Children in the midst of nightmare are an unnerving sight. You try to speak to them through their anguished wails, assure them with a touch, only to be pushed away by their flailing limbs. Even when they finally wake, they’re so dazed you can’t be sure they’re conscious. Can’t be sure they know where they are, or who you are. Their fear persists, eventually dying down to a whimper, which eventually subsides to sleep.
Category: Just Stories
We, my mother and I, had just climbed out of our little green Nissan.
We walked into the store. Its layout was unlike any place I had ever been. Not that it was particularly bizarre. Just noteworthy that it was foreign to me. I had expected some semblance of familiarity upon entering.
The walls were filled with things I didn’t recognize. The entire floor was bare except for a large (you could swim in it, though I would rather swim with sharks) wire bin in the middle of the store. Within it existed the only thing in the store I knew. I found no comfort in their familiarity.
I was running and I didn’t know why. It was dark. It was raining. I could only tell I was moving across grass because of its familiar feel beneath my feet.
Not by its wet crunch. I couldn’t hear that. Not because of the rain. I couldn’t hear that either. Sound was absent except for one.