Short Stories and Poems

My Girl

Every night I lie awake thinking about you, and my mind can never seem settle down. The way your eyes glisten and sparkle as you smile with joy in response to my idiotic jokes. You have a heart of gold and I can tell it will never, ever melt. Knowing that you have endured such hardships causes me pain and discomfort, but then I remember how independent and fierce you are. You drew a picture of me once and I couldn’t believe how much talent you radiated. You’re an artist, a musician, a lover, and a fighter. No man, woman, disease, or challenge could ever tear you down and strip you of your morals. You’re a role model, an inspiration, and someone I hold dear to my soul.


A young girl lies away in the dead of night. Her breathing hitched, whimpering a bit from loneliness. The darkness strikes panic into her heart and she begins to worry. What if there was a monster under her bed? What if there was a monster in her closet? Tears swell up in her eyes as she pictures the grotesque creatures. Ones with sharp claws and fangs, ones who are skinless with piercing black eyes, ones who are physically contorted with twitching limbs, and ones who are hungry for flesh. Tears slip down her cheeks as she begins to softly call out for her mother. Her legs begin to furiously kick at her sheets, but she is quickly put to a halt as she feels a pair of hands grasp onto her legs. They pin her legs down and the elongated fingers scrape their nails along her pale legs. The young girl attempts to scream out for help, but another hand creeps along her face, clamping down on her lips.


He asked for my phone number. He asked for my address. He asked if I loved him. He told me he loved me. He doesn’t know me, but he wants to know me. He follows close behind when I walk home from work. I can feel him staring at my legs covered with fishnet tights. He always asks me questions, not caring if they make me uncomfortable. A friend request on FaceBook? Declined. 

I lie awake in my bed. I can almost feel his gaze peering over me. The thought of his disgusting, calloused hands tracing my thighs makes me cringe. I know how he feels about me. He wants to do dirty acts with me, and he wouldn’t care if I refused. I want him to stop. I don’t want to see him ever again. I want him dead.