Fantasy-Mystery
°*°
Say 'black apple' and those could be your last words.
In a world where mythical creatures coexist in serenity, black dreamers are an enemy, but according to Carmiabell's History teacher they are extinct. She couldn't be more wron...
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If it was to be painted on a canvas, rampage, carnage, war, suicide, dictation, deaths, and any other fancy paintings you could come up with would not fit in the description of just a grain of the damage it could lead to.
Black apples were an effective lanera to black dreamers—also known as nightmares—and black dreamers harbored all but good.
Mrs Nana, Carmiabell's History teacher, had managed to convince her that tracing back from more than a century past—ever since the universal elixir was invented—there was no nightmare born and went untreated.
Most nightmares fell on gray dreams—which were the lowest in rank, hence growing to become the least fortunate in life—after treatment.
The apple proved just how wrong History was. The biting made it worse, proving that it had a consumer before being trashed.
“Is that—” Phoebi noticed what Carmiabell's unyielding glare was fixed to.
“Shh,” Carmiabell shushed her with her index finger crossed above her lips.
They say walls have ears and in this case they would rather desert the planet at the slightest mention of the black apple.
Phoebi’s hazel eyes in unison with her mouth ajared as both shock and fright struck her in equal magnitudes. The expression likely mirrored Carmiabell's.
Frankly, it was a sight to see. Its incredible ambiance was out of their world. Too bad it was rendered in the dark shadows of its being.
Sooner or later someone would appear at the alley, so they had to get lost before they were suspects of what was pretty much the synonym for hell.
“We should get out of here,” Carmiabell suggested, squirming to figure out if danger had already caught up with them. She was well aware of her Monday luck.
“No, we should take it.” For a moment Carmiabell thought that it was a sick joke with no humor in it, but the smirk on Phoebi's pink lips crossing her perfectly etched face said otherwise.
Phoebi had a loose screw.
Even the person with the slightest modicum of sanity could tell that that was a bad idea.
Clearly, she had missed some History lessons.
“I would have asked if you have brains but I'm not sure you know what those are. Are you nuts?!” Carmiabell quipped, trying to whisper as her threshold of temper burned low with every drop that passed.
As much as Carmiabell was drawn to adventure, the imminent risk of life imprisonment, leave alone all the punishments and torture on their way to the everlasting hell, was a weight she could not carry.
“I'm getting out of here,” she blurted, but her Monday luck had already caught up.
At the end of the alley Mr Tom, her neighbor, appeared, holding an enormous black bag on his right as if it was weightless.
