Stories by Marc Selby

For some, today is a day of giving thanks, of spending the day with family. For some it’s an excuse to eat, drink and watch football. For others, however, it is a day of mourning. A day rooted in terror, sadness, and bloodshed. I’ve always known this day to be Thanksgiving, and have always gone through the typical Thanksgiving process. So basically food and mutterings of why were thankful. However, I recently moved to the New England area for work and wasn’t able to get home for the holidays this year. It was going to be a first for me, another first that is, as being this far from family was a first all on its own and came with a ton more. In the spirit of new and firsts I decided to take up an invitation to an event with a new friend I had made at work. Her name was Ellie, and she was part of one of the local indian tribes. To be honest I was hesitant at first, the event is called “The Day of Mourning” and is put together by a group called the “United American Indians of Ne

I am a Geocacher. It's...like an urban treasure hunter. People who also have the geocaching app can hide little pill bottles, or small boxes, or even, big ammo cases. They simply find a good hiding spot, log in their coordinates via GPS, and let the others have the fun of trying to find it. Sometimes they have nothing but the necessary pad of paper, sometimes they have goodies in them you can trade out. There is always the pad of paper, usually a pen, so you can sign your name and the date, and you log into the app that you found the cache. I love Geocaching, I've found all of the ones in my town, and almost all of the ones in the neighboring towns and cities, besides a few that had most likely been snagged or moved by people who don't Geocache and are just being a pain. It was fun, it was often off the beaten path, usually at a park, or patch of trees that you'd never know was there. Sometimes it would be centered in a building or historical site. Like I said I ha

I've been hearing the sirens since High School almost ten years ago. A "Lahar Drill" they called it. The first Monday of each month they'd blare the Lahar sirens to make sure they were still in working order. That way, if the mountain ever erupted, we'd have a way to know giving us half an hour to escape the valley town we lived in, fleeing for higher ground, before the Lahar, a mixture of mud, water, and debris flowed through our town like the river of death and destruction it is said to be. At first, the sirens were feared by most. The sirens would sound and everyone would rush to the windows to make sure it was just the drill, and not the actual mountain erupting. Many practiced their lahar drills at that time, figuring out the best routes to get to safety in the half-an-hour window we'd have. People began buying more and more emergency rations as if the installment of these drills was an omen that the mountain would erupt tomorrow. It didn't. Each

I first saw it when I was just a little girl. I couldn't have been more than eight years old, lying in bed trying to sleep through my mother and her boyfriend fighting. If I could just sleep I wouldn't have to worry, I could go to sleep and wake up and the arguing would be done, and I wouldn't have to hear him. Slamming his fist on a table, throwing something against the wall, hitting her, and if I was asleep, he wouldn't come after me either. It had been a particularly bad night already, he had skipped the fist slams, the throwing of objects, and had moved straight into hitting her. That means he'd be here before too long. Before I could fall asleep. The fear inside of me welled up, tears were beginning to appear at the corner of my eyes as I watched the door in horror. Waiting for him to come in and drag me out of bed. I lay on my back, eyes to the ceiling, trying to figure out the best way to fall asleep right away. That's when I saw it. It was out of the