Watching Milk

Gigi pointed the remote toward the entertainment center. The television sat between the two tall JBL speakers.

They hummed softly to life.

A second later YouTube filled the screen and “Highway Tune” exploded through the house. Greta Van Fleet.

Gigi smiled as the opening guitar riff thundered through the living room, vibrating faintly under her feet. Sunlight poured through the front windows, bouncing off the glossy pink refrigerator.

She walked over and fixed Michael’s navy blue blanket where it had slipped crooked across the white chair near the window. Carefully, she folded it back into place the way he liked it before turning toward the kitchen.

At the sink, Gigi grabbed a cleaning rag from the counter and started wiping things down, singing a few words quietly under her breath. Not loudly—just enough to enjoy herself.

Every now and then she swayed with the music.

Small movements.

Barely dancing.

Just enough to feel alive.

As the chorus hit, she turned from the sink and did a small spin toward the refrigerator, singing along.

“Oh mama…”

She caught the handle to steady herself, then went back to wiping fingerprints like nothing had happened.

Luke watched the entire thing from the hallway, unimpressed.

Gigi laughed softly under her breath and steadied herself against the counter.

“Mind your business,” she told him, still smiling.

She carried the rag to the kitchen sink, rinsed it under warm water, and hung it neatly over the divider. Greta Van Fleet rolled from one song into another—loud guitars, fast drums, music that pushed everything else aside.

In the dining room she caught the edge of Michael’s dusty work boot with her foot.

“Oh for heaven’s sake.”

She grabbed the back of the chair before she could tip. Michael’s jacket still hung over it exactly where he’d left it. He’d kicked off the work boots, pulled on his Harley boots, and gone riding with Kevin—forgetting, as usual, to put anything away.

Gigi nudged the boot aside and kept moving, her thoughts already drifting to the stack of handwritten pages waiting on the dining table.

Kris had been trying lately.

Working part-time.

Writing more.

Talking about college again.

Gigi’s mouth tightened at the thought of Diane, but she pushed it aside.

A job was a job.

Progress was progress.

The heavier thoughts came anyway—John, Faith, tuition, bills, the strain buried under John’s voice every time he called.

Gigi stopped moving.

The familiar weight tried settling onto her shoulders.

No.

She closed her eyes and took two slow breaths.

“Not today,” she whispered.

Luke barked once toward the front window.

“Leave those cats alone,” she called automatically.

Through the glass she saw movement near the magnolia tree.

Neighborhood strays, probably.

By the time she settled at the dining table with Kris’s pages spread out, the playlist had shifted to slower songs.

Sunlight spilled warmly across the wood.

Luke lay nearby, watching her.

Gigi adjusted her reading glasses. Kris’s handwriting slanted unevenly across the pages in dark pencil, some words pressed so hard they nearly tore through the paper.

She opened a document on her laptop and cracked her knuckles lightly.

“Alright.”

Then she froze.

The notebooks.

She’d left the rest of the story in the Jeep.

“Oh darn it.”

Gigi pushed herself up, using the table for support, and headed toward the front door.

Luke followed immediately behind her.

The heavy Florida heat wrapped around her the second she opened the door.

The Jeep sat exactly where she’d left it.

The passenger door was cracked open.

And even from the doorway she could see the ruined notebooks piled across the seat beneath thick white clumps and streaks of spoiled milk.

Gigi stopped moving.

The smell drifted toward her slowly—sour, thick, rotting milk trapped in hot air.

The pages had swollen thick with moisture.

One peeled slowly loose from another with a wet tearing sound as the breeze shifted through the open Jeep door.

Milk dripped slowly onto the floor mat below.

Gigi stared at Kris’s ruined handwriting beneath the mess.

Every careful word the girl had finally dared to put down.

Somewhere inside the house, Greta Van Fleet drifted faintly through the open door.

“Someone’s always watching over…”

The lyrics sounded distant.

Wrong.

Gigi gripped the edge of the doorway until her knuckles whitened.

Luke pressed warm and solid against her leg, the way he always did when he knew she was slipping.

For the first time all morning, the heaviness she had been fighting settled fully onto her shoulders.

Cold Glass

The mall felt half-asleep, a vast, echoing chamber slowly shutting down for the night. Most stores were already down, their doors locked tight. The few remaining lights stretched across the polished tile in long, cold streaks like reflections on black ice.

Somewhere deeper in the corridor a cleaning machine hummed low and rhythmic, like machinery breathing underwater.

Gigi and Kris walked side by side toward the pharmacy. Gigi clutched Michael’s prescription paperwork so tightly the edges bit into her palm. Her purse strap kept sliding off her shoulder no matter how many times she hiked it back up. Every step felt heavier than the last.

Kris glanced toward the second level. “Sometimes they have to mix the medication. It might be a few minutes.”

Gigi sighed, the sound thin and worn. “Probably.”

“The bookstore upstairs might still be open. I’m gonna go look before they close.”

Gigi’s eyes flicked immediately toward the escalator.

The moving metal steps climbed endlessly upward beneath the fluorescent glare. Her stomach tightened hard.

“You could wait.”

“I’ll stay inside the mall.” Kris already sounded distracted, her thoughts halfway among shelves and clearance bins.

“Phone on?” Gigi asked quietly.

Kris lifted the little coffin-shaped wrist purse dangling from her arm and gave it a small shake.

“Yeah.”

Gigi still didn’t look happy. The worry sat on her face like an old bruise.

“I’ll be right upstairs, Mom.”

Kris headed toward the escalator while Gigi slowed several feet away from it, as if the machine might suddenly lunge forward and pull her in.

The mechanical clatter filled her chest with heat.

For one sick second she was six years old again.

Small hands slipping.

Knees smashing metal.

The bright shock of pain.

Blood.

And that awful split-second feeling that somebody had pushed her from behind.

Maybe nobody had.

Maybe she had simply lost her footing.

But Diane had laughed while she cried and strangers stared.

The memory tasted like copper and shame.

Gigi turned sharply away and forced herself toward the pharmacy entrance instead.

Inside the pharmacy, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like dying insects. Cold air poured from vents near the floor, raising gooseflesh along her arms. She waited. And waited. The pharmacist discussed insurance and costs in a quiet clinical voice that somehow made everything feel even more expensive.

The medication needed mixing.

More waiting.

Gigi felt herself thinning out beneath the lights. Michael was sick at home. Kris was somewhere upstairs. Her shoulders ached. The exhaustion wasn’t just physical anymore. It was the deep marrow-level weariness of carrying fear for everyone all the time.

Upstairs, Kris stepped off the escalator and nearly walked into Lovena standing outside a darkened clothing store.

“Oh. Hey,” Kris said.

Lovena blinked slowly. “Hi.”

Something about her felt off tonight. Not dangerous exactly. Just disconnected somehow, like half her attention was somewhere else.

“Did you ever get more Milk Stalker texts? Or strange emails?” Kris asked.

Lovena frowned faintly. “What?”

“The Milk Stalker stuff.”

Lovena’s expression changed oddly then, not confusion exactly but distance.

“No,” she said quietly. “That’s not what’s happening.”

Kris hesitated. “What do you mean?”

Lovena leaned closer, lowering her voice.

“They swap heads sometimes.”

Kris stared at her. “What?”

“Bodies too,” Lovena whispered. “But the heads are easier.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

“Lovena…”

“You can tell if you look at the neck long enough.”
Kris felt the back of her neck prickle.

Was she off her medication again? Or was she acting? Sometimes Kris genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.

Before the conversation could go further, Kris noticed the bookstore lights still glowing at the far end of the corridor.

“Oh no, they’re still open.” She pointed quickly. “I wanna run in there before they close.”

Lovena just watched her silently.

Inside the bookstore the air felt quieter somehow, almost sacred. Dust and old paper hung in the stillness alongside the faint vanilla smell of aging glue. Used books leaned together on crowded the discount shelves like tired old friends.

The tension in Kris’s shoulders loosened almost immediately.

She drifted slowly through the aisles, fingertips brushing cracked spines and folded corners while her thoughts wandered inward. Somebody had shoved a gardening book into the horror section and Kris automatically stopped to put it back where it belonged before realizing she’d done it again.

Her phone vibrated once inside the little coffin-shaped purse hanging from her wrist.

She never felt it.

One shelf leaned crooked slightly lower than the others and the unevenness tugged at her attention until she finally nudged the books straighter with careful fingertips.

The smell of paper calmed her.

Dust.

Ink.

Aging glue.

Predictable things.

Safer than people most days.

Her eyes drifted across handwritten notes inside an old hardcover. Purple ink.

Not blue.

Not black.

Purple.

Kris wondered briefly who underlined entire paragraphs in purple pen and what kind of life they had gone home to afterward.

Her phone vibrated again against her wrist.

Nothing in her body registered it.

Lovena’s whisper still echoed faintly somewhere in the back of her thoughts.

You can tell if you look at the neck long enough.

Kris found herself glancing unconsciously at strangers passing the storefront outside before feeling stupid for doing it.

Then she saw it.

Half-hidden among several crowded stacks near the back table.

The missing book.

Everything inside her went still.

Downstairs, Gigi finally left the pharmacy with the prescription bag clenched tightly in one hand. She checked her phone.

No answer.

She texted.

Then called.

Still nothing.

The mall suddenly felt much larger than before.

The corridors stretched longer beneath the cold lights while distant storefronts darkened one by one.

Gigi headed automatically toward the staircase only to stop short.

Yellow tape blocked the entrance.

Fresh paint smell.

A crooked handwritten sign.

STAIRS CLOSED.

Her chest tightened instantly.

Escalator or elevator.

Neither felt survivable.

Panic started low beneath her ribs like electricity under her skin.

The memories came anyway.

The sick lurch of falling.

Metal teeth moving beneath her body.

Diane laughing.

People staring.

Helplessness.

Always helplessness.

Gigi walked blindly until she reached the closed flower shop at the very end of the mall court. She slid down the wall slowly and sat on the cold tile floor with the prescription bag crinkling in her lap.

Her hands shook badly.

The dark storefront glass reflected her back pale and frightened beneath the fluorescent lights.

She unscrewed the cold bottle of water with trembling fingers.

The nausea rolled through her hard enough she thought she might throw up.

Not here.

Please not here.

Her chest hurt.

The mall hummed around her in long empty corridors while somewhere far away another gate slammed shut with a metallic crash that made her flinch.

Then her phone chirped softly.

Kris’s alert tone.

Gigi grabbed for it so quickly the water bottle nearly slipped from her hand.

I am fine ran into a friend got to chatting be down in a minute no worries about the moving steps sorry mom

Relief hit too fast and too hard.

For a second she thought she might cry.

Instead she bent forward slightly, pressing one hand hard against her chest while she fought to steady her breathing.

In for five.

Hold.

Out.

Again.

The cold water bottle rested against the side of her neck while she closed her eyes.

Gradually the mall began loosening its grip on her mind.

The fluorescent hum faded first.

Then the smell of floor cleaner.

Then the endless mechanical clatter of the escalator somewhere behind her.

In its place came wind.

Strong steady wind pulling hard against a sail.

Gigi pictured the old sailboat leaning sharply across dark water, the deck tilting beneath her feet in that familiar way that always felt frightening for half a second before settling into rhythm again.

Cold salt spray burst over the bow and splashed against her face.

Back then she hadn’t feared things on the water.
Not with her father there.

The mast straps clicked softly overhead in the wind.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Water hissed along the hull while the sail pulled tight above them.

She could smell the ocean so clearly it almost hurt.

Salt.

Wet rope.

Fish.

Sun-warmed shells drying somewhere along the shore.

The heavy living smell of seawater and old wood baking in the Florida heat.

Her father stood near the ropes in his faded red polo shirt and white boat shoes, steady against the shifting deck like the wind itself couldn’t move him unless he allowed it.

Calm.

Certain.

Safe.

Back then Gigi trusted the boat because she trusted him.

Trusted the water not to swallow her whole.

Trusted that if she stumbled he would catch her before she hit the deck.

On the water she didn’t brace for disaster every second.

For a little while she could just exist.

The sailboat cut steadily through the dark water while moonlight scattered silver across the waves.

No moving stairs.

No fluorescent lights.

No walls pressing down around her chest.

Only open water and wind and the slow breathing creak of the boat beneath her feet.

Her heartbeat gradually loosened its grip on her ribs.

The panic did not disappear all at once. It drifted back slowly like a tide pulling away from shore.

When Gigi finally opened her eyes again, the empty mall corridor returned piece by piece:

the dim overhead lights,
the dark storefront windows,
the lonely flowers locked behind the cold glass.

Still shaky.

Still embarrassed.

But breathing.

Gigi got up off the floor slowly and walked to go met Kris.

Flip-Flops and a Pirate Hat

The dining room smelled like fried food, ranch dressing, and warm soda. Pink plates and half-eaten desserts crowded the little table beneath the low yellow light while the dogs wandered hopefully beneath everyone’s feet looking for scraps.

Stacy talked with her hands.

“And then the entire back of the costume ripped open.”

Mary sighed, already shaking her head. “It did not.”

“It absolutely did.”

Gigi laughed softly into her drink. “The poor Bluey suit.”

Stacy pointed dramatically across the table. “Emily practically tackled him trying to hug him.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Kevin blamed a pirate.”

“He blamed three different things,” Stacy corrected. “First a cabinet. Then a motorcycle accident. Then a pirate attack.”

“That honestly sounds like him,” Gigi muttered.

The girls laughed again.

Near the wicker sofa, Kris sat curled beneath a blanket with one headphone over her ear and her tablet balanced against her knees. The glow from the screen reflected faintly across her face while she typed quietly to herself, only half listening to the conversation drifting through the room.

At the table, Stacy leaned farther forward.

“No, but Kevin’s house party was weirder.”

Mary let out a long groan. “Oh my God.”

“The basement thing?” Gigi asked carefully.

Stacy nodded quickly. “Anthony swore Kevin had a hidden room.”

“It was not a hidden room,” Mary said too fast.

“A murder room,” Stacy corrected.

Mary laughed nervously. “There was no murder room.”

Kris paused typing.

The laughter suddenly felt louder around her.

Outside the dark window beside the table, the backyard had disappeared into darkness. The glass reflected the kitchen back at them in soft yellow smears.

Stacy kept going anyway.

“And remember the donkey at your sixteenth birthday?”

Mary covered her face. “Please stop.”

“Kris,” Stacy laughed, turning toward the wicker sofa, “Kevin literally rode through the yard in flip-flops and a pirate hat screaming ‘WHERE IS THE BIRTHDAY WENCH?’”

Even Gigi laughed at that one.

“And the donkey destroyed the decorations,” Mary admitted reluctantly.

“And some biker guy cried because Anthony thanked him for singing,” Stacy added.

“That part was actually sweet,” Gigi said.

“Yeah, but it was also weird,” Stacy replied.

Kris slowly lowered her headphone.

The conversation drifted for another minute before Stacy suddenly looked toward her again.

“Hey.”

Kris glanced up from the tablet.

“Where’s your red book?”

The room quieted strangely after that.

Kris frowned and glanced beside her on the wicker sofa.

“What?”

“Your Beauty and the Beast book,” Stacy said casually. “You always carry it.”

Kris stared at the empty space beside the blanket. The tablet screen dimmed quietly in her lap.

“Oh.”

She set the tablet aside and began tossing the wicker sofa cushions one at a time. A small pink pillow slid onto the floor beside her headphones.

Nothing.

Her movements grew sharper, more frantic.

She checked beneath the blanket, then ran her hands along the wicker frame and across the floor beside the sofa, fingers sweeping the empty spaces as if the book might be hiding on purpose.

“That’s weird,” she muttered.

“The Milk Stalker stuff distracted you?” Stacy asked lightly.

Kris barely reacted. She kept searching, the easy rhythm of the room now broken by the soft thud of cushions and the faint scrape of her hands against fabric.

Gigi’s expression shifted as she watched. The laughter from earlier had faded, leaving a nervous silence in its place.

The dogs wandered through the kitchen again while the dark windows reflected the room back at them. Somewhere deeper in the house, a television played softly to nobody at all.

Hey yall! I just wrapped up a week of cat and house sitting for a family member who has two daughters- and they gave me full permission to play with any of their toys...so I did! This is my personal mini-me barbie modeling her favorite fits and accessories from the girls' toy boxes. Not pictured are the dolls that live here, who all got hair rescues. The horse also got a bath and brushout as he was covered in mystery smudges. Which outfit is your favorite?

What He Thought He Saw

They weren’t supposed to be in the house.
That much was clear.

Anthony moved first anyway, slipping ahead like a shadow that wouldn’t wait for permission.

“Just look,” he muttered. “The secret room’s down here. Give me a minute.”

Mary followed slower, already unimpressed. The basement air hung thick and stale, carrying the faint metallic bite of old tools and summers long buried.

“You don’t even know what you’re looking for,” she said.

“A knife,” Anthony answered. “And that room.”

Stacy lingered near the stairs, arms wrapped tight around herself like she was already bracing for the fall. “I don’t like this,” she whispered.

The basement held still around them. Not dark exactly—just quiet in that way that tightens the back of your neck and waits for you to make the mistake.

“There,” Anthony said.

The knife rested on a small chair, out in the open. Not hidden. Just there, like a dare in the half-light.

Mary stepped past him without hesitation and looked it over. “That’s a collector piece. You can tell.”

Anthony frowned. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do,” she shot back. “Gigi has stuff like this—yard sales, antique shops. Remember the Fenton glass? Same kind of thing.”

She pointed. Anthony didn’t move.

“It’s still a knife.”

Mary turned on him. “It’s still not what you think it is. You always do this. You decide something’s wrong and then you won’t let it go.”

Stacy hovered halfway on the stairs. “Why is it just sitting there?”

No one answered.

Anthony kept staring. Mary looked away first.

“Can we go?” Stacy said. “Let’s just go upstairs.”

Mary nodded. “Yeah. There’s nothing here.”

They started up.

Anthony followed, slower this time, and paused at the small basement window.

He leaned in.

At first, it didn’t make sense.

Just light moving where it shouldn’t.

Then—laughter.

Too loud.

Too sharp.

The pool lit the yard in a cold, artificial blue. Women crowded around it—some in the water, some draped over the edge like discarded dolls, pink cups in their hands, bottles passed around like nothing mattered anymore.

One tipped a bottle straight back, head tilted, throat exposed, not even laughing—just gone somewhere else entirely.

Another leaned against the poolside, trying to light something with unsteady hands, missing twice before it caught. Someone beside her laughed too hard at nothing.

A float bumped lazily at the edge where a blonde lay half-sprawled, one arm hanging off, hair tangled, face turned away like she’d slipped out of the moment completely.

Empty cans rolled near the patio. A bottle tipped, spun once, and settled.

Nobody was watching anything.

Nobody was stopping anything.

Anthony’s jaw tightened.

This wasn’t just a party.

It was… off.

Like something had already gone too far and nobody cared to notice.

“…poor Ziva,” he said under his breath.

“Wait.”

Stacy’s voice stopped halfway up the stairs.

Mary paused above her. “What?”

Tap.

Pause.

Tap… tap.

They all heard it now.

Faint.

Steady.

“Do you hear that?” Stacy asked.

Mary tilted her head. “…yeah.”

It came again—

wood against wood.

A scrape. Then a softer knock.

Not random.

Working.

Anthony stepped back from the window.

“That’s not—”

“Hey.”

All three froze.

The sound stopped.

“You three,” Kevin’s voice called out. “I can hear you on those steps.”

Mary turned.

Anthony didn’t.

“Come here a second,” Kevin said. “Don’t keep sneaking around.”

There was no anger in it.

Just knowing.

The girls exchanged a look.

Then slowly, they went back down.

The door at the end of the basement—the one Anthony had tried—was open now.

Light spilled out.

Clean.

Kevin stood just inside, one hand resting on a work table.

The room had changed.

What had felt hidden before was cleared out, organized. Tools lined the walls like instruments in a quiet surgery room. Wood stacked neatly. The air smelled fresh—cut wood, not dust.

In the center sat the dollhouse.

Not small.

Not delicate.

Solid. Painted. Nearly finished—its roof set, walls closed in, details already in place like someone had spent real time getting it right.

It wasn’t something just started.

It was something almost done.

Anthony blinked.

Mary stepped in a little farther, taking it in.

“That dollhouse—who are you making it for?”

Kevin glanced at it, then back at them. “For Emily.”

Stacy stayed near the doorway.

“She’s been asking for one,” Kevin added.

The room didn’t feel secret anymore.

Just used.

Kevin looked at them again.

“So,” he said, calm but clear, “what are you three doing down here?”

No one answered.

Mary tried. “We were just—”

“You were looking,” Kevin said.

She stopped.

Anthony shifted. “We just thought—”

Kevin shook his head once.

“It doesn’t matter what you thought.”

A quiet pause.

“You shouldn’t be sneaking around in here,” he said. Not sharp. Just steady.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, already dialing.

Kevin turned slightly away, bringing it to his ear.

“Hey John, I need you to come over and get your three oldest. Yep. They’re fine—just been sneaking in my house. Oh I know… yeah. See you in a minute. Bye.”

He lowered the phone.

The room stayed quiet.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go upstairs.”

They followed.

The living room felt smaller now. Quieter. Even with the distant noise drifting in from outside like something you couldn’t quite name.

“Just wait here a minute,” Kevin said.

Mary sat. Stacy beside her.

Anthony didn’t.

He stayed standing.

Kevin noticed but didn’t say anything.

Mary glanced toward the hallway again, softer this time. “She’ll like it.”

Kevin nodded once.

A small pause.

“And the knife,” she added, quieter now. “That’s just an old collector one, right?”

“Yeah,” Kevin said. “That’s all it is.”

Anthony looked down, then away.

“You could’ve just asked me,” Kevin said.

Anthony gave a small nod.

Didn’t speak.

Kevin moved toward the window.

“They’ll be here any minute.”

And they were.

Headlights slid across the walls like searching fingers.

The van pulled in fast.

The door opened. Low voices. Quick, quiet.

The kids moved out just as fast as they came in.

The door shut.

Kevin stood at the living room window, watching.

The van backed out.

Turned.

Pulled away.

Red taillights stretched down the road.

Shrank.

Faded.

Kevin didn’t move.

He let his hand fall, and the curtain dropped—closing out the world.

This is my whole Kenllection, they're celebrating they've managed to line-up their schedules and have a while to catch-up.

I'm happy with them, I love them all. There are some more that I'd like, but they're hard to find and expensive, so there's that😅 I'm looking forward for May's DOTM theme.

Who is your favourite Ken of this bunch?

She thought it was just another morning

Gigi sat at the table in her purple kitchen, iPad glowing beside her, MacBook open with tabs stacked like accusations across the screen. Half-finished notes waited for her return. She was dressed like she had somewhere to be, even though she didn’t — something decent, something put together. As if keeping the outside right might force the inside to follow.

She told herself she was fine.

She had been telling herself that all morning.

The article wasn’t even the kind that usually got to her. Just edits. Timelines. Cleaning up someone else’s messy wording so it read cleaner, made more sense. Nothing graphic. Nothing that should have stayed with her. One of her simpler tasks from the part-time work at the newspaper.

But her focus kept slipping.

Same line. Same paragraph. Over and over. The author had made a lot of mistakes.

She pushed back from the table and stood, deciding on tea like that might fix it — like it always used to.

It took more effort than it should have.

The kitchen light hummed faintly above her as she moved, familiar, steady, something she didn’t have to think about. The kettle, the cup, the motions came easy, automatic. Her hands knew what to do even if her mind lagged behind.

She poured the tea and stood there a second longer than she meant to, staring into the cup as if waiting for something else to happen.

Then she turned toward the fridge.

She didn’t think about it.

She just moved.

Then she reached for the milk.

Just a drop. That’s all she ever used.

Her fingers closed around the paper carton — cool against her skin, solid, normal.

She tipped it slightly—

—and stopped.

Nothing was wrong.

That was the problem.

The carton looked fine. The counter was clean. No smell. No mess. No sign of anything out of place.

But the sight of it — square, sharp edges, the weight of it in her hand — pulled something loose in her mind that refused to settle back where it belonged.

Milk.

Floor.

Chairs.

Table.

Windows open.

Her breath paused without her permission.

She stared at the carton a second too long, her grip tightening just enough to feel the cardboard give, as if proving it was real, as if it hadn’t simply appeared there.

It hadn’t.

She knew that.

She had taken it out herself.

Used it before.

Normal.

Everything was normal.

So why did it feel like it wasn’t?

Her breathing picked up.

Her eyes shifted without meaning to — counter, sink, window, back again — checking, rechecking, searching for something she couldn’t name.

They settled on the black curtain.

The thought didn’t sit right.

The Milk Stalker had come in this way.

Oddly, she had never unlocked that window. Neither had Michael.

Michael.

He should be resting. Not getting up again. Not dealing with—

Kris.

Lovena.

That phone.

Those messages — all broken and stacked, lines that didn’t match, numbers repeating until they no longer felt like mistakes.

Her breath came shorter now, catching before it could settle.

Ophelia.

The thought hit harder than the rest.

Gigi shifted her grip and moved to set the milk back, meaning to finish the tea, meaning to just move past it and return to the table.

But when she bent, the motion pulled something loose.

A wave of lightheadedness rose fast — not enough to drop her, but enough to make the room tilt in a way that felt quietly wrong.

She stilled, one hand catching the edge of the counter.

Too fast.

She had moved too fast.

Or maybe she hadn’t eaten.

The thought came and drifted away without landing.

Her legs felt weaker than they should have, strength thinned out without warning. She tried to straighten, but it didn’t come clean.

Her balance shifted before she could correct it.

Her grip loosened.

The milk slipped from her hand.

It hit the floor with a hard, hollow slap.

The sound echoed louder than it should have, sharp in the quiet kitchen.

The carton tipped once, dented at the corner, then settled on its side.

It didn’t spill.

It didn’t leak.

She pressed a hand to her chest, as if in prayer, silently thanking God the milk was still intact. The mere thought of a trip to the store would ruin her afternoon. Even the idea of going somewhere today made the edges of her vision blur.

The milk carton just stayed there.

Intact.

Too close.

Her hands started to shake. Not much at first — just enough to make her fingers curl in on themselves like they didn’t know what else to do.

Her breathing turned shallow and fast, catching on itself.

She swallowed, but it didn’t help. Her throat felt tight, dry.

She tried to move, to step forward, to pick it up, to fix it—

But her knee didn’t hold.

She caught the fridge door—

—and slid instead.

Not a fall. Not exactly.

Just lowering without control.

One knee hit the tile harder than she expected.

Then the other.

The room didn’t spin.

It just felt… wrong.

Michael’s footsteps came in from the other room, quicker now.

“Gigi?”

She didn’t respond right away.

“I’m fine,” she managed, but it came out thin, like it didn’t belong to her.

Michael stepped into the kitchen and stopped when he saw her — down on one knee, breathing wrong.

He crossed the space without hesitation and dropped down in front of her.

“Hey,” he said, low.

Gigi looked at him, but it took a second to focus.

He reached for her hand and took it, firm and steady.

“Babydoll… slow down,” he said. “Breathe. Deeper.”

She tried.

It didn’t come easy, but it came.

He stayed there with her, steady, not letting go.

“Yeah baby,” she said, voice uneven. “Lovena kept pushing that phone in our faces. The messages she was trying to show us were a jumble of one-line phrases or demands.”

Michael nodded once. “I noticed.”

His eyes stayed on her.

“But right now, I’m worried about you.”

Gigi looked at him. “It has.” Tears slipped down her face.

“Same digits all the way through,” she added. “Something about it feels familiar… and wrong.”

The words settled heavy between them.

“I don’t like that it’s been causing flashbacks to my childhood,” she said quietly.

Michael’s eyes flicked toward the hallway, then back. “What bugs me — and Kevin too — is Luke didn’t go off when the Milk Stalker hit. He didn’t bark at Lovena either.”

Gigi’s gaze shifted. “No… he didn’t.”

“He would’ve,” Michael said. “If it was someone he didn’t know.”

“Or if something wasn’t right,” she said.

Michael frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.” Her grip tightened slightly in his. “It just… doesn’t feel right.”

He watched her a moment longer, then made his decision.

“I’m changing the locks,” he said.

Gigi met his eyes. “We’ve never needed to.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

A quiet settled between them, thick with things unsaid.

“We used to leave it open,” she murmured.

“Not anymore.”

Michael kept hold of her hand a moment longer, watching her breathing.

Then something in him shifted.

His jaw tightened slightly, his attention moving past her — to the door, the window, the dark beyond.

“We’re done playing this loose,” he said, voice still low, but set.

Gigi didn’t argue.

“I’m changing the locks. Every one of them.”

His thumb pressed once against her hand.

“And from now on, those doors and windows stay shut. Locked. I don’t care if we’re home.”

A beat.

“I’ll have Hunter come out. Get cameras up. Driveway, the Jeep… and our truck.”

Another pause.

“That’ll cover the doors too.”

His eyes came back to her.

“Not happening again.”

George and Luke were nearby.

Gigi didn’t move much.

She stayed where she was, low to the floor, Michael’s hand steady in hers, the weight of them around her keeping everything from slipping further.

The room still didn’t feel right.

But she wasn’t alone in it.

Michael didn’t let go.

As he lifted her, her left leg went numb beneath her, dead for a second before the needles and burning came rushing back, sharp enough to make her catch her breath.

He steadied her without letting go, one hand firm at her arm, the other at her back, keeping her upright.

Gigi leaned into him, her hand resting against his shoulder.

Michael stayed close.

“I love you, babydoll,” he said softly. “You’re my world.”

Added more masterpieces in our gallery ♥️ need to make a proper museum setup!

“I told you.” Lovena grinned.

Twist & Shout

Kris stood near the sticky table, her so-called day off feeling like borrowed time. Headphones clamped tight, but they were useless against the tide—shoes scraping linoleum, voices bleeding into one another, and underneath it all… too many thoughts.

Across the corridor, Aunt Diane’s pet shop burned too bright.

Chloe stood behind the counter, braid straight down her back, movements clipped and precise. She smiled at a customer—polite enough not to get complaints, cold enough to keep her distance. Correcting, never comforting.

Their eyes met for half a second.

Kris looked away first.

“Kris, you look nice today,” Tilly murmured, voice low and careful. Her fingers brushed Kris’s arm. “But… something’s off. You okay?”

The touch grounded her.

Then it sharpened everything.

Kris exhaled slowly. “Lovena came by last night,” she said, the words coming out too fast. “Waving her phone. Wouldn’t stop. She showed us texts—from a number I didn’t recognize.”

Her fingers twitched, remembering the glow.

“It didn’t feel random.”

Her chest tightened.

“She said it was the milk stalker.”

The words settled between them.

Kris lifted her hands slightly, like she needed somewhere to put the feeling. “I don’t like it. The way she moved. The way her face didn’t match her words. It didn’t line up.”

Her thoughts stacked too quickly—

Phone.

Texts.

Lovena’s hands.

The way she wouldn’t stop moving.

And then—

The zeros.

Not letters.

Zeros.

Flashing in her mind like a sign that wouldn’t shut off. Bright. Sharp. Wrong.

She couldn’t remember exactly where she’d seen them.

Only that they didn’t belong.

Her breathing went shallow.

Tilly and Millie leaned in—not crowding, just close enough.

Kris focused on that.

Hands.

Familiar.

Safe.

She pulled in a breath. It caught halfway.

A small pause.

“Hey,” Millie said, lighter now. “I’m just glad you’re off today. I heard there’s going to be some new guys at the gym. My brother’s friends are going.” She tilted her head. “We should go. I can show them my chair dance.”

Kris didn’t answer right away.

Her mind was still half on the phone.

On the pattern that didn’t make sense.

On the zeros.

Millie reached over and nudged the little radio up. A slow jazz track slipped into the air—soft, steady, something to follow.

Not loud. Just enough.

Millie started moving first—shoulders, then her head, small motions building into something bigger.

Predictable.

Repeatable.

Kris watched.

Tilly smiled and joined in, softer, matching the rhythm.

Kris’s breath hitched—

then followed the beat.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Her shoulders dropped slightly.

The thoughts didn’t disappear—but they spaced out.

Not gone.

Just quieter.

Kris shifted her weight and let herself move with them.

“Okay… okay,” she said quietly.

Her arms felt stiff at first. Wrong.

But Millie laughed—not at her—and kept moving.

Tilly bumped her gently.

Kris tried again.

This time it came easier. Not smooth. Not perfect.

But real.

Her chest loosened.

The tight feeling didn’t disappear—but it shifted.

A small smile slipped through.

“See?” Millie grinned. “Better than stressing over it. Just dance a little.”

Kris let out a short laugh.

Soon they were all moving together, shoulders bumping, missing the beat and catching it again. The mall’s noise faded back into the background hum where it belonged.

For a few minutes, Kris didn’t have to solve anything.

She didn’t have to understand the phone.

She didn’t have to fix Lovena.

She just had to be there.

With them.

They leaned in close, still laughing, and snapped a couple quick selfies—faces too close, slightly off-center.

Just three girls at a sticky table.

Like nothing strange had touched the day at all.

But later—

Kris would remember.

Not the words.

Not the message.

Just the zeros.

Flashing.

Cold.

And how they didn’t belong.

White Noise

Gigi stands at the counter with a blue washcloth in her hand, wiping in small, practiced circles. The motion is automatic. Countertop first, then the edge, then the table. She moves things just enough to clean under them, setting each one back exactly where it belongs. Everything has a place. It always goes back.

The TV murmurs behind her, low and constant.

“…fuel prices expected to continue rising…”

She pauses.

Her eyes lift toward the window.

The old truck sits in the driveway, quiet and still. She doesn’t move closer, just looks at it from where she stands, doing the math without meaning to. Diesel near six. Over a hundred to fill it. Maybe more.

The thought settles heavy.

“Figures,” she mutters.

No one answers. Just the TV. The pets. The house.

She looks away first.

The cloth moves again. One more pass across the counter, slower now, like she’s finishing the motion instead of starting it. Her mind is already somewhere else—half in her work, half in the background noise filling the room.

She sets the cloth down, then picks it up again, wiping a spot that doesn’t need it.

Across the room, the sofa waits.

Gigi walks over and stops in front of it, looking it over. One purple pillow is off. She fixes it, then the other, pressing them into place until they feel right. The fabric creases under her hand and she smooths it out, slow and deliberate.

The two new cats are already there. One kneads into the other, slow and steady, their purring loud and constant, like two small engines running full throttle in a closed room. Gigi adjusts the pillows around them carefully, working around their weight instead of moving them.

That’s better.

Something on the floor catches her eye—a toy, out of place. Gigi nudges it back with her foot without looking down, sliding it where it belongs.

Good enough. Nothing in the room is out of place. It stays that way.

Gigi lowers herself onto the sofa, careful without thinking about it. Not all the way back. Just enough.

Her fingers find the edge of the pillow, brushing along the lace—back and forth, slow, absent. The cats shift closer, pressing into her, their purring still running steady and loud.

The TV keeps talking, but it doesn’t land.

For a second, her hands stop. Then they move again, tracing the lace. Something steady. Something to hold onto. It passes.

Her eyes flick toward the screen. The voices blur together, nothing sticking.

Gigi reaches for the remote and changes the channel.

“…authorities are still trying to determine the source…”

Different now. Sharper. Focused. Better.

She doesn’t stay sitting long. The sofa is too comfortable, and that feeling doesn’t sit right. The room is done. Settled. That means she’s done with it too.

Time to work.

The chair at the table is already waiting. A folded blanket rests on the seat, tucked where she’ll sit. She lowers into it carefully, adjusting once before going still. The table is set. MacBook Pro open. iPhone and iPad nearby. A cup of tea. Water. Snacks. Everything in place.

“…police believe these may be targeted incidents…”

Gigi pulls the laptop closer. Her hair slips forward, brushing across the keyboard, a few strands catching between the keys. One presses down softly. She leaves it there.

Her fingers start moving.

Typing. Stopping. Backspacing. Starting again.

The TV continues behind her.

“…unusual messaging activity… recipients report distorted numbers… repeating digits…”

Her hands slow, as she takes in the words from the TV.

Her hands stop.

The keys go quiet.

The cursor blinks once. Then again.

Steady.

That’s not right.

Gigi turns her head slightly toward the TV. She can’t see it clearly from here, but she doesn’t need to.

Zeros.

The same zeros.

Gigi’s hands lift before she thinks about it, fingers pressing lightly at her temples, pushing her hair back but not fixing it. Just holding. Like she can steady something inside her if she keeps enough pressure there.

Her chest tightens.

Zero.

The room slips.

Her mother’s voice—loud, slurred. “Zero the Hero.” Not funny. Never funny. Her brother moving fast, always fast, stepping in before it gets worse. Something in their mother’s hand—a coat hanger. He takes it. He always takes it. Gigi goes still. Small. Quiet.

Diane off to the side, dressed up, untouched, watching. “You’re the favorite,” her voice cuts in, sharp and cruel. “Only because you’re too ugly to be a model like me. I’ll be in magazines. You’ll be in a trailer park with pet roaches.” Their brother doesn’t choose. He protected. The yelling. The booze bottles. The noise. It had been too loud. Always too loud. Gone now. He’s gone. Their mother gone.

The words and pain aren't gone.

Her hands drop, then fold in close, crossing over herself without meaning to. Not tight. Not protective exactly. Just contained. Like she’s keeping something from spilling out.

The cursor blinks.

Gigi pulls in a breath. The room comes back—the table, the laptop, the steady drone of the TV.

“…no confirmed source…” the TV states.

Her hand tightens on the edge of the table.

She moves the mouse. Opens a new window. Then another.

Searching.

Background checks. Databases. Anything.

Nothing.

No name. No image. No starting point.

Just milk.

And zeros.

The cursor keeps blinking.

Her pulse starts to match it.

“This isn’t random,” she says quietly.

The search bar sits empty.

Waiting.

Her fingers hover, then press down.

If there isn’t a name, she’ll find one.

The house is quiet.

Still.

Exactly the same as before.

It doesn’t feel the same.

She keeps typing.

Something about the zeros doesn’t feel random.

Did you catch it?

I made this little video store over the past few months. It’s based on the old I ❤️Video store in Austin, Texas which I have many fond memories of. I modeled it and its parts in Blender and then 3d printed the elements, hand painted them, and assembled and wired it in my free time. I hope you enjoy!

Just Zeros

Kris sat on her mother’s white wicker sofa, the small pets warm against her legs. This house had always been the last safe place in her world—soft light, familiar scents, the quiet rhythm of family breathing. On good days, she could almost catch the ghost of Faith’s baked goods in the air.

But peace never lasted. Not anymore. Not since the Milk Stalker started watching.

In the kitchen, the younger kids laughed over snacks with Mary. Faith had dropped them off earlier before taking the baby, Claire, to a checkup. Gigi, Kris’s mom, sat beside her on the sofa, gently stroking one of the cats.

Across the room, Michael sat in the wicker recliner with one of the girls curled into him, dogs piled across their laps. The television played low. He spoke softly, steady as always. His cancer appointment hung over the day like a shadow no one wanted to name.

Kris had come to tell her mother what she saw at the mall—her oldest brother with a woman who was not his wife.

Gigi listened. Her face tightened.

“Your father should handle that,” she said quietly.

Gigi had always hated cheating and lying with a cold, quiet fury.

They talked, too, about the Milk Stalker. Someone had thrown milk at the Jeep’s windshield. Kris had heard the sharp crack the night before. In the morning, Gigi found the white mess dripping down the glass like spilled evidence.

“Mom, it is mentally hard working for Aunt Diane,” Kris said, staring at her black tennis shoes. The words came slow and heavy. “How did you deal with her growing up? She is not very nice. She makes mean comments about people.”

“It was not always like that,” Gigi said. “Your aunt changed after she married Pete. She always cared too much about money and appearances, but the anger came later.” She took a sip of her Starbucks. “After she cheated me out of that Fenton cat collection I paid for, I stepped back. We still talk, but not much. I hoped you could find work somewhere else.”

Kris adjusted her sound-canceling headphones. “She kept talking about politics and hating—”

Gigi raised a hand. “We are not discussing that. You know how I feel. They all lie.” She shook her head. “Your aunt lives to argue. She wants to sound important.”

She paused, her expression shifting. “I think she inherited our mother’s addiction.”

For a moment, Gigi looked far away—back to a childhood filled with vodka, pills, and bruises.

Her hands began to shake.

Kris reached over and squeezed her hand.

Gigi took a breath. Then another. Slowly, she came back.

“She should not judge Karen,” Gigi added quietly. “Karen tries.”

Kris looked down again. “I wish I could go to that new candy shop everyone is talking about. Sweet Treats. It is too far to bike.”

Gigi smiled faintly. “I will get you an Uber and a gift card. You can go.”

“I still need to get you a Mother’s Day gift,” Kris said.

Gigi glanced around the room. “Get me some pet treats from Diane’s shop and we will call it even. Not the ‘all-natural’ ones. Those give the dogs gas.”

Kris laughed softly. Even now, that was funny.

Then the noise in the kitchen grew louder.

“Lovena is here,” Mary called.

Lovena stepped into the living room.

The air changed.

She looked darker somehow, her long braids framing a face caught between apology and something sharper. Kris had not seen her since the last outburst—the screaming about body snatchers and stolen heads. Seeing her now sent a chill through her.

“My dad is outside,” Lovena said quickly. “I came to tell you myself.”

She stepped forward and dropped the missing Barbie onto the table.

Gigi gasped. It was Ophelia’s favorite. It looked just like Faith.

“I am sorry I took it,” Lovena said.

“Thank you for telling us,” Gigi said, steady but tense. “We should still talk with your parents.”

“They know,” Lovena said. “I took it because someone told me to.”

Silence filled the room.

“The milk was not me,” she added. “I am scared too.”

Kris felt it again—that prickle on her neck. The feeling of being watched.

Lovena’s hand shook as she lifted her phone.

“It is all in here,” she whispered. “Read it.”

No one moved.

Kris leaned closer, but didn’t take the phone.

The screen was already open.

A message sat at the top.

Unread.

No name—just a string of zeros.

Kris’s voice was barely there. “When did this come in?”

Lovena’s lips trembled.

“Just now.”

The room went still.

Even the dogs seemed to pause.

Kris stared at the screen.

Her fingers hovered—but she didn’t take the phone.

“Mom…”

Gigi leaned closer, her voice low and steady. “What does it say?”

Lovena held the phone out, but didn’t let go.

Her hand trembled.

Kris leaned in just enough to read it where it was.

WE SEE ALL OF YOU.

The words seemed to press into the space between them.

Heavy.

Too close.

From the kitchen, the kids were still laughing. Something clattered. A normal sound. A safe sound.

It didn’t belong here.

Gigi’s hand moved slowly, gripping the arm of the white wicker sofa just a little tighter.

Lovena sucked in a shaky breath.

“I told you… I didn’t want to do any of it.”

Before anyone could answer—

The screen lit again.

All three of them flinched.

No sound.

No alert.

Just the glow.

YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT IT ALONE.

Gigi frowned. “Left what alone?”

Kris shook her head.

“I don’t know.”

But her eyes stayed locked on the phone.

On the way the light flickered against Lovena’s face.

On the feeling crawling up her spine.

Familiar.

Not the words.

The tone.

Like something she had heard before.

Close.

Too close.

Lovena’s grip tightened around the phone as if she was afraid to drop it.

Or afraid to keep holding it.

“I don’t think this is over,” Kris said quietly.

Gigi reached over and took Kris’s hand.

Steady.

Grounding.

Lovena didn’t move.

The phone stayed in her hand.

Dark for a second—

Then it lit again.

Behind them, the children kept laughing.

Unaware.

Safe.

For now.

Mall Lights

The mall food court was supposed to be safe. Bright, noisy, full of normal people doing normal things. But the fluorescent lights here buzzed just as loudly as the ones in Aunt Diane’s pet shop, and Kris could feel every flicker like tiny needles behind her eyes.

She sat between Kira and her older second cousin Karen at the glass table. On her left, Kira with her long pink braids and bright all pink outfit, leaned back in her chair, gesturing animatedly as she talked. On her right, Karen wore her blue scorpion print top. Karen had been walking for exercise as part of her rehabilitation program. It worked to clear her mind she had said. She had run into Kris and her friends minutes before they all had plopped down at the table together.

Kris’s hands kept fidgeting with the edge of her shirt. No fidget spinner. She had been trying to work off the habit. Aunt Diane did not approve of it at work. The sensory overload pressed in harder with every laugh and clink of soda cans. The lights felt sharper. She kept catching herself scanning the edges of the food court, the feeling of being watched crawling up the back of her neck like invisible fingers. It was not just paranoia from the milk incidents.

Something deeper, heavier, lingered as if Diane’s shadow had followed her here. But the pet shop was closed and Diane was most likely home watching the news and cussing at the tv with uncle Pete. Uncle Pete was even more stuck up than Diane was. Kris could not believe she had agreed to this job. But no one else was hiring in town right now.

Tilly sat across from Kris, in her turquoise headphones and jean dress, nodding along to the conversation. The rest of the group filled the table. Kira’s cousin was even hanging out. Kris tried to lighten up. She wanted to feel normal like Kira. Kira was so happy and beautiful. Kris smiled at her friends then looked down. She felt odd. Was her smile too big? Did it look forced or stupidly goofy? That’s when she spotted her oldest brother with someone not his wife. Kris and him were not very close. But she was not sure how to handle it. She knee bumped Kira and Karen and tilted her head in his direction. Kira and Karen both saw him right away and their eyes got big.

“So Mr Perfect is a player. I should go over and ask him where his wife is. That jerk!”

Karen was going to confront him. Kris stopped her. “No do not, I heard my dad saying something last week. But with all the Milk Stalker stuff I totally forgot it all. I think maybe there is a divorce going down. She is like his 3rd wife.” Kris rolled her fingers into balls. She felt very uncomfortable talking about personal matters. Karen smiled at her. “Karma if he is a pig then, oh well. It is ladies time out, no men here.” Karen smiled and high fives Kris. Kris felt strange but at the same time it was fun to be so silly.

Kira turned toward Kris, pink braids swinging. “So, how was the first day? Your aunt did not work you too hard, did she?”

Kris opened her mouth, but the words tangled. She forced a small nod instead, her gaze flicking toward the background where a couple more people lingered near the second floor wall.

Kira giggled. “We know how Auntie Di is. Like that old mother dearest movie.”

“Yes. She insulted my mom today. Kept talking political crap like I do not hear enough on tv. And all I want to know is it going to rain or is there a hurricane.” Kris frowned taking fast breaths.

Karen leaned in closer, her voice warm. “You look like you need a break, cuz. We have got foodies and soda help yourself.”

Kira giggled loudly and tossed her head back. Kira's new friend from work had came along and was friendly; but Kris couldn't remember her name, she felt bad.

Kris tried to smile, but her chest tightened. Every sound scraped against her nerves. Every casual glance from the group made her wonder who else might be watching. The feeling would not leave eyes on her, patient and unseen, just like the eyes of those two mixed breed puppies staring at her mother.

She glanced down at the table, at the purple boombox, scattered cans, and small food tray, then back up at her friends. The conversation flowed around her, bright and normal, but Kris could not shake the cold certainty that the trap from the pet shop had not ended when she clocked out.

Somewhere in the mall’s bright corridors, the shadow was still moving.

This was really fun to do! I’ve been trying to post more content on my pages and learning how to edit photos better lately. It’s been such a blast experimenting with the festival vibe!

I saw the official Barbie page’s posts for Coachella as well, and it made me wish so much that they’d actually release fashion packs like the ones they show on their socials! 🙄 Since we don't have those, I’m sticking with my older fashion packs for now… the quality and detail are just so much higher.

What do you guys think? Do you prefer the vintage/older pieces too?

Drop your Coachella looks in the comments! I wouls love to see them!!👇

Moon Milk

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a swarm of invisible flies drilling straight into Kris’s skull. She sat slumped in the old orange swivel chair, pink noise canceling headphones clamped so tight her ears ached, purple sneakers tapping an uneven rhythm she couldn’t stop. It was her first real job at her rich, much older Aunt Diane’s pet shop. Diane called it character building. Kris called it slow suffocation.

She was already flustered because she had forgotten her fidget spinner at home that morning. Her hands kept fidgeting with the edge of her shirt, the lack of something to occupy them making the sensory overload even worse. The lights were too bright. The hum too loud. Every voice scraped against her skin.

Kris glanced toward the food court windows across the way. Kira and Tilly were already waiting for her. They waved. She managed a small, tired smile back — the only bright spot in this long shift. These were the same friends who had watched everything unfold through the glass and seen exactly how badly Diane treated her. After her shift they were taking her out to eat.

Diane glided through the aisles in her shimmering red sequined gown, white cape draped like a shroud over one shoulder, blonde hair piled high. She held her nose so high she had to look down at everyone, eyes rolling with every breath.

The snotty French lady in the white strapless dress stood beside her by the grooming sink, lips curled in shared contempt.

They both treated Kris like the lowest rung on the ladder. Kris kept her gaze fixed on the counter, avoiding eye contact the way she always did when the world got too sharp. Her hands fidgeted constantly; transitions were hard, and she was already masking so hard her brain felt like static.

Diane’s sharp gaze pinned Kris. “Kris, darling,” she drawled, voice dripping false sweetness, “you can tell your mother about these discounted mutts or be a good daughter and buy them yourself.” Diane smiled, but it never reached her eyes. She was full of tricks and knew exactly how to manipulate autistic people, twisting guilt and duty until there was no escape. “They’ll make a lovely early Mother’s Day gift. My dear younger spoiled sister — that bitch. I mean, that dear witch.” Diane threw her head back and laughed like a wild animal.

The small white and brown puppy lay motionless on its back on the floor between them. Kris’s chest tightened. Too many sounds, too many expectations, too much everything.

Diane lowered her voice to the French lady, but not low enough. “I’m making three fifty a pup off the girl. Better than sending them to horse food. Now I just need to unload those two adult cats the Amish sent. I asked for kittens!” She rolled her eyes. Nose even higher.

From the wide aisle they saw Gigi approaching. Kris’s sweet mother was walking over from the mall, her big pink bag in hand. She had been out looking for new decorations for the house and wanted to stop by on her daughter’s first day to be encouraging. Diane and the French lady spotted her too. Their expressions sharpened.

Gigi wore her flashy houndstooth jacket and striped pants, big beaded sunglasses perched on her head, bright pink purse with the fuzzy liner swinging at her side. Little George peeked out curiously.

Diane looked her up and down, nose lifted even higher. “Well, well. That outfit doesn’t match a thing. And carrying a dog in a purse? Dogs need carriers, not accessories. I have one on sale.” Diane barked out a loud laugh, pointing at the purse.

“Look at that ridiculous bright fur liner! And the dog peeking out like it’s on parade. Absolutely disgusting, a flea bag in a purse. Gross. I hate dogs. I only sell them because they make me easy money. I’m a cat person through and through.” She made the comment right to Gigi’s face as she tricked her into buying the cats. “Unlike some people still supporting that orange disaster in the White House. The stupidity never ends. God forbid we have someone competent in charge instead of that clown.”

Gigi flinched but smiled anyway. When she saw the cats in the blue display — the gray one staring from the upper cage and the black and white one with the pink collar below — her eyes lit up. She had been wanting more cats for months.

Diane noticed instantly. “Oh, you like them? Since we’re sisters, I’ll knock the price down. Family discount.” Then, with a venomous smirk, she added, “Tell me, little sister, did you vote for Cheeto Chief?”

Gigi normally avoided politics. She answered quietly, “I told you I stopped voting. All of them are dishonest.”

Diane’s eyes narrowed. “Well that’s convenient. Blaming everyone else while you sit on the sidelines. No wonder we ended up with Trump. People like you are the reason he got in.”

Gigi tilted her sunglasses down just enough to catch Kris’s eye. A quiet warning. Be careful with her. Kris tried to nod, but her brain was already overwhelmed — too many social cues, too much pressure to respond the right way.

The two mixed breed puppies in the light blue crate stared at Gigi with painted eyes that seemed far too knowing.

When her shift finally ended, the masking had drained Kris completely. Transitions hit hard; her body felt heavy, her thoughts scattered. Kira and Tilly gave her a ride. In the car the weight of Diane’s cruelty still hung thick. Kris dropped the two “ugly” mutts off at her parents’ place as the early Mother’s Day gift Diane had pressured her into. Both her parents were in the big open living room that flowed into the kitchen. Gigi sat on the white wicker sofa with little George and her new cats. Michael, her father fighting cancer, reclined in the big wicker chair nearby, surrounded by the dogs, looking tired but content. The scene looked peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Kris stood in the doorway, headphones still half on, the echo of Diane’s wild laugh and her condescending voice ringing in her head. The way Diane had looked down her nose at all of them. The way she had used family like a blade. The way those puppies had stared like they knew the trap.

The pet shop was closed now, lights off, but the cage felt wider than ever.

Diane had her money.

Gigi had her cats and the “gift” puppies.

Michael had more dogs for company.

And Kris had the cold certainty that nothing in this world was a gift.

As Kira and Tilly’s car slowly pulled away from Gigi and Michael’s home, a sudden sharp crack split the quiet night. Kris heard the sound clearly, but saw nothing in the darkness. A small milk jug had been thrown from the shadows. White liquid splashed violently across the windshield of her mother’s Jeep, dripping down the glass like spilled milk in the moonlight.

Kris twisted in her seat, heart hammering, staring back at the empty driveway. The milk ran in slow, ghostly rivulets down the glass. Diane’s wild laugh still echoed faintly in her mind, mixing with the sound of the impact that refused to fade.

Some traps come wrapped in sequins and sisterly smiles.

And once they click shut, there is no getting out.

Hi! Here to show off my newly cleaned and fixed folding house. For all the experts: what am I missing? The yellow flag and bbq tools I know. What else was in the original house? I may 3D print the things I’m missing 😄 The last photo is a few of the other items I have that could go with it.

I’ve been sorting through clothes and items to make this a complete package (Barbie, Ken and possibly Chelsea). How would you sell it and how much would you ask for it?

Greeting from Holland!

"THE Barbie-Q"...

The Barbie "Technical" is Basically a Battle Truck/War Wagon

(The Actual Size of that Model is 8 Ft Long (Human Scale)..

Inspiration drawn from several Sources:

📚 Books:

The Amtrak Wars

Cloud Warrior (1983)

First Family (1985)

Iron Master (1987)

Blood River (1988)

Death-Bringer (1989)

Earth-Thunder (1990)

By Author Patrick Tilley.

Films:

MAD MAX : The Road Warrior (1981)

MAD MAX Fury Road (2015)

Furiosa: a Mad Max Saga (2024)

BattleTruck/Warlords of the 21st Century (1982) NZ 🇳🇿 Film

A few other 1980s era (Italian/Spanish made) Spaghetti 🍝 Post Apocalyptic Movies 🎬🎞🎥

Usually "B" Classified Movies.

(Think Drive in & Straight to Video)...

Also from Post Apocalyptic Pictures, Drawings & other Artworks...

(Mixed Artists)

My Collection of Action Figures & Dolls

is a Mixed Collection.

A Combination of GIJOE, Action Man (The English Version of GIJOE), Max Steel, World Peacekeeper, some off Brand AliExpress/Temu Soldiers

& Barbies...(based of the 1990s Mattel Articulated Large Flat Foot Barbies Gymnastic Barbie, Hula Barbie, Workin Out Barbie etc)

Just calm afternoon and some chill time with the family🤍