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Tell Her

Every time we post a story, we try to have a cute, clever, twisted intro, something to ingratiate, keep light, make it seem like fun, pique. Plus, yknow, the Twilight Zone.

This story doesnt need an introduction, other than: as powerful as words get.

Tell Her by Marietta Miles

Tell my mother I am safe. Tell her things are not how I wanted but as they simply turned out to be.

Let her know, at the end, I felt the press of her strong arms around me. Like when I was just a kid. She would say her goodbyes in front of the school or at the door to the bright yellow bus. And she would break a sad smile when I squirmed away because I was so ready to grow up. Tell her I remembered.

Tell her it was the warm, sugary smell of her hair and the familiar curve of her neck that I imagined while lying in the sticky dark—hollowed-out, afraid, alone. Tell her the memory of her ferocious hugs and even her frustrated scolds kept a tiny hole of hope open inside of me until the very end. Tell her that I dreamed of coming home to her.

Let her know, after a while, I barely felt his fingers, his hands or any of the rest of him. Behind my closed eyes I pictured her face. She looked through our kitchen window. She waved at me in the spotlight of a bright spring sun. It was his eyes, greedy and wide with the sight of my pain and my crying, I stared into during my long final hours. But let her know it was only her eyes that I could see.

And though there is nothing left for my mother to bury or inter, tell her, in some way, I will always be with her. Help her. End all her worry. Because what’s done is done and nothing worse can come. Tell her I miss her and I am so sorry I couldn’t stay. Tell her I love her and I will always be her baby.

Marietta Miles has published stories with Thrills, Kills and Chaos, Flash Fiction Offensive and Revolt Daily. Her writing can be found in anthologies available through Static Movement Publishing and Horrified Press. Marietta Miles is on Facebook. More stories can be found at