It was a cheery, sunny day at school. I couldn't figure out what it was about today that was so great. Maybe it was just a good mood. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe it was seeing my friends for the first time after a long winter break. Whatever the reason it did not matter, nor did I care. Because I was unusually happy for a person of my personality, which is all that matters. I walked down the shimmering, sunlit halls of my school with a tremendous crowd of teenagers, who all seemed just as happy today. Smiles all around, sparkling white teeth, golden light washing over blond hair, fashion statements that actually work, cute couples giggling with each other about inside jokes no one else would get, and above all, the roar of talking that absorbs the whole school. These are all of the things I witness as I too walk down the hall with a sparkling white smile. I was so joyful it wasn't even normal. And then it hit me. It started with a extreme sinking feeling in my stomach, as if a boulder had been dropped in it. 2nd came the sick, nauseating feeling. 3rd came the relization: I forgot to study for my 300 point final in math, which is the class I was about to walk into. I halt in my tracks, allowing people to push past me. I cant move. I have a 4.0 GPA, a “goody goody smart kid” as some kids call me, and I could not afford for this to happen. The impact to my grade would be horrific, my parents would be ashamed. There is no more light, only darkness and icy, muffled voices. I take a few steps, then a fre more and a few more after that. I find myself in my math class. The electric lights glare down at me, blinding my already clouded vision. I walk over to my teacher, with her wrinkly frown and bright red lipstick staring me down, and whisper “I forgot to study for the test. Please give me another chance! Please I will do anything!” My teacher starts to laugh, which I could not figure out why until she said “Don't worry, the test is next week Lynda. I would never put a test date on the first day back from winter break. Ha! Imagine that!” A deep relieving feeling washes over me and I sigh. It was all my imagination.
0 Comments
Heather had started running a little quicker, since she had heard the lightning. When she got to her house, she nearly screamed.
There were foot prints in her lawn leading to a broken window, the drapes waving in the wind. She then saw the mailtruck by her fence. She ran over to take a look inside. The keys were gone, and the mail bag was nearly empty. There was a McDonald’s Egg McMuffin sitting on the passenger seat with a half empty large orange juice in the cup holder. The sandwich was still warm; which meant whoever was there, wasn't there very long before leaving. She ran inside, noticing—and grabbing—the envelope along the way. She closed the door and sat down as she opened the envelope. Heather read the information and began to fill out the information, not knowing that whoever was in her house, actually never left. Mike could hear Heather filling out the information. The adrenaline rush was still strong. His hands were shaking more than they ever had. He was sweating so bad, he looked like he just got out of the shower. Just to add to the issue, he probably smelled pretty gross, considering he was up all night, researching photos or her and downloading Heather’s information. He began to walk slowly down the stairs. Mike knew it was a bad idea, but he wanted to see if he could make it to the door. Her stairs were wooden and creaky. So with each step he took, came more and more fear, adrenaline, and sweat. Unfortunately, Mike had forgotten about his wet shoes, and that was when he slipped and fell eight stairs to the bottom floor, banging against the wall, and knocking down pictures. Once Mike could move again, he looked at the kitchen table. On the table were a cup of coffee, a pen, and the paper. The missing knife in the knife holder was the one thing he didn't see. Heather peaked around the corner and saw someone who looked very familiar to her. She thought for a couple seconds and remembered the mail truck. The thought of him actually in her house frightened her so horribly that she dropped the knife in her hand. The clang of then it hit the wooden floor seemed too loud to go unheard. She could only pray that the man didn't find her. She bent over carefully to pick it up, never losing sight of it. She grabbed it and began to straighten up again. The creepy mailman was standing and staring at her. She screamed at the sudden sight of this man smiling, while staring into her eyes holding a knife. She swung at him with every bit of strength. It was all she had left. Her flying fist was caught by his massive hand, and the knife was ripped from her grasp. The next thing she knew, her hands were on her stomach. She could feel something warm and wet. She looked down to her shirt, horrified by what she saw. Her shirt was red and dripping with her own blood. On her hands, she could feel the sticky liquid slowly making its way down the back of her hand. She attempted to scream, when the yell was cut off, by the feeling of a very fast, and excruciatingly painful slit along her upper neck. That was when everything stopped. The thinking, the feeling, even the struggling. She dropped to the floor, hitting her head on the counter on the way down. Heather didn't even feel a thing. She hit the floor, and the last thing she saw was a brown boot headed, quickly, in her direction. Heather’s alarm went off at 7:30 the next morning. She turned off her alarm, and walked sluggishly to her closet. After she had gotten dressed, she headed downstairs to get some coffee, and maybe make an omelet to go with it.
She ate her breakfast and drank her coffee, and then went running. The envelope on her doorstep went unnoticed as she left. Mike was, again, was just finishing up his usual mail delivery route when he drove, once again, by Heather’s house. The envelope was still on the doormat. He turned off the engine and took the keys with him to peek inside. A couple lights were on, and the coffee pot was almost full. She had been up already. That was for sure; which meant there was no way she could have left because her car was still there, and the envelope was still outside. There was something different about it. He then noticed the imprint of what looked like a tennis shoe. Maybe she had gone running. But it was cloudy and starting to rain. Then the lightning began. The flashes were so bright, Mike felt like he was about to be blinded. It was like having a movie-set light flashing in your face, over and over. The thunder roared with great fury, and the streets were emptier than the Sahara in mid-July. Mike put his hood on and started to run back to his van when he saw a jogger coming up the street. That jogger was Heather. His mind went into panicmode. He had no clue, once so ever, know what to do. The adrenaline rush was too big, too powerful for him to handle. He finally just ran and dove into the house, not even caring about the fact he had just broken a window to get inside. Mike ran up the stairs and hid inside one of the closets. After a couple months, Mike found that her name was Heather Reynolds. Each day, he
had passed her house on Yahoo Lane, building up such a wonderful and yet so thrilling feeling of love and so many other emotions. All of which, were among the creepiest of intentions, and the subconscious thought of wanting to see her in ways he had never thought of before. He wanted to be inside her house, hiding in her closet as he watches her change into her her outfit for the day. However, nobody could ever find out of that; Heather especially. Mike was subconsciously beginning to stalk Heather Reynolds, the woman of Yahoo Lane. The thoughts continued for six days before he decided to “get to know her.” Placing some bills in her mailbox had created such an idea. However, he didn't intend on meeting her personally. All he needed to do was wait until dusk, and make his move. By nine thirty, it had been dark for at least a half hour. So, he slipped on his black hooded sweatshirt, got into his personal car—a navy blue, 2013 Tesla—and drove to 88th. When Mike got to Yahoo Lane, he turned off his headlights, and drove slowly down Heather’s side of the street. He parked between the driveways of houses 8803 and 8804—purposely doing so to not be seen too close to her house. As he passed house number 8807, he put on his hood and continued quietly. He quickly opened her mail box and found the bills still inside. Just as he closed it, he saw a pair headlights coming down the street. Mike hopped over her fence and into her front yard, and hid behind a red leafed bush. The car passed and he furtively opened the envelope entitled HEATHER REYNOLDS: CREDIT CARD INFORMATION. Inside there was a credit card with her name on it and her credit card number. Also inside the envelope, was a neatly folded piece of paper which read: PLEASE VERIFY THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION. NAME: HEATHER REYNOLDS; D.O.B.: MARCH 28, 1990; PHONE NUMBER: (425) 555-0178; AGE: 23; ADDRESS: 8808 NW YAHOO LANE, EDMONDS, WA 98026; (THIS PROVES YOU ARE THE CORRECT PERSON); X_____________________ Mike opened the envelope, and took the paper and card out. He grabbed his phone, and snapped a picture of the credit card, paper, and her license plate. The flash would have been noticed if someone had been outside, but thankfully there wasn't. Mike then realized he had forgotten to bring glue or tape to reseal the envelopes. “What an idiot!” he told himself. So he just replaced the stuff back into the envelope, closed it, and rubbed the crease hard enough that hopefully it would stick until she opened it. He wasn't sure it would hold. Mike could hear another car coming up 88th, so he bolted to his car, and drove off. Students in 3rd–12th grades are invited to express their creativity through EMP’s fourth annual Write Out of This World: Sci-Fi and Fantasy Short Story Contest.
Submissions are judged by a panel of experts including EMP Museum curators, professional writers, and Seattle community leaders. Student winners for first, second, and third place will be awarded by grade level in the following categories: 3rd–5th, 6th–8th, and 9th–12th. Contest winners will be invited to participate in workshops with Jack Straw Productions’ experienced team of arts professionals on writing, editing, and vocal coaching, and will take part in a recording session to produce an audio version of their winning entry. EMP will announce the names of the student winners in March 2014, and invite them to read excerpts from their stories in the museum’s Sky Church during an awards ceremony in May. Presented in partnership with Jack Straw Productions. Deadline for submissions: January 31, 2014 For more information or to submit a story visit EMPmuseum.org/writeoutofthisworld. Heather Petosa was a 23 year old Arizona State graduate with a Masters in math and a ninth grade math teacher. She never expected to find such a simple person with such a simple job to be so horrifically dangerous.
After moving into a beautiful little house on Yahoo Lane, in the so old, yet lesser known town of Edmonds, Washington, she quickly noticed that Edmonds was a town with almost no shootings, kidnappings—or any kind of crime, for that matter. The place was a great area. There wasn't a single person who didn't know almost everyone in town. Heather saw Edmonds as the perfect place to have a family; she knew she could let her kids run and play during the summer without worrying too much about the bad stuff that could happen. Just down the street, about a block from Olympic Beach was the Edmonds Post Office. Mike Reynolds was the number one mailman in the city. He had just started on his daily route, which goes through the whole downtown section, up through 88th (which is the highest part of town before Mountlake Terrace). On one of the last streets he goes to before the end of his route was Yahoo Lane. Nobody understands the name of the street, but people just accept it as another thing that makes their town so unique and beautiful. Mike was driving down Yahoo Lane, delivering mail on the west side of the street. He had been in the mail business for over a decade. For that entire time, the the house at the end of the street, 8808, had always been empty. After a while, Mike made it a habit to just skip that house. It was like it never even existed; so when he finds mail addressed to that location, he almost forgot where it was. He gets to house number 8807 and sees there is a postcard addressed to: 8808 Northwest Yahoo Lane, Edmonds, WA 98026. The postcard read, “Come serve your country! Join the U.S. Army TODAY!” “Must be a mistake.” Mike thought. But then he saw the 2002 Chevrolet Impala LT sitting in the driveway. He put the van in park, got out, and walked up to the front door. Mike rung the doorbell twice; He heard the sound of socks quickly stepping down the wooden stairs; that kind of subtle thumping sound. A lady opened the door. She was a beautiful, blue-eyed brunette who stood about five-foot-nine. “May I help you?” She asked, politely. Mike was instantly mesmerized by the beauty of this woman as he stood on her doorstep, as frozen as the ice in the polar ice cap. “May I help you?” She asked again, this time a little more suspicious. It was then that Mike finally snapped back to reality. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said, still a little lost. “I found a postcard addressed to your house, and I thought it was a mistake.” He laughed, a little embarrassed. “You see, nobody has lived here in over ten years.” She then accepted the postcard and shut the door, and Mike got back into his mail truck and finished his route. That night, as he lay in bed, all he could think about was how sensuous that woman was. For hours and hours he simply could not sleep. Around three o’clock, he finally drifted his way off into a deep slumber. He dreamt of the most insane, and horrifying things. Things that would get you arrested, or put in an insane asylum. The kind of things only a mad man would do. Mike awoke with a sudden jerk when his six a.m. alarm went off. Even after falling into such a deep sleep, he still couldn't stop thinking about the woman he had met the previous day. The thoughts of her beauty, and what it would be like to have her as his wife, and his closest friend. What it would be like to see her in the low light of a fancy date, and then in his room getting ready for…Now the thoughts were coming back...the thoughts of nothing but absolutely mindless insanity...things that a psycho might do. But he wasn't a psycho...was he? |
AuthorsMs. Stifter Archives
May 2015
Categories
All
|