“THE BAG” PART 1

“HEY!” A voice echoed through the stadium.

Daniel’s heart thumped as his hands fumbled around the inside of the bag. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw them approaching. Crap, they were not supposed to be back yet. A mixture of fear and anxiety raced throughout his body. 

“What are you doing?” the voice shouted again. This time it was closer and accompanied by more voices.

Daniel popped up and swung the bag over his back. The polyester straps hugged his shoulders as tiny beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. He was trapped. Going up was not an option, and going down would inevitably lead to an unpleasant and painful encounter. The only way out was over the side of the bleachers, and Daniel understood that he would be long gone by the time his pursuers managed to get up and over the fence. 

He bolted towards the end of the bleachers, and his pursuers quickly followed. The repetitive banging of feet on the metal bleachers reminded him of when the April storms would beat the tin roof of the shack he shared with his family in Haiti. Mom assured them that life would be better in the U.S., but she was wrong. With each step, the edge of the bleachers drew closer, and the pounding of feet behind him grew further and further away. Without breaking stride, he planted his right foot and burst into the air, heat scorching his palms as he gripped the railing and swung his feet over. Daniel prepared his feet for the soft landing below, but his body jerked back and slammed against the fence. He slid down to the ground with a thud. Disappointed, he watched as the bag dangled above. Leaving without it meant that he would avoid getting caught. But he wanted that bag; he needed that bag. A rush of adrenaline jolted him to his feet, and with newfound energy, Daniel jumped and swatted the bag. But it didn’t come down. The combination of voices and the banging of feet grew louder as the boys barreled down the bleachers. It was now or never; he jumped and swatted again. This time he loosened one of the straps. One more strap and he was home free.

Daniel’s head suddenly snapped forward; something struck him. A sharp pain shot from the back of his head to the front, and the bright world around him suddenly turned dark. 

TO BE CONTINUED…

 

“THE BAG” PART 2

Daniel’s eyes opened to an endless blue sky with no clouds or sun. It was peaceful, and the smell of fallen leaves that lingered in the breeze subdued the pain in his head. 

“Comfortable, isn’t it?” said a voice. 

Daniel’s heart jumped as his head jerked toward the voice, only to find a beautiful woman with deep brown skin kneeling in the greenery and staring at the yellow flowers that swayed in the wind. “Who are you, and where am I?” Daniel grumbled as he massaged the lump on the back of his head.

“My name is Kenya, and you are in Numbani,” she replied as she stood and faced him. Kenya’s soft eyes and infectious smile made Daniel feel right at home. Still, the tension between trust and worry was evident by the agitated tightening of his stomach. 

Daniel rose to his feet and rubbed his eyes. “I’ve never heard of Numbani; where is this place? He asked.”

“The question is not where, but what?” Kenya said with a grin.

 Daniel stole another glance at the sky; The light seemed to overtake everything in sight, yet it didn’t hurt his eyes. “Am I dead?” he asked.  

“No,” she replied. “You are very much alive; your spirit is here, but your body is back on earth.”

The words nearly knocked him over as a pain formed in his chest. 

“Do not be afraid, my child; follow me, and I will show you.” Kenya’s thick accent brought back memories of Daniel’s days in Haiti when the older men polished the little English they knew to try and gain the trust of the wealthy American tourists. But there was something about those eyes and that accent; Daniel couldn’t help but trust this unknown woman in this strange land. So he followed her closely as the light around them dimmed with each step. “We are here,” she said. 

Daniel was dumbfounded as he looked around. The grass, the flowers, and the light were gone; they were standing in the dark, but he could still see. Then Kenya spoke, and a thick cloud formed beneath their feet and slowly covered the ground. It was a language he did not understand. She bellowed as her hands danced in a rhythmic motion and stirred the clouds beneath them. Then she smacked her hands together, and the thick cloud opened to reveal the planet Earth. Daniel saw his motionless body lying helpless on the ground, surrounded by the coach, the track team, and a police officer. The bag in the officer’s hand sent a rush of blood to Daniel’s face. 

“Do not be ashamed,” Kenya told him. “You have been brought here for a reason. “You see that man in the red hat?” she asked.

“Yes, That’s coach Reid; he’s the track coach,” Daniel responded.

“No, that is Anak, a warrior from a distant planet who has been living on Earth for the last 100 years.”

Daniel’s stomach churned; Coach Reid didn’t look a day over 35. “What do you mean he’s been on Earth for the last 100 years?” 

Kenya’s eyes hardened, and her voice raised and shook as she spoke.  

“Anak was sent to Earth by Mwovu, an evil and oppressive leader who stole The hand bracelet of Tumbili.” 

Daniel ran his hands through his dreads as he tried to process what was happening.

Kenya continued, unphased by Daniel’s confusion. “Timbuli was an ancient hero of the Shujaa tribe. When he died, his spirit went into his hand bracelet. Legend has it that whoever possesses the bracelet possesses Tumbili’s powers. The elders of the Shujaa tribe felt it was too much power for one person to have, so they locked it away. But Mwovu, the son of one of the elders, wanted all the power to himself, so he stole the hand bracelet. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t access the power of Tumbili. After many failed attempts, he gave the hand bracelet to Anak to hide on Earth until he could figure out a way to unlock its powers. I believe the bag you tried to steal has Tumbili’s hand bracelet.”

“How do you know?” Daniel asked.

“I can sense it; look at how Anak’s eyes are focused on it. He wants it, but we can’t let him get it.”

“Why not,” Daniel asked.

“Because every day that goes by, Mwovu gets closer and closer to unlocking the powers of the hand bracelet. You must go back and take the bag.”

Daniel’s eyes widened. “How will I get the bag with those people around?” he asked.  

Kenya grabbed his hands, and a surge of energy shot through his body, anchoring his feet to the floor. Daniel looked around helplessly as the clouds beneath his feet rushed across the ground and disappeared into the darkness behind him.  

Kenya stared into his eyes as she spoke. “When I send you back, I am going to pause time. But it will only be for 60 seconds. You must grab the bag and run as fast as possible until you get home.” 

Daniel’s mind raced through the possibilities as he desperately searched for answers. The wind picked up speed, but Kenya stood unphased as it blew past her and pushed Daniel back. He was running out of time; the ground was giving way, and his heels dangled over the edge. He dug his shoes into the dirt, trying to grip the little land under him. 

“You must protect the hand bracelet with your life,” she yelled. “I believe it has chosen you to be the next Tumbili.”

“I’m just a kid,” Daniel yelled as he tightened his grip and tried not to focus on the violent wind that tried to push him into the darkness.

“Don’t worry; Kenya shouted, you will have the power of Tumbili.” 

“But…” 

As the words left his mouth, a gust of wind ripped Daniel from Kenya’s grip, and the darkness swallowed him up.

Daniel’s eyes snapped open, and he was back on Earth. An eerie stillness hovered over the area. Everyone was right where he had left them, but no one moved or spoke; it was total silence. Daniel looked around, and everything was frozen in time, just like Kenya promised. “60 seconds is all I have,” he said, so he scrambled to his feet and tried to pull the bag from the police officer, but it wouldn’t come loose. Daniel tugged again, and the strap broke and sent him barreling into Coach Reid. He slapped his hand over his mouth, hoping to silence his uncontrolled breathing as he stood face-to-face with Coach Reid. Coaches Reid’s eyes were piercing. Daniel inched backward until the crowd of people no longer surrounded him. Then he tucked the bookbag under his arm and ran as fast as possible because he knew it was just a matter of time before everyone started moving again. He darted into the street as the blast of a car horn and the loud screech of a car coming to a halt broke the silence. The quiet was over, and the hum of the city roared back to its normal level. Daniel ran all the way home, burst into his room, and curled up on the side of his bed as he thought about what to do next. But it was too late; there was a knock at the door, and then it opened. It was his mom, and she had a concerned look on her face.  

“A police man and some people from yo school is outsie, an dey want to talkin to you,” she stuttered with her thick accent. Daniel knew who it was and what they wanted. He grabbed the bag, looked at his mom, and walked out.

TO BE CONTINUED…

 

“UNFINISHED”

30 percent of college students drop out or leave school after their freshman year. The majority of
them quit because of grades, while others depart for financial reasons. But there is a small group of students that nobody ever talks about, and that is the group that leaves for reasons unknown.

During my freshman year of college, I moved into a three-bedroom apartment with some childhood friends. It wasn’t the typical apartment complex one was used to seeing. The sparkling blue pool and the state of the art clubhouse were reminiscent of a resort-style getaway, contrary to the buildings, modest at best, and in dire need of a facelift. Though small, the proximity from one unit to the next was perfect for fostering neighborly interactions. So it was no surprise that we ended up meeting the different families in our building. By the third month, we met everyone except for one family, the upstairs neighbors.

The upstairs neighbors resided in seclusion. No one came or went from their unit. But at night, the pitter-patter of little footsteps would sprint across my ceiling; the tiny feet ran, jumped, stopped, and then started again. While the thumping continued, the thought of what the kid looked like played on a reel in my head: short hair, beady eyes, and a gap between his bottom two teeth.  Night after night, I would hear his footsteps, imagine what he looked like, and then I would eventually drift off into a deep sleep. The next day, I would trudge into class, sclera marked with squiggly red lines that raced towards my iris. Exhausted, my eyelids would battle the force of gravity in a futile attempt to remain open. And just like the time before, they would fail, only to be opened again by my professor’s booming voice. It was the end of the class, and I was the only one there. Following a thirty-minute lecture about not becoming a statistic, I set out to confront the upstairs neighbors.

As I drove towards our building, the burger and fries I had for lunch roiled in my stomach. The irritation subsided at the sight of a UHaul truck in the neighbor’s parking spot. The people above us were moving out, I thought to myself. I uttered a soft thank you to God, knowing that I wouldn’t have to confront them after all. While sitting in the car, I decided that if I saw the little boy on my way into my apartment, I would stare him down as payback for all the sleepless nights. And not just any stare, a stare that would communicate to him that he’s lucky he’s not eighteen, or better yet, he’s fortunate that I’m not 4.   

With my shoulders back, chest out, and chin high, I got out of the car and strutted up the walkway. I didn’t see anyone, but their vacuum cleaner’s incessant whine that escaped through the upstairs window let me know that they were home. Standing beneath their window, I could see inside the apartment. There were no pictures, no paintings, just blank walls. After a couple of minutes of waiting, I realized no one was coming out, and there would not be a stare down today. I let out a heavy sigh that was cut short by a rhythmic buzzing in my pocket. It was another failing-grade alert. My nostrils flared as I jammed the phone back into my pocket. All because of him, I thought to myself. I looked up with a clenched fist and was instantly frozen by the stare of a little boy in the upstairs window. He didn’t look much older than three. His thin lips nestled neatly between his plump cheeks, which in turn held up his black eyes that studied me with piercing scrutiny. His eyes bored through my soul. No movement, no expressions. I darted into my apartment, grateful that I was seeing him for the last time. That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the image of the little boy’s face burned in my mind. My eyelids got heavier and heavier as I drifted into sleep. 

The pitter-patter of little footsteps sprinted across the ceiling; My eyes shot open. The tiny feet ran, jumped, stopped, and then started again.” My heart pounded. I sat up in my bed.  It couldn’t be, I thought to myself. I glanced up at the clock; it was 3:00 am. The flickering glow of the living room light seeping under the door into my room brought instant relief. It was just the tv. Then I heard it again, this time it was right above me. I jumped out of my bed and dashed out of the room. Standing in the living room, I tried to make sense of the situation. My mind raced, searching for answers. I saw the family leave; the apartment was empty. Was I losing my mind? I stood in the silence, watching, waiting, but there was no noise. Boom, Boom, Boom! The pounding echoed through the apartment. I looked up at the ceiling and, at that moment, I knew what I had to do. I had to go up there. 

I hurried into the night. Small white clouds formed with each breath and my nostrils burned in the frigid air as I walked up the stairs underdressed and unarmed. The steps seemed much longer than they looked this afternoon. The rubber on the bottom of my slippers scratched the cement as I ascended into the unknown. Somehow the door managed to grow as I drew closer to it. Boom, Boom, Boom, the door shook every time my fist hit it. I waited and listened, but there was no sound. I knocked again, this time with a little more force. No one responded. I prayed that the door was locked so I would have a reason to go back home with my dignity intact. I grabbed the cold steel of the doorknob and turned it. The door opened. “Hey, little man, are you in there,” I whispered. The house was ghost quiet. I walked in. Little lines of light snuck through the blinds and lay neatly across the floor, while the low churn of the living room ceiling fan drowned out the beating of my heart. The cold air from the outside breeze nipped at my exposed skin, forcing me into the apartment. The kitchen counter was bare, and both the microwave and the oven flashed 3:00 am. If he was here, there’s only one place that he could be, the bedroom above mine.

I eased down the hallway, fingertips rubbing across the wall, which served as a moving anchor in the overwhelming darkness. “Hey, little man,” I whispered again. Every muscle in my body tightened as the slam of the front door reverberated through the apartment. Tiny footsteps dashed across the living room as I stumbled through the darkness into the nearest room. I dove onto the floor inside the closet and slid the door closed. My body trembled uncontrollably as I tried to control my breathing. The door creaked opened. I prayed that my rapid shallow breathing would not give away my location. The tiny feet scampered across the room, stopping in front of the closet.  

Then there was no movement, only the noisy inhalations that escaped through his nostrils. As I held my breath, a pain developed in my chest and my lungs; why did I come up here. I closed my eyes and counted. 1, 2, 3, and then I opened them again. The loud breathing stopped. Peering through the slats of the closet door, I scanned the room. There was no sign of the little boy. This is my chance to get out of here. I slid the closet door open and stepped out. Razor-sharp teeth sank into my right Achilles tendon, sending a severe pain through the back of my ankle and up to my thigh. An ear-splitting scream rang through the apartment as I fell face down on the floor. Warm liquid poured from what was left of the back of my foot into my shoe and onto the carpet. Tiny footsteps crept around my body until the miniature shoes touched my face. I looked up as the moonlight displayed the blood-covered smile that housed the flesh from my foot between his teeth. He pounced on me, teeth latching on to my neck and pulling. The sound of my flesh tearing was followed by intense pain. My jugular pulsated, spilling copious amounts of my precious blood. As I lay there dying, I thought to myself, I should have just stayed in bed. The moonlight faded as I drifted off into eternal rest.

My eyes shot open to the blinding rays of the sun, only to shift and lock on the familiar posters that hung up on the wall. I was in my bed; scrambling to my feet, I darted to the bathroom. Staring in the mirror, I inspected my jugular, then my Achilles tendon. There were no bite marks; it was a dream. Dropping my shoulders, I chuckled at my reflection in the mirror. 

After showering and eating a small breakfast, I got ready for school and left my apartment. To my surprise, the upstairs neighbors were putting all of their belongings into a UHaul. This was my chance. Approaching them, I said, “hello.” The conversation was dull and brief; as they got in the truck, I asked about their son. The man rubbed the base of his neck; the woman sighed abruptly, sat down, and closed the door. “How do you know about our son? He died in his sleep a couple days before you moved in.” Struck with an inability to speak and tingling extremities, I struggled to focus on the objects around me.

As they drove off, my mind raced. I turned towards the empty apartment, and there in the window, with a sinister smile, stood the little boy.