Young Writers Society

So, about seven years ago, I had this story idea. I've never been able to shake it and decided to take another stab at it, now that I'm older, wiser (I'd like to think), and write for a living. I hope you enjoy and feel free to comment critiques.

Ch. 1

“Rori, you need to get up!” Mom yells from downstairs.

Happy birthday to me. I thought sarcastically. Can’t a girl just sleep in as celebration?

I roll over on my much too small twin sized bed and look at the window across my bedroom. The June Maryland sun is gleaming through my window blinds and sheer curtains. I guess it has to be 10 o’clock by now, and sure enough, I look at my cell phone and it reads 10:18 am. I figure I shouldn’t be that person who wastes half the day, so I reluctantly get out of my bed.

One perk of being an only child is that I get my own bathroom. I couldn’t imagine having to share one with a sibling. I’m too possessive and take way too long to take a shower or get ready for the day. I brush my average length, average mousy-brown hair. I dress my averagely sized self.

I may not have much in the way of self-confidence.

“Really, Rori!” I hear Mom shout while making my way out of my room. “Your grandmother is going to be here in one hour, the party starts in two and we aren’t ready! Get your butt in gear and help.”

That’s my mom, always blunt and honest.

“Mom, we really don’t need to have a party for my birthday. I’m 24. I think the parties are getting a little old,” I argued walking down the staircase. Every year, my mom goes all out for a birthday party for me. It must be that only child thing again.

“You’re getting a party. It’s normal.”

Here’s the thing—my family is far from what you would consider “normal.” Special? Maybe. Weird? Definitely. We have this...gift. I’m not even sure if that’s a way to describe it. Perhaps “family tradition” is more accurate.

There’s no delicate way to put it, so as made famous by The Sixth Sense…

I see dead people.

Sorry, my whole family sees dead people. We are called Protectors. It’s an old secret society ran by the Council of Elders where we protect those recently Departed who are in Transition. See, when you kick the bucket, you don’t just cross over or go to the other side. There’s this three-day window to let you adjust and come to grips with the fact that you are deceased. After the third day, you can leave and move on.

But that’s not even the worst of it. We’re given the name Protectors because we have to protect these people from the Umbrae. These spirits, ghosts, or whatever consume the souls of the Departed in exchange for power and strength. It’s a quid pro quo situation—the more souls, the more powerful they are, and some are pretty awful. They can manipulate things and even people if powerful enough. You know those stories about haunted houses and people being possessed? Yeah, those were Umbrae.

I told you—we’re weird.

Of course, we can’t let just everyone know about us. So, we have to live typical lives on top of it. Mom is a real estate agent and Dad is an accountant.

I’m studying for my Bachelors in Business. It’s not exciting, but it’s something. The roughest part is trying to maintain grades on top of my Protector duties and training. Hence why I’m 24 and still in school.

“Okay, Mom,” I fake smiled. “Whatever you want. Thanks for the party.”

For the next hour, I helped set up the corny decorations—bunting banners, streamers and a cake that had all 24 candles on it.

A subtle knock on the door halted our decorating. Mom stopped with her attempt at centering the bunting banner for the umpteenth time with a squeal.

“Ahh! Your grandmother is here!”

Mom rushes to the door and lets in my white haired grandmother holding a perfectly wrapped present, which I guess is something I’ll have to fake a smile about when I open it.

“Mother! I’m so glad you’re here,” Mom says. She and Grammy are very close, though they live several states a part. Grammy did the typical retirement thing and moved to Florida.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Grammy says, then looks toward me. “Get over here, birthday girl.”

Oh dear Lord, please don’t call me that all day.

“Hi Grammy,” I say with a smile. “It’s great to see you again.”

“Honey, are you eating?! You’re skin and bones!”

She’s also a food-pusher. If you aren’t eating five square meals a day, you aren’t doing it right.

“Yes,” I sigh. “I make your meatloaf like once a week.” That’ll make her happy.

“Where’s Jim, Cathy?” Grammy asks Mom about Dad. “He’s out working hard isn’t he?”

Also a little sexist. She fully embraced her era where the woman takes care of her man. She took care of my grandfather all of his life until he passed away.

“He’s actually out picking up the food,” Mom corrects. She’s like me—a woman is equal in the marriage, but we don’t like to argue that with Grammy.

“Speaking of hard working men,” Grammy chuckles, “Rori, is that good looking Garrett Fisher going to be coming today?” I see a little flicker in her eye toward Mom. Almost instantaneously, I see Mom fight a small smirk.

“Of course he will be!” Mom quickly answers. Almost too quickly for my liking.

Oh, Garrett. Where to even begin with him? Simply, the easiest way to put it he is my betrothed.

God, that sounds so antiquated. Being a Protector comes with certain lifestyles that are out of your choice, including your love life. Protector abilities are passed through the bloodlines, so to ensure your children are Protectors themselves, marriages are arranged during childhood. Then after you turn 25, you get married. How romantic.

“That boy is just so handsome!” Grammy exclaims. “And a damn good Protector to boot.”

While Mom and Grammy go on about how wonderful Garrett is, I subtly slip away. While passing the front door, Dad walks in, with a handful of food.

“Happy birthday, Ror,” Dad says using his favorite nickname for me. “Hey, we’re going to move up training tomorrow to nine. So don’t sleep in.”

I nod with an eye roll and In our society, parents train their children to be Protectors. Then in their last year before marriage, the Council of Elders assign a trainer. This trainer basically assesses your skills and refines anything he or she deems utter crap.

Since I turn 24 today, I imagine my trainer will be coming sometime soon. Yet another aspect of my life that is under someone else’s control.

I kill some more time by cleaning my room. Though I doubt anyone will be going up there during the party, it at least gets me away from my loving, but prying grandmother. Plus, my room is a mess usually.

It seems like no time before the door bell is ringing and knocks are continuous. A barrage of guests make their way in—Aunt Shirley, Uncle David, and various family friends.

After several minutes of uncomfortable small talk and may happy birthday wishes, my ever so wonderful friend, Melissa saves the day by making her appearance.

Melissa is perhaps the exact opposite that I am. The girl could get any guy she wanted with her beautiful blonde hair, perfect fair complexion and piercing blue eyes. And though her looks could easily increase her ego, she is hands down the most kind, gentlest person I’ve ever met. How she puts up with my loud mouth is beyond my comprehension.

“Thank God you’re here,” I say, grabbing Melissa the instant she walks through the front doorway. “Aunt Shirley keeps telling me the same story about her trip to Saint Lucia.”

“Hello to you too,” she laughs. “Happy birthday by the way.”

“Oh is that today?”

Melissa gives me her typical smirk and eye roll combination that I get from her quite frequently.

“I saw Garrett on the way here. It looks like he was headed this way.” I see Melissa’s eyebrows go way up.

“Yeah, I think he’ll be here.” I say nonchalantly.

“Garrett is handsome, sweet, and into you! Why don’t you want to give him a chance?”

Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because mommy and daddy say I have to spend my entire life with him and birth his children?

Melissa has no idea about mine and my family’s Protector duties, or any part of that world. I don’t even know if she would believe me if I told her. It does sound pretty ridiculous unless you’re a part of it.

“He’s just a friend,” I say pathetically. It’s the only excuse I can come up with.

“Whatever you say,” she jokes. “I know there’s something going on.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rings again, and Mom opens the door to Garrett Fisher.

I can see why Melissa, Mom and Grammy all find him attractive. He’s got that boy-next-door quality to him—sandy brown hair, tall, athletic build and light, happy eyes. But I wasn’t lying when I said he was just a friend. We will hang out and do things together, but I’ve never felt that attraction to him.

“Garrett, you know you don’t have to ring that stupid bell!” Mom exclaimed. “You’re like family. Family walks right on in!”

“Of course, Mrs. Barnes,” Garrett responds. “I’ll certainly remember for next time.”

Always the gentleman.

“Ror, it’s great to see you as always,” he says toward me with a smile. “Happy birthday.”

I could feel the eyes on me by my family. Of course they all know he’s the one I am to marry next year. Ugh, one year of freedom.

“Thanks, Garrett. It’s great to see you to,” I say genuinely. I may not want to marry the guy, but he’s still a good friend.

“Time for gifts!” Mom suddenly bursts out. Everyone in the room nods and speaks in agreement.

“Surely people want to eat first,” I say in confusion. We always eat first, every year.

“Listen to your mother,” Grammy pipes in sternly. “She says gifts first, so gifts first.”

No way was I arguing with her.

“Uh, okay?” I head toward the table with gifts on it. “I’ll start with yours Grammy.”

I go on to open Grammy’s gift—a teapot. Really, I can’t make this up. An honest to God teapot.

“For when you and your husband entertain guests!” she says ecstatically looking toward Garrett. My eyes go wide because of Melissa’s lack of knowledge. Subtly isn’t Grammy’s forte. Fortunately, Melissa just laughed with the others and didn’t seem to think anything other than Grammy just being eccentric.

I proceed with other gifts from family—pots and pans, a toaster oven and even a vacuum. I see a pattern, and a very highly gendered one at that. I should take offense, but opening each one was raising my anxiety level. I had a very strong inkling about what my last gift would be. Though it’s not necessary, most guys usually go through the traditional steps.

“Well, that’s the last one,” I say quickly. “Time to eat!”

Garrett stands up, hand in pocket.

Oh no. No. No no no.

“Before we eat,” Garrett says calmly and collected. “I have one last gift.”

He walks across the room and stands right across from me.

“Rory Barnes, you are the best person I know, and we will have a wonderful life together.” He then gets down on one knee and asks the question I’ve been dreading to hear. “Will you marry me?”

My heart feels like it is going to jump out of my chest while simultaneously fall into my stomach. My mind feels like it’s moving 90 miles a minute and can’t grasp a single thought.

Yet, somehow I manage to say, “Of course.”

He slips a beautiful diamond ring on my finger, and wraps me in a hug. Over his shoulder, I see Melissa’s extreme look of confusion.

Next to her, I see Mom. She’s smiling so big it could go through the freaking ceiling.