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The time has come to enjoy our next piece, “Unrealness”. If you’d like to read more by Vassallo we implore you to visit her page, linked below. Your feedback is always welcome here. As always if you would like to submit your own work shoot us an email at [email protected]

http://www.booksie.com/anagvf

The sharp look of his eyes

stare at mine with deep emotion

running hundreds of paths and miles

emotionally searching for my heart's devotion.

I do nothing but stare

mesmerized by their intense vision

trapping me in a snare

immersed with huge indecision.

Does he want me or does he want me not?

Though he smiles at me with joy

and is just a boy

he fills my stomach with knots.

Moments and seconds pass

yet we don't stop looking at each other

standing in a bunch of grass

not caring what's happening any further.

Are my feelings confused

or are they just dream fused

in such impossible thoughts

merely incapable of joining the dots?

Helplessly I'm falling into an imaginary pit

his curly hair moves perfectly with the wind

besides a light so dimly lit

and a bird so colorfully winged.

He leans and takes my hand

holds it firmly like if I'm in demand

stroking it with kindness

below the Sun's brightness.

The wind blows through my hair

icy cold waves rush against my skin

as I notice the jealous girls' stares

not even having any idea of how happy we've been...

----------------------------------------------

A few months passed

our attraction didn't surpass

guess he didn't need me

never even loved me.

What in the world did I need to be, so that I had been the "perfect" girl

for him? Everything's now a memory,

Excerpt from “Unrealness” 

Settle in and enjoy our Writer of the Day, James Edgar Cooper. We hope you enjoy his work, now posted, The Mystery of The Ourang Medan. As always your feedback is welcome. If you’d like to see more we encourage you to follow the link to Cooper’s page below. 

http://www.booksie.com/james_edgar_cooper

Excerpt from The Mystery of The Ourang Medan 

The ghostly 'Man from Medan,'

Was said to have sailed back in '47,

A ship roaming the vast waters of the ocean,

It's crew taken by the Devil.

The Ourang's SOS was sent,

A chilling message it relayed,

"All officers including Captain dead,"

With faces of pure terror, they were dead where they lay.

'Twas the Silver Star who raced to their rescue,

And found the ship void of life,

Every effort was made to raise the crew,

But it was no use, for no-one would come out alive.

The crew of the Silver Star

Clambered aboard the ill-fated Ourang Medan,

Knowing little of what they would discover,

On this ghostly tin can.

Aboard the ship lay the crew,

A scene of mystery and confusion,

Their faces harboured a frightful sight,

But nothing could be conclusively proven.

And so the crew of the Silver Star,

Had planned to tow the ghostly ship to land,

But a fire broke out before their work could begin,

Leaving the Ourang Medan a ship eternally damned.

They watched from afar,

The ship rumble with an almighty bang,

This ghostly ship would be no more,

As the screech of it’s destruction, throughout those waters rang.

The Ourang lifted it’s bow,

As it sank to the waters beneath,

Leaving no trace of this grisly scene,

It's eternal resting place the dark waters 'neath.

And so this ghostly ship has forever vanished,

Leaving no traces,

The only things we have as a reminder,

Are the expressions of the crew's frightened faces.

You may see this ill-fated ghost ship,

Roaming the oceans from the land,

Although we'll never truly know what happened,

Check out chapter one of Stigma by Sayer, up now. As always your feedback is welcome and desired. Check out Sayer’s page for more of his work and to sink your teeth into the following chapters of Stigma. If you would like to submit your own work feel free to email us at [email protected] 

http://www.booksie.com/sayer 

So how old were you exactly, when the serial killer hid in your house?

I was ten. Seems pretty young. Whether he was in there the whole time is debatable. Hey, how about you hear the whole story?

Hunter came in from school at four, and ditched his bag by the front door, slouching into the kitchen. The moment he entered, his jaw dropped. His parents were kissing quite enthusiastically over the sink. “Aw, man. That's disgusting. Mum, Dad, could you at least wait until I get upstairs?” His mother just laughed and came to kiss him too, her lips soft on his forehead. Hunter winced again. “Alright,” she said. “Man up little guy. How was school today?” “Why do parents always ask that?” “Because we want to keep in touch with our son,” his father said, with the hint of a smile. “Who seems to vanish into his room for seven hours a night. Why not move out now?” “Simon, honey… Hunter is studying. He isn’t wasting his time on games like other kids, are you dear?” “Nope,” Hunter said, only half listening. He opened the fridge and began to rummage through. There was nothing there he wanted. He closed it again. His mum was smiling at him, her head tilted a little to one side, her eyes soft. “Hunter, you can go upstairs and do whatever you want. I’ll bring you up a sandwich and some milk. How about that?” “Mmm,” his father said. “And that’ll give us time to get back to business.” He whirled his mother like a dancer and began to kiss her again. Hunter got the distinct feeling his Dad was teasing him. “Alright, alright,” he said. “I’m going.”

He dragged his bag up the stairs, and slumped down on his bed, staring for a while at the ceiling. How did he end up having such nice parents? He was mostly happy with his life, but there was no denying the lack of challenge, the feeling that winning was constantly too easy. Hunter had no competition, not at school or online. And his mum was wrong, anyway. His parents had no idea. He was playing games, of course he was, that was all he did. After all, what was life but a game? Winning and losing?

Hunter sat down at his laptop and logged into a chess website. He played the whole afternoon, completely forgetting about the food his mum had said she was going to give him. For Hunter, chess was a place of relaxation, a place where he could clear his head and focus on a single task and not worry about his dad. In the breaks between games, concern came creeping back in. He'd came down late one night to go to the toilet, and Dad was only just back from work, still wearing his police uniform, his clothes dishevelled and a bottle of wine half empty on the table. Hunter had little idea about what the case was, but he knew it involved face smuggling, the theft of people's identities for use in virtual meeting spaces. Criminal organisations could take a person's face and wear it to make shady deals on VR programs like Sigma while remaining anonymous. The case had put wrinkles on Dad's face, and he argued with Mum in the middle of the night when he assumed his kids were asleep. Infact they were lying awake, sick with concern, as he yelled in hushed tones and cried like a baby into his wife's shoulder.

Hunter knew that the lovey-dovey behaviour was a front so that he'd feel secure; he could see right  through his parent's tactics.

And Hunter is your real name.

No. I chose it as an alias after the incident. You’ll soon see why it’s quite befitting. Now are you my therapist, or aren’t you?

Sorry. Go on.

By the time he logged off, looked up from the game, shadows had crept into the room and it was almost dark outside. Hunter went to draw the curtains and stared out across the city, lights like glitter beneath the overcast sky. The trees had shed their autumn leaves, and were bare and crooked outside his window. It began to rain then, small droplets that lashed themselves against the cold glass.

He turned back to his room, and was just about to click on a light when he heard the thump from downstairs. Something heavy dropping.

Hunter froze in the partial gloom, the first stirrings of unease in his stomach. There was nothing that heavy in the house. Except his parents. He padded over to the door, and crept out of his room, stopping at the top of the stairs. Something was very wrong. No one had turned the lights on downstairs. If anything, they had been turned off. Except for the light from the kitchen, that spilt in a wedge through a crack in the door.

His heart was beating now, a low drum against his ribs. What if they were being burgled? He had to check if his parents were OK. Even though it felt like someone intended for him to investigate, as if the light from the kitchen was a will-o-the-wisp, a lantern to draw him into the spider’s web. First step. Second. Seconds ticking as slow, sweaty droplets down his back. He reached the bottom of the stairs without sound, and reached for the door, and opened it, walking into the kitchen. Hunter stopped still. His heart seemed to lurch suddenly, missing a beat. His parents were nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was a disgustingly obese man standing with the fridge open, rummaging through the contents just as he had done earlier. The man took no notice of him. Hunter felt something cool around his feet, and looked down. Milk. And shattered glass. Bread and lettuce and slices of ham; no wonder his mum had never come upstairs. “Excuse me,” he croaked. “But where are my parents? What did you do with them?” The fat man still ignored him. The clinical light from the fridge made his face appear waxy, dark panda-shadows beneath the eyes. He had armfuls of food now, jars of pickles, microwave pizzas still uncooked, carrots and mustard. Then, when he could carry no more, he shut the fridge and they were thrown back into darkness. The only light filtered in from outside, grey, watery twilight. The man lurched through into the living room, wheezy breathing. And Hunter followed. The whole time, calculating in his head.

It was gloomy in the living room, the window speckled with rain drops, and the sound of the downpour hissing on the pavement outside. Hunter swallowed. His throat was dry, but his mind was racing. Find out what the guy wants. Think! What are your advantages? If you can get to the phone, you can call the police. But you’d have to walk up to it right in front of the intruder. How long will he keep ignoring you? The man took a seat on the sofa, grunting, and laid the food out on the table in front of him. He relaxed into the cushions, as if he were a couch potato preparing to watch a movie. Opening the mustard, he scooped out a handful and ate it like ice cream. Hunter wanted to be sick. “Right then,” he wheezed. Gruff voice. “Take a look behind you.” Hunter turned. The whole world fell away around him, all the safety and comfort. Because Dad was standing on the back of a chair, barely keeping his balance, with a noose around his neck and his hands tied behind his back, and behind him in the corner, his mother was gagged and bound and struggling. The gentleness was gone from her eyes. She looked desperate, like an animal, pleading.

Help me, Hunter. Save us.

“What do you want?” Hunter cried, whirling on the obese man. “Why are you doing this; what do you want?” Silence. The intruder crunched into a pickle, the salty juice squirting over his stubble, beads of oily sweat visible in the folds of his neck. He took a laboured breath, as if his lungs were greasy. “We’re going to play a game, Hunter.” Hunter knew he should have been terrified by that; most kids would likely have peed themselves at this point. Was it wrong that those words sent a thrill through him? A game. Yes! Now they were playing on his field. “What are the rules?” he said. His mother gave a muffled scream behind him. Don’t do it! Call the police! Don’t listen to him! “It’s simple,” said the fat man. “Mm…”, he slurped down a whole slice of frozen pizza. “There are just two possibilities. You might call this a moral dilemma.” He pulled a revolver out of his pants, and pointed it in the general direction of his mother. Hunter let out a little whimper, his eyes wide. “Here’s the choice,” the man went on. “You’re going to stand behind Daddy over there, and pull the chair out from underneath him so that he hangs. His blood will be on your hands. That or, let me see… I’ll shoot your mum over there and then kill him myself.”

Hunter’s breaths were coming fast and uncontrollable. He couldn’t breathe, but he had to think. What hadn’t the maniac factored in? The phone, but that was still on the other side of the room. An unexpected attack… but then, he had a gun. And what about Keira upstairs? She must be asleep. Or else she doesn’t know what’s happening. But I can’t rely on my little sister. “How about this?” the man said. “I’ll count to ten in my head, and you can tell me your decision. One…” Do I kill Dad? Will that mean Mum and me survive? “Two… three… four…” Hunter began to move to the chair, trembling. His Dad was struggling to keep his balance on top of it, like a circus performer. “Five… six… seven… eight…”

So what did you do?

“Nine.”

*I had no time to think.*

I’m sorry if this conversation is painful Hunter, but I have to know.

Yes. Of course.