“I just needed to sleep; it wasn’t personal,” he murmured, focusing intently on his fidgeting hands to avoid my gaze. “During the war, to desensitize us, our superiors played the harrowing screams of dying men over the speakers in our barracks. Initially, it was deeply unsettling, but over time, I couldn’t sleep without it.” He yawned, revealing the dark circles under his eyes. “I see,” I responded, sitting across the table from the soldier. “And this justifies your actions?” Lifting his gaze briefly, he met my eyes, then quickly averted them. “No, not at all. What I did was inexcusably selfish.” He began to pull at his fingers, tugging each knuckle as if removing an unseen pair of gloves. “Then…

I have to say one of the things I hate the most is to have somebody walking behind me, doesn’t matter if it’s a friend or a complete stranger, I don’t like it. I feel insecure, watched and uncomfortable. You might call me paranoid but honestly, for me, it’s unbearable. Let me begin by saying that the reason I practically hate that is because of some occurrences during my childhood. All of the events that I will tell you actually happened so you probably will understand that for protection purposes (yourself, my family and mine) I will avoid providing any names or locations. Also, you should know English is not my primary language. I was born in a small town…

Larson woke up startled in the middle of the night. He clutched his chest with his tiny hand trying to dull the sharp pain in his heart. As he gasped for air, he desperately tried to remember what his nightmare had been about. He looked over at his alarm clock and discover it was 4:58 AM. He began sobbing and thought about calling out for his mom to come calm him down, but he couldn’t bring himself to make a sound. That’s when he realized that he was not the source of the sniffling and heavy breathing. Larson slowly turned his head and saw the silhouette of a grown man sitting in a small puddle of his own blood. The…

James Nichols was a detective in mid-New Jersey. He lived with his wife and two kids, and was a happy man, aside from his insomnia and occasional sleepwalking. Just part of the job, he guessed. He had heard stories things like PTSD from certain cases, generally the more traumatic ones, obviously. With all these tales of people that had had their psyches ruined for life, he was thankful and guessed he got off easy. One night as he was going to sleep, he went and took the new prescription sleep medicine that the doctor had given him to see if it would help. He shook two pills out of the bottle, one less than the proper dosage, because he didn’t…

“Go to bed and wait for the Sandman.” Even as it came out of James’ mouth it seemed to him a strange thing to say, and he was not sure why he had, but for some reason it worked: Daniel went to bed. The next morning, though, he asked: “What does the Sandman look like?” James was making breakfast. Daniel sat at the table, short legs swinging under his chair. “Nothing, really,” James said. “It’s just an expression.” “What does it mean?” “Just something people say.” He put a plate of eggs in front of Daniel and kissed him on the top of his head. He thought that would be the end of it. Until he saw the Sandman for…

It all began when our grandfather died. He had been a solemn man; stoic, dour, he never placed a smile on his face for us, even when we were children. But he had not been mean and he would always bring us candy when he visited. He had dark, piercing eyes, hollowed in a grave, sunken face. We knew he had had a brother but that his brother had mysteriously died when they were both boys. Our mother claimed she didn’t know how he died and told us not to ask our grandfather. My younger brother and I used to tease that he was secretly a monster that devoured his brother and stray children. “He only brings us sweets,” we…

I hate my life. I just made some new friends at this stupid school, and now I have to move again because of my father’s stupid new job. We’re moving to the other side of the country. I just wish we could stay in a town for more than a few months, but no. Every job just gets better and better, so we have to move. I’d been doing some research on the new town we were moving into. I’ll just say that there are some pretty messed up headlines for this place. Most of them about kids going insane, some murders here and there. Nothing shocks me anymore considering some of the places that I’ve been. When we arrived,…

I’ve always loved the dark. It feels warm and welcoming. Like a mask, hiding all the stress and emotion that the daylight shows so explicitly and replacing them with a sensuous feeling. The dark reveals your true nature and abolishes the facade you play during the daytime. Yes. The dark is good. You can be yourself in the dark and not feel judged or threatened all the while by being yourself. That’s why I love the night so much. You can just relax in the blackness, surrounded by nothing but shadow. Allowing the dark to overcome your senses and numb them down until you feel nothing at all but complete weightlessness. Then, when sleep finally takes control, you are thrusted…

In 1998 I got a new teaching job in a new town. To save money I moved into a small house that was for rent. My roommate, Claire, was nice enough and the two of us got along easily. I moved in and found my room. While unpacking I came across an old framed photograph. Three men dressed as hospital orderlies were sitting together in the living room of the house. These three men had once lived in the house I was now renting with Claire. I didn’t want to throw away the photograph, it didn’t seem right. But I didn’t want to keep it, either. I chose to hang the picture up in the living room as decoration and…

I don’t like it here… The room is cold and claustrophobic. The walls seem to close in on me if I look at them for too long – which is kind of hard, saying that all that consists in my room is a bed, a desk with a chair and those damned fucking four white walls. Hardly anyone ever comes in here. Anyone except the nurses, wearing those infuriatingly white uniforms (They really like that colour don’t they? It drives me mental, hurts my eyes). They stare at me as though I’ve grown an extra head and don’t even attempt at starting a conversation. All they tell me is that I’ll be in here for a while – a month,…