Late to Camp NaNoWriMo

https://nanowrimo.org/participants/rebekah1213 My NaNoWriMo profile

Stories from this blog prompt …. https://rebekahquinne.wordpress.com/2024/04/01/camp-nanowrimo-5/ 

It was 2:30am when I heard the honk …I was already dressed in case I had to rush to the bus. I was already packed and my phone was 78% charged.  I raced to the bus…..

I get on the bus as there are six other people all fixing their hair or just getting dressed…..

I groaned …”Rebekah, you are almost the last one … .there were total.of nine who missed the bus this year, so you get the last cabin.” the driver explained as I got in and sighed. 

We picked up the last two people who were both in onesies each with a simple backpack. She had an orange onesie with pigtails, and he had a Scooby Doo onesie with stuffies Scooby. They both sat with me as we all instantly felt close and connected. 

We all sat around as there was an older lady in the passenger seat at the gas station, she got us coffee and some muffins. 

She sat with us….”we are going around saying your name and what do you write …” she smiled. 

“I’m your cabin leader Anne. I write fantasy short stories.” She giggled and smiled. 

We went around the bus….

  1. Belle wrote stories that can end all races. She was hoping camp would help her finish her book. 
  2. Paige wrote children’s books as she was a teacher and she was inspired by her own kids and students. 
  3. Alexis wrote books about owning a TV station and the drama that goes with producing a TV show. 
  4. Jack wrote stories of health issues, bonds of friends, secret plots of his frenemies and how he was a bad boy. 
  5. Max wrote several novels on how everything should be lived to max. He had a hard time finishing any of the stories. 
  6. She went by Shadow fun and wrote about erotica and darker tales. 
  7. I am Rebekah and write drama, personal stories and my favorite horror stories. My stories did have some adult themes 
  8. River wrote erotica and sci-fi with both  books and short stories. 
  9. Rayven wrote sci-fi drama and erotica stories.

We told our stories….my stories. 

Story one. . . Growl

I walk into the store just as my cell phone goes off. . . It was agent. I couldn’t believe I was big enough that I had an agent, lawyer, and accountant. I was almost as famous as Rice (I was way better than Meyer.)

“Did you find the driver and got to the New York store?” Chad Alison asked.

“Yes, I did. We are here and doing well. I read from chapter three and then sign books for two hours.” I retell the events.

“Then you and your husband meet me at” He went on about the latest pop restaurant in New York.

“I have a huge announcement for you.” He was so excited, so I hyper and nervous. My sweetie rubbed my shoulder as he directed me to the front desk as I still have my cell phone up to my ear.

“Well, we need to go. We will meet you there at seven tonight.” I explained and said Bye to get off the phone.

There was over hundred people in the store. I read a small scene about challenge of being a vampire in the past. It was from Book 3: Danielle and she was a gypsy, so she had extra magic and charm but was so much stronger at night.

I explained how I got started with vampires, and I gave credit to National Novel Writing month (NaNoWriMo). I even put the website in my books. I love Stroker’s Dracula and Rice’s The Vampire Chronicles. We answered a few questions and then I signed several dozen books.

Later that evening, my husband and I met my agent at the fancy restaurant. I was just in simple dress and my guy in a simple dark blue suit and we still felt under dressed. We saw several celebrities complaining that the soup was too cold. It was supposed to be cold as it was a Watermelon soup to cleanse the palate.

“So you said you had good news?” I blurted out nervous and excited and still hyped over the signing.

“Yes, they want to make Book one: Melzela into a movie.” He smiled hyped as well. I wanted to squeak and scream; it took all of me to stay calm.

“That is amazing.” My husband stated as I could heard negotiating in his voice. He was already on the phone with our lawyer to look over the contract. We had five courses including dessert and celebrated the good news. . . minus the complaining celebs, the food was amazing.

I woke up with a smile on my face. I stretched only to feel that my phone was not on my end table. . I sat up so fast that I got entangled in my CPAP tube. I tried to take the mask off with nervous and blurred vision as the clip on the mask flicked me in the eye. I growled as hold my eye. . . I shift to side of the bed as my barefoot step into something cold and squishy. I growled again. I turned my entire body to use my good eye. I found my glasses, on the edge of the table. Then I see my phone flipped on the floor between the table and bed. I noticed that my green headset was chewed through . . . It was my cat Bonkers; that was the third set he ate through that month and I didn’t have a backup pair. I growled yet again. I found a dirty towel, cleaned off my foot, and the gross mess that Bonkers left when he choked on my green cord.

I looked at my phone. . . “**** I over slept.” I had overslept by at least an hour as I had not heard my alarm go off. I barely dressed in my sweatpants and a oversize hoodie, with a unkempt fizzy bun and raced to the local gas station a few blocks down the street. It was a total of twenty minute walk both ways combined, but I needed a headset with microphone; I do all of my music, mediation, and phone calls that way. I growled at I look at the slim choices that all over priced by at least ten dollars. I re-budgeted my groceries in my head as I bought sparkly pink one. The cashier didn’t even greet me, nor did I greet him, we both knew it was just one of the get our stuff, pay for it, and get out transactions.

I got home put a bagel, I look all over the refrigerator for the cream cheese that I bought for the bagels. However the bagel was popped and now more cool than warm as I find that the cream was opened, and left out over night as my brother used it on crackers, but never put it away. However was it last night or the night before, because the cheese was crusted hard and I’m not sure if that green was another food or mold. . . Ewww. . . I growl as I try to spread butter on my cold, hard bagel. I grabbed a cup of coffee only to find that my brother put my favorite creamer back in the refrigerator empty. I growled again.

I finally took a shower only to find that the water was on temp. . . our neighbor had used all of hot water, between using their dish washer, and all four of them showering in the morning. Then I only got shampoo in my eye, and I spent five extra minutes washing suds out of my sensitive and sore eyes. I growled several times as I dry off. I finally get dressed, but I heard a honk on the bus. . . I look out of the window as I racing to finish packing. . . I growl to bare see the bus decorated with a book and a rainbow over it as the words Camp NaNoWriMo was on it. . . .I raced out in bare feet and un-brushed wet hair to see that bus had pass. No one saw me run after it, except my brother who was eating my pizza rolls. Then he said. . . “there was the bus.” . . . No S***. . . I growled.

Story two: Order in the Court

I was getting my things together and packing for writing camp when I heard a knocking noises like the sound of a hammer . . . like a gravel on a judge’s bench. I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from, but looked around, but it was getting louder almost like a hammer meets a very hard slow drumming sound. As I get closer to my notebook, the sound was so loud that it was giving me a headache. . . I could also hear muffled voices. . . and I heard :”Order. . . Order in the court!” I was confused where it was coming from. . . I looked around, but the sound was strong around my notebook.

I got pulled into as soon as I opened my book. . . It was like a cartoon, my body for just second was like a piece of flexible goo that got sucked up into the vacuum.

I merge in front of a huge wood door that that had the Justice Tarot card engraved in the wood. It was a woman blindfold holding up a scale.

“Go in . . . you are late.” A clumsy man with a black briefcase told me. . . I opened the door as the court room is full of so many different characters. Cat people from a sci-fi story I wanted to write with my talented hubby. My hubby is dressed in a sci-fi space outfit. A beautiful woman in black and orange dress sat next to the Cat people as I knew that was the character I wanted to create for my amazing Rayven. Dragons all with my brother’s faces stuck in them as if they were ideas from a children’s book I wanted to write, but never got around to time. All of my vampires were there, a few witches, a bunch of ghosts, and even my inner demons in physical forms, some were mean but gorgeous, others were just natural hideous forms.

There was a judge a Gothic younger chick who would smile at the characters but frown at me. She had spiderweb with eye makeup on her temples.

“Rebekah, do you know why you are here?” She asked. . . .

“Honestly, no I do not, your honor.” I replied. All of the characters booed.

“You have condemned of having favorite characters.” She sighed in her condemn.

“Is that a crime?” I was confused.

“I will admit I do have some characters that their stories just come out better, and therefore make it easier to write. As for favorite, each character has there own merit.” I explained.

“Lair.” Several of the characters blurted out.

“Which ones are my favorites and which ones feel left out?” I wanted answers. I wanted to know what was the real crime and what was supposed punishment for the crime. They made a list of me claiming that I favor the vampires, ghosts, and witches the most. The Dragons, unicorns both declared that they wanted more attention.

“I write more horror than fantasy.” It was my rebuttal.

“There is a very fine line between horror and fantasy.” They argued back.

“Dragons can easily be horror. They breathe fire and make you a roasted marshmallow human.” It was another argument.

“You can have unicorn take you out with their horn.” Another character shouted. . .

“What do you say to that?” The judge asked me.

“I rather be friend a dragon or unicorn, not have them kill me.” They all grumbled at my reply.

“Why don’t you use more elves or fairies in your work?” They asked as the first two rows was a mixture of elves and fairies. They all looked mad at me.

“Again, I write horror, not fantasy.” I growled. They growled back.

“Disney really messed up my vision of fairies with Tinkerbell.” I added. “Blame Disney. It’s hard to see you that dark between Disney and then Lord of the Rings.” I rolled my eyes. “I like vampire for the power, sex appeal, and their emotions are just more intense. It’s hard for me to see this in elves or fairies.”

The crowds all started to grumble that the judge had to say. . . “Order in the court.” She smacked her gavel. They quieted down. I was still confused.

“What about your drama work?” A shy and quiet voice an awkward geeky preteenager asked questioned me.

“What about it?” I asked. I know I have written a few drama pieces working on a fear or emotional issue.

“What about the sibling to the main character?” He asked another question.

“The thing is I write the story. . . the character that pulls to me. Once I am a published author and others read my work, and they feel that your story needs out ,then they can write it.” He growled at my answer.

“What makes your story better than the main character’s story?” I asked him.

“You got everything handed to you even after your parents died. Your sister busted her ass to go to school, work, and take care of you. You even bought a violent video game even though you knew you were not supposed to. . . Why should I write about the brat?” I knew the exact character it was. 

“I can’t tell everyone’s story. I write what characters and stories come to me. They need to pull and hold my interest. I have favorite genres, and yes, I prefer horror over fantasy. If the other character pulled me, and I had the time, I would write your story too. My head is always running with several projects and now my inner demons want their stories told, so I’m doing therapy as well as writing…so give me a d*** break!” I barked at them. 

“I’m just a human.” I sighed. 

“Make it interesting, pull my interest … .I’m a newbie with fantasy, with sci-fi … .adding more genres while I’m trying to finish others can get overwhelming.” I added and argued. 

“I’m starting slow. This doesn’t mean I have extreme favorites, but storylines and twists are easier for me to write.”

“We want you to write all our stories…” one of my inner demons belted out. 

“Then stop criticizing me and help me break my writer’s block and be more creatively productive!” I growled back.

“Look, I need to get ready for writing camp, so inspire me or punish me now.” I was losing patience as I could the clicking of a clock in my head. I knew I needed to finish packing for camp. 

“My judgment is… You need to work on your sci-fi and fantasy spin, work with three new characters and work on things to keep you productive and break your writer’s block….Court is adjourned.” As she snapped her gavel, I reappeared in my bedroom as the bus was driving away…

Foggy Clouds


It’s all a very surreal and foggy moment in my life. . .
Most of my adult life was a huge cloudy foggy day. . .
with just peaks of the sun.
They were like teases
A smile from the trouble sky
It’s all about the small moments.
I feel even now, the sky is crying for me
I’m so sad and foggy
that I can see the open path for the trees
The trees are all shouting
“Get out!
Move on!
Leave!”
It scares me as something as peaceful and quiet as trees
are not shouting at me
as if I have done something horribly wrong
What did I do?
All I did was. . .
Grow up.



Now I feel I do not belong . . .
Here.
I’m so foggy
That I feel alone
even with those who care.
I’m sorry if I do not give credit
As I cannot think, see, or feel clearly.



I just hope one day. . .
The clouds will part
The fogginess will pass
And my untraveled path
Will be open for me to see
So I can leave and simply move on.


My life ….poem

I am nothing but

Tangled thoughts with iced distraction and sprinkles of frustration

Extra sprinkles. Hold the ingestion.

Tingly numb, numbness all over ..tingly numb….throbbing fingers and thumb

Growls as I drop a pen ….again.

I dropped a fork trying to eat….

I even dropped a knife at my feet

It’s all getting to my head….

Luckily I dropped my expensive phone on my bed.

Dealing with no motivation…from anyone …anywhere

They just rather sleep the full day away in the chair

I feel like I am the only one who really wants to get out of here.

I feel they are just kids who want to color but have no crayons.

But they pout instead go out fight “the man.”

Archy pains as I try to get things done but I’m not having any fun.

Declutter and declutter until there is none

I feel I am slowly fading until I’m nothing..

I fear commitment and don’t have ring.

I’ll just pull him down within the broken spring.

Inner voices tell me to stop

Saying there is no hope

Want me stuck

And letting me to cope

I can not be responsible

Not just yet

So many doctors appointments

And eventually they will be vets

Can I really move on?

Can they live without me?

Can I find my own happiness

And not feel guilty?

I have way more questions

Than I know my way

My head is tangled

I need to go play!

Middle of the Road

Middle of the road….

Trigger warning….dark imagery…. language. 

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I’m sitting in the middle of the road with the voices in my head . . . 

Pulling and tugging me in different directions….

Just so many voices… saying many different things…

“Why don’t you have a job?” 

“Why don’t you drive?” 

“Why do you have a nicer place? Or You leave there?” 

“Aren’t you going out to actually live your life? Or do you like the dirty walls around you?” 

“What if you don’t move?”

“Why are you wasting your potential?” 

“Don’t you have kids?” 

“I like you but far away.” 

“What if you are holding him back?’

“You should get your teeth fixed, if you want people to like and respect you.” 

“Do you think you look like a larger, rounded monster?” 

“Why are you sitting in the middle of the road?’ “What if a car comes?”

“Can’t you make a simple decision?” 

“Are you crazy or something?” 

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Are you going to get your damn head fixed?”

“What if you are dragging everyone down?”

“What if you freaking surprise us and do something?”

“What if you actually get off your fat ass, you lazy brat?”

“Why are you doing nothing?”

“Are those games really helping you?”

“You’re not good enough for anything, are you?”

“You feel like a waste, don’t you?” 

“You dream of the silver blade, don’t you?”

“You think of the dripping red, don’t you?” 

“You want the cars to come, don’t you?”

“You want to end it all….don’t you?” 

“What ….fucking if…..” 

“Why bother?” I sigh and sit still in the middle of the empty road. 

Battle after Battle. . .

I have been have several issues with female problems and the doctors tried to put me on hormones again. (I learned that man-made hormones make me lose control and make my demons super.) This story is inspired by it. . .

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I woke up tied down to a old metal hospital bed. The room was cold, the rusty metal showed through the wholly and thin blood-stained sheets. My head was pounding, my arms were sore, and I freaked out as I could not feel my legs. I gasped and took a deep breath as my lower torso was in a twisted throbbing pain. I exhaled the painful damp air. . . I growled under my painful breath as I try to lean forward, I tried to move to sit up, but the straps on my arms kept my body painfully down. I could feel an IV in my right arm, as it would tuck and pull, making me groan in discomfort. I had no idea how I got there, and if I was really bleeding or if those stains were old. I tried to lay back but was nothing was comfortable: they room was cold, and my body was stiff, and very achy.

With in the next few moments, several bony demon-like creatures with red pulled skin, and yellow and black eyes. . . they had very sharp teeth. They brought in a female human doctor. . . she had well-tanned skin as if she just came from a very nice vacation. She seemed easily annoyed at the fact I was even awake. My eye squinted at her bright white coat, it almost glowed; patients could easily see her from miles away with that coat. My head was pounding, my pelvis was feeling painfully twisted, and my arms felt heavy. I also still could not feel my legs. I tell her all about it. I asked them if I was bleeding. . . I could hear panic in my voice. I could feel my heart rate go up and my chest tighten. .

“You are all wrong. . . You are not in pain. It’s all in your head.” She spoke in a way that it was a mixture of mockery and true conceit.

“You are fat and crazy.” She mumbled under her breath, just enough for us both to hear it. I believed even the demons laughed with her. She told them several codes. . . several medical words. The only two words I understood were hormonal steroids.

“You’re not pregnant, and you never will be, so no pain. Well. . . no pain-in-the-ass seedlings.” She laughed at me as the demons laughed and mocked me too. I swore I thought I heard one demon say “Wasted.” Well, the other one said “Loser.” Then I thought there was the word “Reject. . .” The demon repeated the word to the doctor. . . “Inject?”

“Yes, yes. Inject.” She replied. . .

“What? What the fuck is going on?” I blurted out in a nervous panic.

“Well, you see your body is backwards. You are not meant to do what your kind is to do. So I am giving you something to . . . well. . . lets just see if it works.” She laughed at me and looked at my body like it was science experiment. I swore I saw lighting and heard thunder when she chuckled.

As the fluid pushed up my IV, I felt flushed and like my neck was on fire.

“I’m . . . hot. . . so hot.” I could feel the back of my neck sweating. My chest was warm, and I was sweating under my breasts. My pelvis felt harsh a mixture of twisted cramps that were on fire.

“It’s just a side effect. . . you are fine!” The doctor growled in her words. Everything got super hot, and I couldn’t even keep my eyes open anymore. . . all was black.

I heard the voice. . . it was crowd like in a sporting event. . . The words and phrases were muffled but I tried to hear them. . .

“Wasteful.”

“Useless.”

“Bitchy.”

“Angry.”

“Rejected.”

“Ugly”

“Fat.”

“Make. Them. Scream.”

“Ripped-apart”

“Empty.”

“Barren.”

“Bloody.”

“Bulldozer.”

“Bitter.”

“She-hulk.”

“Monster.”

I was able to tone out the crowd and pull out the the few voices projected on the jumbo-tron. “We heard that you created the beast.” I guess that was the demons’ nickname for me. . . maybe a dark stage name. I had no idea what I did. . . I was completely out of control. . . completely in the dark.

“I had no idea what she was. . . I never would have created her, if I did.” I heard a male voice.

“She will never create life; what is she really worth?” Everyone laughed at his reply, and then they chanted. . . “Beast! Fight Beast!”

I finally open my eyes. . . I still feel so hot, so hot that my eyes squinted. . . I saw several overly muscular monstrous demon-like beasts coming at me. . . some had fur like a mixture of lion and ripped wolf-man. They charged at me, but it felt like I could not moved. . . They had hit me, clawed me, and pulled me in so many directions. . . They charged at me several times making my stiff body fly hard and land bitterly on the rocky ground. I felt like a bad bouncing ball that was losing air and instead of bouncing on the ground, I would land with harsh, painful thud.

The more they would move me around, the hotter I would get. I felt like my heart was going to pound out of my chest, and from head to toe, I was on fire. I felt like I was watching myself, but from my own point of view. I had zero control of things I did next. . . All of the veins on my arms were all blown out, probably from IVs.

I felt my body move on it’s own. . . it was like an evil super mode. . . I started to run and attack members of the audience. I was pulling off arms and beating the bloody bodies like drums. . . I would squeeze legs and hear the crack of bones as the demons would cheer me on. I would pop spines like pop-corn as humans would cry in my hands. The more they would panic and beg, more vicious I was to them. I pull several people’s jaws apart. I smashed several head with my own hands. I had several human eating parts of their bodies. . . I had bent several humans over and made them kiss their own asses. People were panicking and screaming as the demons all locked the doors. . . They had me attack person after innocent person. I cause so much bloody pain and death. . . I had no control.

The energy eventually slowed down to nothing and I ambled back to the middle of the arena. People were still gasping and choking fighting for life, but the grim reaper was there for all of them.

Once the arena was quiet, I looked around to see what I had done. I stopped and gasped as I realized something. . it was all people that I had ever known. I was completely alone, as I collapsed in the middle of the arena next to a spilled cup of coffee.

Battle 4 Part 3

I open my eyes to see. . . I’m sitting in a ripped leather computer chair. I’m in a ratty robe. My hair is a mess: a pony tail only holding part of my hair. . . I’m in a home office: the window shows that they day is fighting the blue skies and dark grey storm clouds. There are piles of papers, notebooks, cups of old, cold coffee which there are abstract designs floating on the top. There are pens of multi-colors that were scattered all over. . . each color had a meaning behind it. Several pens mixed with ripped pages in the waste basket. They were good soldiers and they did their duty fighting imaginary enemies on page after colorful page.

I sit and stare at my half of dozen of projects that were not finished, my other dozens of projects and stories that needed edited, and the great dreaded white screen, for yet . . . something new. I turn on the music and start to bob my head to one of thousands songs that I know. However the screen is still white, and now I am into the song as I spin my chair for the tenth time in a row.

I hear a laughing. I look around, but see nothing. There are more than one voice laughing. The laughs start to sound morphed into almost a hiss and growl.

“Why are you writing?”

“What is the point?

“You will never finish anyway?”

“You rather dance”

“You rather cook.”

“You rather chat with your lovers.”

“You rather color.”

“You rather play video game.”

I realize that my inner demons are messing with my head or at least trying to. I see a small fire place that seems to form out of nowhere. My will-power sparks creating a small collected fire in the fireplace. It smells so good like roasted marshmallows and hot chocolate.

“I am writing, because I so many stories in me. In fact, even you fucked up demons have inspired me. Thank you.” I speak out in a monotone voice.

“The point of my writing is expression. I like to teach and show people things with my stories. It’s like drawing and painting with words and the reader’s mind is the canvas.” I smile as I feel I am clever with that explanation.

“I will finish, maybe not tomorrow, but my main projects will be finished. Endings are hard.” I state the obvious.

“As for all of the other things that I enjoy doing, I know that I need to get some writing in to feel complete with my day. “ I know that they are just trying frustrate and pull away my focus.

I look at the fire in the fire place and I smile. A hot mocha appears in my travel mug next to me.

“You’re place is a mess.”

“How do you know where everything is?

“You look like an unmade bed.”

“You could never represent your work like that.”

“Who would buy a book from someone who looks like a tornado.”

They just want to argue with me. I can say that the creative process whether is sculpture, painting, drawing (with pencils), even writing and acting. . . is a very messy process.

Art is messy. Writing is an art.” I exclaim as the fire sparks stronger.

“I know where everything is, because I put it there. Each pile is a project and means something to me. It’s not a prefect system, but it is mine. Now back the fuck off.” I growl a bit. My system is not meant for anyone else but me!

“I will not look like this if I decide to put a picture of myself in the book.” I stop before I start a bitter battle if I comment them on their hideous looks. They are not even human looking, and if they were to be they would not look like Hollywood would accept them anytime soon.

“You have a choice. . . fuel my bad guys in my stories. . . or leave, because I do NOT want to deal with you. I have work to do.” I sigh. I hope their give me an idea or two for a bad guy (AKA villain) and then simply just leave. . .

However my life is never that simple. . .

I go back to typing . . . I type my argument with them. I use them to fuel my inspirational fire. . . my creative spark.

Battle 4 Part 2

Note: I try to cut out many of the cuss words. . . this scene was much more darker and had way more cuss words. I try to make sound as professional as I could.

Battle 4 Part 2 (Part one is Battle 4 Part one – Rebekah Quinne’s short stories (wordpress.com) )

“Come here. Bitch!” I heard a being in a cloak scowl to me.

I am hesitant as I barely get to my two feet when I heard it bark at me. . .

“COME HERE NOW!” I walk to the group of the chanting group echoing the words. . .

“It. Is. All. Your. Fault!”

I get to the hot fire. . . the pressure of the eyes, in the shadows of the cloaks, is intense.

I do not speak, but I look into the flames.

“This is your trial.” It speaks in a clear, calm voice.

“From what it sounds like . . . they have already decided.” I mumble.

“They only speak what you think you feel. What you think you deserve” He is speaking in a monotone voice.

“I have no idea what happened here, for it could be anyone’s fault.” I try to sound decent, logical.

“You hide behind your logical tone, behind your emotions. . . does anyone know the real you? Do you even know the real you?” For a solid moment it’s verbal truth slashed me like a double edge sword. I was literally lost in the analyzation of it’s words. I was stuck, frozen. Who was I?

“You cannot even answer me. By not speaking, I have my answer.” It begins to have a cocky tone to it.

“I have question.” I pause as the voices stop. “How is it to be my fault when I was not here?”

I smirk for a second thinking that I slyly have them.

The flames bounce the fire in a rage as if someone throws alcohol or gas in to the bonfire.

“This is NOT about that at this exact moment, and you are avoiding the main point.” It was a rebuttal.

“You want to know the real me. I try to be honest, but I over think and over analyze things until I twist the honesty myself and question everything. I can rarely ever just take things as they truly are, because of my questioning doubt.

I put others before myself, because I do not feel I deserve the attention. However I like the attention, sometimes, and sometimes I just like getting a compliment and being left alone. I am horribly afraid of doing something wrong, and lose everything. I am horrified of being alone. However I cannot live alone. I am so all over the place, so chaotic,and to be honest I do my best in conflict, but I need time to rest and heal.” I take a deep breath.

“I constantly think I am never going to amount to anything and instead of fighting the thought, I give into it. I do feel it was because of people getting hurt: I’m afraid to hurt others. I like to socialize, but drama can get too much. I also think majority of people all want something from me. . . answers, sex, or money. I wish I could find more people like me, but more in control of their emotions, so they can show me how to control mine.” I sigh staring into the fire.

“For lack of better terms, I never feel good enough, but the truth is I am just enough or more than enough to do the things that I need to do. I know I have a purpose, but I know that probably my true purpose is none of the things in my head. I want to be a writer, get online credit, but not have to read or socialize that often. I am afraid my books will cause majority controversy. The thing is some days I am a fighter, and other days I just want to cuddle under a warm blanket with someone special.” I smile in my other deep breath.

“I believe that paranormal and emotional experiences are very spiritual, and I want to show this in my books.” I explain, but it just sounds like mambo jumbo to me. . .

“Who are you? I mean who are you really? More than a daughter, sister, girlfriend. . . Who are you, Rebekah?” It gets fierce in it’s voice. . . more direct.

“You are Fat.” I am curvy, but I hate the word fat. My curves make up who I am. I am finally appreciating and even enjoying my body thanks to a person, actually persons that means the world to me. I understand losing a bit weight to let myself breath and move better is a good thing, but to take it all off, is like taking a huge part of me. I have always been curvy. I’ve always had a belly and once I got breasts, I was obviously noticed a bit more.

“You are ugly.” I am not a model, but I am not a total physical train wreck either. I am not the usual type covered in make-up wearing shoes that can cost as much as my rent. I like clothes that can relax or dance or clean in. I am happy with a tank top and my favorite jeans. I do not like zippers on my pants. To be honest, I break zippers, and in another life I think I was guy, and I would get my junk caught in a zipper. So yes, I wear stretchy jeans or sweats. Sometimes I want to get pretty and go out, but I am a complicated being not just a “woman.” The same beings, my twinsies, also taught me we are all complicated, and we should love our complications.

“You should be alone.” I have people who love me and want me happy. I love them and want them happy too. Why with a mentality like that should I be alone? While, I will admit I enjoy my alone time, the 2020 quarantine taught me the need for socializing and connections. Most of us as human, need multi-connections; it help us see the world from different angles, different view points.

“You are not enough.” That is a loaded statement. . . and it way too vague. The word “enough” should be categorize as a “four-letter word.” I would cuss like a sailor horrible words and still feel better than say to someone: “You are NOT enough.” They may not be right for a job. However we are all here for reasons and purposes beyond our own understanding. I also like to think when you die, you see your purpose before you move on. (This explains why ghosts have unfinished business.)

“You are untalented.” I may NOT be on a best seller list, but I do have people wanting to read my future writings. Even today, I had someone said that they read my work, enjoyed my stories, and that I am a good writer. I have grammar issues, especially when I think way faster than I can type. However I do try to reread my work,correct it when I can. However I know I have talents with my words, my coloring, and my baking.

“You see I can mentally hear that you arguing with all of their arguments. Now tell me how you see yourself. . .”

“I am a curvy, spunk younger woman who has talent and with the willpower can and will accomplish anything I put my mind to.” I instantly feel determined. The flames flicker and fade down. The cloaked beings fall silent and eventually disappear. I am alone with the low flame. The grass grows around me in a instant, and there is a medium fallen tree for me to sit upon. . . I sit down just knowing I am supposed to.

“You see even that dead and broken tree has a purpose even after it stopped growing branches and leaves. In fact, that trees really didn’t produce as much leaves as the other trees around it as it was too covered away from the Sunlight. I am your willpower. The crime was you giving up, and as we both can see you have not. You simply allowed the doubt, worried, and fear to take away your sunlight.”

“Are those the cloaked beings?” I ask, actually curious.

“Yes, you have depression, anxiety, monsters of your past. . .” He pauses and sighs. “And monsters of your future, which shouldn’t even exist. You worry so hard that you created beings and problems that should not exist. You have the right to have dreams and not let worrying mess with them.” It sounds logical and straight to the bitter dark point.

“How do I simply stop worrying? If you are inside me, then you would know that worrying is in my nature.” I am just as straight up with my willpower.

“Just keep my flame strong and keep going, and you will make it through your obstacles and worries.” It didn’t promise, but it seems very sure of itself. I could not doubt against it’s confidence.

“So if this a battle, would have it been a victory?” I ask curious.

“It’s more like a pep talk before the big game or battle. To be straight with you. . . your doubt, worry, anxiety, bitterness, depression, fear, anger have all been working with your inner demons. They have your muses all mixed up. Without your inspiration, motivation, will-power, and muses. . . it’s hard to get your writing dream accomplished.” It pauses for a moment. . .

“We are going to get you back to your old writing busy self soon enough.” I could hear the promise in it’s voice. I smile with hope for the first time in a very long time.

“This is set up, a prep time. . . now we need to strategize for your darker parts have more coming. You also need to heal and get more inner strength.” The flame flickers.

“I also need more power.” I get more wood by picking up sticks. Each stick was a worry, the bigger branches that I would drag were worries and fears.

“Every time you see repeating number know it’s the Gods, Goddess, and Fates are looking over you and I.”

Battle 4 Part one

Note: This has a darker images. You have been warned.

Continued from . . . Battles 2 and 3. . . – Rebekah Quinne’s short stories (wordpress.com)

Battle 4

It. Is. All. Your. Fault!” The words growl in my ear.

I walk into an opening of the woods to see the horrific scene. My beautiful fraternal twins: male and female. . . both tied next to each other: standing up spread eagle against several posts. Their clothes are ripped, and I cannot tell if they have wounds or if the splattered blood is from someone or something else. Right in front of them is a huge red and black blood splat like a someone smashed a human size bug. There is blood and pieces hanging in the trees waiting to be washed away by the next rain.

In my twins eyes are a mixture of shock and total fear. My beautiful male twin also had an hollowness that he could not truly fathom yet. They are shivering in shock and fear. I want to save them. . . I need to have them.

I walk toward them, but something stopped me as the entire splattered mark on the dirty ground turned into a huge bonfire.

The flames dance between us. I swear I could hear it almost laughing. I feel as if some beings are watching us from the woods . . . it’s like they are waiting for the signal to attack. I feel like prey, and yet I am determined to get my twins untied.

It. Is. All. Your. Fault!” Several voices start to chant in growling tones. . .

You. Are. Bad.”

You. Are. Wrong.”

You. Deserve. Nothing. . . No one!”

You. Will. Be. Alone!”

It. Is. All. Your. Fault!”

It feels like the words are swirling around me. I can feel my power, my energy, my strength draining me.

I look at my twins through the flames. . . I try to smile. I try to tell them it’s okay. However I could not move any muscle or even speak. I look at the flame as I see what is a smoky whip hit them across their backs. They both scream as it feels very real. They get whipped again as they cough into their screams. . . the smoke whips them on the in and outside.

I know at that very moment I had to save them. I have cross the fiery mess. I need to face the burning and smoky heat.

I take all of power, all of my energy and step back. I look at my twins coughing hard. I take a deep powerful breath and run through the flames.

The heat surrounds me as I run. It wants to pull me in, pull me back, and burning me to my determined core. I meet up with my twins who are coughing so bad that they cannot see me through their gagging tears. I untie my female twin first and together we untie my male twin. We move closer to the trees and away from the fire. They both collapse onto the ground. I check him first, he is gasping to get huge breaths of air in. The blood on him was not his, but his arms, legs, chest, and back were all bruised. His eyes are a hollow gray blue and turn to a white. . .

“She. Is. Gone.” He whispers. Then my male twin disappears. I gasp trying to grab the ground where is on.

I grab her fast. . . she tries to cry, but nothing comes out. . . she gasps, but air does not come in or out. . . long fingers and thin arms pull her out of my arms. . . leaving me alone with bloody fire.

It. Is. All. Your. Fault!” Several beings in closed brown cloaks chant dancing around the fire.

I sit on the ground completely confused, scared, and alone.

To be Continued. . . .

Battles 2 and 3. . .

Note: There are images and wordage that is not suitable for younger eyes. . .

Battle 2 Part 2 – Rebekah Quinne’s short stories (wordpress.com) (continued from)

Continued from Battle 2. . .

I wake up in a bed in a yellow brick room. There are three faceless beings laying flat on the beds. I moved toward the dark gray door. However the door is huge and metal, and it seems to be locked. I have no key or at least I cannot find. The windows have metal bars: I cannot get out that way. My cellphone cannot get WiFi reception due the brick and metal.

I start to panic. . . I cannot get out. I start to touch the door knob and an alarm goes off and the faceless beings sit up at the same time. My heart is racing and trying to beat out of my chest. I can barely get in air in or out: I feel like the room is losing air.

There are voices coming from the faceless beings. . .

“What are you doing?”

“Can you get me a bottle?”

“What are you writing?”

“Who needs facts?”

“What are we having for dinner?”

“Can you turn on Wifi?”

“Why are you writing again?”

“Where are you going?”
“Can you get me this?”

“What are we having for dinner?”

“One. . .”
“Can you get me that?”

“Love me for a minute.”

“What are you doing?”

“Two. . “
“Can you go get that?”

“I am always right.”

“What are you writing?”

“Ten. . .”

“I need water.”

“Twenty?”

“Do you have rent?”

“I’m not drunk, you’re wrong.”

“What are we having for dinner?

“Why is she the bear?”

“Can you turn on Wifi?”

“Love me for a second.”

“Can you turn on Wifi?”

“Can I have cookies?”

“Can I come?”

“Forty”

“I am going with you, right?”

Fifty-five.”

“Are you sure you want to go?”

“Can you get a bottle?”

“Do you have the rent?”

“Where is the remote?”

“What are you doing?”

“We are watching my show, right?”

“Love me for a New York minute.”

“What are we having for dinner?”

“Can you get a bottle?”

“Fix the remote.”
“See how much money I have. . .”

The voices get pushier and louder with each line or question. It is very intense and overwhelming. . . I want to curl into a ball and have them all go away. My head starts to throb, my ears start to ring, and I could not even answer before the next line comes out. . . several questions and lines repeat.

I have no way to stop anyone: I have no money, no food, and starting to have no sanity.

My brain goes into panic mode. . . I look away from the beings, but around the room. . . The TV turns on. . . more lines after lines. . .

“You will not get out.”

“You will never finish your writings.”

“You are a loser.”

“You have no talent.”

“You are just a waste of space.”

“You are fat.”

“You are ugly.”

“You will be alone.”

“Nothing will work your way.”

“You will become faceless…”

My eyes grow wide and move pass the faceless beings. . . barely brushing against them. They slowly turned around. . . I fall to the floor instead of having them touch me. I slither my thick body. . . wedge myself painfully under the bed having the metal board scrap against my back. It takes all of me not to cry out loud or scream as my the metal pulls against the thick flesh of my curvy back rolls. My legs are still sticking out from under the bed, but I could barely move without more of the pulling and burning pain.

The cheap dirty rug roll up my shirt and my stomach and breasts are burning, pulling away burning layers of skin.

I can feel the tension and the closeness of the beings they are over my legs. I could tell that they want to pull me . . . they want to kill the microscopic piece of sanity that I hold onto like air. They want me to be faceless and mindless like that. . . doing the same thing day after day. They want me to lose my mind, heart, and spirit and to simply become as shallow and meaningless as their lives have become. As they say . . . misery loves company.

I gasp as I feel something grab my leg. I struggle against there grip. I try to pull myself deeper under the bed, the metal bars are almost like sharp knives against my back. I swear I think many levels of my flesh were pealed away like an onion. . . I may have been bleeding. . . My breasts are throbbing and burning I could feel the tenderness of my fluffy breasts losing the bit of feeling I have left leaving in a excruciating rub against the harsh dark carpet. It can soak up blood and no one would know. All I know I have to get away from the meaningless beings.

Then in the upper corner of the bed, I found a key. My fingers brushes against it at first. I grunt as I pull against my bodily pain. I pull myself harder and grab the key.

Everything disappears except me on in a painful mess on the dark, harsh floor.

I get up as the air hits my breasts and stomach it stings harshly. In pure pain, tears rain from my eyes. I move toward the door, but it feels like the ten foot room stretches. The longer I walk, the more distant the dark metal door seem to appear. I stop and think of a car as in my mind: The mirror says “Objects are closer than they appear.” I read and reread it several times as the car move moves closer. The more I reread it the bigger the car appears. . . until the car hits me from behind. I fall down hitting reality as my ass hit the floor. I pull my shirt down as the cotton stings my raw stomach and chest.

I groan, get up and move backward toward the bathroom door. I enter the bathroom that it hot and stench is horrid. There is old shit, urine, and blood all over the sink, shower, and floor. The toilet has blood and mold. I gag at first, but step out and take a deep breath. I reenter the bathroom. I try to rip off the mirror from the blind white wall. It will not move. I smash it with my fist mixing my fresh blood with the old caked blood and shit.

I grab a piece of the mirror with my bloody hand. I walk out of the bathroom dripping my blood all over the carpet but no one would noticed as dark as it is. . . .

I reflect the door to the piece of mirror and walk backward until my jelly ass hits the door it’s self. The mirror makes the room feel so much small. . . like it’s closing in on me.

I quickly grab the key as I put it in the door and turn the key. . . The door squeaks as it opens. I rush out as the back wall crushes against the door. It close behind me. . .

Outside was hot and cold. . . the humidity barely let me breathe. However I am out. I race off the property before it collects me into the mindless nothing of the soulless prison. I still have no idea what did I do to go to the place?

Battle 3

I start to travel. I realize that I have no shoes. My clothes are so ripped that they are barely holding on. I have bruises, deep cuts, and burns. I am still bleeding and it’s leaving a trail of drop by drop like a bad version of bread crumbs.

“I’m bad . . .” The words come across my lips, but it’s not from my own doing.

“I am bad.” The words correct themselves. . . fall pass my lips. I am confused. I feel like I am puppet and yet I am trying to fight it.

I walk on hot blacktop. . . my feet start to burn like my belly and chest. I feel a presence, but see no a damn thing. However I heard: “You. Are. Bad.”

“You are really bad.” I heard the other voice say.

“You are a selfish person.” Another voice added. . .

“You are lazy.” Another higher pitch added. . .

“You are so fucking fat!” I swear something growled in it’s words. I try to move fast, but start to huff. The voices start to laugh at me.

All of these being are invisible, but they are very much there. I walk into a sprint as I hear more voices. . . they are clear as day with very bad sayings. . .

“You deserve nothing.”

“You have no talent.”

“You shouldn’t exist.”
“You cannot even reproduce.”

“You are worthless.”

“You are useless.”

“You should just waste away.”

“You should fall into the nothingness and be locked away.”

Once my feet hit the grass, the voices stop as if they all disappear. I walk faster to get away from the dark bitter property. . .

Then dark memories hit me. . .

Do NOT sit outside.

Ring. Ring. Ring. . . static. . .

No working WiFi

Ring. Ring. Ring. . . click

Cannot feed the poor cat

Ring. Ring. Ring. . . static. . .

Do Not talk to neighbors

Ring. Ring. Ring. . . click

Crawly bug, water broke, fridge problems. . .

Ring. Ring. Ring. . . static. . .

Police questioning

Ring. Ring. Ring. . . static. . .

Drugs. . . Death. . . bodies. . .

Ring. Ring. Ring. . . click

A siren squealing pulls me back from my dark hypnosis. I try to run only to have the blaring sirens chase me. . . I run faster, but it’s like the sound wants to catch me. I stump my toe on a rock and trip falling head first. Everything turns back and the loud sound gets skewed. . .it falls into a padded silence. It is not comforting, but entrapping.

I wake up being cuffed to a metal bed in a room that is a mixture of metal and white. It’s cold and calculating. Over a dozen faceless being with white coats circle around me. They all have charts. . . they are mumbling something like a bad check list.

  • High Blood pressure
  • Female. . . Hair on face
  • Overweight
  • swollen left leg
  • Swollen right ankle
  • Swollen left wrist
  • Acne
  • Scars from acne
  • Mood swings
  • Headache
  • Stomach holes
  • Abdominal pain
  • High Liver and Kidney
  • Bad diet: High sugar
  • Pancreas weak
  • Heart unsteady beats
  • Emotional unbalance
  • Warts
  • Gout: heat right ankle
  • Weight causes breathing issues
  • Note: needs more sleep
  • Not living up to mental potential
  • Happiness depends on hobbies and other beings
  • Weakness: Dependence on others
  • Weakness: Emotionally not stable
  • Weakness: anger issues
  • Weakness: Right hand, cyst, carpal tunnel
  • Ability to produce: Negative
  • Potential to be fix: Extremely low
  • Potential to be converted: Error

Conclusion: too much wrong . . . ERROR: Must be destroyed. . . “ These words clear as day. . .

I struggle against the cuffs, my heart rate and blood pressure go higher making the machines beep and squeal loud. The beings all start to run into each other in a stupid chaotic panic. They actually thought I was asleep.

They roll my bed down a hallway with the lights flickering. I am struggling against the cuffs clanging on the metal bed frame. I am just making my wrists and ankles really sore. They push me into an ice cold room all I had was a hospital white gown and sheet to protect me. I shiver, there is a robot that gives me a shot and all goes black again. . .

I see images. . .

A old house with a bed , cauldron in fireplace. . . I am tied to a bed as I am told to drink this glowing green potion. I can hear the witch, but I cannot see her. What is very odd . . . is that I feel completely alone in the room. An invisible being forces me to drink. . . the only side effect is that I feel warm almost burning hot.

The second thing I see is that I am in an operating room and my legs are spread wide as blood is gushing between them. It flowing like a water fountain and yet all of my vitals are constant. . . healthy. . . in “normal” ranges. I am bleeding out of my female parts and yet the computers say I am healthy. I pass out. . .

I see myself walking a dirt path and walked toward a set of woods. They are held back by a wooden fence. The woods are more darker than usual. It is like a prefect home for shadows and ghosts. The fence is open to the dirt road as if it is the only way in. I am not sure if there is a way out.

I wake up to see myself in the middle of the dirt road. The exactly image in my head is right in front of me. The marks from the cuffs and bed, the burns from the rug where still there all over my body.

I walk down the dark dirt road into the dark woods and it’s like disappears around me.

Battle 2 Part 2

There are violent and emotional triggers in this writing. Rated R.

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Part 1: Battle 2 . . . – Rebekah Quinne’s short stories (wordpress.com)

I rushed into the room only to have a piece of ceiling hit me in the head, and, by the time I got to the room, I passed out onto the cold steel-like floor.

I woke up, and I was tied to a cold steel chair: the ropes are tight and rough against my wrists and ankles. I also had a leather belt around my chest: it was made to keep my breathing shallow. I tried to break through and although the ropes are old and dirty, they were still strong and sturdy. I fought against the ropes as they rubbed against my wrists and ankles that tore the burning, raw skin.

I heard foot steps behind me and a familiar sigh. She walked around to let me see who it was. . .

Five foot, curvy, purplish-red hair in a ponytail, she wore a black tank top and black pants and boots. She had black glasses and thicker bottom lip, as she barely smiled, but when she did, it was in a deviant way. She was me; well, a clone of me.

“Is this like I’m facing myself?” I smirked and joked. She slapped my cheek so hard my face turned my the burning force.

“No, this more of you beating yourself . . . up.” She smirked and laughed at her perversion, my perversion. (Yes, I would have laughed at my own bad perverted puns too.) She smacked my another cheek, but not as strong, our left side was always weaker. She then punched me hard in my stomach, as I groaned. My chest pushed against the belt, and it was instantly hard to breathe. I struggled harder brushing against the rough ropes: I made layer after layer of skin peel. She had laid into me punch after punch, as I noticed that she was wearing thick, gaudy rings. I was bleeding from my nose, mouth, and cuts near my forehead, cheeks, and eyes. My wrist were so raw and bleeding, and my ankles were sore. I was queasy from swallowing a bunch of blood, and my torso was so tingly and sore as fuck.

I said nothing: I just sat there. She watched me, waiting for something; we both knew I wanted to speak. We both also knew when I spoke that she would have hurt me again. She would have kicked me, as I have majority of my muscle in my thunder thighs. The sneaky truth was that she wanted me to awake.

“You know what is great. I have your thoughts, but I am so hallow and shallow that I have no pain.” She giggled in a sinister way.

My head was throbbing, my jaw swollen, so talking with any type of thought was not going to happen. In fact, my only thought was of one person: he had been my hope and joy on and off for years now. He was one of my biggest reasons I kept going. . .

“Do you really think you are enough?” She laughed. I hated that word “enough.” I hated it with a fucking passion. It was a fucking, damn judgment word. It was not about being enough, and what exactly was “enough?” My thoughts made my brain hurt; my head was now pounding.

“You are so damn oversensitive! You over analyze so much that you cannot simply enjoy what and who you have.” She went on and on with her negative talk.

“Your life is fucked up! Yes, it could be so way worst, bitch!” She snapped. She squeezed my swollen cheeks, as I looked into her darken, almost black-blue eyes. The flickering lighting made her eyes almost demon like. I waited for her to lick my blood. She really did seem like a hallow vampire.

“As for your anxiety. . .” She paused and sigh trying to pull my life her breathing.

“YOU DO NOT HAVE CONTROL OVER EVERYTHING!!!!” She yelling grinding each word.

“So why the fuck are you so worried about it? Deal with what you can control? Oh, wait . . . that is Nothing!” “Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. . . .” She mocked our laugh; it gave me a chill in her darken tone.

“You are so funny thinking you are in control of anything.“ She shook her head looking at me as if I was a disappointment.

“You are such a control freak. . . overthinking shit which will only give you a headache and an ulcer.” She then punched my stomach again.

“Then you try to play victim, but, you stupid bitch, you caused it!” She growled. She pulled my hair and looked into my eyes.

“Why the fuck are you so sad?” She shook her head in disappointment.
“Because you don’t have a roof? Oh, wait . . you do.” She sighed and continued:

“You don’t have heat? Or food? Or WiFi? Again, yes, you do.” She shook her head and huffed.
“You are a selfish, ungrateful brat. . . you are doing better than most of the world.” She pulled my hair hard whipping my head back.

“You are moaning and pouting over some romantic drama bullshit. Or that your damn place doesn’t have enough privacy. Focus on your needs and your health, first.” She huffed barely tapping my cheek, but I was so sore that the jerking just added to it.

I was as sore inside, as I was on the outside. I was sick of everything, and I was fucking sick of her. I struggled against the rope, and she pulled my dirty, bloody hair hard almost pulling it out. However I think my struggling fueled her.

She jabbed me in the throat, as she chuckled. I gagged and breathed hard pushing against the leather belt. My tears were mixing with my blood. She looked me up and down and spit on me.

“You need to get off your fat ass and do something, you fucking, lazy ditz! You have these great dreams, I’ve seen a few of them, but come on you really think you potential for greatness?” She paused for a second as if to make the moment great.

“You think that getting out of bed is a great feat.” She laughed it off in a disbelief.

“So fighting it. You could have choose a weapon, and taken yourself out, but no. So now you get tortured.” She sighed and growled annoyed that I was not fighting back.

“Do you really enjoy this?” I muffled in pain barely getting air to get the words out. She slapped my face so hard that my ear popped and that blood splatted against the walls.

“You tell me.” She punched me directly in my mouth as moaned and laughed in delight. I felt my teeth break and the pain was even worst. I could barely focus on her as I was extreme pain. Injuries on my face were always the most painful, and bled the most. I had blood oozing out of my mouth. I had spit it out hitting her outfit as she punched my cheeks again. She growled. My eye flooded tears that burned bare getting out of my swollen eyes. She and I both knew it was a low blow, but she would never apologize. I couldn’t think about anything, and yet I had so much in my head.

“You are just a fickle bitch. You such a fucking disappointment.” She huffed at me.

“You are a false dominating bitch who is really a scared ugly fat little girl who just happen to have a flabby chest. Your fake confidence is in wishing words spun around just right to look good. You listened in your damn English class.” She paused for affect.

However I just focused on the pain.

“You have no idea who you are, what you really need or what you really want! You are gone in speck, in a damn blink, and who the fuck would really remember you?” For a slight second, I was almost caving in and actually believing the bitch. I gave her no pleasure in reaction as I was in so much pain, I just wanted it to stop.

I close my eyes and with all of my focus: use the pain and imagination and the room starts to shift. She got pissed and screamed and growled as she tried to punch the side of my head but her hand disappeared and followed by the rest of her. I opened my eyes to see that she was gone. I sighed and all fell black. . .

To Be Continued. . .