad left a few minutes later, off to stand for hours on end.

“Alright, Anthony, first things first. I’m going to make you some soup for lunch, and then I’m going to finish all the projects I’ve been putting off. Do you need anything from me?”

I shook my head with a smile. I felt some relief in knowing she wouldn’t be stuck outside all day beyond her control. But after that footage, I couldn’t help but wonder what role I’ve unknowingly played since we moved here. My initial plan was to see if I had put anything on the back of her neck, but after she finished making the soup, all her motivation evaporated. The rest of her day was spent with her head pressed against the couch cushion, bingeing one of her soap operas.

Despite hating every second of this overly dramatic show, I liked lounging next to her, not having to run around the neighborhood to figure out what’s controlling them. But I knew it was only a matter of time before I needed to meet up with Ryanne and Brady. With each passing day, Brady had become more paranoid, nervous that his time was running out. I couldn’t blame him.

How much longer would it be before we figured it out? Would I be able to save mom and dad in time? I stared at mom a little too long, and she slowly turned her head over to me. I hadn’t seen her this relaxed in months. Although she wouldn’t admit it, considering how often she preaches about the importance of hard work, she seemed relieved to spend the day at home. Did she sense anything weird going on?

“What, Anthony? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I was just wondering, how’s your job?” She chuckled for a second before realizing I was serious.

“My job? You’ve never asked me about it before.” She sat up. There was a dent in the cushion from where her head had laid most of the day.

“Well, I’m interested now,” I lied, but hoped she wouldn’t see right through it.

She weighed that statement for a second before replying, “You know, I can’t really recall much going on lately; I must block it out when I am home.”

“Does your body feel tired?”

She made a face. “What do you mean?”

“Like achy, hurting, anything like that?”

She shook her head. “Just mental exhaustion after sitting at a computer all day.”

I didn’t know what else to ask. Not unless I outright asked if she was even the slightest bit aware of what happened to her throughout the workdays.

“Anthony.” She reached forward and grabbed my hand like she often does. “You have not been yourself since we moved here, and I want to make sure that you are doing okay and adjusting well. I know you’ve made a few neighborhood friends, but is school going okay? Is there something that is bothering you?”

Should I tell her? Would she even believe me or think I was just making this up?

“You and dad don’t go to work every day,” I said, biting the bullet.

She narrowed her eyes, removing her hand from mine. “What are you talking about?”

“Both of you go out to the edge of the neighborhood and stand in the grass and shake violently until the workday is done. You have been doing this every day since we moved here.”

A flash of disappointment crossed her face. “Anthony, you know how your dad and I feel about lying.”

“I am not lying, Mom,” I replied. It was the truth, whether she wanted to believe me or not.

We were in a stalemate. She narrowed her eyes at me, waiting for me to break.

“Anthony, please tell me the truth.”

“I am, Mom,” I started, “Let me show you.”

(Photo by Y S on Unsplash)

My uncle would sit on the edge of the pond on a big rock, staring at the ripple of the water for hours. Before his death from a broken heart, he claimed he could see his wife’s face in the tiny waves. She had loved the pond, spending warm, sunny afternoons on the same rock, drawing inspiration from the stillness of the area surrounding it. The hum of the crickets, the sound of the water lapping against the banks. She’d write in her little notebook, filling its pages to the brim with her latest story idea.

My uncle spotted the half-soaked notebook on the edge of the pond, its pages clumped together, the ink bleeding. He found her body two days later, after diving in the pond to look for her. He found bruises on her neck, a gash from what he assumed was a rock. He couldn’t have imagined who would have wanted to hurt her, let alone kill her.

Every day after, he would go to Crooked Creek, trying to see what clues he could pick up, but the flood had ruined any evidence that could have been there. Rain or shine, he’d be at the rock, trying to channel his wife, seeing her in the ripples.

A little over a year after his wife was murdered, he had a heart attack on the rock, his body floated in the water, and he was found a few days later. I put memorials up for the two of them one afternoon and glanced out into the water. My uncle’s face glimmered in the middle of the murky water.

(Photo by Joel Muniz on Unsplash)

“I knew there was some shady shit going on!” Brady yelled. A weight had been lifted off his shoulders, knowing there had been something going on to explain what had been happening to our parents. Although I could honestly say I didn’t know what to make of this, or how this could help us figure out our parents’ uncontrollable shakes and zone-outs.

Ryanne shot him a dirty look at his cursing.

Brady shrugged his shoulders. “Hey, no one is here. Besides, it’s not like my parents have been able to do much parenting these past few weeks.”

I couldn’t argue with him on that. My parents seemed to have a while before the catatonic state would kick in, but I didn’t want to wait around for that to happen.

“So, what now?” I asked. The rows of computers and weird diorama did nothing to tell us how to fix this, just added more confusion.

Brady tapped his finger on his chin, a blank look on his face. “Well, they’re obviously watching us…”

“Duh, Sherlock.” Ryanne interrupted.

Brady’s head whipped over to Ryanne, a scowl on his face. We were growing tired of one another, sick of what felt like a never-ending mystery plaguing the streets of Stillard.

“Just let me finish what I was going to say,” Brady muttered under his breath. “So, we need to give them a taste of their own medicine.” He finished proudly.

Ryanne and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Brady sighed, throwing his hands in the air. “Isn’t it obvious? We need to watch them back!”

“What will that solve?” Ryanne asked.

“Maybe there is something they’re spraying in our parents’ bedroom vents at night, or maybe our parents are chipped or something that’s making them do this. Does anyone have a camera?”

“There’s an old Ring camera in the garage, maybe I can set it up in the corner of my parents’ room?”

“Yes! Do that, but tilt it up at the vents. I bet there’s some odd mist coming out of those vents.”

We all nodded in agreement with the plan. After using our shirts to wipe off any potential fingerprints we could’ve left, we headed up the long stairwell, huffing as we made it to the top. We ended up in the tiny backyard of the model home and lifted a small patch of grass to escape the underground lair. Brady kept commenting about how that couldn’t have been a coincidence and how we should check out the model home if this plan comes up with nothing.

But I hoped we’d get some answers before it came to that. I was tired of running around while my parents had no clue what was happening.

We parted ways soon after, and I rummaged through the garage to find the old Ring camera. I charged it up while my parents made dinner, and I scarfed the chicken and potatoes to set it up in their room while they cleaned up. There was a chair in the corner of their room that also served as their makeshift hamper, so I stashed it in the pile of dirty clothes. I took a step back, inspecting the placement to make sure they couldn’t see the camera, when my dad silently appeared at the doorframe.

“What are you doing up in here?” He asked, his head tilted as he stared at me.

I gulped, hoping I could pull out a lie that didn’t give me away. “I was um, I was…” I rambled, trying to come up with something that made sense while his gaze intensified. “I thought I heard a dripping noise, so I came in here to see if I could find it.”

Dad took a few steps inside the room, staring at every inch of the ceiling before redirecting his focus to me.

“Must be hearing things, bud.”

“Guess so.” I chuckled.

“Mom picked out a movie for us all to watch and is making some popcorn, wanna join?”

I nodded with a smile and shoved handfuls of popcorn in my mouth while we watched the movie. Two hours later, we headed to bed. Despite being exhausted from running around this afternoon, I tossed and turned most of the night before finally falling asleep in the early hours of the morning.

My heart raced when I finally woke up, curious if any mist had been caught on the camera. My parents were in the kitchen, so I tiptoed into their room and spotted my mother’s phone on the nightstand. I opened the Ring app to check the footage and scoured through the seven hours of it. There was no mist in the video, nothing. Disappointment filled me as I checked all the way until 4 a.m. Surely something would’ve happened by then, right? I contemplated putting the phone back, telling Ryanne and Brady that the theory was incorrect, until a flash of movement on the lower part of the screen caught my eye. While I had tilted the camera up to the vents, you could still see my parents’ heads. My parents were lying on their sides, facing one another as they slept soundly. I zoomed in, wondering what the movement was, and then my heart stopped. The flash of movement was… me?

My mouth went dry as I watched myself hover over them, putting something on the back of their necks. I don’t remember doing this. What if there was no mysterious mist? What if I am somehow causing their episodes?

Posting this a day late but that seems to be my theme this year as I navigate working full-time, going to grad school, and writing! I am still working on installments of Stillard and will be posting one this upcoming week and hope to wrap it up soon! It has been such a fun story to write!

While writing Stillard, I’ve jotted down a lot of fun short story ideas so I hope to get working on those soon!

In other news, if you haven’t grabbed your copy of the Eye See You anthology, do it now! My story, Little Eyes Everywhere, is included along with seventeen other writers amazing stories! Thanks for putting this anthology together and for all the work that you do!!

If you’re searching for something to read, check out:

• The Midnight Library by Matt Haig

• Digital Minimalism by Cal Newport

(Photo by Joel Muniz on Unsplash)

After putting the ugly clown ride back together, the three of us investigated several trees that could’ve been in the tunnel’s path. Investigating was a loose term. All we really did was kick the trunks of the tree in hopes one wasn’t like the others. Turns out, after Brady nearly lost his shoe when he kicked one of the tree’s trunks, one was fake and hollow.

Brady glanced down at his watch. “We still have some time, let’s keep going.”

“But we…” I started before Brady interrupted.

“I don’t know how much longer my parents have. I can’t keep putting this off much longer. I am not turning into Jenny!” Brady yelled; his hands trembled slightly.

“Who is Jenny?” Ryanne asked, dumbfounded at his outburst.

“Jenny and her family were the first to move into the neighborhood,” I said.

Brady paced back and forth; his face red as I watched him attempt to keep his tears at bay.

“I moved in not too long after Jenny. I don’t know how much longer I have. I walked past her house the other day, and I saw her in the living room, doing the exact same thing our parents do. I am not turning into that. I’m not,” Brady mumbled.

“Why do you think Jenny is doing this now? Where are her parents?” Ryanne asked. She walked up and put her hand on Brady’s shoulder to calm him down.

“I don’t know. My theory is that she’s now the ‘adult’ of the house, but I’m not sure.”

Silence clung heavily in the air as we stared at one another. This was much bigger than us. But who else was going to help? It’s like the rest of the town was oblivious to the weirdness happening in here. Living in Stillard has been more than I bargained for.

I clapped my hands together, startling Ryanne and Brady. “Let’s not waste any more time then, let’s see where this tunnel leads.”

After a few more kicks to the tree trunk, the fake bark crumbled, revealing the tunnel.

Ryanne leaned forward, eyeing what frankly looked like a very narrow slide. “You think this is safe?” She asked, apprehension written on her face. She wiped her sweaty palms on her shirt. “There better not be a booby trap at the end of this.”

Brady shrugged, putting his fist in his hand. “Rock, paper, scissors for who goes first?”

Not even a minute later, Brady lost both duels. He appeared confident of winning, but after his defeats, his face looked less than confident as he stared down the black abyss of the tunnel. Brady’s eyes darted back and forth between the tunnel and Ryanne and me, his shoulders slumped forward. “What if I get stuck in here?”

“Well, then you’ll have to shimmy on out,” I teased.

Brady frowned before taking a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.” He grabbed the edges of the tunnel before propelling himself down, a continuous scream emitting from his lips as Ryanne and I heard his body thud against the tunnel’s metal sides.

“Are you okay?” I yelled, my voice echoing.

“Yeah! That’s just the roughest slide I’ve ever been on! You’re fine to come down!”

I went next and banged my elbow on the hull of the tunnel, before landing in a heap at the bottom. The floor was some grimy tile that smelled moldy as I returned to my feet. I rubbed my elbow before Ryanne made her appearance, her hair staticky as she smoothed it down.

My eyes widened at the room we landed in. Behind floor-to-ceiling glass, dozens of computers were arranged, along with a table in the center featuring a diorama. Brady reached forward for the door handle before I yanked his arm away. “What if opening that door triggers an alarm?”

“Then I guess we will have to be quick,” Brady replied.

“Wait, don’t you think we should look for an exit first? I doubt the exit is climbing up that freakish slide.”

Brady’s eyebrows raised in annoyance at my stalling before he exhaled loudly.

“Okay, that’s a good point. Let’s look around for any doors that might lead to some stairs.” After gently opening a few, hoping we wouldn’t trigger any alarms, Ryanne opened the last possible door that could’ve led to some stairs.

I breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing the set of stairs that seemed to go on forever. “My guess is that is our way out.”

We returned to the control room, and Brady pushed the door open, a grimace on his face as we waited for the last potential alarm to sound. We waited a few seconds and cheered when the room remained quiet.

“This is a diagram of the neighborhood…” Ryanne trailed off. Similar to Brady’s map, the diorama had every single house in the neighborhood. The tiny houses had each family’s name on it, with the number of occupants in the house.

I looked over at Jenny’s house. There were three names on the house’s tag, but now her parents were crossed off. I glanced over at a row of monitors, and each one had a family’s name taped to it. “What the hell is this?”

(Photo by Joel Muniz on Unsplash)

The trees at the edge of the neighborhood had several caution tapes swinging in the wind. If I had to venture a guess, there were at least ten scattered around the trees, which seemed like overkill to me, but maybe this is where they were hiding something?

We hadn’t even begun digging yet, and my back was covered with sweat. I’d rather be hot than dig a half-frozen ground, but I’d rather not be digging at all. Why did we have to move into this stupid neighborhood? Why did this have to happen to my parents?

The three of us were seconds away from stepping into the dirt when Brady stopped suddenly, dropping the big shovel onto the ground as he held Ryanne and me back with his hands.

“Wait, what if this dirt is actually quicksand or something?” Brady said with wide eyes.

“You really think they’d go to the trouble to do that?” I said.

“You think they wouldn’t? You see what’s happening to our parents, they’re capable of anything,” Brady muttered, a twinge of hurt lining his voice.

Brady reached down for the larger shovel on the ground, but Ryanne stopped him. “No, no, don’t toss my dad’s shovel.”

Ryanne tossed the princess shovel onto the dirt, and we waited for this mysterious quicksand to take the shovel under the earth.

After three minutes of waiting in silence and the princess shovel staying in place, I said, “Good to go now?”

Brady shook his head. “I’m still not convinced; I mean, that princess shovel is really light. Maybe we should test something heavier?”

“Watch out!” A kickball rolled by us and landed in the dirt. A kid no older than seven years old ran up, sweat coating his face as his hair stuck to his forehead. He lifted the caution tape and ducked under, grabbing the ball as he stared at us with a weird look on his face. He shook it off and ran off, clearly not falling victim to the “quicksand” within the dirt.

I turned to Brady, “Good now?”

Brady waved me off, muttering unintelligibly under his breath while I grabbed the big shovel and began digging alongside Ryanne.

Brady watched Ryanne and me for more than fifteen minutes, the two of us silent as we moved heaps of dirt out of the way. I had a feeling we weren’t going to find any green orbs or anything out of the ordinary. There were at least ten trees in this small area, and probably 75 down the whole strip that separated this neighborhood from another.

“Are you going to help?” I asked, heaving as I picked up another shovel full of dirt.

“We only have two shovels. What do you expect me to do? Dig with my hands?”

“If it means getting this done faster, I don’t see why not,” Ryanne chimed in, dirt clinging to her clothes.

Brady bent down, using his hands to dig near a tree trunk. “Do you think anything is actually here, or are we just wasting time?” Brady asked breathless, his hands and fingernails caked with mud.

I plopped down on the ground in a heap. We didn’t even know what we were looking for. If we continued at this rate, we’d dig up half the neighborhood before we’d actually find something. If we did find anything, that is.

“Well, I still think we should go to the model home. I’m not sure if we’re gonna get anything out here,” Brady said.

Ryanne shook her head. “There’s gotta be cameras in there, and it’s probably locked up. How about the dog park? Do you think it would be there?

“Dogs dig holes all the time. If a dog dug up something that would be a lot of risk for them to put it there,” I replied with a huff.

“That’s a good point,” Ryanne said. She rubbed her forehead before adding, “How about the playground? I have noticed there’s a section where kids don’t play. Maybe we could check that out?”

“I think I can guess why no kid plays on that. That clown rocking horse is hideous.” Brady chuckled. The clown looked like any other ugly clown, with over-the-top makeup, bright red hair, and ugly clothes. But what made it worse was that morphing it into this rocking horse ride elongated its features and made it difficult to look at.

“Do you think something is under here, or do you think the fear of clowns could be driving the kids away?” I asked. I shuddered looking at it.

“I mean, it could be either. But I hate to leave a stone unturned. Don’t you think?” Ryann held a finger up before sprinting to her house without a word. She came back lugging her dad’s toolbox.

Brady kicked the clown rocking horse; it sounded hollow before it came to a stop. “I’m not sure what it’s supposed to sound like, but maybe we should take it apart?”

Ryanne smiled, handing him a wrench to unscrew the bolts. We’d be doing this neighborhood a favor by dismantling this ugly clown and throwing it away. After a lot of twisting the tight bolts, our hands raw and blistered, we managed to pull the clown part off. I expected to see mulch or even dirt, but instead, there was a metal tunnel several feet down.

Brady whooped, jumping up and down before he grew puzzled. “Where does that lead to? There’s no way one of us could squeeze into that.” Sure, we could maybe pop our heads down there, but our shoulders were another story.

I glanced down at the tunnel. If I’m right, the tunnel’s tentative path should go straight to those trees. Maybe we missed something back there?

“Knowing us, if we’d try, we’d get stuck, and someone would find out what we’ve been up to,” I said. “We’ll just have to find another access point to get into the tunnel.”

“And where do you think that is genius?” Brady mumbled, his hands crossed against his chest.

“I have an idea.”

In other news, this month has been fun tinkering with micro fiction stories. Go check the thirty-one little stories!

I’ve also been continuing to work on installments of Stillard and will continue to keep posting a new piece once a week! Stay tuned for the next one 👀

If you’re searching for something to read, check out:

• This Will Be Fun by E.B. Asher

• How to Lose a Goblin in Ten Days by Jessie Sylva

(Photo by James Trenda on Unsplash)

My mother was not a great baker, but neither am I, frankly. But our Sunday night tradition was to find a new cookie recipe and fill the cookie jar with hopefully delicious cookies. The little cowboy dog cookie jar has probably held thousands of cookies over the years, and each time I lift the jar, a wave of happy memories floods through me.

(Photo by Gülfer ERGİN on Unsplash)

Each month, my mother likes to buy two copies of the same book. We would each read it, and once we were done we’d have a little book club to discuss it. So far we’ve read twenty-five books, and I can’t wait to read the next.