“Colours in the Cave” (Part Two)

A late entry, yet again. I could offer excuses for my tardiness, but I’m sure you don’t really care. You just want the conclusion, right? Well, then I’m afraid I have some disappointing news. You see, as I was writing, an unexpected character rocked up, and refused to disappear. He wanted some screen time, and as a result, this is NOT the final part of the story. Yes, I have one more part to come. So please, enjoy this story, and I hope to return with the thrilling conclusion soon!

For the first part of the story, click here.

Also, this story was inspired by the Inspiration Prompt follow the colours. But, in a sense, it also fits into this week’s list of Be Kind ReWrite’s prompts: No one remembers but me.

Quick reminder: The story began with Sleet, a sixteen year old member of the Colori Tribe, undergoing his Cave Trial, where the Gods fight to gain his destiny. Five Gods and Goddesses took up the challenge and appeared as brilliant threads of colour to guide him out of the Cave. One by one, they began to disappear. “…And then there were two.”

Colours in the Cave

     The twin threads began to race through the tunnels. Sleet hurried to keep up, grazing his elbows against the narrowing walls, which glowed eerily in spiralling patterns of orange and white, like sunset and moonlight intertwined. It came down to these final deities; as Sleet followed faithfully behind their brilliant coloured cords, he sent a final prayer.

     Please, Caccia, please. Let it be you.

     The warm, orange glow of the Goddess of the Hunt burst teasingly ahead of the white thread, but soon after rejoined it in its wild path.

     Sleet was capable in the art of hunting. He knew how to make spears and arrows; he was a natural with a bow. If her fiery thread guided him out, Sleet would take up the vows as one of Caccia’s hunters with honour, and serve his Tribe with perseverance. He would strive to be one of the greatest hunters of the Colori people, if only Caccia saw fit to override her component.

     The other possibility drove a dagger through his heart.

     Twisting and turning beside Caccia’s burnt thread was the mark of Fidukko, the God of Faith. A champion of Fidukko has not emerged from the Cave in quite some time; now, as Sleet chased after the endless battle of orange of white, his mind was consumed by the worrying thought that it was past time that the God introduced his next worshipper—a man who would become the next Priest of the Colori Tribe.

     Their current Priest, Pakrai, rarely left the safety of his temple; his back was arched in an ancient curve, and his face was a scarred map of age lines. Sleet knew that if Fidukko claimed his destiny, he would be expected to begin his training immediately, under Pakrai’s white, unseeing eyes.

     Priests were revered in the Tribe. They received fresh meat, clean water, the Gods’ guidance. But for this, they must make a sacrifice—all Priests must be abstinent, and live a solitary life of purity.

     If Sleet was consumed by Fidukko’s hot white thread, Shaana would no longer fit into his life.

     The colours of the cords began to dim; far up ahead, Sleet could see the pinpoint light of an exit. Yet still the deities before him intertwined in their fitful dance, arguing for the right to Sleet’s soul.

     The two threads seemed to merge, for a moment, forming a colour too bright to be defined. Sleet clenched his eyes shut, fumbling to remain upright as the stones beneath his feet formed a steady incline. When the light beyond his eyelids dimmed, he took a breath and dared to look upon his victor.

     It took all his strength to remain upright when he was faced with the bold, white snake of Fidukko.

     The Faith thread reached the exit. Where it hovered made the sunlight look dull in comparison to its radiance, but Sleet no longer saw beauty. In a fit of anger, he flung his arm out to claw at the white light, feeling a sense of satisfaction when it dissolved into oblivion, leaving the Cave much darker than it had been.

     Sleet crawled out through the ragged exit, glanced up to where the sun burned bright to gather his bearings, and swiftly headed for home. But in truth, these actions were instinctive and done without thought, for his mind was too greatly burdened by his new path of manhood.

     He barely noticed the watchmen who greeted him upon his return. He didn’t blink when his brothers approached with eager smiles, or his parents with their pride. He vaguely acknowledged that the Chief had emerged from his dwelling and was preparing to induct him as a man of Colori, for the only person who really stood out, as bright and as beautiful as the orb within the Cave, was Shaana.

     She smiled at him when she noticed his stoic figure, lowered the basket she had been weaving and rose to her feet, as graceful as a wolf. Before she could say a word, Sleet pulled her close and clung to her, revelling in the warmth of her arms and the tickle of her hair as if they were the only things keeping him pinned to the earth.

     In a sense, they were.

     He felt her stiffen slightly, and she pulled away with a respectful nod. “My Chief.”

     Sleet kept a hand on Shaana’s elbow, needing her touch, but he also lowered his gaze as he turned to find the Chief standing behind him.

     “Sleet,” the Chief said, with a soft smile at his lips. “We thank the Gods that you have returned to us. Before all of the Colori people, please tell us which deity offered you salvation, and for whom you shall live out your life in service of.”

     They were familiar words, the same that were spoken to every returning youth, and yet Sleet now found himself unprepared. He had pictured many different scenarios of his return, but one thing had always remained consistent—regardless of the God who would make him into a man, Sleet had intended to ask Shaana’s father for her hand in marriage. After her own Cave trial, they would be wed by the Chief, have children, grow old, side by side for all of eternity…

     It was this image in his head, and the feeling of his beloved by his side that led him to his answer.

     “Caccia. The Goddess Caccia led me to safety.”

     There was a cheer throughout the Tribe, particularly from the other hunters, who raised their weapons in delight.

     Shaana pressed closed to him and kissed his cheek. “I knew you’d come back to me.”

     Sleet could only nod; all his words seemed stuck in his throat as he passed through numerous hands, family members and friends and hunters, all wishing to congratulate him on his saviour.

     It was only when he turned and saw Pakrai, a statue in the shadowed entrance of the temple, that Sleet realised the gravity of what he had done.

     He had betrayed a God and lied to his Tribe. And looking into the Priest’s cold, milky eyes, Sleet was sure that he wasn’t the only one who knew.

End of Part Two. Final Part coming soon.

- Love The Bad Guy

 

“Colours in the Cave” (Part One)

Ooops-a-daisy! I’ve left this entry for Inspiration Monday a bit late, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! I used the prompt follow the colours. And, as you may have noticed, I have split it into two portions. Three reasons for that: One, it was rather long, and I didn’t want to scare anyone away with its almighty length. Two, I haven’t finished proof-reading the second half, and I hate posting stories that haven’t at least had a quick read-through, if not a proper editing job. And Three, cliffhangers are awesome. As always, comments are much appreciated.

Colours in the Cave

The people of the Colori Tribe have a simple but effective means of guiding their children. At the age of sixteen, when the boys are old enough to be men and the girls mature enough to be women, each youth will journey to the furthest outreaches of their land and enter the Cave.

     The yawning mouth of the Cave has stood on the outskirts of their territory for as long as anyone can recall. Every Tribe member enters the Cave just once, on the day of their sixteenth birthday. The Tribe will farewell the child, and await the adult who will return.

     Of course, not every child will return—some disappear within the Cave itself, never to be seen again—but if such an event occurs, the Tribe knows to heal their grief with the knowledge that it was the will of the Gods.

     Sleet was eager for his own chance, keen to make the worthy transition from boy to man. And so, when the sun burned tentatively at the horizon of a new day, he set dutifully forth for the Cave.

     Weaponless and without direction, he bowed his head respectfully below the teeth of the Cave’s entrance and sent a prayer for the Gods to guide him safely out. Then he allowed for the shadows to swallow him whole.

     His eyes strained painfully for vision as he gripped the cold, ragged walls; his feet, so graceful across terrain, stumbled beneath him across loose stones. He felt as vulnerable as a newborn and feared, in a single chilling moment, that the Gods had abandoned him to his own pathetic senses.

     But then, in an act that left him cowering behind his own hands, there was a burst of light. As his eyes adjusted to its brilliance, Sleet lowered his quivering fingers and approached it.

     A ball of light—that would be the simplest description. But truly, ‘simple’ would be the last word that Sleet would associate with it. Within the orb spun a myriad of colours, too bright or too vivid or too godlike to be titled as any ordinary colour, though Sleet had no other ways of defining them.

     “Thank you,” he whispered, an anxious and grateful breath for the Gods who had offered him salvation. Though which God it was remained unclear.

     All Colori children are educated in the ways of the Gods and Goddesses that surround them. Every animal in the forest, every position in the Tribe, every colour in the world belongs to one of the Gods. And here before him was a manifestation of their power, willing to induct him into their chosen way of life. Discussing, fighting, challenging the role that the awaiting boy would fill.

     Sleet stretched a hand out to the brilliant ball, but drew back quickly when cords of colours split off from the ball and sliced through the shadows like serpents through water. The boy’s heart hammered as he examined what remained of the orb. Twisting throughout it was a canvas of blues, reds, greens—every colour imaginable. Most vivid was a golden thread, which Sleet knew to be the mark of Solai, the Sun God and father of the Tribe’s Chiefmen. He was not surprised that Solai was not to be his guide; the current Chief of Colori was a strong man; there was not yet any need to initiate his replacement.

     Tearing his eyes away, Sleet looked ahead through the now brightly lit tunnel of the Cave and began to follow the five coloured threads that guided his way.

     They wove in and amongst each other—a quintet of Gods and Goddesses vying for Sleet’s destiny. He tried to quash the sliver of pride that bloomed in his heart, and instead focused on the colours that guided his way, observing the possibilities of position with which he may return to his Tribe.

     His focus was drawn to the thick, blood-red snake of Kuore, Goddess of War. Many young men emerge from the Cave with Kuore’s assistance and return to the Tribe as warriors, defenders of the Colori people. Sleet’s eldest brother was a Warrior of Kuore; he would be proud to follow in his footsteps.

     It wasn’t to be, however; as Sleet reached a fork in the tunnels, four of the colours spiralled off to the right, while Kuore’s stream veered to the left and faded into nothingness before his very eyes.

     Slightly disappointed but not discouraged, Sleet pursued the remaining threads. Occasionally, one of the cords jutted out from the rest on a wild angle, only to rejoin the harmony. It was a colour caught between silver and blue—the mark of Felikae, the Trickster. Guiltily, Sleet prayed for another God, any other, to guide him. Men and women alike had returned to the Tribe under Felikae’s wing, but had shortly after departed once more. A trickster is a loner; they live on the rocky plains beyond the Colori territory with only the coyotes for company. There, Felikae speaks to them and plants ideas of deceptions and mischief that test the patience and strength of the Tribe. The Trickster God treasures his worshippers with a gentle hand; any who dares harm his people are dealt a vengeful blow. But for Sleet, not even the possessive protection of a God could entice him, for nothing in his mind was worse than the thought of banishment from Colori, from his family … from Shaana.

     It was with a sigh of relief that Sleet watched the silver-blue thread shatter, leaving him with but three. His attention now lay with the pine-green cord that glowed vibrantly in the name of Benesser, the Healer. Sleet’s mother was a healer of the Tribe, and a great one; she could stem the flow of blood from a wounded warrior with a swift hand, lift a baby from a woman’s belly to save them both. Sleet envied her prowess and infamy, but he had never been able to match her bravery; in the face of a pain-filled scream, he was more likely to cover his ears than to cover the injury.

     As if sensing this doubt, Benesser’s line weakened and lowered to the floor, where it burst in a tiny green explosion.

     And then there were two.

End of Part One. Part Two coming soon.

- Love The Bad Guy

An Evil Pattern

I stumbled across a friend on Facebook today who is undertaking the “30 Day Harry Potter Challenge“. Like 90% of the population, I adore Harry Potter, so naturally, this took my attention. And while I do not have the perseverence to undergo the month’s worth of Facebook statuses, I couldn’t help but notice a recurring pattern in my answers.

Tell me if you spot it.

(Note: If you’re trying to avoid spoilers, LOOK AWAY! LOOK AWAY NOW!)

30 Day Harry Potter Challenge (…in 1 Day)

Day 1 – Favourite Book in the Series: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (the serious lack of Voldemort-ness is overcome by the epicness of Remus Lupin and Sirius Black).

Day 2 – Least Favourite Book in the Series: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (I didn’t like how the series ended. Maybe this was a result of my subconscious mind rebelling against the possibility that it was all over…)

Day 3 – Favourite Character: Lord Voldemort.

Day 4 – Favourite Villain: Lord Voldemort.

Day 5 – Saddest Moment: I sob like a baby every time I read the final line of Chapter 29 in Half-Blood Prince: “And he knew, without knowing how he knew it, that the phoenix had gone, had left Hogwarts for good, just as Dumbledore had left the school, had left the world … had left Harry.” I’ve read the sixth book often, but Dumbledore’s death get met every single time.

Day 6 – Favourite Professor: Remus Lupin – don’t you just wanna hug him?

Day 7 – Least Favourite Professor: Dolores Umbridge – the woman who we all love to hate.

Day 8 – Favourite Subject: Care of Magical Creatures (’cause Hagrid is just fantastic, and I want a hippogriff).

Day 9 – Least Favourite Subject: Divination (’nuff said).

Day 10 – Favourite Shop in Diagon Alley: Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

Day 11 – Most Handsome Character: Tom Riddle Jr.

Day 12 – Most Beautiful Character: Luna Lovegood.

Day 13 – Most Missed Dead Character: Lord Voldemort.

Day 14 – Favourite Book Cover: Toss-up between the Bloomsbury Children’s editions for Prisoner of Azkaban and Goblet of Fire. Although, as a whole, I adore the dark, simple covers of the adult editions.

Day 15 – Favourite Tri-Wizard Tournament Challenge: The final maze one – it had Voldemort in it!

Day 16 – Your Favourite Hogwarts House: I have two – Hufflepuff (because they seem to be all-round good people) and Slytherin (if I have to tell you why, you haven’t been paying attention).

Day 17 – Favourite Animagus: Sirius Black (how cute is he when he’s chasing pigeons?!). But McGonagall is pretty bad-ass, too.

Day 18 – Favourite Unforgivable Curse: If you haven’t pointed your finger at someone who’s been pissing you off, and shouting “AVADA KEDAVRA” in a loud and demanding tone, then you, my dear reader, are missing out on something grand.

Day 19 – Favourite Horcrux: Nagini. (He gave part of his soul to his snake! How adorable is that?!)

Day 20 – Funniest Moment: “Now, you two – this year you behave yourselves. If I get one more owl telling me you’ve – you’ve blown up a toilet or –”
“Blown up a toilet? We’ve never blown up a toilet.”
“Great idea though, thanks, Mom.” …
“Don’t [cry], Ginny, we’ll send you loads of owls.”
“We’ll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat.”

Day 21 - Most Emotional Moment: There were many emotional moments throughout the series. Dobby dying. Fred dying. Sirius dying, and then joining Lily, James and Remus (WHY DID SHE KILL REMUS?!) in the forest to comfort Harry. But the most emotional moment for me (and yes, I know how sad this is going to sound) was the mental image Rowling painted after Voldemort was killed, in which she says that his body was in the Great Hall, away from everyone else. The poor guy’s dead, he wasn’t gonna hurt anyone! Why did they have to put him in his own little sad, dead corner? (Okay, mentally disturbed rant is over.)

Day 22 – Aspired Quidditch Position: Umm… Is spectator a position?

Day 23 – Favourite Patronus: Severus’s doe. Can I hear a unanimous “Awwwwww!”?

Day 24 – Your Own Patronus: Probably a cat. Likes luxury and independence, but secretly hopes for everything to be brought to her on a silver platter.

Day 25 – Favourite Dursley: Marjorie Dursley – that woman was great for a laugh, especially in the film, which helpfully broke the tension of Harry’s departure by showing her massive balloon form in the distance, shrieking.

Day 26 – Favourite Wand: Hagrid’s pink umbrella.

Day 27 – Favourite Magical Ability: The ability to put your thoughts into a pensieve. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Day 28 – Favourite Death Eater: Draco Malfoy. He’s another reason why I didn’t enjoy Deathly Hallows all that much. I felt like Rowling was building him up for something great, but it just never happened.

Day 29 – Favourite Hogwarts Portrait: The Fat Lady. (Do you think she takes offence to that title? I would. Surely she has an actual name we could all be using…?)

Day 30 – Favourite Spell: Expecto Patronum – and now I’m sad, because I’m thinking of poor dead Remus, which makes me think of poor dead Sirius, which makes me think of poor dead Voldemort.

*sigh*

- Love The Bad Guy

 

7×7=49 and an AWARD!

A while back, I discovered a blog called The Wild Pomegranate. Not only are pomegranates a fantastic source of vitamins, but the blog’s creator, Janece, writes brilliant posts, and always tries to find the time to leave kind comments on the works of others.

And now I love her even more, because she has awarded me with the 7×7 Award! Thank you, Janece!

What is this? I hear you ask. (I have excellent hearing.)

Well, it is a lovely little thing that asks you to answer seven questions about your blog, and then pass the award on to seven other awesome bloggers, where they will do the same, and the world keeps on spinning.

So, here we go:

1. Most Beautiful Post: This one. I mean, sure, that post has a rather morose story in it, but that story is about the endless bond of sisters, and, more importantly, that post announced the birth of my niece! If that isn’t beautiful, what is?

2. Most Popular Post: Judging from the number of comments it received, I would have to say that it was Angel in a Wedding Dress, which was an entry for the fabulous Voice Week 2011.

3. Most Controversial Post: Ha ha, please (she scoffs mockingly). When have I ever been controversial? I’m too lovable to cause controversy! But fine, I guess I’ll respond with Hungry. I posted this for the simultaneous events of Blog Action Day and World Food Day, to assist in highlighting some vital issues in the world. That’s about as close to controversy as I’m gonna get.

4. Most Helpful Post: Probably my post on the use and origin of [sic]. This response may or may not be a result of the fact that it is virtually the only post I’ve done that aims to teach you something. Well, something useful, anyway.

5. Most Surprisingly Successful Post: In my opinion, that would be my first segment of Why I Love That Bad Guy. I wrote about my adoration for Voldemort to have a laugh, but apparently people enjoyed it … which resulted in the awesome discovery that my blog had been located by somebody using the Google phrase: lord voldemort sexy.

6. Most Underrated Post: This one. It was my very first blog post, so at the time I was technically addressing no-one. While I now have a small band of awesome followers, nobody bothers to go back to the beginning. Poor little ignored thing.

7. Most Pride-Worthy Post: There are many posts that I am proud of. Heck, so long as someone “likes” my work or leaves a single word of encouragement, I’ll be glowing all day. But I think this would have to be my most pride-worthy post. It was written in celebration of reaching 100 views — a small number, yes, but at the time it seemed so immense and unreachable that I nearly burst with joy to have achieved it. It was my sixth post on Love The Bad Guy, but it was the first time that I received a comment. Pride-worthy, indeed.

And now I get to spread the joy! There are many blogs that I adore — far more than seven — but rules is rules. So congrats to these people:

1. Dear Optimists: I’ve posted about them before, but Nadia and Den truly are fantastic, and they never fail to put a smile on my face.

2. Twinfamy: A stay-at-home dad who takes care of his twins, but still has time to write an awesome blog.

3. Dodging Commas: Having trouble with those tricky grammar points? Not any more. Stef is an excellent teacher and blogger.

4. Storytelling Nomad: The brains behind this gem is Katy — a very talented (and fellow Aussie!) writer.

5. BeKindRewrite: This is where the genius that is Inspiration Monday comes from. If you’re looking for a weekly writing challenge, then you should definitely check them out.

6. I’ve Become My Parents: I am a looooong way away from having children. And yet, I leave this blog feeling like I’ve learned something… Either that, or I’ve laughed so hard that I’ve suffered a brain aneurism.

7. Reasonably Ludicrous: Russ (writer) and Sam (illustrator… and occasional writer) were Freshly Pressed on their first post. If that doesn’t demonstrate their sheer awesomeness, nothing will!

And that’s the way (uh-huh, uh-huh) we like it.

- Love The Bad Guy

“Kill the Hero”

Here is this week’s entry for Be Kind ReWrite’s Inspiration Monday, using the prompt kill the hero. Let me know what you think. And to my dedicated readers who are currently undertaking NaNoWriMo, I wish you all the best – keep up the great work!

     Melalin gnawed anxiously on the end of her pencil as Noah flipped through the pages of her final chapter. He quietly gathered the draft together and tapped it on the desk, humming musingly to himself. Melalin’s nerves overtook her as she blurted, “Well? What did you think?”

     Noah nodded thoughtfully. “It was … good. Very good.”

     “But?” Melalin questioned nervously.

     “Well, it’s just …” Noah sighed and thumbed through the pages, staring at the last paragraph as though he’d already forgotten what he’d read. “Mel, you, uh … You killed Bartholomew.”

     “I know,” she replied softly.

     “But he’s the protagonist.”

     “Yep.”

     “You killed him. You killed the hero of your story.”

     “I did.”

     Noah removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Exhaling tiredly, he looked up at Melalin and continued, “You can’t do that. You can’t kill the hero.” His words were slow, as though he were speaking to a child. This illusion was strengthened when the young woman folded her arms stubbornly across her chest.

     “And who says I can’t? It’s my book—if I want to kill the hero, who’s going to stop me?”

     “I am,” Noah stressed. “Because that’s my job. Killing off Bartholomew is career suicide. Your readers love him, and they are expecting him to be triumphant. You can’t dash their hopes by murdering him in the last chapter! Why on earth would you want to destroy the hero that you, yourself, created?”

     “You answered that question already,” Melalin sniped. Noah merely quirked an eyebrow. Waving an arm for emphasis, she shouted, “Expected! The readers expect Bartholomew to win! We always expect the hero to win. But how often does the hero die, and the villain triumph above all?”

     Noah frowned, but she would not allow for interruptions. “If I do this, Noah, it will always be remembered, mark my words. Bartholomew is the only thing keeping me back—he needs to be die.”

     “No, Mel,” Noah said softly. “He needs to be saved. And so do you.”

     Melalin scoffed quietly and Noah, sighing, gathered his things. “I can’t tell you what to do, love,” he conceded. “But if you do this—if you kill your own hero—there’s nothing I can do for you. You’ll be breaking the trust of your readers. And once you lose that trust, you can say ‘goodbye’ to your followship.”

     Melalin bit her lip and refused to meet her agent’s eyes. He placed a kind hand on her shoulder. “You’re a good writer, Mel. Don’t throw all that away for a little bit of controversy.”

     The silence that followed Noah’s departure seemed, to Melalin, to be very loud.

     “Oxymoron …” she acknowledged quietly. She gathered up the pages of her final chapter. The details of Bartholomew’s demise—pieces of her very soul—were clenched tightly in her fingers. She couldn’t remember when she had decided to kill her hero. She had simply thought it would be memorable, exciting, unexpected …

     She exhaled deeply with a noise that sounded greatly like a sob, and tore the pages into two jagged halves.

     Then she allowed the tears to flow as she picked up her pencil and saved her hero’s life, feeling all the while like that tiny lead spear was piercing deep into her heart.

     Mightier than the sword.

- Love The Bad Guy

The Bliss and Blues of the Post-Exam Period

My dear readers, I write to you now as a free woman. Free from exams, free from studying, free from stress for a glorious three months. And I’m thinking to myself…

…Now what?

You see, I don’t cope well with nothingness. I’m the type of person who, like a baby bird, is far more likely to plummet to my death than to adapt to change and actually fly.

So here I am, dear readers, once again, trapped between the glorious bliss of having completed my second year of study, and the post-exam blues that cripple me when I wake up in the morning and realise that I have nothing left to study.

Sad, I know.

And, in fact, not true. I need to choose my classes for next year, I need to spring-clean and rearrange my room (ran out of bookshelf space, again), and I will certainly have to continue my Italian studies, lest I should return next year with no memory of the language. But these are activities without deadlines — I like deadlines. They stress me out, sure, but they keep me on my toes.

Don’t get me wrong, I do look forward to the summer break. I smile and celebrate as I leave the exam venue in my dust. But, like a child in school holidays, it doesn’t take me long before I’m moaning, “Muuuuum, I’m boooored.”

What is a bored writer to do with her free time?

Oh yeah.

Write.

- Love The Bad Guy

“Escape Your Own Skin”

Here are this week’s entries for Be Kind ReWrite’s Inspiration Monday.

This time round, I have to give a shout-out to the brilliant Mike from over at MJ’s Short Stories. He does fantastic things with a small number of words, and so I was inspired to have a crack at what he calls ‘Twitter Fiction’, or stories in 140 characters or less.

I have never realised how difficult it was!

I’ve written an entry for all five of the InMon prompts. This was a new challenge for me, so I hope you enjoy.

Sometimes I feel like I need to escape my own skin. I rip wickedly at my flesh to try and get out, but I only wind up with more scars.

 Check for monsters

“Check for monsters,” she used to say. “In the cupboard. Under the bed.” It never occurred to her that the monster was the person checking.

 Innocent costume

She bought the princess costume, unable to resist her baby’s innocent, hopeful smile. Of course, her husband may dislike their son’s choice.

 What you can’t see will kill you

The undiscovered mysteries of the box called to her irresistibly. She ripped off the lid and screamed as it whispered cruelly, ‘Pandora…’

 Riddles in the dark

“Which door do you choose?”

The darkness was shattering. Trembling, he reached out and found an ice-cold doorknob.

He’d always hated riddles.

- Love The Bad Guy