Despite my loud pleas ringing through the forest, he never came home. Smooth chocolate mounds lured him away into sweet candy bliss. I begged him to stay away, to come home with me; enthralled by the treats he went back. Repeatedly ignoring my cries, he snuck out into the nights. He would make the long journey back to that god forsaken cottage, where the fire still burns and the witches' screams still rattle the gingerbread walls. I wait for him by the window, heart pounding like coming down from a sugar high. But my Hansel does not come home. 

Oby Jones

The pale, fluorescent lighting of the mattress store bore down on two individuals as they walked through the almost desolate building. A man, possibly about thirty years old, and a woman around the same age. The blank walls an eyesore for the couple, with the woman walking a good ten paces ahead of the man. Anyone peering into the store would think they were complete strangers.  

The woman stopped in front of a plain looking mattress, though they all looked the same, and sat on it. ‘This is comfy, I suppose,’ she looked up at the man, her face looked calm with little emotion. She seemed almost bored and uninterested. The man however had a creased brow, showing clearly his distaste for the mattress.  

‘I don’t understand why we need a new mattress, the one we have is perfectly fine,’ he voiced his opinion, a scowl present on his lips as he did so. 

The women let out a humourless laugh as she stood from the mattress, ‘I don't even want to begin to imagine what that mattress has seen,’ she moved further down the mundane line of mattresses not stopping this time until she reached the end. ‘Not much variety is there,’ she asks, looking around the store at the identical mattresses throughout. 

‘It’s a mattress store, they all look the same,’ the man grumbled, his face still set in its scowl, as he too looked around the store. The woman looked back at him and simply laughed, walking towards the door. 

‘You would think so.’ 

Oby Jones

 The lights in the hallway flickered inconsistently, almost like a dance to a silent tune. The hall itself wasn’t silent, not really. Lots of murmuring from people walking through; it was a loud silence with a strange electrical humming in the background. If people paid closer attention to their surroundings, they would notice a girl. Small in stature but no younger than fifteen; she sat alone on a set of four chairs, her hair covering her face, hiding the red smudge along her lips. She wore a long hospital gown that reached her ankles; doing nothing to hide the yellowing bruises that circled her wrists and entwined up her arms. The hair that was covering her face, matted.  

She lifted her head slightly, showing her face in the flickering lights; a dark purple formed a ring around her left eye. Cold they were, her eyes. Like the life had been sucked out of them; all the light that should be there vacant. A nurse bustled past her, clearly in a rush. She gave not so much as a glance to the girl and called out for a doctor. The girl simply looked down the hallway; a gurney was being pushed towards her, people surrounded it in a panic. An older woman, her eyes full of tears accompanied by another older man; he was shouting out down the hallway. What did he expect his voice to do? Save someone? The rest of the people were all a blur to the girl; she simply did not care.  

As the stampede of people barged past her with the gurney, she caught sight of the person in need of help. A young girl with long matted hair and bruising circling her wrists and up her arms; her face although bloodied and bruised was peacefully unconscious. The young girl sat on the set of chairs watched the gurney leave behind a set of doors and the people accompanying it get left behind. The older man clasped his hair in frustration and moved towards the seats occupied by the girl. Instead of sitting to her side, he sat on the seat she was on. The girl startled and the man shivered, while the young girl on the gurney flatlined.  

Oby Jones

There it sits; an antique forgotten in time, left by those who used it. They never returned for it, nor did they secure it; simply left it there to sink into the nature surrounding it. Moss climbs its once soft edges; overtaking the rustic browns contaminating glaring silver.  

It now resides in a sprawling field of vibrant wildflowers; primroses, foxgloves and daisy’s dot the field in a canvas of bursting colours. A village sits only a few miles away, where children ignore parents' warnings of running too far and adults chatter about the latest gossip, even the old. The children play around it, climbing it like a play set. They disregard calls from adults, pleas for them to simply climb down. Night falls and it sits under the stars and moon, bathing it in a silvery light. The village near by sleeps while it stays awake.  

There it sits at midnight, abandoned. A small boy sneaks his way out of the village, inching his way towards it. The device awaiting him with a welcoming glow; there should be shouting from the village, adults calling for him to stay away. But there is not. Only a small boy in a sprawling field of vibrant wildflowers; primroses, foxgloves and daisy’s folded away toward the ground. Midnight doesn’t seem so dark now, a brilliant light engulfing the field and all the flowers surrounding it. 

There it sat, abandoned. It doesn’t sit there anymore, and the village mourns their absence. 

Oby Jones