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This is the continued part of The Ballerina. Let's begin. The next day, in school. Davian walked over to Amy and tapped her shoulder. Amy looked at him with surprised eyes. He asked: "Would tonight be a good day to study for the midterm for history?" Amy was so excited that her dark prince was asking her. She had to reply quickly before Davian changed his mind. Amy replied, sweetly: "Sure. Let me ask my dad quick."

When you own and run a gas station out in the middle of nowhere, you’ll often meet more than your fair share of oddballs. Nobody ever travels to little towns like mine, just through them, our paths only crossing out of sheer necessity and circumstance. For most folk, my gas station is what the internet likes to call a ‘liminal space’; a transitional zone that becomes creepy when you dwell in it for too long. But for me, it’s the exact opposite. My gas station’s an anchor against the backdrop of…

A hallway that never ends. Picture this. Life is great. Ten years old. Ten years of your life have been on earth. Ten years. On my tenth birthday, I got the worst birthday gift. I fell asleep that night, the night of my tenth birthday. I had gotten great gifts, and I was exhausted. The moment I woke up, however, I was in a completely different place. Laying on the ground, I slowly gained consciousness. The room was gray with dim light, and by me was a crumpled sheet of paper. I opened it, and…

Sol 5111 A voice awakens me to darkness. Terrifying darkness. The voice is concerned. Concerned about my well-being. Who am I? Who is the voice? Whoever it is must be a friend. Why else would they be worried? Yes, they must be a friend. It is a kind voice. But what is it worried about? Why is it dark? It must be a storm. Yes, it must be a storm.

October 1st, 2024 I don't know what's happening to me. It started small—a little itch under the skin of my left arm. At first, I thought it was just a bug bite. But then the itching spread. Now, it feels like something's moving underneath my flesh. I've started documenting it to make sense of it all. Maybe this is just a weird infection. Maybe I'm overreacting. October 3rd, 2024

As a kid growing up in my neighborhood everyone knew about Farmer Fred’s, partly because it was an abandoned farm in the middle of the Pittsburgh suburbs, but largely due to the fact that it was haunted. A farm in my neighborhood was probably commonplace at the turn of the 19th century, but by the time I was a kid we were surrounded by strip malls, fast food restaurants and housing developments. That being said, there was and is still a good deal of green space, and at least one farm, albeit no…

The nonstop pitter-patter of the cold rain against my bedroom window set the mood. I found myself rubbing my eyes, unable to follow the now swaying lines. My book was a jumbled mess of dyslexic text. I spent another minute trying to decipher the words, but my exhausted state of mind could not put meaning to them. I folded the top right corner of the page and gingerly placed Bram Stoker’s, Dracula, back on the windowsill.

There are a select few hidden among the population—those who are often keenly aware when they are dreaming. They can recall their dreams in vivid detail for days afterward. People like me, who can lucid dream with little effort. If you're one of them, you know that lucid dreaming can sometimes draw your consciousness into liminal spaces, places that exist between the familiar and the unknown. One of these spaces is what I call the Pumpkin Farm.

It started suddenly. Autumn was coming to an end, the weather was rapidly deteriorating. Busy streets turned into canals filled with icy water and debris. Thin streams ran along the dirty walls and mixed with the long-term patina of rust. An atmosphere of decay, a thick, viscous feeling.

It's stuck in my mind, trapped and buried in the deepest regions, only to resurface when my mind wonders. I'll be on the brink of sleep, drifting off when the haunting memories return to me. It was to become a man they told me, but it simply made me less of a human.

Evening at the McManus estate – a postmodern building with large glass windows.

I gradually became aware that I was awake again, sadly. I enjoyed those fleeting moments of unconscious sleep where the minutes and hours slowly drift away, and then pick up speed until you are redlining it in 5th gear... then BLAM!!! Awake again. Who knows how much later. Fifteen minutes or ten hours, time used to be relative.

I actually liked Albany. Sure, the town was far from Georgia’s finest. Far from having any recognizable achievements other than rampant poverty and an exaggerated crime rate. But hey, it beat Bainbridge. At least, there was shit to do here, you know. And Alicia and I were never bored.

The morning came gently, the way it often did in late spring - without urgency, without noise, as if the world itself had decided to stretch before speaking. Sunlight spilled across the small street in soft, slanted lines. It touched the rooftops first, then the windows, then slowly made its way down to the pavement where it shimmered faintly like water. Somewhere in the distance, a bicycle passed, its wheels clicking in a steady rhythm that faded as quickly as it arrived.

“Dude, SHUT UP!” “What?” “Yeah, he’s right so please shut up. You’ve been telling the same exact setup, it is always something like someone just hunting a guy down and then everybody dying. Be original for once.” My friend, let’s call her Lucy, said to Jake. I threw my head back and laughed as I put the melted marshmallow inside the s'mores, broke chocolate bars, and slid them inside of the graham crackers.

March 21, 2003 (I think).

A wooden totem looms in the corner, its faces twisted and hungry in the lantern light. Every year, Father carves a new one—works of pride that terrify me, though I’d never say so. “Elam,” he calls, eyes on his work, “pass me the chisel.” It’s heavier than I expect, but light in his hands. He carves with masterful ease. “Want to try?”

Dear Frank, I am writing because letters feel safer than feeds. A message can sit in a desk drawer and wait. A post will burn in pixels and feed on itself. You told me once that chasing attention is like feeding a stray dog. If you stop, it will go away. If you keep feeding, it will come back in packs. You smiled then. You were right. I did not listen.

Our archipelago is an excellent hunting ground. In all our cities, in all our towns, in all our places, it's incredibly easy to spot the prey you're pursuing. In fact, it's almost impossible not to encounter them. Like a plague, thousands upon thousands of them fly nonstop to the islands, like a plague of locusts. When the heat increases, their numbers also increase.