Generally, I don’t hold grudges against jelly doughnuts. But then again, jelly doughnuts don’t generally attack me when I reach into the case to pick one out.

I bet that sounded pretty crazy to you, so let me back up and give you some backstory.

The day of that fateful doughnut attack was a perfectly normal Thursday. It was the middle of July, so I could spend my morning however I liked without worrying about school. On this perfectly normal Thursday morning, I woke up realizing how desperately I needed a jelly doughnut. So, without further ado, I mounted my bike and headed to the nearest Dunkin Donuts.

When I arrived, all sweaty and breathing heavy from my ride, I was horrified to find that the store was closed for repairs. Water main breakage. Typical. For a minute, I was really annoyed that they were closed. I mean, I’d be totally willing to wade through a few feet of water for a doughnut. But then I thought of how sad and gross wet doughnuts would be, so I headed off for the next nearest place I could satisfy my doughnut craving.

So that’s how I ended up at Wal-Mart that Thursday morning, nearly dead of doughnut deprivation. I was salivating on my way into the store, just thinking of all the powdered sugar goodness waiting for me. There were a bunch of people gathered around the doughnut case, peering through the plastic distrustfully. I didn’t have time to wonder why all these full grown adults were glaring suspiciously at doughnuts. I pushed my way past them, and, armed with a one of those little plastic doughnut tissues, reached into the case.

That was when a powdered jelly doughnut leaped up from its tray and flew at my face.

Needless to say, this was not a normal turn of events, and it caught me by surprise. I fell onto my butt with an undignified shriek, protecting my face from the sugary villain flying straight at me. It never hit me, though, because all the adults crowded around the doughnut case pushed in front of me and began demolishing any doughnuts within reach. I thought this a bit unnecessarily violent. After all, were the glazed doughnuts to blame for the misbehaving of the jelly ones?

The jelly doughnut in question was hovering some ten feet in the air, revolving slowly. Truthfully, that was even more disturbing than the flying at my face bit. I stood and brushed myself off, deciding that perhaps a bowl of Frosted Flakes would satisfy my craving after all. And considering I was seeing flying doughnuts, maybe a trip to the doctor’s office would be in order as well.

I had barely made it two steps when the jelly doughnut turned my way and released a flurry of tiny missiles.

“Grenade!” shouted one of the doughnut-demolishing adults, and the entire group of them dove under various displays, bracing themselves for impact.

It was at that moment that I concluded I must be dreaming.

So, instead of running, I stood my ground. Powdered sugar grenades would be just the thing to wake me up from this nightmare.

I definitely did not wake up. Instead, I watched as the entire baked goods section blew up around me. One pin-head sized grenade landed at my feet, and the following explosion blasted me halfway into the produce department. As a display of oranges collapsed under me, I noted that I was most certainly experiencing real-life pain, and not the dream variety.

I had little time to consider this, however, because the jelly doughnut was headed my way again, looking decidedly sinister. I considered my options, and decided that a full sprint would be the most successful course of action. I picked myself up from the orange mess and took off down the next aisle.

I would like to take a moment for you to fully realize just how insane that scene appeared. A kid, covered in the guts of oranges, running full pelt down the grocery department, pursued by a flying jelly doughnut shooting grenades.

Insane. Completely insane.  I realized that as I dashed down the aisles, and momentarily debated asking a nearby associate to drive me to the mental hospital. But stopping would allow the doughnut to catch up, and I couldn’t risk that.

I was nearly out of the grocery section when an associate stepped in my path, pulling a large cart of hot dog packages. I couldn’t stop fast enough, and smashed into the cart, sprawling on the floor. I took advantage of my newfound, processed meat weapons, and hurled a few packages at the impending doughnut. That bought me enough time to regain my footing and venture out of the grocery department in search of a real weapon.

The next few seconds were a blur. I think it was the stress of the situation. But somehow, I ended up on the other end of the store, in the sporting goods section. I paused to watch the jelly doughnut blow up a few basketball displays, debating my next move. Stand and fight? Or run?

Considering I was panting for breath and had a cramp blossoming in my side, I decided on the former option. (I’d appreciate if you didn’t comment on my out-of-shape physique. It’s my doughnut cravings. Don’t judge me.) I headed down the nearest aisle, which happened to be the fishing one, and selected my weapon.

Now armed with a long fishing rod, I braced myself for the forthcoming battle.

As soon as the jelly doughnut rounded the corner, I leapt forward with what I estimated to be a ferocious growl and a fierce glare. The doughnut didn’t seem all that impressed, especially when the fishing pole swished past it harmlessly. It loosed a few more missiles in my direction, which resulted in me flailing wildly in panic.

Thankfully, my flailing resulted in my first bit of luck all morning. The fishing rod impaled the doughnut squarely, and all missile firing ceased instantly. I watched curiously as the doughnut began emitting thick black smoke, and I examined it more closely.

There appeared to be circuits inside the doughnut. Now, I understand there are all sorts of ingredients in Wal-Mart doughnuts that are unpronounceable, but this seemed a bit ridiculous. I certainly couldn’t remember eating a doughnut with metal innards before. This, naturally, led to the assumption that this jelly doughnut was one of a kind.

While I was pondering this new turn of events, I realized that all the doughnut-destroying adults had caught up to me and were approaching warily.

“Excuse me,” said one of the adults, brushing sprinkles from his jacket sleeve. “We need that doughnut.” He plucked the impaled doughnut from my fishing pole and stuffed it in one of his pockets.

I was a bit peeved, to say the least. After all, I was the killer of the doughnut-machine, and I wanted to celebrate my victory a little while longer. But the man gave me a stern glare, so I set down my fishing pole with a sigh.

“Thank you for your efforts,” said the man. “Your actions have deterred a national catastrophe.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, feeling a bit self-conscious with my new hero status. “All I wanted was a doughnut. Really. I didn’t mean to get caught up in all of this.”

“And you can still have your doughnut!” exclaimed the man. “Well, not here. The doughnut display is a bit…” He coughed. “In need of repair, shall we say? But please, take this as a token of our gratitude.”

He pressed something into my hand and two seconds later, I was alone.

I looked down at his gift. A fifty dollar gift card to Dunkin Donuts! My lucky day!

So I biked all the way back to Dunkin Donuts, high on my heroic actions and the gift I had been given. It was only when I had parked my bike in the parking lot that I remembered the sign on the front door.

Closed due to water main breakage.

And as I stood there, covered in orange pulp, blackened from powdered sugar grenades, sweaty from all my physical activity, with a fifty dollar gift card in my hand, I wondered:

“Why do these things always happen to me?!”

((Scary short story entry. Written on 7/13/12. 1, 228 words.))

The feathered flight of my arrow brushes my cheek as I draw in breath. The forest around me is silent, save for the wind in the leaves. Perched on the limb of a great oak, I am just another silent inhabitant of the forest. Just as silent as any of the other predators prowling the woods.

I release my breath and my bowstring. Thunk. My arrow flies true, as I knew it would. I swing down from my bough to the forest floor. The thump of my boots releases the earthy scents underfoot – old leaves, loam, moist dirt. This is where I am home – not amongst the village huts. Among the plants and animals, in the trees. The forest is where I belong.

My kill is waiting for me at the base of a tree. There is a wooden board nailed to the trunk – a decree from the king, warning hunters away from these woods under pain of dismemberment or death. I chuckle at the irony – the fruits of my hunting lying beneath the warning. I am not worried of getting caught. I have been hunting here for four years. No one else ventures into these woods. Some speak of specters and demons that prowl the undergrowth. Superstitious fools. The only things that prowl this forest are the natural woodland creatures. And me.

I kneel to retrieve my arrow, pleased with my work. The quail is of a good size and will feed my family well. I am loading the bird into my bag when something makes me pause. A sort of cold breath on my neck, a chill down my spine. Something is watching me. I turn slowly, scanning the nearby brush and trees. There is nothing, just the birds singing far above. I turn back to the quail and stuff it fully into my canvas bag. Long hours among the trees play tricks with my mind. It’s happened before.

My footsteps are quiet, my breathing hushed as I head back toward the village. I listen closely to my surroundings. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. It usually takes a lot to spook me. Why am I so uneasy now?

Somewhere behind me, a twig snaps.

I freeze in my tracks. Blood surges through my veins with every heartbeat, loud in my ears. I turn again to scour the forest behind me. Still nothing. Nothing at all. I am overreacting, imagining things. I have been out here too long. Again I set out, my stride long and purposeful. Now is not the time to fall prey to whims of overtired imaginings.

Long minutes pass in peace. The tenseness in my shoulders relaxes, and I begin to enjoy my surroundings again. I pause at a trickling brook to refill my flask. When I straighten up again, I catch sight of something ahead. Large, dark, close to the ground. Moving slowly. Coming my way. I stay where I am. Bears are not common in these parts, but I’ve seen them before. I wait to catch a glimpse of the creature.

I am overwhelmed by the sudden smell of lilies. The sickly sweet scent hangs in the air like a veil, blurring my senses. The dark shape has stopped moving now. I realize that the forest has gone suddenly very silent. No birds. Not even a breeze.

Click. Click. Click. Sharp, almost metallic sounds. Unnatural. Unnerving. This is no bear.

I stand, retreating back into the trees. The shape tenses, gathering its limbs underneath itself. I tense, too. The urge to run is unbearable. But I don’t know what I’m facing. It could be faster than me. It most likely is.

Then the shape springs forward, and it’s coming my way. Lumbering, crashing through the underbrush.

I turn and run.

Branches scrape my face, underbrush tangles my steps. It’s as if the forest itself is trying to slow my progress. Behind me, I can hear the beast’s progress. By the sound of it, it’s flattening underbrush and small trees alike. I press myself faster, harder. I lose my breath sooner than I had anticipated. I gulp for air, each gasping breath tightening the grip of panic across my chest. I know that I’m not thinking straight, but there’s nothing I can do. Nothing but run and pray that the beast is slower than I.

Click. Click. Click.

It is gaining on me. I can sense it without looking back. It’s faster than me. It’ll run me until I’m ragged, until I can’t take another step. I need to climb. I’m safe in the trees. I launch myself upward, grasping the nearest bough. My instincts take over, and I’m moving upward, pulling myself up into the branches. Safe.

My senses explode as something takes hold of my foot. I barely have time to register the surprise when I am ripped from my hold and slammed to the ground. The beast is on top of me, claws digging between my ribs, weight pinning me to the ground, fangs dripping salvia and venom. The clicking is deafening loud, the smell of lilies gagging me.

I writhe and struggle in its grip, striking out. My fists hit hard scales, then soft flesh. The beast presses down on my chest, leaning in close, mouth open. My fingers scrabble across the ground and wrap themselves around a rock. I strike again at the hideous head looming over my own. The rock hits home in one eye. The beast’s scream is piercing as it tears away from me, spraying me with blood.

In a moment, I’ve launched myself forward like a sprinter. I’m dripping with the beast’s saliva and blood. My own blood is gushing from the wounds in my chest, but the pain is dull for now, throbbing with each step.

I burst out from the tree cover. Before me is the river’s ford, and beyond that, the village. The smell of lilies is still in my nose, but each new breath sends fresh air into my lungs. I stumble forward, splashing through the shallow ford. By the time I reach the other side, I am covered in water, too.

Suddenly, I realize that I am leading the beast straight back to the village. I pause, chancing a glance behind. The beast is nowhere to be seen. I turn fully, waiting for some sign of the beast in pursuit. Nothing. The birds are singing in the trees. The air is fresh. The sun is shining down brightly.

I look down at myself. My tunic is undamaged, my body whole. There is no blood on me. No puncture wounds gushing blood. No venom staining my clothing. My head is pounding, though. What is going on? Did that entire thing even happen? I pull out my bow and notch an arrow to the string. There is something afoot here, and I cannot return empty handed. I will slay this beast and return a hero.

When I step back into the forest, my confidence skyrockets. I’m at home in the forest. With my bow in hand, I am a hunter. I am the predator. I crouch low to the ground, creeping forward, senses alert. I don’t let myself relax this time. I have barely gone a dozen steps when a sickly sweet smell blasts into me.

A claw grips my throat from behind.

Click. Click. Click.

A standalone piece that was part of a 15 minute writing prompt exercise.

Lost.

It was the worst possible thing I could imagine. Lost, in the forest, with no stars to guide me. I could feel the darkness pushing in on me like a being, wrapping me in its folds, drawing me deeper and deeper in.

I had to get out.

Shadows leapt out from the darkest corners, jumping and darting like the flames in my lantern. I gazed around me. Was there no life in this wretched place? No living creatures scurried from my path, no moths ventured close to my light. Was I the only thing alive in this forest?

Dead branches cracked underfoot, but that was the only sound I could make out. No wind. No chirping bugs. No owl’s call. Just my ever-faltering steps, growing slower and louder in the night.

I drew my cloak around my shoulders. As if the flimsy fabric could protect me from the darkness. Cold seeped through the weave, sinking into my bones. My joints were growing sore. Every breath fogged my lantern’s glass.

I paused, standing as still as I could. Turning my gaze upward, I searched for something – anything – that could show me the way. My eyes were met with nothing but branches and blackness. No pinpricks of light, no twinkling stars.

I was alone.

Completely alone.

Blood pounded in my head; I could feel each heartbeat pump blood through my veins. I could hear it in my ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. Like the heartbeat of a hunted rabbit. Like the heartbeat of a frightened dove. Like the heartbeat of a child.

I struck out again, changing direction. Forests did not go on forever, and neither did the darkness of night. The sun would rise, the trees would end, and I would be free. But my treacherous thoughts whispered otherwise.

I was trapped.

My steps grew faster and longer, and I broke into a run, loping across the forest floor. It wasn’t long before my ragged breaths forced me to slow. Cold tendrils of pain spread across my chest. How far could I go, injured like this? Could I go on at all?

I sank to my knees, sucking in deep lungfuls of cold air. This was hopeless.

Injured.

Trapped.

Alone.

Lost.

I had to get out.

Sometimes I like to just sit and watch the world go by.

Not that there’s much of a world going by our front door. Nothing but a dirt road that only the neighbors drive on. We don’t use it cause we don’t have a car. Da says there’s no need for it out here. Never needed one before, and don’t need one now. When Da talks like that, Ma just sighs and rolls her eyes with a little smile. David frowns, cause he’s the one who’s got the iching to see the world. Me? I’m just fine where I am. There’s a little wooden sign in our kitchen that says ‘Bloom where you are planted’. The Lord God planted me right here, so’s I guess I’ll just bloom where He planted me.

Not sure what ‘blooming’ really refers to when talking about a person, but I go with it.

Anyway, my favorite place in the whole wide world is sitting on the porch swing, watching the world go by. I like to sit there ’round twilight time in the summer, when the sun’s saying goodbye and the moon is just peeking over the horizon. That’s when the crickets come out to sing, and when the firebugs come out to dance. It’s real peaceful, just sitting and watching the world go by.

At around harvest time, I like to sit out there in the morning time, before breakfast. The air kind of bites you at first on the way out the door, but it’s nice and refreshing once your body gets used to it. Sometimes I’m lucky enough to see someone along the dirt road. I like to think it’s a traveller, coming to our part of the world to see just how beautiful Creation really is. But David just laughs and tells me it’s Frank, a helping hand down at the Riker’s farm.

But David don’t know that I like to pretend anyways. Even if it is just old Frank.

In the winter time, it’s too chilly to sit on the front porch, so I just sit by the window to watch the world go by. I like it when I can’t even see the world, when those snowflakes swirl around like ballet dancers in the sky. Sometimes it seems so beautiful, but other times, it seems ominous.

That’s a good word, ominous. Kind of is that sort of feeling wrapped up into one little word. Isn’t it amazing how a little word can be a feeling?

Springtime’s busy, what with planting and all, so I don’t get much time to watch the world go by. But when I do, I sit on the front steps and watch the butterflies fly around like little lost things. Or watch the bees on their missions, never swerving from where they’re going. Sometimes I even can see a family of deer in the field across the road, and I wonder what it’s like, being a baby deer. If it’s scary, or boring, or just plain happy.

David wants to go see the world. But I’m happy to bloom where I’m planted, here among all the plants and birds and bugs and animals, just filled with joy at the Creation.

Even when other people don’t think there’s much to watch, I like watching the world go by.