Jeanine smiled despite herself.”Have I ever told you how much I hate that expression? I don’t want to be a lid nor a pot, neither of those is flattering at all.”

“It’s a metaphor!” Sheena flipped her hand over, palm up, the way she always did when she was frustrated. “I’m just trying to remind you that there is someone out there for you, you don’t have to give up.”

“I never said I was giving up. I said I was tired of this whole thing and I am. So damn tired. It feels like every guy out there is some sort of predator. I am sick of being prey. Why does this have to be so hard?” She hated the way these words felt in her mouth, she was sick of saying them, they even tastes grey and defeated.

“Okay, I have to admit that you have had a string of bad luck, but if you really want to find someone then you have to…”

“GET BACK OUT THERE.” They said it together. It was the end of every one of their conversations about finding one true love for Jeanine.

She was tired of getting back out there, for once she just wanted to trip over a Prince Charming, maybe while she was on her way home, and she didn’t want him to turn out to be a jerk, or manipulator, or only trying to get her into bed. She was happy enough to get in bed when the time was right but she was looking for the rest of the stuff too – she wanted someone to call when she was having a rough day, she wanted the shared memories with someone, she wanted someone next to her at parties, she wanted another member of her team. And she wanted to be all of that for someone else, too.

She didn’t bother saying all of this to Sheena, she already knew what Jeanine was looking for. Jeanine wanted what Sheena had with her girlfriend but she just didn’t seem to be able to find the right guy and they had long since gotten past the point where joking about Jeanine switching teams was funny.

So they sat in silence in the car on the way home, Sheena looking out the window as Jeanine drove.

(I am so tired that I haven’t even proofread this. My apologies.)

The kid across the street had been annoying me for a few days. He was out there from right after supper onward, kicking and punching at invisible bad guys on his front lawn. It wouldn’t have bothered me at all if he was out there just playing to himself, but he had to make so much damn noise while he does it.

He kept shouting “I’m going to get you. You can’t have our street, I’m going to kick and punch you until the sun goes down!” Then he would tumble and kick and jump and punch while prowling around the lawn looking fierce. It would have been adorable if it weren’t so loud.

After the first couple of evenings of this dubious entertainment, I had to stroll over and ask what he was doing. He just looked at me strangely and told me, in this voice that suggested that his goal should be obvious, that he was fighting the bad guys so they couldn’t take over the whole street. His eyes twitched the whole time he was talking to me, snapping from side to side behind me and darting to take in the edges of the lawn. Once I left, he resumed his shouting and punching.

I didn’t want to complain to his parents about him, he was just a kid being a kid, but I really hoped that he would tire of it quickly and move on to something else. I really wanted my quiet evenings back.

It didn’t seem promising though, it seemed like he was just getting worse and worse as time went on and one Tuesday night, I decided that after work the next day, I was going to talk to his parents.

Of course, as usually happens once you have made a plan like that, the world seemed to conspire against me carrying it out. I had a terrible day at work, lots of people yelling and getting frustrated. I knew that if I went to speak to his parents right away, I would just end up in a nasty fight, so I decided to have supper first and talk to them later.

That would have been an excellent plan, if I hadn’t also decided to lie down for a few minutes to ‘rest my eyes’ after I finished eating. I woke about an hour later to the sound of Ethan kicking up a storm across the street. I guess I must have slept heavier than usual because I couldn’t seem to get my eyes to focus at all. I stumbled into the kitchen, running my hand along the wall for balance, and got a glass of water. I tried to zero in on Ethan across the street but everything looked so very strange. It looked as if Ethan had an opponent, or, actually, several opponents.

I rubbed my eyes but it didn’t help much, I could still see the strange, dark shapes dashing and diving around the boy. I didn’t even put on my shoes before dashing across to help.

“Okay, I can see them now, Ethan, what do a I have to do?”

The kid smiled for the first time in ages and said ‘Just copy me!’

To this day I don’t know what the hell we were fighting out there and I am not sure why I could see them on that particular night, but I’m glad I could. After I prowled and rolled and punched along with Ethan for about 20 minutes – much to his mother’s amusement – suddenly Ethan turned to me and smiled again.

“They’re gone. They didn’t like you helping, not at all.” And he reached out his hand to shake mine. I shook his hand and did a little bow of sorts and headed back across the street. He just turned and walked into his house.

My evenings have been pretty quiet ever since.

I think they thought it was funny at first, to haze the new girl or something. You know how it can be in offices when they have worked together for a long time? They get a sort of rhythm to their days and everyone plays their part and they all laugh at the right time. But then, someone new comes in and they have to find their equilibrium, so they play jokes or they come up with little tests to figure out where the new person is going to fit in.

These ladies decided they were going test me by stealing stuff out of my desk. Well, not stealing…borrowing. They would take my stapler first thing in the morning and then it mysteriously reappear after lunch in the same place I had left it. When I asked about it they all looked at me strangely as if the stapler had been there all along. They moved my shoes, my sweater, my paperwork, pretty much anything that wasn’t nailed down, and I somehow never actually caught them in the process – even though I was rarely out of my cubicle for long.

I tried to play along, be cool about it, but it isn’t an attitude that comes naturally to me. I wanted to rage or freak out in some way, but I knew that would only make it more fun for them. Besides, I figured it would only go on for a week or so and they would lose interest in my lack of reaction and I would start fitting in a bit more. That isn’t what happened though.

After eight work days of hiding my supplies and my clothes, they moved on to my snacks.

I don’t know about you but I am VERY serious about my snacks at work. I put a lot of thought into what I bring and I enjoy the anticipation of just the right snack at just the right time. I know that probably sounds a little over the top, but we all have our things, right? Just so happens that mine is snacks.

I still tried to play along. I endured the missing cookies, the vanishing grapes and the disappearing granola bars for about 3 days and then I couldn’t take it any more. I had to ask them to stop taking my treats out of my desk.

I had expected them to behave like adults, to agree to stop with the silly games, but I definitely overestimated them. Instead of owning up to what they had done so we could all laugh about it, they pretended that they had no idea what I was talking about. Since being reasonable didn’t work, I had to try something different.

So, the next morning I spoke to the janitor and explained that I thought I was having a problem with mice and I asked for his help. He got my desk all set up to catch ‘the little critters’ and I went about my day.

I was in my boss’ office when I heard the scream.

Did you know that a mousetrap can break a human finger?

(I decided to challenge myself to write a 50 word story today. I think it turned out okay. :))

The earrings fit perfectly in my hand, I dropped them up into my sleeve as I left the store.

They fell out at home. My mother, angry, knowing my allowance didn’t stretch that far.

The earrings fit perfectly in my outstretched hand as I, mortified, returned them to the jeweler.

“Don’t run up the stairs or you’re going to trip.”

Gemma’s parents had all kinds of warnings for her, no matter where she was in the house. That was their version of good parenting – being human caution signs at every point of possible peril. As much as they tried though, they failed to protect her from the real dangers in their house. In fact, her parents couldn’t see those dangers at all.
Gemma did. She saw the man who lived by their front steps, the side of his head dented from some kind of accident. She could see the dog that slept in front of the fireplace and barked whenever she came near. And, worst of all, she could see the little girl who lived under the stairs.

The girl had long stringy black hair that hung down her back in knots and clumps, the kind of hair Gemma’s grandmother would have described as ‘looking like nobody owns you.’ Her white dress was splattered with rusty brown spots, the colour familiar to Gemma even though she wasn’t sure why. And her long fingers reached for Gemma’s feet whenever she was coming up the stairs from the basement.

There was no risk on the way down, everyone knew that. On the way up though? You had to run so the girl didn’t reach between the steps and grab an ankle so she could pull you down with her. So Gemma ran up the stairs every time.

When Grandma was alive, she could see them, too. She was the own who had explained that Gemma needed to avoid the ghosts who seemed to be about her age. Those were the most dangerous because if they caught her, they could force her spirit out of her own body and take it over. That’s why Gemma was especially careful of the girl under the stairs, she knew the risks of inattention.

Her parents though, they only saw the dangers of rushing up the stairs, of tripping, of hitting her head. They weren’t aware of the dangers of moving too slowly. And, that Monday, her mother was only trying to be a good example when she walked up the stairs ahead of Gemma, moving as slowly as she could.

When she talked about the accident later, Gemma’s mother was astounded that her daughter hadn’t been more badly hurt.

“Even though we were going slowly, she somehow got her foot caught in the space under the riser.” She would explain. “She slid right up to her knees, feet hanging down under the stairs. It was a wonder she didn’t go right in underneath.”

Her friends would shake their heads at this, at Gemma’s sheer good luck. “She’s been right strange since it happened, you’d hardly recognize her. It’s some hard to get her to go downstairs at all, and she rushes right back up like she’s on fire. I think she’s afraid it’s going to happen again.”

They would all cluck about that for a while before going back to their tea and biscuits. Children didn’t make any sense in the best of times. When they were frightened, they were worse.

Under the stairs, Gemma spent most of her time crying. Crying and waiting for the girl to walk slowly enough for Gemma to reach up through the stairs to grab an ankle and reclaim her body.