Saturday, 21 December 2019

Slight of Mind: A Psychological Thriller (Part Three) - Lore Publication

Written by M. Sigurd Hall



Part Three



How do I say this to someone? Will it even matter? She won’t believe me. 
“I’m having a lot of trouble right now,” I say.
“What kind of trouble?” Reiko says.
“It feels like reality, that it’s changing or something. Things. Time. I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you said I was going to see you in a week, but to me, it was just yesterday.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why you were late.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t write it in your calendar?”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. Yesterday, I was a different age, so even if I tried I would have had to keep it for years. I would need to keep it every single day of my life, and even then, do you think I would have known what day it was when things changed?”
“When things changed?”
“Yes. I went from being one age to another in an instant.”
“Can you explain that?”
“I think I was ten for a while, how old am I now?”
“You don’t know how old you are?”
“Please humour me.” She shakes her head before I see she realises I’m serious.
“You’re twenty.”
“I jumped a gap of ten years in an instant. But it was such a gradual change that I didn’t even know it happened.”
“Has this happened before?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“During our last session.”
“It did?”
“Yes.” I stare into her eyes. She looks back at me. she’s familiar like I knew her once, but I don’t know from where. “Why do you think I got your name wrong? I get paid to know people’s names.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Well, I might in a few months. I don’t even know what month it is right now.”
“It’s March.”
“Then it’ll be later this year. My memory is good. I don’t forget people. I was sitting here with another therapist, and then, you were here.”
“And you believe that?”
“Yes, I do.” 

She stares at me. I get the feeling that there’s nothing in her that would make her believe me at all. 
“How old were you when that change happened?”
“I was the age I was supposed to be.”
“And that is?”
“Twenty-eight.” She nods. 
“Interesting. But you think that you changed age?”
“Yes. Because of mystiker.”
“Mystiker again.”
“You don’t believe me, so I’m happy not to talk about them.”
“No, that won’t help you get past this idea. Tell me about the mystiker.”
“They know how to bend reality. I guess it’s sort of science. I don’t really understand it and don’t think anyone but them will ever understand it. Right now, I think one of them has altered my life. Every instance I know about, they have to be close, like within a hundred feet. But if they don’t have to be, then, well, that explains what’s going on with me.”
“Do you have any proof of this?”
“I saw my friend Danny today.”
“Who?”
“Daniel Hicks.”
“Who is that?”
“My best friend until I was in junior high. Then he was killed in an accident.”
“And you saw him today?”
“Yes.”
“Did you interact with him?”
“Of course I did. I didn’t want to, but he kept pushing me
until I told him that he was going to die.”
“Do you think that was actually him?” 
“I don’t know. I don’t know how this stuff works. They are illusions. But I don’t know if that means mystiker bring me to the past and mess with my head or if they just make me feel like
I’m there, or here, or-”
“But you don’t think that you could just be going through stress or something that could be causing you to feel this way?”
“No.”
“So, you don’t think that there’s the possibility you could be
delusional in any way?”
“Of course not. Well, I mean, sometimes, I wonder, but because
I wonder, that makes me sure that I’m not. Everything that happens feels authentic, but I have no memory of it happening.”
“Are you sure they aren’t memories you’ve repressed?”
“Yes. Because then the conversation you and I are having now
would be one of those.”
“You cannot entertain the idea that maybe you’re upset with your life now, and this fantasy of being almost a decade older comes from your frustration with yourself? Maybe you created that world as an escape from one where you aren’t happy.”
“But what if this is the created world? The one made by mystiker.”
“And this conversation is in your head?”
“Yes.”
“Then end it. Because if that’s true, you’re the one who is truly in control.”
“But what if I’m not?”
“You have to be.”
“Drug addicts are not in control of their brains. Their state is altered by whatever they are taking.”
“And you are on something then?”
“Maybe it is like that. I might not have taken anything, but
my perception is just as altered.” She throws up her hands while shrugging her shoulders. “Anyone can claim what you’re saying. If you do, then no one can control anything in their lives. Would I be responsible for anything that happens to me then?”
“Maybe not.”
“Do you think that magic is real?” she says to me. I stare
into the old woman’s eyes. She looks genuine.

After what I’ve been through how could I not believe in it? Someone jumped through a wall. 
“Of course, I do,” I say. “You know what I’ve told you.”
“I’m willing to teach you everything I know. Will you listen?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’m willing to work with you.”
“What happens first?”
“Are you ready to renounce your old life?”
“Why would I have to do that?”
“Because everything you know is not quite what you see.”
“You don’t need to be so cryptic this time around.”
“This time around?”
“We’ve had this conversation before. Well, not this conversation, but you have offered to train me before.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I think I’m in an illusion right now, one I cannot get out of.”
“That can’t be. I’ve never seen you before today. You’re saying you know about illusions and mystiker?”
“Yes.” She looks confused. 
“Do you know who I am?”
“Emma Hill. Well, that’s what you like being called because
you hate your real first name, which was your grandmother’s.” She nods, looking at me. 
“You’re exhausted. Maybe what you’re saying is true, but today is almost over. If it was up to me, I’d tell you to get some sleep. Are you okay with that?” I stare at her. 
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Good. I don’t have a second bedroom, but my recliner is comfortable. You okay with sleeping there?” I nod. 
“Yeah. That will be fine.”
“I’d tell you to go home, but if mystiker is after you, then they probably know where you live. This may be the safest place for you right now.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Follow me.” Emma leads me to the living room. The chair I’m
sure I’ll sleep in looks old and broken in. “Will this be okay?”
“Yeah.” I look at her and then the chair.
“Go ahead.” She gestures to the chair. “You look ready to
drop.”
“Thanks.” I sit down.
“Blanket?”
“That would be great.” She comes back with the blanket and leaves me after a couple minutes, turning out the lights. It doesn’t take long for me to shut my eyes and let my mind go.

Before I open my eyes, I know things have changed. My feet are up, sure, and I have a blanket on me, but my feet rest on a chair, and the weight of the blanket is different, its fibres courser. The air is cool and smells antiseptic in its cleanliness.

My eyes are heavy, and it’s hard to open them. They stick together as I peek through my eyelids. Paige lies so close that I can almost reach out and touch her. She looks over at me. 
“I was wondering how long it was going to be before you woke up,” she says.
“I, uh, how long have you been up?” I say.
“Not too long. You were so tired when you got here. I just wanted to give you every second to sleep I could.”
“Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay. Doctors say that the last surgery went well. Insurance is going to pay for most of it, so the bill won’t be that crazy.” The word bites at me.
“I’ll get the rest of it. It was my fault.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
“We aren’t arguing about this here.”
“No, we aren’t.”
“How are things going on with that thing you were investigating during the accident?”
“You mean Dexter Hawkins?”
“Yeah.”
“It isn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I might be a threat to him and the people around both of us, or, something like that.”
“You weren’t paying attention to what you were being told?”
“I mean, enough? I was told to stay away from him until the trial is over.”
“Have you talked to your lawyer about it at all?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Does that seem smart?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, when I get out of here, think you’d be willing to go with me and see what he has to say?”
“Sure.” Looking at her, I have no idea how long that will be. She looks terrible. Mom is still in a coma, if I’m back where I’m supposed to be. So, could that be days, weeks, or maybe even months before she’s ready to leave this place? “Should I go?”
“What?”
“You look tired.”
“I just woke up.”
“I know. But maybe it’s the drugs they have you on for the pain or whatever.”
“Maybe.” Her eyes do look heavy, sedate. “You’re going to try to find him, aren’t you?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because that’s who you are.”
“But that would be breaking the law.”
“Has that stopped you before?” She knows me too well. 
“I guess not.”
“Then go and do whatever you feel like you need to.”
“You going to tell on me?” She shakes her head. 
“No. Never did before. Not like you’re a vigilante. You’re just trying to make sure bad people are caught in the act, right?”
“Right.” She doesn’t know about mystiker. It’s probably better I don’t tell her either. I get up and leave her where she is, hoping I will see her soon. But with how things have gone, I’m not so sure I will.







Hello and welcome to Lore Publication; thank you for reading! We want to take a moment to appreciate you for supporting Lore and the writers on our site. Without you at home reading, Lore wouldn't be possible. 

This story was Part Three of the Lore Original Series 'Slight of Mind' penned by the wonderful American writer M. Sigurd Hall, check out his socials!

LinkedIn: /msigurdhall
Facebook: /HallofSigurdBooks
Twitter: /hall_sig



Author Biography: M. Sigurd Hall


M Sigurd Hall was born on July 27th, 1983 to Alan, a first generation Norwegian, and Connie, a Tar Heel reading teacher and grew up on his great grandfather's farm. Sig's first memory is reading the Wizard of Oz before he understood the similarities between writing and Oz, the great and powerful, a person behind the words.

He starting writing as soon as he could spell. Sig drew editorial cartoons at his university's newspaper until he wrote a scathing review for X-Men: the Last Stand and added editorials to his resume. His first two screenplays were optioned but not produced by independent producers, and Sig started his own New York based production company in 2010.

Multiple hospital stays brought Sig back to Seattle in 2015. He won an award for his short story, Faceless, in 2016 and it was published in an anthology in February 2017.

Sig focuses on character driven stories in the thriller/crime and science fiction/fantasy genres. His favourite authors include Elmore Leonard, James Sallis, Sergei Lukyanenko, Dasheill Hammett, Ian Fleming, Mario Puzo, Michael Crichton, and Alexandre Dumas.

He currently lives in Seattle with his wife Kristine.




Monday, 16 December 2019

Poetry Mondays: 'Musings in Love' A Poem by Sukanya Rajan - Lore Publication


'Musings in Love' A Poem

by Sukanya Rajan




Image credit: klimkin


We lay so close,
That it was my heartbeat,
That made you breathe.

 My face continued,
That smile you started,
My adrenaline pulsated,
Through your veins,
My soul rebelled.

It was a rebellion,
Against its own being,
For it wanted to escape into you,
When our fingers were intertwined.

And when our lips met,
You gave closure,
To all the ends I'd left untied,
In all the years I was alive,

It was hard to tell if you were a part of me,
Or I was a part of you.

Or, maybe,

Both of us were part,
Of the universe's conspiracy.







This poem was written by Sukanya Rajan. Sukanya draws her inspiration from life events as well as the world around her. She believes in living life to its fullest while remaining true to what makes us human.

This post was brought to you by Lore Publication's weekly series 'Poetry Monday' where we publish poems from talented writers across the world, giving them a platform to share their work. Acting as a community, Lore's founder believes that words and art are what separate us from the animals. He wants to honour that by sharing the best poetry, an art form of the word, with the world.

Every Monday, Lore will publish a free poem to read. Poems will be published on a range of topics from love poetry, dark poetry, gothic poetry, inspirational poems, motivational poems and more. Be sure to check back next Monday for a new poem.

If you are interested in having your poem featured here on Lore, visit the 'Submit' section or email us at: lorepublications@gmail.com



Monday, 9 December 2019

Poetry Mondays: 'Kindling' A Poem by Stewart Storrar - Lore Publication

'Kindling' A Poem

by Stewart Storrar




Image Credit: RedHeadsRule via Pixabay


Not a thousand words,
Nor a thousand actions,


Not the fire of my soul,
Nor the quiver of my heart,


Not the spark of my mind,
Nor the clarity of my voice,


Can describe what you mean,
To this wayward soul.


And that, to me, is love.






This poem was written by Stewart Storrar. Writing what he feels and how he perceives the world around him is important to him. For him, poetry is an expression of what it is to be human as much as it is about the world around us; to him, even poetry can fall short.

This post was brought to you by Lore Publication's weekly series 'Poetry Monday' where we publish poems from talented writers across the world, giving them a platform to share their work. Acting as a community, Lore's founder believes that words and art are what separate us from the animals. He wants to honour that by sharing the best poetry, an art form of the word, with the world.

Every Monday, Lore will publish a free poem to read. Poems will be published on a range of topics from love poetry, dark poetry, gothic poetry, inspirational poems, motivational poems and more. Be sure to check back next Monday for a new poem.

If you are interested in having your poem featured here on Lore, visit the 'Submit' section or email us at: lorepublications@gmail.com

Saturday, 7 December 2019

Slight Of Mind: A Psychological Thriller (Part Two) - Lore Publication

Written by M. Sigurd Hall



Part Two


“Are you OK?” I say. 
“I’m fine. Are you on your way home?” Mom says. 
“You mean to your apartment?” 
“Mine? Don’t you mean our apartment?” What’s she talking about? I haven’t lived with her in years. Is something wrong with her? Did I get a concussion in the accident? I should go see her to make sure she’s okay. 
“Yeah… Sure… I’ll come over. I’ll be there soon.” 
“Good. I’m making dinner. You hungry?” I’m not, but does that matter? Maybe I was wrong. I could see her again. 
“Yeah. I can eat.” 
“Good.” 
“Great. See you soon. Love you.” I say those last words by accident. They seem natural but aren’t anymore. 
“Love you too.” She ends the call, and I’m left standing in the lot, still wondering where my car is.  I make it to the back row and see the only car that could be mine: The Firebird that I saved every dollar of my freshman and sophomore years in high school to buy. Even though it was more than ten-years-old, I loved every minute I drove it. If this is my car, then something is wrong. Dexter Hawkins must be doing this. I doubt any other mystiker would care about me enough to target me and if they did, that’s bad. I’m immune. They cannot affect me. Emma proved that years ago. But I stand in this parking lot with the wrong keys and the wrong car. Why else would I be here if not for one of them? I walk to the Pontiac and put the key in the lock and try to twist it. Nothing happens. Something is wrong. 

Maybe I’m just delirious. Could this be mystiker manipulating me? I know why Dexter Hawkins would want to manipulate me. Anyone else, I just, can’t wrap my mind around that, not today. So, I just have to keep my head. I don’t want to lose the sanity I still have.  Don’t I need to jiggle my key for it to work? Lift, then drop, then twist, and everything works. The door opens after I lift the handle. How can this happen? It doesn’t drive, so there’s no way that it can sit in a lot, waiting for me. Maybe it’s my Subaru, and I just think it’s my other car. But as I sit in its leather seat, it feels so real that I don’t care, if only for that moment. 

The drive to the apartment runs a chill up my spine. The city is familiar and yet foreign. It’s been so long since I came back here. I see landmarks that shouldn’t be where they are, but all the roads are the same; convenience stores I remember that closed years ago and the video store and the record stores I shopped are where I remember them. It hurts to see them but I can’t help the smile twisting my lips. This is bad. I’m at my favourite hangout. I drove here by accident. I was still in my twenties when they closed. It’s tempting to stop and grab something. I can’t help my nostalgia, but if I am as broke as when I was younger, I probably can’t afford anything. There’s no reason to check my wallet. Everything is perfect. There’s no reason I would still have my credit cards or cash. If I’m stuck in the past or some mirror of the past, then I need to learn how to survive. I must find Dexter Hawkins and finish him the same way I’ve dealt with so many mystiker. 

I park and climb the stairs to Mom’s old apartment. First came fame, then came money. I moved us out of this shithole. She hated that I paid her way, insisted I take her money. I don’t even know if she realized I deposited it back in her account without a word. I owe her that. After my father left, she took care of me, treated me better than I deserved. The musty hallway reminds me how much I hated this place. We were both sick for years after living here. I’m sure Dexter Hawkins did.  I’m still alive. That means that I will see through this illusion soon. I’ll end this. He will fear me.  

My fingers grip the bannister tight enough that I force myself to let go. He will pay for doing this to me. It doesn’t feel right to just open this door. This is not my home. I don’t live here anymore. What if Mom isn’t here? I put my knuckles to the wood and knock three times. Footsteps approach, then stop. The door opens. 
“Why did you knock on the door, Tony?” Mom says. I have nothing to say. “You live here.” She’s concerned. I can see it. 
“I… I don’t know…” I say. 
“Just get your ass in the door.” 
“Okay.” 
“Where’s your backpack?” Backpack? 
“In my car, I think.” 
“Did you do your homework already?” she says. This is getting weird. 
“Sure.” I say. 
“Sure, or yes?” I don’t look her in the eyes. It’s hard to look at my Mom at all. She doesn’t look much more than forty, and even though age hasn’t caught up to her, she still looks worn down. 
“I’ll be fine, Mami,” I say. 
“Don’t talk like that,” she says. 

My father left us when I was in high school. How old am I now? If he isn’t here then I’m at least sixteen. We stopped using Spanish the day he left. My father hates English. Doubt I know anymore than the average student. I don’t need it. Life would be better if I forgot everything my father taught me. I hate him. Antonio was his name too. Tony doesn’t sound like some asshole who throws his weight around. Tony helps people. I told Mom to call me if he comes back. He isn’t so big anymore. That pendejo would regret everything he did. I’m not just some little boy anymore. 

“Sit down,” Mom says. I do as I’m told, and she drops a plate in front of me at the kitchen table. I never loved the wooden chairs with no cushions we sat on but realize how much I miss nights like these with her. 
“What’s for dinner?” I say. 
“Burritos.” 
“They aren’t even Mexican, just something made up so Americans would be able to pretend like they were eating their food. You could have made something from home. You know?” 
“You were born in America, you little jackass. You’re lucky you didn’t get a hamburger.” She gives me a smile before she walks back to the stove, bringing back the meat. The fresh vegetables end up on the table with three kinds of beans and all the different salsas she makes from scratch. I’m overwhelmed just looking at all the food. 
“You going to take a picture or eat something?” she says. 
“Eat.” I say. 
“Then do it.” 
“Okay.” I do as I’m told, putting the food into the flour tortilla and smothering it with salsa before starting in on my food. Mom doesn’t eat anything. That isn’t a good sign. She acts like she has something to say but isn’t quite ready to say it. She’s waiting to attack me, but I don’t know when that will be. Of course, it’s when I’m mid-bite. 
“How was therapy?” 
“Fine.” I have a mouth full of food. 
“Chew and swallow, Antonio.” She slaps my arm. Beans fall half between my plate and the table. 
“Do you feel like it’s helping?” 
“I don’t know,” I say. 
“It costs a lot of money. I want to know if it’s helping. Are you still seeing things?” she says. 
“You mean like when the man jumped through that wall?” I didn’t know it then, but it was the first mystiker I encountered. He stole money from a service station and jumped directly through the brick and mortar wall like it didn’t exist. I was too shocked to know what to do. He ran into me and knocked me down so that when the owner of the store ran out, all I could do was point in the direction he ran. I wasn’t heroic that day.  After that, I will never let anyone make a fool out of me like that again. I hate how horrible it felt to be so helpless, lying there as the man stood over me, staring into my eyes. 

The thing is, I think even then, I knew I could have done something about it. The fear he showed me wasn’t because of the shotgun the owner brandished as he ran away. He feared something inside me. That first mystiker knew there was something different about me.
“Yes,” she says. 
“No, I’m not,” I say. 
“Well, that’s good.” 
“I guess so. I only saw it that once anyways.” 
“It’s anyway. Use proper English.” After the grilling ends, she fills her plate and begins eating. I enjoy myself. Sure, it’s the two of us together, and I’d love to have Paige here with us, but for whatever reason she isn’t. I even try to flip through my contacts to try to find her in them. She isn’t. So, it isn’t like I can call her. I was never good with numbers. Only ones I have memorized are Mom’s and mine. She hasn’t changed hers, and I won’t change mine if I can help it. Is Paige OK? I know Mom seems fine after the accident. So maybe she is too. Then again, all of this might not even be real. It may just be the altered state I’ve been put in by mystiker. Whoever it is, Dexter Hawkins, or someone else, they are still be close. 

But if both Mom and Paige are fine, is fighting worth it? Isn’t that why I’ve fought? To help and save people? I’d love to be sure that they are fine, but how can I be sure? That’s part of the problem with these men and women. They alter perception so well that even when you’re sure that what you see is real, how can you be? I’ve been here before. It’s tempting to give in to the illusion. Wouldn’t it be nice to live in this world? It’s one where things may feel right with just enough wrong that I don’t want to fight it, but the problems aren’t even real, and that is what grounds me to my reality. 
“Let me help you clean up,” I say once we finish our food. 
“You want to help me clean up without twisting your arm?” Mom says. 
“Yeah.” 
“That’s a change.” 
“You do so much for me. you deserve it.” Whether it’s my mom or a ghost of her, I don’t know, but either way, she deserves it. Things were hard enough when I was a kid. She worked to put food on the table as a teacher, and I’m not sure I thanked her enough for all the work she did for me. 

Maybe this is part of my penance or a way that I can make up for all the nights that I left her to clean up on her own, probably holding back tears because the man who I share half my DNA with decided we weren’t worthy to spend his life with. I don’t know if it makes me feel better or worse that Mom never cried in front of me after he left. Sure, I caught her a few times as a kid when he was out, but never after he was gone. 
“What are you planning on studying after you graduate?” Mom asks me. 
“I don’t know,” I say. 
“Better figure that out. It’s coming up fast. Remember that.” 
“I know," I paused, "but I don’t know. Isn’t college when I’m supposed to figure all that out?” 
“Maybe when I was a kid. The world is harder now. It’s like you have to have everything planned out now when you’re eight. You just have a few months left before you’re out of here. Then what?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.” I don’t remember having this conversation with her. Did we, and I’m just misremembering it because a decade has passed? 
“Yeah, you know? I think you will.” She gives me a smile and splashes me with some of the soaking water from the sink, hitting me in the face. 
“Looks like we’re almost done except for a couple pans, eh?” 
“I think so.” 
“I’ll finish up. You go get your backpack and double-check your homework, OK?” 
“Sure.” 

I’m not going to do it, but I might as well pretend I will. My steps look like I’m going to head to the front door, but I go to my room. Things look even stranger than I remember. My youth must have been even more stunted than I remember. Action figures, comic books, and brightly-colored posters litter my walls. I feel far more exhausted than I should be at nine, so I change out of my clothes and lie down on my bed, shutting my eyes. Before long, I fall asleep. It has been a long day. 

 “Wake up, Antonio. You’re going to be late for school.” I feel a soft hand holding my shoulder and rocking me softly. What time is it, and why do I need to go to school? I’m an adult. Everything I experienced was either an illusion or a dream. There’s no way that I am that young and need to get up for school. But the fingers are long and grip my shoulder tightly enough that I open my eyes, seeing my mom staring back at me. Has she ever looked this young or beautiful? I can’t remember.  
“What? Where am I?” this feels so weird. I can’t help but ask her the questions. Why does my voice sound familiar yet so high?
“You’re in your room. It’s morning. You need to get ready for school.” With bleary eyes, I try to focus on her and don’t do a very good job. 
“Don’t worry, your dad isn’t home. Breakfast is ready when you are. I’ll heat it up for you, and you can eat it in the car, OK?” 
“Okay.” What’s going on? Why is everything so strange? It’s even worse than it was yesterday. When I get out of bed, I realize how small I am compared to the apartment. I want to scream in fear but don’t. I don’t want Mom getting upset by me, so I go to the bathroom to shower. When I go to the drawer to get out the shaving cream and razor, I stop and stare at myself.  

No. This can’t be. I’ve changed again and am far too young. 

What happened to me? Someone did this to me. I just don’t know how or why. I try not to dwell on it much and just go with it. There’s no way mystiker will be able to follow me into the school. Things will rectify themselves somewhere, and when that happens, I will be able to go back to figuring out what is happening to me and why. 

The car ride to school feels weird. Mom turns the radio to my favorite station, and we listen to music. She doesn’t complain once, even singing along to a song or two as we make the trek across town before she drops me off. 
“See you after school,” she says, handing me my backpack through the open door. 
“OK,” I say, immediately wanting to pull out my smartphone and call an Uber. Of course, when I looked for my flip phone, it was gone, and it wasn’t like that would even have an app to do that anyway. 
“Antonio!” a voice behind me says. I turn around and see Danny. My stomach flips. I want to run to the boys’ room. Throwing up sounds amazing right now. 
“Hey, Danny.” I can’t help but roil with rage when I see him. Mystiker doing this must be trying to destroy my mind. Danny has been dead since I was thirteen, hit by a car while crossing the street. 

It’s all I can do not to run away. The sound of the lawnmower that refused to stop during his memorial still haunts me. Fresh-cut grass always reminds me of Danny, even though it was only that one day. A couple hours of my life made every spring harder for me. I wish I could blame mystiker on his death, but that wasn’t what happened. Danny’s death was random. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much. The school day is hard. How could it not be? My childhood best friend is back from the grave. He acts the same way he always did, and it hurts to look at him. I can tell that he knows there is a problem, but he doesn’t seem to know what my problem is. I do my best to avoid him through the day, but he grabs me while we are waiting for our rides. 
“What’s wrong with you?” Danny says. 
“What are you talking about?” 
“Quit avoiding me.” 
“I have to.” 
“No, you don’t.” 
“Yes, I do.” 
“Why?” 
“I can’t tell you.” 
“Tell me.” 
“No.” 
“Do it.” 
“No.” He grabs me by the shirt and looks me in the face. I can’t look away. 
“Tell me.” What do I have to lose? This isn’t real. 
“You’re going to die soon.” 
“No, I’m not.” 
“Yes, you are.” Why does this hurt to say so much? 
“No, I’m not!” But in his eyes, I see that he knows I’m not lying. He might think I’m crazy, but he knows I believe what I’m saying. And I’m saved, saved by his dad pulling in and opening the door to their car. Danny turns back and looks at me one last time. His heart is broken as he looks at me, the car pulling away. This may not be him, but I know it hurts me more than him to watch him go. It’s almost like watching his small casket being lowered into the ground again. Only now, I can save him. His eyes beg me to reach out and take hold of him and this reality. Hug me. You don’t know how much I want to, Danny. It would be so easy, my pocket buzzes. 

How could it buzz? What is in it? I reach in and feel a flip phone that is a little better than the one I had in high school. I pull it out and answer it. 
“You have an appointment today,” Reiko’s voice says over the phone. 
“I do?” I say. “I…” 
“You do.” 
“It must have slipped my mind.” 
“Are you coming?” 
“I guess so.” 
“It’s going to have to be short. You’re late.” 
“OK. I’ll be there as fast as I can.” 
“Good. See you soon.” I hang up the phone and walk down the street, unsure where I’m going but sure that Mom isn’t going to pick me up from here. I am no longer a child.   







Hello and welcome to Lore Publication; thank you for reading! We want to take a moment to appreciate you for supporting Lore and the writers on our site. Without you at home reading, Lore wouldn't be possible. 

This story was Part Two of the Lore Original Series 'Slight of Mind' penned by the wonderful American writer M. Sigurd Hall, check out his socials!

LinkedIn: /msigurdhall
Facebook: /HallofSigurdBooks
Twitter: /hall_sig



Author Biography: M. Sigurd Hall


M Sigurd Hall was born on July 27th, 1983 to Alan, a first generation Norwegian, and Connie, a Tar Heel reading teacher and grew up on his great grandfather's farm. Sig's first memory is reading the Wizard of Oz before he understood the similarities between writing and Oz, the great and powerful, a person behind the words.

He starting writing as soon as he could spell. Sig drew editorial cartoons at his university's newspaper until he wrote a scathing review for X-Men: the Last Stand and added editorials to his resume. His first two screenplays were optioned but not produced by independent producers, and Sig started his own New York based production company in 2010.

Multiple hospital stays brought Sig back to Seattle in 2015. He won an award for his short story, Faceless, in 2016 and it was published in an anthology in February 2017.

Sig focuses on character driven stories in the thriller/crime and science fiction/fantasy genres. His favourite authors include Elmore Leonard, James Sallis, Sergei Lukyanenko, Dasheill Hammett, Ian Fleming, Mario Puzo, Michael Crichton, and Alexandre Dumas.

He currently lives in Seattle with his wife Kristine.





Monday, 2 December 2019

Poetry Mondays: 'Alchemy' A Poem by Sukanya Rajan - Lore Publication

'Alchemy' A Poem

by Sukanya Rajan



Image credit: Free-Photos via Pixabay


Alchemy



I'm everything at once,
And nothing at all.

I'm the sky,
I'm the stars,

I'm the petals in the spring,
And the crimson leaves in the fall.


I'm the azure waters of a town,
Quaint and afar,

I'm the cacophony of a city street,
Buzzing with cars.


I'm happiness,
I'm sorrow,
I'm yesterday,
I'm tomorrow.


I'm the dark that envelopes the light,
I'm the wrong stemming from rights.


I'm everything and I am nothing.

All at once, or none at all.






This poem was written by Sukanya Rajan. The first of many poems from this wonderful writer, Sukanya draws her inspiration from life events as well as the world around her. She believes in living life to its fullest while remaining true to what makes us human.

This post was brought to you by Lore Publication's weekly series 'Poetry Monday' where we publish poems from talented writers across the world, giving them a platform to share their work. Acting as a community, Lore's founder believes that words and art are what separate us from the animals. He wants to honour that by sharing the best poetry, an art form of the word, with the world.

Every Monday, Lore will publish a free poem to read. Poems will be published on a range of topics from love poetry, dark poetry, gothic poetry, inspirational poems, motivational poems and more. Be sure to check back next Monday for a new poem.

If you are interested in having your poem featured here on Lore, visit the 'Submit' section or email us at: lorepublications@gmail.com