Written in response to: “Write an open-ended story in which your character’s fate is uncertain.“ Click here to read this short story on Reedsy.

(TRIGGER WARNING: This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.)

Disgusting. Look at those fools, swallowing plate after plate of food they couldn’t even finish, Onyx told himself, cringing at the sight of thick oils around the people’s mouths. Perhaps the disgust had already reached his head, and he needed to rise from his seat and get another ice-cold beer to ease. As he went through tables, he couldn’t help but gaze at each cousin’s family he met along the way, grazing their plates, slithering their tongues to finish the last drop. His scarlet eyes shook, wondering why he’d gotten himself here, asking why he said yes to Ronan’s plea in the guise of a tribute. And he said his presence was enough if he hadn’t planned to offer gifts.

After all, it was their family reunion. The only time generations gathered together, welcoming new in-laws and newborn great-grandchildren. Looking around, he noticed everyone seemed to have a good time, listening to each other’s bullshit—I mean, experiences, to reconnect, to catch up despite the time and distance. Time or space. It didn’t matter. Since he arrived here, he had already felt the distance. In each minute, he felt a meter away. The gap between him and everyone was too pronounced to ignore since his mother passed away. He couldn’t blame them. Why would you want to mingle with someone who wore the face you hated to death?

With that in mind, he had to leave now, he conceded, eyeing the front entry. With a fresh, ice-cold beer in hand, he toured around, sucking in the length of the dining table, which could fit up to fifty people. A conveyor belt was installed in the middle to serve everyone in the right portions, in perfect timing. Behind stood an open kitchen with two master chefs working hand-in-hand to serve Mrs. Muffins’ most-awaited annual buffet at her place. Her table was ready to serve everything from greens to meats, in various cuts and cooking methods, soups to fried dishes. Drinks of all kinds and brands were in hanging vending fridges that consumed the walls like paintings in her dining hall.

The best part? They were all for free. You can take anything and everything you want in one condition. You must leave empty-handed. Always.

Because in this house, Mrs. Muffins was the word, and she never loved watching people go hungry. Nobody could disobey the rule. Not her children, husband, or grandchildren. None of them could say anything.

Not even at her lovely dining table. A free-eat-all-you-can situation you can never leave as though each dish was laid with spells, served for your weak soul. Because as soon as you tried, even a spoonful of it, there was no way for you to stop. It was as if you were possessed by some food demon pulling you into a deep trance. As if your hands turned monsters, forcing you into eating more and more and more until you couldn’t stand and walk and leave the place. The pressure to eat was an oath you never knew existed, and you were expected to keep the promise as if your stomachs could stretch miles long.

Knowing this, Onyx wasn’t ready to consume anything. He wasn’t—

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Ronan’s voice rammed his ears from behind, snapping his senses back to reality. Eyeing everyone’s eyes on them, noticing the pause, he blinked, taken by surprise, frightened. Off-guard, he forced a lopsided smile and was about to offer his beer for a toast, only to halt when he noticed the tray. His eyebrows curled and met in the middle. The surprise clinging to his chest left him stepping back, having an internal debate with himself about whether he should ask the big question about friendship. Yet, the sight must have disturbed him so much that he couldn’t let it go.

“Do you think you can finish all that? Come on. That’s like, what? Good for four people? Five? More? Are you trying to kill yourself?” He tried not to raise his voice, but the concern was grievous enough to feel its punch underneath his ribcage. Imagine a plate full of Chinese noodles and desserts for one person, not including the calamares and chicken strips on plates.

“Come on. We don’t have this much. When we leave, we’re back to eating bread and noodles. I can’t see that shit anymore.”

“But you know this isn’t healthy. You know you can’t finish it,” he cut him off.

“I can, and I will.” A warm air of determination escaped his nose, and a wild pride spread evenly on his flushing face.

To his dismay, his genuine concern only met with a sarcastic laugh and a shrug, as if it weren’t a big deal. With arching eyebrows, his mind paused as his heart sank, helplessly watching him dive in, slurping his long noodles as though he was deep breathing. The sight of his cousin indulging in, the slurping sound when the soup met his lips, the speed of his hands shoving in spoons of anything left him swallowing.

“Hey, slow down.” The only sentence he could say without losing his self-control. And self-control was what he’d been wearing like a thick jacket, feeling everybody’s eyes touch his feverish skin. Because, in his mind, he didn’t want to appear more rude and offensive to everyone than he already was. And the fact that he was the only one who hadn’t consumed anything since he arrived was an issue they couldn’t shrug off and let go.

If that wasn’t enough to make him feel sick, the room roared out of the blue. They suddenly were in a ruckus, frantic to stand up and welcome an important person, he assumed, with his eyes on their struggle. The half-emptied ceramics fell, glass shards below their tables, tablecloth in tug-of-war, getting dragged in all directions for support. The screams fighting against each other made it seem as if this VIP’s attention was a sport to win.

His eyes narrowed, throwing his eyes at the entry, his mind sped up possibilities.

Then, his chest ached. His breathing labored. His brain blanked for a second as the image bolted underneath his skull. “Mrs. Muffins,” he whispered. Loud enough to catch Ronan’s loud pause. He expelled a sigh in complete disbelief, eyeing him, licking the thick ketchup on his bare hands in a rush.

He laid his eyes on Ronan, hoping to see something different. Or maybe he wished he was different. To his disappointment, his dear cousin’s face glowed, slowly tearing his precious attention, then offering it to this VIP. This time, his eyes sparkled, full of delight. The kind of delight you saw on children’s faces during Christmas.

Curious, he cautiously threw his eyes on the formidable, stocky woman entering with a loud presence, just as loud as her high heels. Rhythmic thuds echoed in his heart at each step, searing across the growing silence and maddening pause, as if God had arrived and was ready to judge the world in perfect staccato.

As fear grew, his feet moved close to the table in an attempt to hide the empty side of the table. He gulped, wishing Ronan would cooperate. When he noticed his trance, he gave up hope and sucked in a breath, mentally preparing himself. His eyes lingered on her figure, watching her pass through tables with her wide smile while wishing she would just pass and skip him.

Sadly, his table was right on her way. Gut-wrenching fear flushed his skin as she got closer to him, his chest tightening. Tingles and sensations flowed as fear swelled in his body. He was trapped.

Then, their eyes met.

He gulped, wishing he had enough beer to anticipate her piercing gaze, to welcome her calm, uncaring gaze that matched the melancholy on her face. The kind of gaze you don’t need in daily life. The type that could make you go crazy over time, maybe losing your judgment or fooling yourself into believing she was loving.

That was what his mother told him, and he’d seen how those eyes work, paralyzing people into submission. In his mind, Mrs. Muffins was never a sister to her. She was something else.

The One. The one who bore the answers as to why this family survived for this long and remained intact despite the differences. The only one who could mediate enemies with grace and resolve family issues, even those you thought were irreparable. The only one who held the key to the generational riches sealed for ages since her father died. The only person in the family no one could ever resist when offered or refuse when asked. Not even the elders.

He knew all that, noting her eyes on his empty plate. Though she wasn’t flaunting her usual smugness, her pause was loud, and the weight of her stare was enough to tell that she disliked what she saw. Even when her lips curved into a smile, flashing her teeth, it wasn’t enough to convince him otherwise. Her eyes told him. No matter how often he saw her generous grins and ever-heartwarming greetings, the hate hiding behind in her gaze would always be the first thing he would ever see.

“I am glad to see you here. I never expected you would answer my invitation,” she said in a way that made him shrink. He wanted to say something right there, but the people’s stares began to weigh heavily on his shoulders, and he desperately wanted to have them removed with another ice-cold beer. She went on. “You don’t like to eat? You have everything you need here. So, why don’t you pick up a plate and enjoy it?” She squeezed her eyes at Ronan, wearing a grin.

Her eyes on him again. Her grin faded. Her face tightened for a second before expelling a sigh. Whatever she had in mind left her tilting her head at an angle and scanning him from head to toe with her prying eyes. “You’re like your mother. Never good with rules.”

Although he knew it was an attack, he felt oddly proud, wanting to say it aloud. But no, he couldn’t. Not in front of the elders, the curious children. He forced a smile, wishing it was enough for a pretense. “Nah, I’m good with beer. I won’t stay long here anyway.” He emptied his warmed beer and walked past her, thinking ending the conversation that way was better. At least, when she had nothing, either a yes or a no, she had nothing to react to.

“We haven’t seen each other for a while, so why the rush? No. You should eat. There’s a lot to choose from. You can find anything you want.”

“I’m good,” he said with disinterest.

The look on her face shifted. Her eyes glowered as she crossed her arms, slamming her expensive designer bag on her bulging tummy. “You’re not going anywhere until you pick a plate and eat.”

His feet slowed, his eyes burned, wanting to leave this place now with a decision not ever to visit again. He had enough of this family get-together, knowing that sometimes you wondered if you were living on the same Earth, wasting time listening to their fiction and future make-believes to keep the image of a happy family. When, in reality, their lives were nothing but short of happiness, their homes screamed untold resentments. Underneath their fancy circus were drowning souls with unpayable loans for the sake of a façade they couldn’t keep up. Too expensive.

Just as how expensive the cost would be if he were to eat, he conceded with his eyes on the conveyor belt, keeping its speed as steaming plates and bowls kept coming in like an endless river. “I’m serious. I’m fine with beer. You don’t have to worry about me,” he stuttered.

Ignoring him, she lifted a finger and signaled the nearest uncle and auntie to get her something. “What do you want? If you like, I can highly recommend—”

“I said I don’t want to eat! You can’t force me to do what you want like everyone else.”

His words hung in the air, leaving everyone speechless for a second. A sheer panic blasted his system until she cleared her throat to ease the tense air and looked around as though telling him to follow rule and order.

Was he going to take it back? No, he wasn’t. He came here with Ronan to offer his presence, not as an active participant. Definitely not when he felt forced.

“You know you can’t leave this place until you’re done,” she said.

He lifted his empty bottle. “I’m done.”

“Not yet.”

His chest clenched, feeling his long, thick fingers wrap around his heart. His eyes stabbed the tray coming close, then lifted it to his uncle’s excitement with a mountain of stacked plates of anything he thought was likable.

Trapped in her piercing stare, he stood there, frozen for a minute, not knowing what to do now. Struggling to keep his pretense, his lips quirked as a last attempt, hoping it was enough to calm himself down. Before he could organize his thoughts, her gloved hand met his chin and stabbed his eyes with her gaze. “Make sure you finish it.”

“You know, I can’t.”

Ignoring his loud panic, she winked, then moved her attention to the children from outside. Her lips stretched to a wide smile. Wider than before, as if nothing had happened, as if the conversation and change of air hadn’t affected her at all. “Yes, I’m coming.” Her eyes on him, her voice lowered. “And you? Sit down and eat.” She snapped her fingers.

Without a choice, he watched his uncles wrap their strong arms around him, forcing him to sit and hold a spoon and a fork. Aunties held his head, jerking his face forward, ready to serve him generous meals. The rest screamed, ‘Eat,’ like enthusiastic cheerleaders.

Cautiously, he grabbed the fork with his eyes at the bowl of greens and slowly took a bite. In his mind, it was safer to eat than the rest. However, when he was about to take another bite, he slowed at seeing his cousin’s mess. Enough for his appetite to head south. Not even the umami of the miso soup and thick Caesar dressing brushing his nose was delectable enough to save it, even though he loved greens.

Determined to finish the salad, he continued until he emptied the bowl, feeling his stomach stretch in a way a burp couldn’t escape. He was full.

Way damn full for another spoonful, he mused, downing another bottle of beer a relative had given him moments ago. Ready to leave than ever, he rose to his seat, groaning and pushing loved ones on his way through the entry, only to feel a strong force pulling him from behind, throwing his things. For a second, he felt his soul leave his body, and in a blink, his cheek met the cold floor. A stabbing, unexplainable pain swallowed his body in surging waves, leaving him wincing in pain, tilting his face enough to see things clearly, to know exactly what happened.

Before he could see clearly, the same potent force grabbed him, forcing him to sit down. Another group held his face, jerking him forward again, this time tighter, gluing him to his seat.

With his eyes on the spoonful of meat, he screamed the loudest ‘No’ of his life, begging them to stop this madness once and for all. The stainless steel sneaked in between his lips, and the pungent spices punched his throat. He gritted his teeth like gates blocking the unwanted, holding his breath while pumping his arms and legs wildly. For a moment, he fought and held in until exhaustion reached his bone, his ears heard a crack inside his mouth. Immediately, a taste of metal blew his tongue. Before he knew it, blood spilled out of his mouth; his front teeth crumbled. Helpless in his seat, fear drowned his senses, eyeing everyone’s greed, wanting to impress Mrs. Muffins, he assumed with disgust.

As understanding dawned in his head, the dire hopelessness snaked in his heart. Damned and damped with sweat and sauce, he closed his eyes, enduring the pain, mourning his broken teeth. His Adam’s apple fiddled, his throat swallowing slices of meat like ice-picks in his stomach. His vision blurred, his insides were at war. He might have retched in between, feeling his stomach was about to burst at any moment; way too stretched, he couldn’t breathe.

Confusion was right on his heels, and he didn’t know how to escape. He was held hostage on his seat, forced to eat spoonfuls and forkfuls of anything on the tray. And these people, whom his mother called family, didn’t seem to have plans to stop, as if the tears in his eyes and loud cries were a joke to laugh at. Even the elders, who seemed to be willing audiences, stood there and did nothing to stop the chaos. If that wasn’t enough to shatter his heart, the children applauded as if watching their parents doing something terrible was a child’s play.

His heart struck him with steel-fisted punches as his soul fired with growing determination to fight and escape. Too late, he told himself, heartbroken, as his vision blurred. Because in each minute, in each spoon and fork he bit, his hope died, not knowing if he could ever escape Mrs. Muffins’ buffet of no return.

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A few nights ago, my husband and I decided to have a spontaneous movie marathon after a long, tiring day. Earlier, the schedule was a bit hectic, even though we’re stuck at home. Penniless. 😣

To survive, we’ve been selling half of our apartment since we moved out of Brennet two years ago. From miniatures to elaborate ceramics and lighting, we’ve accounted for an estimated 2,300+ items sold from what we have standing in our apartment.

The moment I saw the figures, I realized why I was burnt out, helping me reconcile my ‘Past Self’ and my ‘Present Self’ with a clear understanding behind the pause. An effort to permit myself to forgive my ‘Present Self’ for being a slacker.

Eureka! I learned that the decision to pause from everything I was doing wasn’t just because I’m expecting a baby early next year. But, out of self-respect. To allow my body to recover from such strenuous, back-breaking work, to give myself space to recharge and boost my spirit by spending more time on activities that warm my heart.

Oddly enough, my husband invited me to watch a movie with him. So, we opened Netflix and quickly hovered over the movies section, then selected the top-ranked releases. It was then that I first noticed a lot of horror movies on the list. 😕

Oh, yeah! It’s the Halloween season. It’s the perfect time to hear our loudest screams and test our tolerance to the weird and the bloody. Like the first Indonesian adaptation of the zombie horror called ‘Abadi Nan Jaya’ or ‘The Elixir’ (the English title), now tops the platform’s global non-English films.

I don’t want to talk about the details because I don’t want to spoil it for you. What I can say is that it was weird. It could’ve been better if the characters weren’t weak and foolish. If you’re curious, you can watch and see it for yourself, then share your honest thoughts about it in the comment section below (if you’d like).

The point is this. It’s challenging to write a compelling horror story. Long or short, regardless. The effort to encapsulate your audiences (both in films and written literature) to create an effective illusion of fear from page one to the last is a feat. It’s either you have the likes of Thailand’s hit ‘The Shutter’ or you have an American adaptation of ‘The Ring.’ A screamer or a yawner.

I’m uncertain if you’ve noticed this about this genre, but I’ve never liked the writer’s attempt to create characters with less awareness to fit the story within the genre’s established molds.

Sure, there’s nothing wrong with flawed characters. But the tropes kill the story—the main characters falling on their knees during the chase, choosing selfish decisions even when the group’s lives are at stake.

In real life, you don’t do that. Even in the most extreme situations, you won’t do something that would put you in trouble. You would be confused and terrified for your life and would do anything to live and survive the agonizing 24 hours of pure horror. But dang, you are not stupid.

This is probably the biggest reason why my spirit repels me from watching horror movies, due to the exaggerated, unrealistic motivations behind the characters’ actions. Out of hundreds of horror movies I’ve watched in my entire life, only a few stand out, like ‘The Blair Witch Project,’ ‘The Conjuring,’ and the classic, ‘The Exorcist.’

Going back to the Indonesian film, JK Sooja posted his feedback on Rotten Tomatoes, saying, “‘The Elixir is great, despite its main flaw. The problem is simply that this particular flaw happens to be a cardinal sin of zombie movies: characters don’t behave realistically.”

John Serba agreed, highlighting the director’s intention to sacrifice his characters, their bodies, and intelligence, for the sake of delivering non-stop action and gore.

Because of this, I would like you to read and review my work, and let me know if the newly written short story has inspired or disappointed you. Seriously. 😂 Your thoughts will be noted. Honesty is the best policy in this community.

Why am I doing this? I want to improve my craft. Simple. And I know that, even if I rewrite the draft a thousand times without a third party looking at it, I will still have a limited view of how my writing impacts people. As a writer, I want to know how my audience receives every story I publish and share.

This is the reason why I want to invite you to read my latest speculative horror short story, ‘Nadia’s Diamonds,’ which is currently an entry to Reedsy’s weekly short story contest (one of the biggest writing contests in the world).

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Nadia’s Diamonds

Written in response to: “Begin with laughter and end with silence (or the other way around).“

Laughter. Chatters. Glasses clink. Wine bottles pop. Sizzling iron pots. Conversations mix in layers, surrounding the fancy Japanese restaurant’s tatami and washi walls. The long, low table holds the bountiful, authentic dishes—from well-seasoned tonkatsu and sashimi to udon—luxuriously cut, freshly cooked, steaming with umami as they brush against Nadia’s nose.

Her graceful hands hold the knife, pinkies up, cutting through a thin slice of Wagyu beef. Oil stains a section of her crispy red lips. Her tongue brushes around the curves to clear the mess off.

In her proud mind, she’s more than willing to indulge in pleasure, surrounded by guests who never fail to show their wholehearted support and wholesome pockets for her vision. After all, she’s spent years of nonstop work and did nothing else.

Tonight, it’s a feast, celebrating their launch success. A treat she deserves.

“Congratulations, Ms. Nadia. Who would’ve thought a small kababayan could conquer the big, big world?” Cheval announces with his thick Filipino accent. Wearing his usual tight-fit checkered polo tucked in his brown slacks, he is a mature Sheldon Cooper of the group, older, with a distinct toothbrush mustache.

“It would’ve been better if Alicia were here celebrating with us,” Ms. Amor McNugget, kikay head of her research team with only a handful of core scientists, laments before chugging a whole glass of sake, then earns a loud ‘Yeahs’ from the group.

While everyone digs into their plates, exchanging news, Lucas Bianchi, one of the biggest German names in innovation, rests his palm on the table, nodding at the sentiment. His fingers stroke his beard, as if he’s contemplating something he has in mind. Notable for his endless praise for her ethical mining and sustainable luxury, Ms. McNugget notices his odd silence.

She fixes her scarf around her neck and swivels her head in his direction, offering her genuine concern. “Problem?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” He sighs and shifts his weight on the futon, arms crossed, lying on top of his big belly. He pulls his face closer, slipping into a lowered, grainy voice, as if confiding a secret. “Have you heard about Claude’s plan to run for Senate in 2028?”

Her eyes narrow. Her head tilts at an angle. “No. Why?”

He rubs his palm on his face, then groans. “I heard he’s planning on cracking down on illegal operations in Mindanao. He might block Nadia’s biotech.”

“Why would he do that?” she asks, only to get a shrug in return. A grunt slips between her lips, unable to swallow the mystery.

“Alright, guys. Can we hear Ms. Nadia?” Cheval interrupts loudly, like he’s a gifted human megaphone, pausing the two. He lifts his white ceramic full of sake and carefully slams his spoon on the thin surface as everyone slips their swift ‘Cheers’ in return. His eyes on her, offering his genuine gratitude.

“Speech. Speech. Speech.” Everyone roars.

Her smile is as wide as her eyes, sparkling with happiness, and her boisterous snort enlivens the atmosphere. The fine lines crease her forehead and around her eyes. “Do I need to do that? Now?”

Though confused about what to say, she grabs her tablecloth with her pinkie raised and wipes it around her mouth, quickly downs a glass of wine before clearing her throat, conjuring the strength from liquor to push her heart to speak the words she never thought she would say out loud. A brief sadness swallows her eyes; her mind’s eye holding onto Alicia’s image and the emptiness of the party with her absence.

“Gaia Stones started as a childhood dream. Alicia and I grew up on the streets, technically orphaned with living parents. My mother’s not an ideal woman to bear a child, to begin with. So, I grew up fast and became an adult to survive. I couldn’t blame her, either. Like me, she grew up in an unstable home without a mother.

In high school, when she began dating this old, charming, married man she met at a nightclub, she thought he was her Prince Charming. Her one true love. At that time, she fancied diamonds because, according to her, diamonds are a woman’s best friend. She loved Marilyn Monroe, by the way.”

Everybody laughs. The women nod.

She continues after a giggle. “Over the years, that charming prince continued showering her with love. Every year, she received diamond necklaces and bracelets in all shapes and forms as birthday gifts. Then, one day, she received a phone call from a friend telling her he had died in a car accident. Shortly after, she realized there would be no diamonds anymore.

Mourning for his death meant obsession with one thing. Diamonds. And she was willing to do everything to keep his culture alive, thinking it was rude to stop it. Because in her mind, all she wanted was her diamonds and her Prince Charming.” Not me.

“Question.” A man’s voice interrupts her, pausing her train of thought.

“Yes, please.” Her palm lifts to welcome the inquiry from the man at the back. His name is Hans Meyer, the Master Marketer. Thanks to his family lineage and their strong advertising background, he quickly builds confidence among patrons, taking on the biggest risks for significant results. A key player behind the brand’s global success.

“If you lost your mom because of diamonds, why did you decide to turn it into a business?”

The unexpected inquiry silences her for a moment, leaving her unsure what to say. In her mind, she’s doing the right thing. It’s her wish to please her mother because seeing her happy makes her happy, too. Sure, you might think she’s a bit twisted and masochistic. But hey, she’s her mother, after all.

Her cheeks blush, her skin fevers, and she oddly feels like a fool. Suddenly out of words, she finds herself frantic, having a debate whether to slip out more nonsensical thoughts over dinner. “She took her life because she couldn’t get a new piece anymore,” she pauses, studying their looks. Wearing their sympathy, she feels relieved.

She goes on. “Our country isn’t as blessed as others when it comes to diamond mining. We’re rich in gold and other precious minerals, except for this beautiful, magnificent stone. But that doesn’t mean we cannot ever compete. That’s why we produce them here without destroying mountains. Isn’t that win-win for all of us?”

“The governor salutes it. The region’s ranking and tourism economy will be significantly boosted because of her excellent work.” Lucas lifts his thumb of approval, and the crowd cheers for a minute, then mumbles and mutters after.

“Not only does Nadia help in providing more jobs for the locals here, but she also provides the best and safest working environments for miners. She’s an angel on earth,” Cheval adds.

“Indeed!” The crowd’s loud praises are in an ensemble.

Right, Gaia Stones wouldn’t exist without the strength she learned from being left alone in the dark, forcing her to find rescue from compassionate strangers. Without her love for diamonds, she wouldn’t have discovered her genius and deep love for Mother Nature.

The Tellurian, one of the best machines ever developed in modern history, wouldn’t have been built. The fame, money, and power, which came along with it, none of which would’ve been possible without a childhood suffering. Without the kindness of strangers and neighbors, she wouldn’t have learned how to be compassionate towards the nameless workers.

“Say goodbye to blood diamonds. Thanks to Ms. Nadia, the beautiful genius,” Cheval announces, glancing at every person surrounding the table with his distinct, proud smile. The excitement to push forward to the next level is apparent on his face.

Ms. McNugget nods, agreeing. Her eyes on her. “You’re right. Cheers to Ms. Nadia, cheers to Gaia Stones, cheers for Mindanao.”

“For the new Philippines!” Lucas whoops with delight.

As they go on, linking arms and having a merry time, her palm meets her chest, feeling the tears rise behind her throat. With flooding memories of her deceased mother, her fingers curl around the soft edges of the white, transparent stone. Mama would’ve been so proud of me.

She nods and smiles and snorts with her squeezed eyes, playing along with their silly banters and teases. Satisfied, she dips her eyes at her plate and is about to shove a forkful into her mouth, only to pause when she hears a loud bang from the door across the room, and the room shakes. Her fork meets the ceramic, her curious eyes in that direction.

As everyone pauses, silence creeps in, growing thicker. All eyes on the woman as she enters with heavy steps. Her high heels echo through every corner like their heart beating in each thud. No mouth opens, no whisper slips out between their lips until she stands close to the table. Close enough to keep Nadia’s attention.

“Alicia, I thought you were sick,” Ms. McNugget sputters, almost choking Lucas on his wine.

“I am,” she replies nonchalantly. Her stern eyes on Nadia, choking her like fingers around her neck.

Pretending she hasn’t noticed the radical change of air, she wonders if this is about her being sensitive, sulking at the fact that she’s at home while the whole executive gathers on a Friday night.

Cute, she muses, expelling a lopsided chuckle, thinking she’s kidding right now. She sighs, giving up. “Cheval told me you went home earlier, so I assume—”

“What is this?” She throws the newspaper on the table. The strength is enough to push the ceramic against her chest and shake the table a little. “If you have nothing to hide, explain this to me.” She tightens her lips, as if she’s gritting her teeth in fury. Her frown spreads, and her silent agony blazes across her face.

“Where did you get this?” Nadia’s shaky eyes on the headline. Nadia’s Diamonds & Her Killing Machine. Her brain freezes, her skin flutters as panic seeps through her skin.

“It doesn’t matter.”

As Ms. McNugget takes the newspaper, the pause grows. She sucks in a massive chunk of damp, warm air, then swallows it whole like slime into her lungs. She lets out a soundless sigh to ease her nerves and speed her brain with reasons to reply despite the pressure.

“What is this, Nadia? I don’t understand.” Hesitation, tinged with confusion, taints her voice. Her face is filled with question marks.

Mentally fist-bumping, she lifts her face and flaunts her usual friendly smile, politely takes the newspaper, skimming through the content, leafing through pages, then returns it to her. “Do you believe this?” she stutters.

“I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt.” She throws the newspaper back and combs her long, wavy, dark hair to clear her face. She rests her hands on her waist, obviously not buying it. “They wouldn’t have written anything if there wasn’t any truth to that, would they?”

“It must be Claude’s work. You know your husband.”

“This isn’t about politics, Nadia.”

“Is it? We all know your husband’s kissing that congressman’s ass.” Her cool eyes meet her hot gaze, noting the newspaper’s movements as it rounds and meets a handful of hands. Wondering what they think, her heart thunders in her chest, pounding her with loud, triple beats in full throttle.

Out of sheer will, she manages to keep her composure steady, her composure in place. “Trust me. Our diamonds are blood-free, 100% organic. Fast produced. Made in the Philippines.”

“You mean, you murder a thousand people per day. That’s, indeed, fast,” she replied, immediately shifting everyone’s faces, stunned at the news. Sensing her advantage, she scoffs. “You think you’re investing in revolutionary organic mining, but you’re manufacturing a serial-killing machine on a global scale.”

She clucks, disappointed. “You’re smart, Alicia. Make sure you know your husband well. You’ll never know what he might come up with if you’re the next on his target list.” She notes the fury spelling itself in words all over her.

“No. He won’t do that. He’s my husband.”

“Maybe you forgot, she’s my ex.”

Out of a whim, an A5 Manila envelope pops out of her hand. Without qualms, she lifts it upside down, slipping the photos carelessly on the table, covering some of their plates. “How about this?” She picks up one and presents it close to her eye level. “And this? Don’t tell me it’s AI-generated ‘cause this is clearly a goddamn machine to me.”

When disgust bleeds across the harsh lines of her face, the frightened confusion in the guests’ eyes, questions flood her mind, and she suddenly wants to flee, to drag her to somewhere private. Noting the sound of her voice, that fear with a mix of determination, she knows this is it. She might have to welcome her resignation letter the first thing in the morning.

Each second that passes is an agony, Nadia muses, her eyes struggling to hold in, to endure the burning tears she’d tried to suppress. Unwilling to break herself in front of everyone, she swallows those tears back to where they must be and stretches her lips to a forced smile.

“How about you having dinner with us? You must be hungry,” she said, wishing it’s enough of an effort to ease the tense air, eyeing the rest and swallowing their stares. Eyes meet eyes. When she refuses, she expels a soundless, whispery plea, wanting to rebut, only to get sidetracked when she continues.

“You’re my best friend, but your diamonds have swallowed you whole.”

“You’re wrong. I’ve always been the same Nadia you knew. You changed.”

She shakes her head. “No, you did. You’re a selfish, arrogant criminal.”

Something about what she said pushes her to the edge of the cliff. Enough to have her spring from her seat, throwing the remains of her wine glass on her face. Her eyes pop at the sight of the mess on the table, her body stiffens in full defense.

“Oh my God! Hot! Hot! Hot!” Everyone screams and cries in pain as they try to crawl out of the table. Their legs stuck, swelling with burns.

“How dare you shame me in front of everyone?” Her voice is steady, but it is enough to keep her on her toes and hold her mouth in complete silence for a minute. Speechless at the ruckus.

“Your mother never loved you, Nadia. But you want her love. That’s why you built Gaia Stones to kill people, so you’ll become the diamond queen and gain the respect and love you crave.”

“Shut up!” Her palm meets her cheek, flaring with pain. Veins pop out of her neck, her face flushes, her body trembles, enveloping tingles from head to toe. The moment she feels everyone’s eyes touch her skin, she shrinks. A sudden feeling of regret hugs her chest. I’m sorry.

She presses her burning cheek; her determined stare pierces through her eyes. “I can’t shut up when I’m watching my best friend ruin innocent people’s lives.”

Her words hang in the air. Silence permeates the whole space again, as if God were walking on the aisle at this moment. Nobody speaks for a second, maybe more. Their eyes on the mess layering the table.

Left to swallow the embarrassment and regret, Nadia shakes her head. “If this is true, prove it.”

“How about this? Isn’t it enough evidence?” Her hand meets the stolen photo of a familiar machine. “This is your secret sauce, isn’t it?” Her eyes on the guests. “Look. This is the Tellurian. Nadia’s secret killing machine. This is where your money goes.” She throws the photo onto the table, and it accidentally lands on the noodles, almost dampening the corners.

Curious, Hans quickly picks it up and fans it to dry. His narrowed eyes on the image—hundreds of selected prisoners standing in lines on a wet quadrangle, heading to where the buses are in arrays. His index finger lands on an unnamed face. His mouth eased, as if he wanted to ask but couldn’t.

“Ms. Nadia uses prisoners for raw material, like a female Hitler. Every week, the prison delivers busloads to the property and sends them to their deaths. Disturbing, isn’t it? But she doesn’t care.”

Right. It’s the answer to the world’s efforts to save nature and expenditures, she agrees. Standing at least two meters tall, this machine is a modern Mother Gaia. A gift from the gods through Nadia’s dreams. Made to handle work even under the most extreme conditions and highest temperatures up to 50,000 atmospheres and temperatures over 2,000 degrees Celsius (3,600 degrees Fahrenheit). A one-of-a-kind machine that revolutionized alternative diamond mining while reducing unwanted populations.

That one machine Nadia is proud of. A lifetime achievement that brought the country back onto the world map, making it a frontier once again. All because of a fearless woman who was once a young dreamer from the outskirts of the southern land, who never gave up and fought against all odds.

But is she a female Hitler? No. She brings no war but peace. And her Tellurian isn’t a weapon. A lifesaver. Of course, she cares.

To her disappointment, she feels cornered. All eyes on her, staring daggers as the anticipation grows. Stuck. Out of words. Her heart in her throat. Disappointment melts across her face, unable to look straight into everyone’s faces as shame blankets her fluttering skin.

If that isn’t enough of an attack, Alicia bores her with a stern gaze, as if she’s at gunpoint. It’s as if she knows more than she reveals. That firm demand blankets her thick-lashed eyes, like fingers pointing at her.

Without a word, Nadia gulps and helplessly grabs her things. She slips out of the table and walks out of the room unapologetically, chin up, leaving everyone frozen in a wild mess, exchanging stares, their mouths zipped.

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‘This is how it looks. This is where we enter.’ A whispery male voice brushed my ears as I stood in a tunnel canopied by unstable stone walls. My shoes on the smooth ground. Immediately, I knew I was in a dream. This happened a few nights ago.

I didn’t know exactly where I was. A thousand possibilities rammed my head. All I knew was that I was utterly alone in the dark and had nowhere to go to find my way out. It was either I move forward or die starving or dehydrated. There was no turning back.

No lighting equipment, no map, no compass no clue. It was ridiculous.

Left without a choice, I took a step forward, hoping someone would be around to explain things to me, why I was there in the first place. At least, it would’ve eased my nerves.

Yet, to my dismay, there was nobody. There was nothing to see, except for a long, narrow strip, which I believed to be at least a meter wide, a kilometer long. Or even more.

As I’d gotten used to the claustrophobic void, my eyes had adjusted to the pitch black; I thought it didn’t appear like I was in an old mining shaft or an abandoned coal mine, just as I saw in old foreign movies.

No wagons or old tools sat nearby. No clues to pick and study for clues. There was absolutely nothing around me.

What I did notice was that it was closer to the ones the Japanese had dug somewhere in the Philippine mountains during World War 2. Undiscovered, remained buried underneath the ground for decades. So, I immediately assumed it was some entrance to where the treasures were stored and buried behind these thick stone walls and dried mud.

Yamashita’s? No idea.

It was then that I thought this was an Elder trying to convey a Message through dreams, and the promised treasure could be metaphorically interpreted. And this must have something to do with the portal to where the gifts lie, lying dormant for a long time, I conceded.

Second theory: Based on my dream today, I woke up to people forming long queues, similar to those seen at a busy cashier station or train station. I had no clue why they were there or what the line was for.

If you ask me what this portal is about, I don’t know. This could be an entrance to where the souls go after they reach their time limit on Earth and welcome the afterlife. Or, it could be something else.

Perhaps it was my late grandfather, Lolo Pilo, who permitted me to share his story with you for the very first time in our family’s history of untold stories.

About the short story

‘Samuel’s Bas-uy’ is my first-ever short story written since I transitioned from being a content writer to an author, after writing a handful of books. According to many successful authors, the more you understand how short stories work, the better your chapters will become.

“If you can tell a story as briefly as possible, it’s more dramatic. If it’s too long, then it has the problems of pacing, it could get a little slow. But the shorter you can make a story, the better.”

Joyce Carol Oates, American author

Why? From a novel writing standpoint, a chapter, regardless of the number of words, consists of three basic beats, which are the specific scenes you include within it.

The first beat is what editors call ‘The Hook’ or your exposition. Then, the second beat, which is the turning point, is accompanied by a shift in tension, followed by the third beat with its conclusive notes.

A chapter is a short story in itself because it contains beats, regardless of the number of words. You can have a 6-word short story, like Ernest Hemingway did, or you can have a 20,000-word short story like ‘The Dead’ by James Joyce (which is already considered a novella in today’s publishing).

However, unlike novels, there is only one plot, one clear problem or conflict, one event or destination, from Point A to B. No subplots, no more than one plot in a single story, no multiple events.

For instance, in ‘The Dead’, despite the length, there is only one theme of the story, which is about Gabriel Conroy, a middle-class Dublin man, who attended his aunt’s annual holiday party with his wife, Gretta, only to end up in a sudden realization about mortality, love, and his own limitations.

Likewise, Ernest Hemingway managed to write a complete story using the fewest possible words. He wrote, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

With only a few words, he managed to pull off what most writers would’ve needed more to describe the same thought.

The point is this.

If I could write a short story using these elements correctly, I could train my writing muscles to improve my storytelling without slowing the reader down with unnecessary words. It’s a risk I took, checking my progress to see if I could write one or not, especially after writing business content for a long time.

I’m glad I did, because I learned many valuable lessons, such as valuing my words more and refining my drafts, which allowed me to exercise my creativity in describing events without being wordy. Totally a game-changer for me.

Another lesson I learned is the amount of time needed to submit a short story prompt. Reedsy selects a weekly batch of submitted entries based on the announced prompts. Because of that, I’m forced to write without drowning with analysis paralysis.

Though the stories were drafted in early 2025, the delay went on, as I took the time to fill the ‘Courage Tank.’ So, I waited and waited until I dared to submit it.

Now, it has been published, along with four more short stories, in ‘Chasing Echoes: Velvet Shadows, Vol. 1,’ on July 16, 2025. So unbelievable to think about it because I never thought I could do it.

What’s cool? It’s available for you for FREE.

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Samuel’s Bas-uy (Free Sample)

The unusually hot summer day hadn’t stopped the Vincenzos from their special Sunday treat. Pork.

No wonder Samuel’s smile was as wide as the mountain ranges behind him, wearing a pair of sparkling eyes full of delight. He worked hard to finally get a kilo of pork, which he knew would make his dear wife and four lovely girls happy. They’d been waiting a month for him to save enough money to get some because pork was a luxury in this part of the barangay. Like having a good beef steak in a five-star fine-dining restaurant. Inaccessible. You might have to befriend a butcher or a Don who owned pig farms to have it within reach all the time.

With excitement in his heart, he kept slipping in more wood to keep the fire burning. Wiping his sweat, he kept stirring the pot while enduring the thick white smoke coming out in all directions. He coughed in between as the smoke snuck into his nostrils.

Still, the tears around his eyes didn’t stop the smile as he wiped his face with his forearm. Because, in his mind, he was up to cooking the best bas-uy for them. He’d collected the freshest vegetables he needed in the garden and cut the meat into the right portions. There was no way they would be disappointed to welcome Monday tomorrow. They might still have enough protein to endure the rest of the tough week. The toughest, actually, he conceded, glancing at the rice fields screaming for harvest.

That same excitement was brought inside as he carefully rested the steaming ceramic on the dining table, eyeing his wife, fresh from the salon. He didn’t even mind the charcoal on his shirt and a stain on a section of his cheek from dried sweat and dirt. All he cared about was this dazzling woman standing before him. Her fixed curls and distinct fruity perfume brushed his nose. His smile was eloquent.

“You look beautiful,” he said, and got a distinct dismissal sound from her. A usual thing. Because Chantal wasn’t great at compliments. But he didn’t care. She was stunning in her eyes despite the weight gain. Even though petite, she had the curves you could only envy. A face that matched Elizabeth Taylor. A voice like Aretha Franklin when she hummed.

As she went on with her narrative, telling him how her Sunday morning went, his smile was genuine and generous, feeling his heart swarmed with butterflies as their eyes met before she headed out. In his mind, he couldn’t believe he was a lucky man to have found this wonderful, amazing woman who loved beauty and fashion. And to be chosen as the father of four wholesome kids, turning five, was more than honorable. He couldn’t wait for another month to welcome a newborn into his hands.

After all, he owed his life to her family, who kept him under their roof when the Japanese ransacked their homes, forcing them to leave Bohol and move to the South. The chaos was too much to think of family security when everywhere were bombs and explosions and sirens; houses burning, people screaming for help. With so much destruction around, he was left to survive with his mother and his siblings by his side, not knowing where his father might have gone. When they arrived in Zamboanga, her family welcomed him. The first community he found and learned to love and protect with all his might. Even later, even when they were united with their Papa, they stayed there for good.

When her father passed away due to tuberculosis shortly after the war ended, he had no qualms about carrying on the responsibility of being the man in the house while keeping his role as a farmer’s son. Even though he was only in his early twenties, he knew how hard it would be for a widow to keep a household with five young children. It was a payback, after all. Years later, as these children went on with their lives, he moved on with his own, with a decision to keep his father’s humble farm afloat.

Then, on a fateful day, he met Chantal again. This time, it took a wild turn. He fell head over heels with her, turning that one summer into a fairytale come true. Their relationship bloomed, and their future became clear. Clearer than the blue skies.

Now, almost twenty years later, he stood there, eyeing her through the jalousies, still wearing the same love he found. That same genuine smile he kept while preparing the plates and utensils. Admiration was apparent. There was no doubt he found a rare gem. A woman who knew her stand, her worth, her value to the community. A woman who could sew clothes whenever and however she wanted, who could do artistic things when bored. A woman with no college degree but who successfully turned his father’s farm into a six-figure business like a pro.

Magnetism wasn’t a question, he mused. People flowed in and out of their home, like money, as if it were a job center, offering themselves the opportunity to work and helping in whatever ways they could. Having money wasn’t a concern. Hiring more farmers wasn’t an issue. She once told him that if she were a flower, she would be a money maker because money seemed to follow her around. Asifshewerebornwithluck, and luck was her nickname.

Though oddly funny, he knew it was true. Despite having no millions in bank accounts, they had enough to buy farmlands around their home and to pay more people to work on the land. They were prepared to save some money for their children’s future and buy more land to house pigs. If they could—

“Samuel, where are the kids?” Chantal’s voice came through, snapping him from his senses. Her concern was a lightning strike, popping his dreamy bubble. His eyes rounded, his feet ran through the kitchen door, slipping half his body. He wanted to say, ‘I don’t know,’ but she already strode away with her friends in a rush to find them.

As they disappeared, he turned his attention to the steaming bowl of rice and bas-uy he had cooked. Prepared, he leaned against the door frame, waiting for the girls to come while letting his eyes meander over the vast farmland. His thoughts wandered, carrying with them his worries along the trip. But knowing the barangay, there was no way they would be lost. They would have been somewhere playing with friends.

After all, it was in the last week of March. And school was about to end. He wasn’t a domineering father who fancied helicopter parenting. The type who controlled his children’s schedule to fit his game. In his mind, let kids be kids. Let their feet take them wherever they went. Besides, they waited for ten long months for this. Free from schoolwork at last. Noteachers, no homework. No wonder, its an unusually warm day that lured the four girls to run around the vast farmlands they owned, to cool themselves in the river. Beneath the mighty mountain ranges that crossed the Zamboanga Peninsula, no child would refuse to have a walk and bask under the sun. To enjoy the green terrains of the Southern forest and climb its glorious mountains. Though he was born in the sea, the valley was his second home.

After a time, her distinct, punchy voice alerted him first before his ears caught the kids ’ muffled chatter. Luz, the eldest, greeted him first with a groan. Her hands around a heavy basket full of freshly washed laundry. Vilma, the second child, followed her trail with her loud complaints with Mina and Dalia, still bickering behind her. As the five surrounded the dining table, the two-story hut came alive. The same life that touched Samuel’s heart, filling it with love, as he sat, gesturing for all of them to go and eat.

“Wow,bas-uy! We haven’t had this for a while. Papa, you’re the best.” Vilma winked, flicking her head in a gesture, leaving him blushing. Like Chantal, he wasn’t great at compliments, and Vilma was such a generous audience. She never failed to appreciate everything he did. Too vocal sometimes.

“Wipe your sweat. Cleanup first before you sit there,” he said, and got an easy ‘Yes’ answer, watching her rush to climb the stairs.

While Luz sat, looking prepared to take a deep dive, Mina cared for Dalia, who was only three years old and could barely reach the table. Satisfied, he went on, preparing Chantal’s plate with excitement that he couldn’t shrug off. He scooped a few ladles of rice and took a separate bowl for the soup.

“Here. You should eat. You shouldn’t starve the baby,” he said, watching her grab the chair and groaning as she carefully rested herself on the seat. Her tummy must have been so heavy that she needed her hands at the table’s edge for support.

Then, a loud thud banged their ears.

Several ceramic plates fell on the floor, along with some spoons and forks. Fear swept into their hearts, into their frightened eyes as they watched Chantal lying with her back on the floor. Soup dampened her from head to toe. Rice grains filled a section of her cheeks. Her eyes closed. Her breathing stopped. Panic seared through the walls. Loud concerns filled the home.

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Court of the Fire Witch by N. R. Hairston

The ancient royal court of Arkin holds secrets that can change the entire course of their nation.

When I unearth those secrets, the current Arkin court puts my name on a hit list.

Now me and my boyfriend Mark will have to find a way to stay alive and fight off an entire royal army.

That’s on top of dealing with Mark’s mafia family. This fight wouldn’t be easy. Can we really make it out alive this time?

This book contains royal intrigue and a fire witch who doesn’t know how to yield, much to his boyfriend’s chagrin. Liam’s in trouble again. Mark thought he was the dangerous one, but Liam is just as lethal.

(Source: Amazon.com)

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Outbreak Protocol by C. G. Macington

One doctor saves lives from behind a screen. The other saves them with his hands. When the world ends, they are each other’s only hope.

Dr. Felix Müller trusts his gut, and his gut tells him the horrifying new illness tearing through his Hamburg ER is no ordinary flu. When his superiors ignore the mounting body count, Felix risks his career on a single, desperate email to a reclusive, brilliant epidemiologist who is his last resort.

Outbreak Protocol is a gut-wrenching, epic MM romance set against the backdrop of an apocalyptic medical thriller. A perfect story of opposites attract, hurt/comfort, and the found family that can rise from the ashes of the world. Prepare to have your heart seized.

(Source: Amazon.com)

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