Justin fiddled with a spoon on the table, staring at nothing in the real world. His thoughts wandered from one idea to the next. What if I just flipped this spoon? How loud would the crash be? Could it fly into the multiverse and disappear? What about all the wrapping paper over there? If I shred it into a million little pieces, would it look like snow to the carpet mites? What would happen if I just walked out of the room? Would anyone notice? One of the cats might.

He winced. Mom would notice, and then she’d make me feel guilty afterward. But they’re not doing anything! Justin had a clear view of the living room and kitchen from the dining room, and he took advantage of it to look at his family without moving from his warm seat. That’s the benefit of open floor plans. He snickered. Clara hates open floor plans. She likes having everything in separate places.

He straightened his back. I wonder what Clara is doing. He shook his head. Nah, I can’t bother her while she’s with her family. He looked at his brother in the corner of the living room playing video games on the small TV. His eyes scanned to his dad sitting at the big TV on the opposite end of the room watching sports. Justin’s mom lounged on the couch, scrolling on her phone. He pulled his own phone from his pocket and texted Clara: Merry Christmas!

Slipping his phone back in his pocket, he turned his attention back to the spoon. He pushed it across the table, watching the ceiling pass along its reflective surface, expanding and shrinking with the spoon’s shape. His pocket vibrated and Justin pulled out his phone.

Clara: Hey! Merry Christmas!
Justin: Whatcha up to?
Clara: Not much. You?
Justin: Same.

He stared at his phone a moment; he hated small talk texting. I should just call her, right? I’d have to leave the room of course… His eyes shifted to his mom and back. Maybe I should keep texting. He huffed, then quickly typed, “I wish I could be with you.”

His thumb hovered over the button to send. Is that too sentimental? Justin’s thumb began to shake. Anyone else, maybe. But… It’s Clara, for crying out loud!

He hit send.

“No, wait!” he said out loud.

“Everything okay, Justin?” his mom asked.

“Fine,” he groaned, accepting his fate. “Hey, uh, Mom, since everyone is doing their own thing, do you mind if I go up to my room?”

His mom looked up from her phone. The look of shock in her eyes wavered his hope for escape. He initiated his irresistible puppy dog eyes in response. She looked at his dad and said, “Dear, Justin wants to know if he can go to his room.”

Justin looked at his dad. He didn’t answer.

“Carl!”
“What?”
“Justin wants to go to his room.”
Justin’s dad half waved his hand. “Eh.” Justin’s mom rolled her eyes and nodded her approval.

Justin held back a smile and paced himself up the stairs so he wouldn’t look too eager. He gently closed his door and then jumped onto his bed, lying flat on his back, then looked at his phone. He’d received another text: Aww! I wish I could see you, too. Maybe next year we can meet up somewhere for Christmas.

Justin powered off the screen. “I don’t want to wait till next year to spend Christmas with you,” he said out loud. “I want to spend Christmas with you now.” He turned over on his stomach. “If I could make a door of nowhere, I can make a door to you. I just have to concentrate.”

Justin closed his eyes and imagined Clara—her short, soft, bouncy blond hair, her little button nose, her sky-blue eyes that always knew what he was thinking and feeling before he did. He thought about her laugh, exasperated sigh, and focused glare when she studied and he was being annoying. He always said she had better grades because of the way he teased her. She retorted that he would have better grades if he studied like she did. He simply said, “Who’s going to help you focus?”

Justin closed his eyes and said, “The door to Clara is a fine door of the most exquisite wood. It’s painted over in pale baby blue with simple pink, yellow, and white flowers at the bottom, nestled in bright green grass. The handle is just the right height for her hand. It’s made of blue crystal and silver hardware.”

He turned over on his side and saw the door standing in his room. He stood and faced the door, reaching for the handle, but stopped short of touching it. I don’t know where she lives. He looked at the phone in his other hand. I could ask for her address. But…

“This is the Door to Clara,” he said confidently. “It knows where she is, and it will take me to her… please?”

He pulled on the handle and opened the door. He never expected to see a vast land of sand. He closed it back, shut his eyes, and said, “No. To Clara. To Clara Higgins. My… my friend.”

He opened it again. Still just sand. He took a deep breath. Surely I can walk back through to get home if this goes wrong.

Stepping through, Justin felt instant heat. He welcomed it at first. It was twenty-five and snowing at home, his mom didn’t like turning the heater very high, and she’d turned off the oven a couple of hours ago. The heat quickly became too much, though, thanks to his Christmas sweater.

Justin faced the door and saw a small house behind it. The only house around, it stood with white chipping walls and covered windows. Justin decided he’d come this far—he might as well knock. No one answered. He put an ear to the door. Is that snoring?

He knocked again. This time he heard feet shuffle to the door. There was a peephole, and he wondered if the person on the other side was looking through it. He smiled his best, but he felt dumb doing it.

The handle clicked unlocked and the door cracked open, revealing Clara’s blue eyes. He started to say her name, but she pushed him back and stepped outside, quickly and quietly closing the door behind her. She pushed him a few feet from the house before saying, “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“I uh… made another magic door?”

“Another magic—“ Clara stopped when she saw the door standing in the middle of her… lawn. Justin couldn’t think of anything else to call the sand around her house.

He buried his hands into his pockets with a tiny shrug. “It’s the Door to Clara.”

He could see so many different thoughts pass across her face, yet he couldn’t discern a single one. After a moment, she crossed her arms and leaned on one leg. “You made a door to me?”

Justin smirked. “Yeah.”

She rolled her eyes with a smile. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to see you for Christmas. But I didn’t expect to find you—“

“Living in the desert with my uncle?”

“Your uncle?”

Clara’s arms moved from crossing over her chest to wrapping around the other . Her gaze dropped as she said, “I haven’t told you everything about my home life.”

“Hey,” he put a finger to her chin and lifted it. “You don’t have to. That’s not for me to know, that’s for you to keep private or share whenever you want. Right now, though… do you think you would be missed if we went on a little Christmas excursion?”

Clara glanced back at the house. The snores had gotten louder. “I suppose not.”

“Great. How about you go get your coat—I know you have one, you’ve worn it at school—and I’ll make a new door.”

“Okay!” Clara rushed to get her coat, and Justin thought about Christmas in New York City. The lights, the trees, the snow… it was all so beautiful, and just what Clara would need. Maybe next year they could visit London or some other place, but he wanted to start out somewhere they would be a little familiar with. After all, they’d watched plenty of movies set in New York together. And if the door stopped working, they wouldn’t be in a foreign country. Yes, New York was it.

Clara came out to find a telephone booth. “I don’t think those still exist,” she said.
“Good. We’ll be able to find our way back easier.”
“Won’t someone else see it?”
“No one will see. I’ve decided to put magic on both doors.”
“You can really do that?”
“It’s Christmas,” Justin said with a wink. “You gotta believe anything’s possible. Especially for my best friend.”

Justin saw Clara blush for the first time since he’d known her. “I’ve called you that before, haven’t I?” he asked. She shook her head with a shy smile. He took her hand in his and said, “Well, you are my best friend. Forever and always.”

Clara’s shy smile turned into a bright grin. “Forever and always,” she whispered.

“Let’s go!” he pulled her along to the telephone booth. They stepped inside, and snow swirled around them until the desert faded away and they could see the bright lights of New York City appear.

---

If you would like to read the rest of the story, sign up for my free monthly newsletter. The next part of the story will be released in that special newsletter on Christmas Eve! Follow the adventures of Justin and Clara as they explore New York City on Christmas Day!

Late blooms the flower
‘Neath the stone archway’s warm shade
Where we all will be

I read the words thinking, “That’s ominous. It started out so nicely… What happened?”

My old professor’s words rang in my ears: “Life is hard, and then you die.” It was mine and my best friend’s favorite phrase—odd but comforting. That’s what this haiku reminded me of.  What it meant, though, was anyone’s guess.

I shifted in the dining room chair, reading it over and over again, trying to understand it. The little dragon on the doorknob had worked so hard to tell it to me; I figured it must be important. I looked at the little guy, nestled sweetly in the metal carnations. He glowed slightly, sending me new thoughts.

“But I have looked at it,” I said.

He glowed, repeating his desire.

I huffed before returning to the poem. Late blooms the flower. I repeated it out loud before deciding to Google “late-blooming flowers.”

“Ugh, there are so many! Okay. What about the second line? Surely it will narrow down my options.”

‘Neath the stone archway’s warm shade.

“What stone archway?”

I wracked my brain so hard to remember if there were any such landmarks nearby.

Where we all will be.

“Where will we all be? And who’s ‘we’? Is it you and me, the neighborhood, the whole world?” The dragon did nothing. “You gave me this poem, and you send me thoughts, but you can’t give me a hint about the answers to this poem? What kind of dragon are you?”

The doorknob glowed bright red, burning my hand. I still couldn’t let it go, and all I could do was shake it.

“Gah! Okay, stop! I’ll figure it out. Geez, you’re mean.”

I walked to the living room and looked out the window, trying to remember everything in my neighborhood. “I’m going to assume that the poem is for anyone. Like, anyone reading this would feel like that’s where we will all end up someday—wait. The cemetery? Are you talking about a cemetery?”

The dragon remained silent.

“Thanks for the help. Good grief. It’s a good thing for you that I know there is a stone archway in the cemetery. So, if we go there, we’ll find the correct flowers.”

The little dragon glowed with delight.

“Why couldn’t you just tell me that?” I said as I rolled my eyes. I didn’t get a response, and I didn’t expect one. I grabbed my keys and took the doorknob to my car. I tried putting on my seatbelt but it was nearly impossible. How was I supposed to drive?

“Hey, uh… Can I please put you down? I can’t hold you forever.”

I felt something. The dragon was attempting more communication.

“Your name? I don’t know your name.”

A few more feelings.

“You want me to guess?” I sighed. “Okay. Fine. Um… Firecracker?”

He glowed a different color. I assumed that wasn’t it.

“Walnut? Steely? You know, because you’re made of metal?” I laughed but quickly stopped when the knob began to heat. “Okay, okay. Um…” I closed my eyes and thought hard, but suddenly I felt like maybe I needed to stop thinking.

I pushed out all my thoughts and simply listened to the silence. Letters began forming in my mind and I said, “Francis?”

I opened my eyes to see delightful glows flourishing over the dragon’s body and the carnations.

“Alright, then, Francis. Can you please let me put you down so I can drive to the archway?” I was able to move my fingers for once, and I put the knob in the passenger seat. “Ah…” I said, stretching my hand. “Thank you. Freedom at last.”

I pulled out of the garage and onto the street. As I drove, I scoffed. “Who would name a dragon Francis anyway?”

I smelled something strange. I peeked at the doorknob and saw smoke coming from the seat. I hit the brakes, which caused the knob to shake. “Stop it!” I yelled, then scanned the car for anything to push the doorknob off the seat with. “Stop! You’re going to set my car on fire! Then you won’t even be around to be helped.”

The doorknob stopped burning, and I moved it to the floorboard, then I splashed water on the passenger seat and got it to stop smoking. “That was rude.”

I picked the doorknob back up and felt the dragon repeat my sentiment. “I just asked a question! You didn’t have to destroy my car!”

The dragon sent indignation, reminding me of my scoff. “Look, I’m sorry I made fun of your name. But that was uncalled for. Why should I even help you now?”

The dragon didn’t glow but flashed. There was an urgency to his communicated feelings. Something worried him, and it scared me. “Okay, I’ll help you. But you can’t burn my things anymore, got it?”

The flashing slowed into a glow once again, and I felt the dragon’s curiosity. “My name?” I asked. The glow disappeared. I began to understand that meant yes. “My name’s Autumn.”

Another delightful glow, and I gave a pleased laugh. “It’s nice to meet you too, Francis.”

---

This story is a continuation of “The Doorknob“. The Haiku was inspired by a prompt by a member of my flash fiction club, Grace Routon. You can read her stories in each of the Adventuring Together anthologies.

To know the dark is to know the deepest part of yourself. You can’t appreciate light’s beauty without understanding the dark’s ugliness. What light is in you is not completely of yourself, but neither is the dark. To know yourself is to know everything and everyone who came before you, and will live after you, all who possess light and dark. This means embracing the good and the bad, never shutting out one for the other. These are the things you will need to know as you go through life, Ursula. Never forget them.

Ursula closed the note and put it back into its worn envelope. She took a deep breath as she pressed the yellowed paper to her chest. It’d been ten years since she’d heard the voice of the letter’s author. Ten years had passed since he gave himself up so that she, his granddaughter, could get away. She tucked the envelope back into her bodice, the safest place for it. Always keeping it close reminded Ursula what he wanted her to know. That knowledge was the reason she still lived—why she kept fighting.

The Oppressors had ignored all the old man’s words and embraced the dark in place of the light. They knew darkness too well, and the Oppressed ignored it completely. But Ursula, she held onto both. She dared not let go of the light and become like those who destroyed her family, and she refused to ignore the dark for fear of becoming a victim.

“A lot of good that did me,” she scoffed. “The oppressed are outside with loved ones while I’m shut up in a forgotten storage room.”

Ursula leaned her head against the stone wall. One locked door and no windows—only darkness. She closed her eyes.

“If I can embrace the darkness here, I can do it anywhere.”

“I told you so.”

Ursula’s ears twitched at the sounds. She looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person who said it. “You’ve really lost it,” she said to herself. “There’s no one here.”

She lied down, knowing it was just her her mind playing tricks. Those words were what she knew Jason would’ve said if he could see her now, and she smirked to think of it. He’d told her the last mission was dangerous and that she wasn’t ready for it. He was right. She was caught and locked away. But still, the thought of Jason comforted her as it reminded her she was not alone anymore. Resistors were gathering, people who sought balance between light and dark, like she did. They would come for her—she just had to survive.

Five days later

Ursula opened her eyes again. Embracing both dark and light meant accepting her predicament and maintaining hope. She wished hand tools were lying around she could pry apart the wood door with, but she’d scouted the whole place twenty times by now. Her body was the only thing in the room. The walls were solid stone, and the floor was made of compact dirt.

But, it was a new day, meaning it was time to pace the room, building to a run, and leveling out to a trot, then slowing to a walk again. “Always moving,” Jason had said once. It was true, Ursula rarely sat or stayed in the same place for long. That’s why she was a field agent instead of a spy. She could always be on the move when she didn’t have to pretend to be content. Move. Maybe… the stone walls could move. After all, this place was old and the mortar between the stones might have loosened.

Ursula dug her feet into the floor and pushed on various points of the wall that she could reach. Her arms shook with each attempt to find a weak point. But the only weakness she found was her own. No one had come to her since she was locked up, meaning she’d had no food or water for five days, and Ursula’s strength failed her.

She refused to give up. She tested every inch of the wall. Once, her hands slipped, and the stone cut them as she fell down, slamming her jaw into the ground. Tears stung her eyes as her hands dripped. Ursula cradled her hands a moment, then stood again. She pushed her shoulder against the wall, refusing to let her minor injuries stop her from escaping. All she could think about was escaping and finding water.

She continued on for half a wall before a stone shifted. Adrenaline took over and she shoved with everything she had. Her feet dug deep into the dirt floor, turning to mud with her sweat. She pushed more still, her hands turning to mush. Ursula’s feet suddenly stopped, causing her hands to buckle. She fell to the floor, curled her feet in, and pushed out again, searching for relief from the spasms.

She squirmed in place for several minutes before reaching for the place where her feet failed her. Ursula’s sore muscles and torn hands forced involuntary groans and shouts as she felt hardwood buried below the dirt. She ran her hand across the surface and felt cool metal. she pulled up on it, revealing a smuggler’s hatch. It was a small hole, but Ursula figured if anyone could steal goods from here through that hole, she could fit. She reluctantly climbed in, hoping it led outside.

Claustrophobia was an unfamiliar feeling that became all too real as the fear of getting stuck and dying before reaching the surface plagued Ursula. Breathing became a struggle and tears drenched the dirt around her. She couldn’t stop them—specks of dirt burned the open wounds of her hands as she climbed. She closed her eyes. “Embrace the dark,” she whispered between sobs. “I’m here. Accept it.” The tunnel stopped going down and began moving up, giving Ursula hope, “I will get out. That’s the light.” She pushed through the tunnel’s deteriorated sides, forcing her way higher.

Something cold touched her shoulders, and Ursula stopped moving. She couldn’t decide if it was a worm, spider, or snake, but it did move. She ignored it and kept moving. “Embrace the dark,” she repeated a few more times. “The faster I move, the faster I can get away from whatever that is.” Peace surged through her and she whispered, “Now push toward the light.”

Minutes passed, and Ursula’s head hit a wall of dirt. Was she at the top? Why wasn’t there another door or a simple hole? Her chest tightened. There had to be a way out. She couldn’t be stuck here. She’d come too far. Ursula dug her nails into the dirt, clawing hard and fast. The ceiling began caving in, burying her. She stopped to brush the dirt from her nose and mouth, breathing in what air she could. What if she turned back now? Could she make it where there was unlimited air? Maybe someone would open the door, or she could try the wall again.

Ursula wriggled and squirmed and pushed. She couldn’t move. Hyperventilating, her tears choked her. She was stuck. Digging only made it worse. But, what else was she to do? She called out for help, hoping someone, anyone, even Oppressors, would hear. Her head beginning to spin, Ursula dug at the ceiling more, pushing the dirt from her mouth and nose every few seconds. She dug and scratched and pushed, but her body refused to move upward. With the collapsing ceiling, the hole got smaller.

A large clump of dirt fell at once, covering Ursula’s face and compacting her arms upright. She could feel the wind, but she couldn’t breathe in any of it. Unable to bend her arms, Ursula slowly began to suffocate, her tears caking the dirt around her eyes. This was never how she was supposed to die.

Her hands turned to pins and needles. She wiggled her fingers, but it only made them worse. Her legs numbed and her chest heaved, causing more dirt to fall through her nose, stinging inside. Ursula wished the end would come faster and relieve her pain.

She tried to think of someplace else, someplace peaceful as her last thought, but something like a thousand frozen knives raged through her arms, and she couldn’t find the air to scream. Her torso slid upward. The dirt over her mouth shifted so she could cough. Ursula’s ears twitched with high-toned vibrations. Her hands and arms roared once more as her body seemed to sprout wings and fly to the surface. Light broke through the dirt and her lungs struggled to catch the air.

After a few moments of painful chest compressions, awakening her nerves, Ursula was able to breathe on her own. She opened her eyes to see Jason and other Resistors kneeling around her head. Jason took her hand. “You’re safe now,” he said. “We’ve got you.” Ursula managed a smile before her eyes closed for a rejuvenating sleep.

The place was unfamiliar to Ursula, yet the four-thousand-year-old church toward over the ashes of a broken city, an old sight to her eyes. She couldn’t help but notice the juxtaposition between the peaceful images within her refuge and the bloody raid without; it caused her head to pound. There was no time to appreciate the ancient beauty. People were dying, and Ursula had to act fast.

Jason saw her stance stiffen, readying to dart into the open and fight the raiders head-on. “Don’t do it,” he said.

She shook her head. “I can’t just stand by and watch.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Stand by and watch today, and you’ll have a chance to make it right tomorrow.”

She pulled away. “By tomorrow it will be too late for someone. I have to do this now.”

“Ursula, this isn’t the mission, and you’re not ready. It’s too dangerous.”

She took off. Ursula didn’t care if Jason had her back or not, she had to take action. She scooped up a few children from the streets and placed them in safer places. She circled around and took out two Oppressors with her scimitar before using their blasters against three more. Jason sprinted past Ursula and she smiled when he punched an Oppressor and shot another.

The two of them were the only Resistors in the area, up against twenty Oppressors and dozens of the Oppressed to keep out of the crossfire. Ursula and Jason were just supposed to gather supplies, not stop a raid. But Ursula knew the raiders’ hunger had no bounds, even their hunger for life. Now she’d gotten them into a deadly skirmish, and she appreciated the significance of Jason’s refusal to let her fight alone.

One by one, Oppressors fell, and soon twenty more replaced the original set. Ursula had trained with the Resistors for months, but now, it wasn’t enough. She shot one Oppressor and kicked another before ramming him into the unstable remains of a house. The falling stones impressed new bruises and scratches on her arms. She turned to the open street just in time to save a crouching young man with a shot of her blaster.

If only the Oppressed would join the fight, she thought. As she dodged the attack of another raider, she could hear her father’s words from long ago: “They embrace too much light, never enough darkness. They’re afraid of it, just as the Oppressors fear the light.”

Ursula’s blaster overheated, burning her fingers, and she threw it away. She took hold of a crystal from a deserted merchant’s stand and used it to reflect the raider’s blaster shot back at him. “That’s… what you get… for being afraid of the light,” she said breathlessly.

Five enemy fighters surrounded her at once as she lost sight of Jason. Ursula stood her ground, swaying in pain, clinching her scimitar. She searched the faces around her. The civilians she’d saved stood by and watched, some hugging their loved ones. Her head pounded and her arms dripped red. She dropped her weapon, fell to her knees, and put her hands behind her head. “Survive to fight another day,” she whispered.

The Oppressors put Ursula in chains and forced her to her feet. She scanned the faces around her desperately for Jason. Had he abandoned her? She refused to believe it. He always said it was better to return with reinforcements. After all, it’s what he’d said when she jumped into this mess, wasn’t it? He would save her. She just had to hold on.

Justin sat at the library table, the one place he found comfort when he felt down. Being surrounded by piles and piles of books filled with faraway stories and tidy endings was his favorite feeling. Clara tapped him on the shoulder. He didn’t even realize she had sat down.

“You alright?” she asked.

Justin groaned as he dropped his head into his crossed arms, lying on the table.

“What happened?”

“Kayla dumped me.”

“What is that, like your fourth one in two years?”

Justin’s head shot straight up. “Celia doesn’t count. We had one dinner.”

“Kayla makes four.”

Justin dropped again.

“You refused to take the blame for something, didn’t you?” Clara asked knowingly.

Justin turned his head sideways so his mouth was free to move. “Is it my fault the stove in the girls’ dorm gets hotter than the one in the boys’?”

“Really?”

“After all, she’s the one that left me unattended.”

“Justin!”

Before Justin could react, everyone in the library hushed them.

Clara whispered, “Can we please go somewhere we can actually talk?”

Justin said as he turned his face back into his arms, “Just leave me alone.”

Clara stood up. “Come on.” She tugged on his arm, making his face hit the table.

“Hey!” Justin snapped.

They got more shushes.

Justin groaned and followed Clara.

They walked to his dorm and sat in their usual places, Justin in the chair and Clara on the bed. He didn’t have enough room for another chair, and he sure wasn’t going to let Clara sit on the one with no cushion.

“Why do you never admit to being the one at fault? It’s the reason you’re single… again.”

Justin crossed his arms. “Not everything is my fault.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact I can’t bring us into another story.”

“How is that not your fault?”

“Because you don’t believe it can happen again. I can’t work with a doubter.”

Clara crossed her arms. “I believed the first two attempts. It’s the third time I stopped. It’s all on you.”

Justin dropped once more.

Clara added, “Besides, who ever heard of stories coming to life?”

“Stories themselves don’t come to life, you doubter. That’s a different concept altogether.”

“Alright, tell me. What is it like for stories to come to life?”

“Well…” Justin thought hard. He could see it in his mind, but how to describe it eluded him. “Well, you see, the difference is the things that come alive are the elements in the story. The people, the-the animals, the objects. The stories themselves are everything all at once. Maybe…” Justin felt like he was losing the argument, but he wasn’t going to admit it. “It depends on the format of the story.”

“The format?” Clara asked incredulously.

“Yeah. Is it on paper? In a computer? How was it written? With letters or is it an audiobook?” Justin began drifting in his thoughts, trying to understand them more than he was trying to convince Clara.

“When stories come to life, they don’t have bodies. They’re just dreams, at first. That’s why there are letters. They’re the gateway to a world that previously only existed in the author’s brain. When stories come to life, it’s harder, because certain elements can come out, but if it’s the whole story, it’s a whole world within our own. So, in order for them to live without destroying everything around them, they must stay in the bodies provided for them. The books, the pages, the letters.”

He stood from the chair as he continued. “You see, they stand, and look around. They stretch and yawn in such a strange way because they don’t have arms… or legs. Their form is created by the letters. But they have to maintain their order, or the story is lost. It’d be a mixed alphabet. See them… they come to us now… Look at them… They want to say hello. But… Some are not so nice. You see, some are darker genres than others. It’s not their fault. They just… they have a natural inclination to attack.”

“Justin! Make them stop!”

Justin opened his eyes to see three little paperback books trying to kick at Clara’s shins. They didn’t have legs, just like he said. Instead, they were wiggling and hitting her with the corners of their covers. The pages swung and closed to create the desired movement.

“It worked! It worked!” Justin cried, dancing in a circle around the room.

Clara curled into a tight ball on Justin’s bed. “Yeah, it worked! Now get them to stop!”

---

This story is a continuation of “The Door of Nowhere,” which can be found in Adventuring Together: A Flash Fiction Anthology, Season One. You can read this collection for free and learn more about Justin and Clara’s friendship. Download now from Amazon or Nook.

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