Madame Chloe's Stiletto Heels

Enjoy my story published in the What If #3 Anthology 

The Anthology Series

The sound of Madame Chloe’s red stiletto heels in the hallways would quiet the students and teachers. When she walked by, an icy chill filled the air.

Sara, a sixteen-year-old brunette with an athletic physique, was a new student at Hillcrest Boarding School. She was unhappy to leave her friends behind, but her father insisted on moving her to a more prestigious school. “The last two years are most critical before continuing your education,” he said. “And Hillcrest is the finest. Nearly all of their students get into reputable universities.”

Her parents were impressed by Madame Chloe, the school principal, especially her mother who embraced her role as a socialite in high society circles. At their meeting, Madame Chloe dressed impeccably in expensive and fashionable name-brand outfits, and the way she presented herself and the school's achievements instantly won them over.

At first, Sara found the principal charming as well. However, as the conversation progressed, the way Madame Chloe’s eyes darted to her and scanned her entire body, made her uncomfortable. Despite the flashing of those dark brown eyes only lasting for a split second, Sara sensed something sinister behind the pleasant exterior of the woman’s lovely smile, pristine clothes, manicured nails, and flawless hairstyle.

Sara always listened to her gut feelings and begged her parents not to make her change schools, but her parents, visibly mesmerized by the principal’s performance, made their final decision despite Sara's weak objections. “You know nothing about life! Gut feelings are not reliable,” her mother shouted. “The school’s reputation is impeccable. You’re going to be a student there, and that's final.”

Sara gave in and hesitantly accepted her parents' decision and moved into her new school's dorm at Hillcrest. Knowing that every school has its social hierarchy, she thought she would need some time to fit in and catch up. However, it soon became apparent that this school was different from others.

There was no hierarchy among teachers or students. There were subordinates and only one top dog: the principal and history professor, Madame Chloe. Her authority and dominance were obvious as she walked in her signature bright red stiletto-heel shoes, her cold eyes darting from student to student. The sound of those heels in the hallways would quiet the students and even the fellow teachers. When she walked past, a chill filled the air. Her presence commanded fear and obedience from everyone around her. Sara couldn't help but wonder what it must be like to have that kind of authority and influence over so many people.

Madame Chloe ruled with an iron fist and Sara soon heard rumors that her physical fist brutally broke several bones over the years. Students had no one to report the physical abuse to, and unfortunately, by the time they were allowed to see their parents, their injuries had healed. Because of the school's reputation and the highly respected principal's words against the students, people dismissed the complaints as childish rumors. The injured students had no proof.

Although Sara had a hard time keeping her rebellious nature under control, she kept quiet while keeping her eyes and ears open. Until… about two weeks into the school year, she stood by her locker across from Madame Chloe's office when she saw her classmate, a petite blonde girl staggering out of the room. Vera sobbed pressing her hand to her side, visibly in pain.

Sara followed her into the bathroom, where two girls stood by the sink and hugged the crying girl.

“You’ll be alright,” Kate, a dark-skinned statuesque girl whispered, wiping Vera’s tears.

“I can’t take it anymore!” Vera cried. “This was the third time this week and she didn’t even tell me why I deserved such a harsh punishment. My leg is still bruised where she kicked me two days ago.” She rolled down her knee-high socks. She gasped and stood up, her face contorting in pain. She held her side. “I think she broke my ribs this time,” she sobbed.

Mary, a plump redhead, huffed. “She’s a cruel sadist! She yanked my hair so hard yesterday that she pulled out a strand and my scalp bled all afternoon. All because when the monster said, ‘eyes on your books’ I looked at Vera.”

“Why doesn't anyone do something about this?” Sara asked, closely watching the group's reaction.

“What can we do? We can’t prove anything,” Kate shrugged despairingly, tears flowing down her cheeks. “Nobody believes us, not even our parents.”

“What about the teachers?” Sara questioned.

Mary shook her curly hair. “They know what’s happening but are too scared to say anything. The only teacher who was brave enough to gather evidence against this monster disappeared before you got here.”

“What do you mean by disappeared? Did she leave school?” Sara asked. The three girls seemed to sense Sarah’s authoritative yet compassionate nature and opened up.

“Oh, no,” Kate shivered and said, “Miss Clara was in my room that night, taking pictures of my bruised ribs and listened to the tape I recorded on the small device she gave me. I hid the recorder in my underwear and turned it on when I was ordered to Madame Chloe’s room. She beat me so badly that day... the more I screamed and begged her to stop, the more she hit me. Just remembering her face, how much she enjoyed watching me wiggle in pain, and the obscenities coming out of her painted mouth, makes me nauseous.”

“We never saw Miss Clara again and those who dared to ask either were ignored by the teachers or got a severe beating from that red shoe monster,” Mary added. “I swear I’m never going to wear red shoes as long as I live.”

“Does she treat every student like this?” Sara asked.

“Oh, no!” Vera sighed. “She picks her targets very carefully, and the three of us are the ones who take the brunt of her punishment.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“We all come from poor, broken families, and the only way we could be students here is because we’re exceptionally smart. We were picked in our old schools by “Good Samaritan” rich sponsors who paid our tuition that we would pay back with loyalty and dedicated work later,” Kate whispered with tears in her eyes, but Sara sensed sarcasm behind her words. “My mother is so blinded by the opportunity she never had that no matter what I tell her about the abuse, she finds excuses and shuts me up. ‘Just keep quiet. It’s for your future’ she always says.”

“That’s terrible!” Sara cried out. “She should listen to you and protect you.”

“Easy for you to say!” Vera snapped. “My mother is just a lowly cleaning woman and not a duchess like yours. Nobody would believe her if she complained to the authorities. And if she took me home, without my sponsor’s money, I wouldn't have the opportunity to get a high-quality education. That monster knows exactly who to pick to live out her sick fantasies on. She never picks kids from influential, rich families.”  

“I’m so sorry! We can’t let her get away with this. We must stop that pervert!” Sarah scanned the girls' faces.

“And why would you help us?” Mary asked with doubt in her voice.

“Nobody should be treated like this!” Sara angrily replied. “You’re all smarter and more talented than me. You shouldn’t have to suffer for the education my parents’ money can easily pay for.”

The group stared at Sara with hope in their eyes when the bell rang. “Okay, let’s get back to class and play the role of the most diligent and most obedient student. Tell me everything you know when we have a chance to talk again in private, and we’ll come up with a plan to stop her. When we have enough evidence, I’ll talk to my Godfather. His law firm is the biggest and most influential in the country.”

The trio listened to Sara with hopeful smiles. Kate said, “The best place to talk privately is the library because nobody spends time there lately unless they really have to. It stinks there and nobody knows why,” Kate said, wrinkling her nose.

Everyone agreed and the next day during the long recess they met in the library. They chose a secluded corner where nobody could overhear them. “It stinks here,” Mary grimaced. “No wonder we’re the only ones here.”

 The four girls sat close to each other. “I don’t care about the smell,” Sara whispered. “At least we can talk without anybody disturbing us. What do you know about Miss Clara’s disappearance? Did anyone see her after she left Kate’s room?” She asked.

Vera whispered back, “A girl in my French class told me that she saw Madame Chloe and Miss Clara walking down the hall late at night when she was coming back from the bathroom. She wondered what they were doing in the dorm building so late. She considered following them but was too scared to be seen by the principal, so she closed the door.”

“Did anyone see Miss Clara after that?” Sara asked.

“We asked the teachers and a lot of students, but nobody saw her after that night,” Kate replied anxiously wringing her fingers.  

“So, they walked together, and nobody ever saw Miss Clara again,” Sara speculated. “I assume the monster didn’t offer any explanation, or did she?”

“Of course not!” Mary huffed. “And nobody dared to ask her.”

“Shh!” Sara hushed the others and looked at the librarian and a short, balding man in a janitor uniform. He was walking toward the window at the far side of the large room with disgusted looks on their faces.

“Phew!” Mr. Smith exclaimed. “You were right, Miss Rose. It still stinks here.”

“You must do something about it! It smells like a dead rat or rather an army of dead rats,” the tall, bony woman whose face resembled a horse exclaimed.

“Miss, I have searched the library many times over the past two weeks and have not found any dead animals.” What else can I do?”

“Search again!” the woman ordered.

The janitor threw his arms up in desperation, turned, and walked away from the librarian.

Sara watched him as he walked toward the door, sneaking a side glance at the girls sitting in the corner. “My intuition tells me he knows something,” Sara whispered. “We have to talk to that man.” She stood up and hurried toward the door trailed by the three girls.

They caught up with the janitor in the hallway leading to the classrooms. “Mr. Smith,” Sara called out to the man walking in deep thought.

“Yes, Miss,” he turned toward Sara and scanned the group walking behind her.

“Can we talk to you?” Sara asked.

The janitor seemed surprised. “Yes, Miss.” But his eyes anxiously locked on the principal's door. “But not here,” he muttered. “If Madame Chloe saw me talking to students, I’d be in big trouble. You can find me in the maintenance room in the basement after dinner.” He said and hurried away.

They spent the rest of the day trying not to draw the principal’s attention to themselves. After dinner when the hallways were empty, they tiptoed toward the basement door. “What if the monster caught us?” Sara asked.

“Oh, everybody knows that after dinner she locks herself in her room and watches sadist porn movies. She never comes out of her room before ten to shut off the lights.” Mary said in disgust.

“How do you know?”

“Miss Clara told us. That was the only time she dared to come to our rooms to gather proof against the monster.”

They opened the basement door and crept down the steps. The warm musty air tickled their noses with the heavy smell of chemicals. The janitor waited for them and ushered them into the maintenance room. Sara decided to tell him everything they knew. She assured him that if he knew anything about the abuse and disappearance of Miss Clara, even the smallest detail. “My uncle is the Chief of Police,” Sara assured the janitor. “If we could provide him with solid proof and information, I’m sure he would close the school and start an investigation. And my godfather's law firm would surely protect you.”

“I believe you, Miss. Your family’s ties are stronger and higher than Madame Chloe’s, so when it comes to that, I know they would protect me,” Mr. Smith nodded. “I know things, but I’ve been afraid to tell anyone. People who dare to say anything and Madame Chloe finds out who the whistleblower is, they vanish.”

“If you feel uncomfortable, you don’t even need to tell us what you know. Just tell me you have solid proof and I’ll set up a meeting with my uncle.”

The janitor sighed and with a determined look on his face started talking. “I know the way she’s treated some of the students. She’s a sick woman. Miss Clara told me and gave me some pictures to keep them safe. But we didn’t know who to trust. Two years ago, another teacher gathered enough proof and reported it to a lieutenant at the station. She disappeared the next day and the evidence vanished with her.”

The three girls looked at each other. “Miss Antoinette,” Mary whispered. “She was my favorite teacher.”

Mr. Smith nodded. “Nobody knew what had happened to her, but a week after Miss Clara’s sudden disappearance, the awful smell in the library made me remember something. Back then the smell of decay lingered for months, and we never found out where it came from. But yesterday, after I talked to the librarian, I got the school building blueprint from the secretary. I noticed that there is a room right under the library in the basement that I’d never seen. I measured the distance from the boiler room and there was nothing there but a brick wall at the end of the hallway where the blueprint indicates a small room. But when I carefully looked at every inch of the wall, I found a keyhole and some brick dust underneath it on the floor.”

“That must be a hidden door!” Sara shouted.

“That’s what I think, and the smell is strongest there.”

“Do you… do you think Miss Clara is there… dead?” Kate cried out.

“After thinking things over, I’m afraid so, Miss.”

Sara shivered. “We must find the key and look inside. But where could it be?”

“I’m almost certain Madame Chloe has the key,” the janitor said. “The night Miss Clara disappeared I was working late. When I finished around 2 am and stepped out into the hallway, I saw Madame Chloe walking up the steps barefoot. I wondered what she was doing in the basement in the middle of the night and why she wasn’t wearing those awful red shoes.”

“That’s it! We have to find that key in the principal’s office,” Sara decided.

“But how? She always locks the door when she’s not in the office,” Mary objected.

Mr. Smith raised his hand to quiet the girls. “No need for that!” he said calmly. “I just made a wax impression of the keyhole and tonight I’ll make a copy of the key from the impression. Meet me here tomorrow night and I’ll tell you what I found in that room. Now go back to your rooms but be careful.”

Sleep avoided the girls all night and the next day dragged on. Finally, after dinner when the halls quieted down and the students retreated into their rooms to study, the four friends tiptoed to the basement door and hurried down the stairs. Mr. Smith awaited them sitting on the bench with a dire expression on his face and his shoulders slumped.

“What did you find?” Sara asked.

“I… I found both of them,” he cried out. “Poor Miss Antoinette and poor Miss Clara!” He sobbed.

“Are they both…” Kate didn’t finish.

“Yes, Miss. Both are dead.”

***

The following morning, Sara sought permission to call her father. Switching to French—a language unbeknownst to the eavesdropping secretary who monitored all student calls—she recounted every harrowing detail, from their eerie findings to the grim discovery of lifeless bodies hidden in the basement. Her voice trembled as she spoke, yet she conveyed each word with precision.

“Hold on and don’t say anything to anyone,” her father instructed after absorbing the gravity of her revelations. “I'll handle everything. We'll arrive with your uncle and a team of detectives as swiftly as possible.”

During the bustling lunch hour, the previously tranquil corridors of Hillcrest School were now a hive of activity, teeming with policemen and detectives. They converged upon the building like ants for a picnic, driven by their urgent purpose. The atmosphere was charged with tension, palpable in every corner as students and teachers clustered together in the dining room, exchanging hushed whispers filled with anxiety and speculation.

Without warning, the dining room door slammed shut, and the sharp clatter of locks clicking reverberated through the room, sending a shiver down everyone’s spine. The atmosphere grew tense as they were summoned one by one into a cramped side room for intense interrogation. As the hours dragged on, a heavy mountain of evidence and damning testimonies piled up against Madame Chloe. She stood accused of heinous crimes – the brutal abuse of children and the cold-blooded murder of two innocent souls.

The once intimidating figure of Madame Chloe was now a mere shell, being led away in handcuffs by the authorities. News of her downfall spread like wildfire through Hillcrest School, bringing with it a sense of relief. The oppressive atmosphere that once hung over the school, fueled by fear and uncertainty at the sound of red stiletto heels clicking down the halls, was now lifted. Justice had been served and peace could finally be restored.

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Read a Chapter Month 11

 Children's folk tales

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Cinderella -- A Love Story is "a fanciful and absorbing rewrite of the classic faerie tale". It is told here in a fascinating new version, set circa mid-16th century. Younger readers will love the borrowed magic that enables Ella to attend the ball, while older readers -- including adults -- will connect with the inseparable bond between mother and child; a bond that transcends time and space and even death itself. Ella's parents are young and in love and the family is happy until Marie suddenly dies. Her father remarries, hoping to give his beloved child a mother's love and care. But Charles's new wife is a cruel, unaffectionate woman, who cares only for her own two very backward daughters, and turns her step-daughter into a servant. Ten years later, when the King throws a ball in honour of his son, Ella's only chance at happiness comes from a most unexpected source.

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Charles sat in his favourite chair in the living room of his house.  It was basically an empty house now.  His wife Marie had been dead for four years.  The book he’d been reading lay unnoticed on his lap as he remembered the first day he’d seen her.

It was in Paris in the spring a year before their wedding.  She was sitting by the lake in one of the parks with some of her girlfriends.  The sun shone on her chestnut hair and her almond-shaped eyes sparkled with laughter.  She had looked up and smiled at him from behind her parasol and he’d felt as if he could fly.

The next time he’d seen her was in December of that same year.  It was just before Christmas and she was skating across the ice of the lake.  The same lake in the same park, he realized now.  If his memory served him correctly, he’d skated over to her then and, without a word spoken by either of them, became her partner.  They had spent the rest of the day together.  That evening she introduced him to her parents and soon after, they announced their engagement.  In April of the following year, they were married in Notre Dame Cathedral and went to Rome for their honeymoon, where they stayed until July.

The next two months at the chateau in Orynx – the tiny kingdom where Charles had been born and where they would always live – were joyous for them.  They spent every moment together.  In September, Marie had celebrated her sixteenth birthday and what a party he gave her!  The whole village had been invited!  The ten-year difference in their ages went over well with the local minister, who had come at Charles’s insistence, and everyone thought they made a perfect couple.

A few weeks later, he was called to London on urgent business.  He was gone until the day before Christmas Eve.  When he arrived home, he wrapped his bride in his arms and apologized for staying away so long.  She smiled at him and he noticed there was a special glow in her eyes as she said –

“Don’t worry, my love, I know you’ll always come back.”

Two days later, while she unwrapped the numerous presents he’d given her, she handed him a small package wrapped in blue tissue with a pink ribbon.

“Open it,” she coaxed.

He obeyed but said the name of the object aloud in a puzzled tone.

“It’s a silver spoon.”

“For our baby,” she said with a smile.  “Granny says it’s due in May, either the first or second week.”

“Is she sure?” he asked, for lack of something else to say.

Marie nodded.  True to her Granny’s word, on the eighth of May the following year, a girl was born to the proud parents.  On the day of her christening, all the guests commented on how sweet and tender the child was, with such a pleasant disposition.  She was baptized Ella Marie Elizabeth, but everyone called her Ella.  As Ella grew and the years passed, these early compliments held true.  By the time she turned five she was her parents’ pride and joy, but she wasn’t spoiled.

Shortly after her child’s birthday, Marie fell sick.  The physician said it had something to do with her lungs.  He gave her all sorts of medicines and potions to take, but nothing worked.  By September she was so weak she couldn’t lift her head without an effort.  When summer turned to fall, the Minister came and gave her the Last Rites.  That night she’d sent for Ella and held her in her arms for the last time.

“Always remember, my love, that if you need me I’ll be there.  I’ll always help you,” she told her, but it was barely a whisper.

The next morning the physician came again but it was too late.  Marie had died in her sleep a week before her twenty-second birthday, but there was a smile on her lips when Charles found her as if she’d been having a pleasant dream.  She was buried a week later behind the house, in the yard she and Ella had played in and where they’d grown up together.

But all that had happened four years ago.  Ella was nine now and growing more and more beautiful every day.  How she amazed him!  Even during the saddest of times, she had the sunniest disposition of anyone he’d ever known.  Marie’s death had taken a toll on him, yet Ella took it all in stride.  Of course, she’d cried when her mother died, but it wasn’t long before the laughter was back in her brown eyes.  Nothing could keep her sad long!

Charles wondered how she would react to the news he was about to tell her – the news that in a month he’d be getting married again.  It wasn’t that Ella was a problem because she wasn’t.  She was the sweetest, most obedient and good-natured child he’d ever encountered.  But she was getting older and was nearing the age where she would have to learn certain things that would be important in her adult life; things that only a woman could teach her.  And, besides, at least now she would have two playmates; the woman he was going to marry had two young daughters just one and two years older than Ella.  Marguerita, the elder, was eleven and her younger sister Ophelia was ten.  He had seen them once and to him they appeared a bit awkward, but in a few years, they’d most likely blossom into elegant, proper ladies with the right training.

He looked now at his pocket watch – the watch Marie had given him for their first anniversary.  It was engraved – “To my dearest Charles, I love you, Marie.”  The hands, which now read 8:15, were gold, as was the watch itself.  After a moment, he put the book aside, stood up and went to the semi-circular stair in the entry hall.

“Ella!” he called, “Ella, would you come down here a moment please.  I have something I want to talk to you about.”

In her room, Ella was playing with her dolls.  For a child of nine, she had the largest doll collection of any child in Orynx.  Wherever Charles went on his travels, he would bring her home a doll.  Then, for his reward, she’d smother him with kisses and his heart overflowed with love.  She was all he had left in the world, his parents dying when he was a young man and then losing Marie when Ella was five.

She was a lovely child with long chestnut hair that hung in soft curls about her shoulders and wide brown eyes that always sparkled with laughter.  She ran now to the head of the stairs with one of the dolls in her arms.

“Coming, Papa,” she called back, “I’ll be right down.”

She ran back to her room, put the doll on the bed and scampered down the semi-circular stair to her father’s side.  By the time she got there, Charles had already resumed his seat.

“What is it, Papa?” she asked when he remained silent.

He looked up after a moment and smiled and took her small hand in his.

“Ella,” he said slowly, “I have a wonderful surprise for you.”

“Oh, I love surprises!”

“I know you do.”

Again, he paused, trying to pick his words carefully, trying not to upset her.

“And I know, too, how lonely you’ve been since your mother….”

His voice trailed off as a lump rose in his throat.  This will never do, Ella thought, I have to cheer him up.

“I’m not lonely, Papa,” she said brightly, “and the only time I am is when you have to go away…”

And she threw her arms around his neck to prove that she meant it, then she continued.

“…but I know you’ll always come back.”

He gathered her in and held her tightly in his arms.  It was the same thing Marie had told him their first Christmas together.  There were tears in his eyes as he said –

“Oh, Ella, you are my greatest joy!”

“Truly, Papa?” she asked, teasing him.

“Truly,” he replied and nodded, then continued –

“But now for the surprise.  Next month I’ll be getting married and my

new wife has two daughters who are very close to you in age.”

Her eyes grew wide with excitement.

“You mean I’m going to have sisters?!”

“Yes, indeed.  Are you pleased?” he asked.

“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, “When can I meet them?”

“Not until the wedding.”

She pouted slightly.

“Not for a whole month?  What shall I do until then?”

“Why not plan what you’d like to do with them?” he suggested, “As I said, they’re very close to you in age.  Maybe you can find something you have in common, eh?”

He paused slightly to look again at his watch – it read 8:30.

“Now,” he continued, “I think it’s about time you went to bed, don’t you?”

“All right, Papa, but what are their names?”

“Your step-mother’s name is Vera,” he told her, “and your step-sisters are Marguerita and Ophelia.”

They talked a few minutes more and then he carried her upstairs and tucked her in bed.

About the Author

Read a Chapter Month 10

 

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Do you believe in a little magic?

A financial crisis is threatening to engulf the lives of two farming families.

Jack and Dan Moore are being relentlessly pushed to the very brink of dispair.

A strange animal enters their lives in a most improbable way.

Is he their saviour or will they lose everything, including their families?

The story provides a wonderful insight into the strong bonds of love that is stretched to breaking point.

Set in Southern England with an American twist, an old tale is visited, a vital secret shared, and a gift from yesteryear uncovered.

A little magic in your heart can go a long, long way!

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A Strange Meeting

Lying full length on wet soil with the rain trickling down the back of my Hoortex coat was not my idea of fun. Droplets of water were finding their way into some very unusual and unwanted places. At 6.00 in the morning, with the sun still absent, an early start was essential for me to complete my mission. Even so, I found little satisfaction in it. I thought of my quarry; unseen and silent in the early morning dawn. It had yet to come into view as the fine rain drifted across my line of sight like lace curtains in a breeze. Today would be difficult and to pass the time, I thought of other things, like a warm fire and a hot drink. I let my mind wander rather than feel sorry for myself. Visibility was poor and my eyes ached so I tried to be positive. I caressed my powerful .22 calibre Air Arms Pro Sport rifle complete with telescopic sights (range up to 100 yards) and thought of the successful walk back. Unfortunately, negative thoughts overpowered the positive ones. Even with my superb marksmanship, I felt hopeless about even considering seeing my target let alone hitting it. The morning would be slow, unsuccessful, or both; where was that sun?

The thought of patience being a virtue jumped into my head so I hung onto it like a leech. I put up with the rain and remained where I was.

Time passed slowly and I became wetter and wetter. The bird song was welcoming as it emanated all around me. The winged wonders sought food to break their fast, totally oblivious to the damp conditions as they flew from branch to branch. The odd flash of plumage came into view as they passed and I could hear the rustles of small animals in the trees and bushes. I wished I could be as comfortable with the conditions as they, so I rubbed my weathered hands together to at least create the illusion of warmth. I may be cold but my hands had to have feeling in them. At this moment I would gladly buy a pint for the person who invented woollen-lined waterproof gloves. It was such a pity that my waterproof coat, together with my lovely warm gloves, had been stolen from the back of my car. My big brother’s coat was just too big to prevent the water incursion down my neck. Naturally, this exacerbated my miserable state. It was madness to continue but to move meant failure. I never moved.

I looked at my cheap plastic digital watch that my wife bought me some eight years before. It was scratched and battered and yet the accuracy and durability of it never failed to amaze me. I gave myself another five minutes maximum but within two, the sun’s rays at last began to clear the mist.

Slowly the visibility changed. I took in the contours of the pasture in front of me. The rain still dripped from the fronds as it cascaded steadily to the wet earth, but my eyes focused on the fog. Or lack of it!

The mist slowly dissipated from view as if by a magician’s command. I could now see. Thus all became clearer as I peered through the grass and bracken, via the telescopic sight of my trusty rifle.

Suddenly I saw what I sought and a surge of adrenalin coursed through my body.

A head briefly rose from a hollow about 45 yards away and my concentration levels rose immediately. I knew that it would rise again and when it did I would have more than enough time to make the kill. As expected, the head lifted itself from the hollow and the body naturally followed. I took aim and gently squeezed the trigger. The lifeless body hit the earth as I watched through my telescopic sight. A thin smile spread across my face. Satisfaction with regret ruled my feelings.

Dinner was now assured although I did need a few more rabbits to feed all of us. Rabbits are very much creatures of habit. They need to judge the distance of an object as the position of their eyes gives them a poor depth of field. By bobbing up and down they can overcome this. Thus I knew that once the first head popped up, our favourite stew would be a reality this evening. Rabbits can become a real nuisance but I kept them in check and the family received fresh meat. It was quick and humane, although it still saddened me a little. At least I could never contemplate using traps, or even worse gas.

Without hesitation, I sought out more targets as rabbit after rabbit came into view. My old rifle made little noise and I knew that I should be able to take a good half dozen of them before they ran for cover. With four bagged already my smile grew wide. I remembered my brothers teasing me about me shooting nothing in this fog. I also recalled his parting comment that we would all be eating beans on toast, with me being the hunter. The memory of his bellyaching caused another smile to drift across my face. Unfortunately, on congratulating myself, I lost concentration. I casually lined up my sights on a large rabbit when something very unusual, or in this case unique, happened.

I saw a flash of white and a blur of speed as something came hurtling towards me. I wrenched my eye from the rifle only just in time, as a bundle of white fur leapt through the foliage hitting me squarely between the eyes. Momentarily surprised and utterly confused I had fallen backwards into a bed of stinging nettles. I found that they were the least of my troubles as a pure white albino rabbit was sitting on my chest. It looked at me with large red piercing eyes. The hackles on its back were raised in alarm although it made no sound and no attempt to hop away. The whiskers twitched and I saw the hackles recede ever so slightly as it edged closer to my face. When it stopped it raised its back leg to scratch its face, all the while staring at me. Looking into its ruby-red eyes I saw fear with composure and confident scrutiny. I had an uneasiness about who was in charge of the situation as Mr. Rabbit looked far more confident than I.

Read a Chapter Month 9

 Horror drabbles

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Many of you may not know of drabbles. No, not those cute, furry little creatures from Star Trek—those are tribbles. A drabble is a form of fiction consisting of exactly 100 words. No, not 100 chapters nor paragraphs nor even lines. 100 words. Exactly. Needless to say, such stories are a very hard sell to publishers.

Even among authors, drabbles seem to be the “black sheep” of fiction as I’m aware of very few writers who, if I may be excused the pun, “dabble in drabbles.” And understandably so. It’s difficult. And yet, drabbles are where I feel most at home. Drabbles come far easier to me than allowing me the luxury of thousands of words to tell a story.

And when it comes to fiction genres, horror is my other “home.” And so, collected here, you’ll find a good number of my 100-word “children of the night.” Along with three additional stories where I allowed myself to splurge and go wild with close to 200 and even 300 words!

Read a few drabbles

Axe to Grind

The little girl played with her dolls in the serenity of the barn.

The girl was never quite happy with the appearance of her dolls, believing that the face of one was better suited upon the body of another. And so, she would lop off heads and place elsewhere accordingly. She held up her latest acquisition.

“Lizzie!” came a shout from the house.

The hated stepmother. “Someday…” the girl began, but left the thought unfinished, instead bringing the axe down upon the doll’s neck, sending its head spiraling.

“Coming, Mrs. Borden,” the girl muttered icily as she left the barn…

 

A Single Teardrop

So this is how it ends, he bitterly thought, peering out from the penthouse balcony. One nation’s tactical error and a bomb drops, followed by retaliation after retaliation after …. “You fucking assholes!” he screamed into the still air.

He gripped tighter onto the balcony railing. He was grateful, at least, for his wife spared this final moment—being fitfully asleep, unaware of having been slipped a sleeping draught.

There it is, he cried! He could see the shock wave! Like a hundred-foot-high shimmering and translucent tidal wave it barreled, annihilating all in its path.

A single teardrop fell before…

 

Look Up

The Wicked Witch of the East looked upon the groveling Munchkins with contempt. The Witch would be rid of them completely if she didn’t need them for the one thing she herself could not produce.

“24 hours to fill this with gold coins,” she bellowed, holding up an empty pot. “Or else!”

“24 hours?” stuttered a terrified Munchkin. “We can’t…”

“24 hours!”

To the Witch’s surprise, the Munchkins, instead of remaining cowered, instead turned incredulous eyes to the sky above.

Despite being a cloudless day, the Witch found herself suddenly cast in a large shadow. She, too, looked up.

“Crap.”

About the Author

Read a Chapter Month 8

 Self-help guide

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This is not a book about fixing yourself.
It’s a compassionate guide to remembering who you are—building confidence, clarity, and self-trust from the inside out.

🌟 Lean Into Your Light An Award-Winning Guide to Confidence, Clarity, and Self-Trust

Lean Into Your Light began as a mother’s handwritten notes to help her daughter rebuild confidence and trust herself again. Those notes became an award-winning personal growth book for anyone who feels stuck, overwhelmed, or disconnected from their inner voice.

Written “backwards”—starting with the outcome we all want—this book gently guides you toward clarity, calm, emotional resilience, and self-trust.

More than a book you read once, Lean Into Your Light is designed to be lived with.

Rooted in the power of language, self-awareness, and compassionate self-talk, this practical mindset book blends reflection with action—helping you shift how you think, speak to yourself, and move through life.

✨ A Book, Workbook, and Journal—All in One

Guided reflections, journaling prompts, and mindset exercises are woven throughout the pages, inviting you to slow down, write, reflect, and reconnect with yourself as you read.

Designed to be revisited again and again, this paperback workbook is ideal for:

• Quiet mornings and intentional journaling
• Therapy or coaching support
• Life transitions, burnout recovery, or emotional reset
• A thoughtful, meaningful gift

In this empowering personal development guide, you’ll learn how to:

• Release self-doubt and limiting beliefs
• Build confidence, self-trust, and emotional resilience
• Reframe negative self-talk and inner dialogue
• Navigate change with clarity and grace
• Create a calmer, more intentional, joyful life

Whether you’re standing at a crossroads, healing from burnout, or searching for a confidence book that feels grounded and real, Lean Into Your Light gently guides you back to yourself.

💫 This is not about fixing yourself—it’s about remembering who you are

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The Power of Imagination

You can literally imagine your future into a reality. And, as you begin to sincerely believe it, this releases resistance and opens you to receiving, which is known as the Law of Allowing.

I love what the great motivational speaker Les Brown said, “Operate out of your imagination, not your memory.” This is the secret to acquiring whatever you desire to be, do, or have! It is the sweet spot where you intersect your dreams, goals, and intentions with the feeling of already having them.

Albert Einstein, the famous physicist, said, “Imagination will take you everywhere. Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.”

How do you do this? Simple…be a kid again! Imagine and pre-tend you already have whatever you intend to be, do, or have. The definition of “pretend” says it all: “Speak and act to make it appear that something is the case when, in fact, it is not.”

Abraham/Esther Hicks says: “Never mind what is. Imagine it the way you want it to be so that your vibration is a match to your desire. When your vibration is a match to your desire, all things in your experience will gravitate to meet that match every time.” She also reminds us that “worrying is using your imagina-tion to create something you don’t want.” We all worry. As soon as you catch yourself, gently move away from these thoughts.

For about the first seven years of life, our brain waves are mainly in Theta, which is associated with imagination and a state of hypnosis. It was our magical time. When we were kids imagining, we had no limiting thoughts, doubts, or resistance. We lived in the moment of whatever we were imagining or pretending. Our “pretend” became instantly real.

As adults, visualization is a term we often use. It means the for-mation of a mental image of something. Either way you prefer to think about it, be a kid again, and imagine, pretend, or visual-ize your future life.

Another term for the same idea is Mental Rehearsing, a tech-nique often used by athletes. Swimmer Missy Franklin, who won four gold medals at the 2012 London Games, uses visualization to reduce anxiety about the unknown. She said, “When I get there, I’ve already pictured what’s going to happen a million times, so I don’t actually have to think about it.”

Each technique works the same way: it carves a path in your brain to your goal. Among other benefits, science shows us that positive visualization can decrease stress, reduce anxiety, in-crease self-confidence, and enhance motivation

About the Author

Read a Chapter Month 7

 Coming of age fiction

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A perfect life in shambles.
A memory buried in uncertainty.
All because she opened that book.
Harrowing and unpredictable, "Paper World" by Maureen Cummins is the story of a girl lost down a rabbit hole, trying to retrace her steps and find her way back to the surface. Will she climb and catch her breath again? Or will her paper world rip to shreds beneath her feet?

What happened to Brett Cain?
Brett had the perfect life. At least she thought she did. She was just celebrating her 25th birthday. She was about to marry her college sweetheart, Kurt. She was close with her parents, had a best friend she could rely on, and a fantastic career path all mapped out for her.

So why is she finding herself on life support just two months later? Why can't she remember? Where is Kurt? And why is a book and its contents haunting her while she lays in a hospital bed?

Get ready to dive into the compelling world of "Paper World" – a coming of age novel like no other.

Read a Chapter

Every moment that passed during that night after he left was excruciating. The first hour was spent in silence. I lay slumped by the front door, deflated, like a puppet who had lost its strings. I couldn’t bring myself to move. I felt weighted down with the gravity of every sign that I’d missed. Every clear signal that Kurt was unhappy. Any warning that we were doomed. How had I not seen this coming? But I couldn’t bear to dissect our relationship just yet.

It wasn’t even the bad memories that I wanted to avoid, honestly. I would have welcomed feeling like this was for the best. What I couldn’t survive was being swarmed with all the good ones. To think back to those small moments with Kurt that made me feel warm – like the day that we spent at the beach in the heat of the sun on rented scooters, zooming down the loosened sand and racing the incoming tide. We had ended that perfectly golden day with a six-pack of craft beer and sweet public intimacy that may have been illegal. But, damn, it made for one hell of a story at parties. I was proud of that moment and I loved the way that people smiled at us when we giggled at that confession. We couldn’t keep our hands off of each other and that kind of tenderness made people jealous. But that story was from the first year that we met and the adventurous, love-soaked piece of us had crashed like the waves.

After what felt like an eternity, I finally pried myself away from the inside of our front door. My two hands beneath me, I hoisted myself up from the floor. One foot in front of the other, feeling heavy, I collapsed onto our bed. My back to the covers, I stared at the ceiling.

“My kitchen table now, my bed,” I reminded myself aloud.

This space was no longer shared; it was now mine, and mine alone. That thought was my breaking point, and I desperately searched for my cellphone. I needed to call Phoebe.

 

Phoebe was my best friend. We met at university and hit it off instantly, paired together in Spanish class and forced to create a disaster of a project together. I spoke Spanish semi-fluently, it was a requirement I take a language at the Catholic school I attended. Even though she did not, lack of knowledge wasn’t the issue. We spent most of the time together smoking weed in her hammock instead of working. We got a C+ on that assignment. That day after class, we toasted our semi-passing grade with three pitchers of beer at 2 p.m. We were inseparable ever since.

Since neither one of us had siblings of our own, as time went on we began calling each other “twin.” We even looked alike with long, blonde hair that sat wavy when we let it air-dry and piercing blue-green eyes, a shade which could mimic either a calm, cloudless day or a vicious storm on the sea, depending on our moods. Phoebe had been my beacon in life these past eight years. And so once more, I called upon my guiding light to bring me back to shore.

She picked up after one ring. 

“Brettttt! Happy birthday, bitch! How hammered are you right now – scale of one to ten? Anything less than nine and we’ve got problems.” 

Hearing her voice, I immediately began to cry again. The dam I had been keeping closed for the last hour since he left had broken, and an ocean of tears rained into the phone. I tried to speak through the cries. All the words came out broken. 

“Brett?! What the hell happened?! Are you okay?! What’s going on? Take a breath, talk to me,” she said, alarm in her voice. 

“He’s… gone, Pheebs. He… he left. It… it’s over.” 

 Sob after sob.

The pain wasn’t stopping, and I couldn’t keep it in.

It felt like I was decaying, slowing turning grey, from the inside out.

Like everything would soon turn to ash, and I would blow away with the smallest gust of wind.  

“What do you mean? Who’s gone? Kurt?!” She asked with a slight panic.

          “Yeah, Pheebs,” I was pulling myself together just enough to try and explain, “he said he doesn’t want to get married. And he just… left. I don’t know what to do, I feel like I’m in a fucking nightmare.”

It all hurt too much.

          “Okay, okay, listen – you are going to get through this, Brett. I know it doesn’t seem like it right this second, and you probably don’t want to hear it but you will. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Honestly, I don’t think so. Shit, I don’t even fucking know.”

“Well, did he tell you why?”

She was a science major. Prescriptive. She needed an answer. Shit, so did I.

“No, Pheebs. I mean, not really. I know about as much as you do, as fucked as that is.”

                    “Jesus, Brett… I am so sorry. I don’t know what to say.” Her voice wavered. “What can I do?”

          “My head hurts, my heart hurts, my fucking eyes hurt from crying. I just…wanted to hear your voice. I’m going to drink this bottle of expensive-ass bullshit wine that I bought us and go to bed. I’m fine, I just need this night to be over.”

I needed to get drunk.

I needed to forget. 

Kurt.

“Yeah, I totally understand. For sure, drink that bottle. Shit, drink another one. But I want you to try your best to sleep at least a little bit. Tomorrow morning, I’m driving to you. I’ll be there in the afternoon, okay? We can do whatever you want. Cry, scream, eat, get high. Literally whatever you want, we can do it. Just get some rest tonight. And if you can’t sleep – call me. I mean it, Brett. Call me.”  

She had always been this friend for me. Always ready to drop anything to be by my side. I’d never known someone so selfless. I knew this would be hard on her, to be comforting me through this. She was friends with Kurt, too. They’d always been pretty close. They used to do mushrooms together in college. On one truly ridiculous trip, they had decided to start a little drug dealing business. It was nothing big time, just weed. It didn’t last long, about one month in they realized they were spending more than they were making because they kept giving deep discounts to their friends. I was their delivery girl, and one-hundred percent part of the problem. I would smoke our product with every “client” I visited.

 Phoebe always said that we were still her favorite people to spend time with and was quick to accept any invitation to stay at our place. Some of my favorite memories were with both of them next to me. I always counted myself so lucky that they were close, too. It made everything so much easier. But I knew that no matter what, she would feel an allegiance to me at the end of the day. We were sisters. I didn’t want to be selfish, but I wanted that. I needed Phoebe to be on my side in all of this.

I promised I would call if the night came to be too much, and she promised to answer if I needed saving. We hung up the phone, and I searched the room for the wine. That annoyingly over-priced bottle I had purchased to celebrate my own birthday. Kurt wasn’t a big gift-giver, but I had always looked past it. I just assumed he’d been too busy to buy me a present this year, the card I’d received was the best indicator of that possibility. It was the Christmas card he had forgotten to give me the past year. He had crossed out ‘Merry Christmas’ and written ‘Happy Birthday’ over the scratches. I thought it was funny when I had opened it before dinner, so like Kurt to repurpose an abandoned gift. Now, looking at the haphazard writing on this desperate, last-minute excuse for affection, I saw it for what it really was—the perfect symbol of what our relationship had become. Lazy, lost and lifeless. 

I grabbed the wine and a bottle opener and sat back down onto the floor. I welcomed the cold sensation of the tiles on my skin. Suddenly, I was on my side, feeling the icy chill of the rock on my cheek. In that moment, I was looking under our bed. My bed. My gaze fell upon that weathered notebook I had seen in my fiancé’s arms so many times before.

My ex-fiancé.

A stranger.

I thought about how little I really knew about our relationship; how little I knew about him. The man who shared a bed with me for five years. It started to make me feel sick. For how long had he been wanting out of this relationship? Why did he want out of it? How many nights did he lay next to me thinking, “this is not the woman I want to spend my life with”? He never talked to me, he never let me know what he was thinking. He was always just writing.

Writing.

What if that little leather notebook held the answers? Without taking another moment to consider what I was doing it was already in my hands. Feeling the tattered edges, I was comforted. Kurt was in my hands.

I knew that what I was doing was the biggest form of betrayal fathomable. I was, without permission, peering over the enormous walls that Kurt had built from day one around his soul. I figured he had shattered my soul and that was without my permission, as well. So, I unfastened the twine that secured its pages, and I opened it. The sensation of the cover on my fingers felt like I had something sacred in my hands¬—something that would either bless me or curse me with what lie in its pages. Like it housed illicit knowledge, the forbidden fruit. I may be naked for eternity after taking a bite, but I couldn’t turn back now. I peeled back the front cover and couldn’t believe what I read. 

It was incredible. Every single word. Somehow both forceful and delicate. It was like seeing Kurt, really seeing him, for the first time. And that was a magical gift, one I had been craving since the night at that hookah bar. Kurt may not have been able to communicate, verbally, all that he felt. But give that man a pen and he spoke chronicles. His verses could move mountains. And in this wonderfully elusive moment, his words moved me.

The first poem that caught my eye was about his love of escaping the world with whatever book he was devouring most recently. Entitled Paper World, the moniker he eventually gave the notebook itself, the poem was strikingly poignant. It was both beautiful and distressing.  

paper world

i have read so many books        

i have devoured so many words                    

i have dove into so many worlds.

each time I turn the final page

          -i pause-

          -i feel-

i relish the last moments of total submersion. 

because these worlds explored

these lives lived

these tales told

are all a means of escaping my own.

          and each time I leave a paper-world

          i am sure that I will never detach 

my soul from its pages

          with each book I read

          i leave a part of myself

          within the binding.

I never knew how hard reality had become for him, or when he had lost the lightness he once possessed. Why was the “real world” so hard to enjoy now? When I met Kurt, I knew he loved to lose himself within a book. I did, too. But he also enjoyed the life that surrounded him. We used to spend summer days at the trails by our student apartment housing, with nothing but a joint and our hiking boots. Some days, we would even leave our phones in the car, just to be that much more removed from society. It would be so overwhelmingly hot that we’d eventually strip down to our bare skin and soak our bones in the cool, cleansing water of the nearest spring. That was how he first got poison ivy, and I found my first tick hitching a ride on my upper thigh.

          I missed those days, and I missed Kurt even more. 

          Kurt.

          I turned a few more pages, attempting to soak in every letter, every touch of ink to paper. I yearned to know more about went on in his heart, and in exactly what moment I had left it. I found another one, about halfway through the notebook. And upon reading it, I realized: this one, these words were about me. It was short, but it spoke volumes. 

fleeting 

they shared their secrets

and their souls

with the fire of the sun

and the calm of the moon

that rested ever so out of reach that night.

 but it graced their every movement

with something so pure

he wouldn’t give it a name

for fear that it might gain wings

 and leave forever.

          My heart was so miserably full—it was brief in words, but an epic in emotion. Until this evening, when he told me we were so irreversibly broken, I felt that the most beautiful aspect of our relationship was our ability to say so much without saying anything at all. I knew when I was in his arms that he held me tightly because he loved me, without any words needing to be said. And now I knew that he did so because he was afraid I would one day fly away. He left because he was just scared of having his own heart broken. That wasn’t something that was unfixable. I could show him that I wouldn’t leave. We could stay in the light of the moon, sharing secrets, forever. 

          Tears pooling in my eyes and silently streaming down my face, I turned another few pages. I had to read more about what he felt in the moments when his lips would not betray him. When his mind retreated as deeply as possible behind those towering, secure walls. I read another poem. This one gave me chills. 

truth/lie

people tell a lot

of little white lies.

but this one isn’t light. 

its dark.

so dark, in fact,

that it steals away 

all the beauty

of so many things

you’d told me before.

 steals and swallows our memories

and rewrites them with a murky pen.

all because of one truth

that easily could have been a lie.

and we’d all be better for it.

          What the hell could that possibly have been about? What lie was Kurt struggling with, and why was the truth so much harder to swallow? I tried to think back to any major life experiences that had thrown him for a loop. I knew he had a rocky relationship with his parents. They were both extremely religious and were overtly displeased with his lifestyle, typical WASPs who drank constantly but turned their noses up to our marijuana use. To add insult to injury, we were living together and unmarried. They wanted us to fit into their box and “living in sin” wasn’t acceptable. But they had been so overjoyed to find out we were engaged, and even happier to hear that we had planned on having children. His mother even pulled me aside during Thanksgiving to gently remind me that their table was big enough to pull up another seat. Was this heated poem indicative of some new altercation that I had somehow missed?

A bit more aggressively than I meant it, I turned the pages of his ‘paper world’. I ripped the edge of one of the pages. Oh no, Kurt. Cursing my panic, I attempted to tend to the tear. On this page, I found another poem he wrote, a bit more recently by its placement in the notebook. I stopped my frantic and entirely useless attempt to fix the page once I read its title. An Unsent Letter. It read: 

No matter what stretch of time

or distance passes between us, 

my heart knows one thing:

no one will ever know my soul

the way that you did.

not a day passes by

that this thought

doesn’t cross my mind. 

our time can never be erased, 

and the imprint you left on me

can never be lessened. 

it would be easier if it could be

and I often wish for that relief.

but, as the days draw to a close,

i am constantly left with that same realization:

you were wholly mine

and I was wholly yours.

And it was beautiful. 

It was a love letter. But it wasn’t to me.