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Shortage of Breath

The dream of Thomas still clings to the edges of my consciousness, a vivid haunting that left me gasping for air the moment I broke the surface of sleep. While lost in that subconscious encounter, my breathing grew shallow and frantic, mimicking the tiny, staccato inhalations of a mouse as if my lungs had suddenly lost their capacity for depth.  The air became a scarce luxury I couldn't quite reach within the confines of the dream, and the suffocating pressure of those minute, rapid breaths eventually forced my eyes open in a desperate bid for survival. Now, I am left in the quiet dark, my chest heaving to reclaim the oxygen I lost, while the memory of Thomas lingers in the heavy, still air of the room.
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Mystery Bag

The biting night air of the multi-story parking lot hit Danni like a physical blow. Jet-lagged and disoriented after two weeks in the sun, she fumbled for her car keys, the familiar concrete maze feeling utterly alien. Her fingers brushed against the rough texture of a large brown handbag slung over her shoulder.

She paused. This wasn't hers.



Danni remembered her small, colourful clutch, packed light for the resort. This bag was hefty, coarse leather, dark and unadorned. A sudden, faint thump pulsed from deep within its confines, vibrating against her hip. Her breath hitched. She didn’t recall buying it, let alone packing it.

The parking lot stretched, vast and empty under the sickly yellow glow of the sodium lamps. Every shadow seemed to lengthen, twist. A cold dread began to coil in her stomach. What if it wasn't a souvenir she’d forgotten? What if it wasn't even hers?

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Slowly, deliberately, Danni’s trembling hand reached for the zipper. The sound, a sharp, metallic whisper, echoed unnervingly loud in the quiet night. She peered into the gloom, her eyes straining.

A single, dark object lay nestled amidst crumpled tissue paper. It wasn't money. It wasn't a holiday trinket. It was a tarnished, heavy something, intricately wired, giving off a faint, almost imperceptible hum.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A text from an unknown number: “Don’t open it again. Not yet”.

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