Author’s Note: I revised this story for Halloween. Though it’s told in the first person, it is fiction.
Darkness swallowed the bedroom. The red digits on the clock glowed in the night. 2:17 a.m.
Another burst of painful coughs racked my body. The head-splitting congestion made sleep impossible, and the medicine had done a lousy job. I rubbed my temple, sank back onto the pillow, and closed my eyes. For a while, there was only silence. But then, I heard a click. I opened my eyes and saw two figures standing by the door, both in capes; one black, the other a murky gray. The hoods draped over their faces.
The chill crawled down my spine. I propped myself up, squinting in the dark. A blurred glow emanated from the edge of their garments, or perhaps it was my fever-induced hallucination?
They exchanged a few whispers, but I couldn’t make out the words.
Who are they? I wondered. They weren’t robbers. Women? Yet, something about them felt decidedly non-human.
Still, the concept of unearthly didn’t frighten me as it should have. Medication must have impaired my senses, and a basic instinct warned me that running wasn’t an option.
I waited in silence.
“I will take her,” the black finally spoke. Her crisp voice resembled the crackle of burning wood. “No. This one is definitely mine,” countered the other with an almost identical tone. “She’s been under stress. A sudden heart attack will do,” the darker figure insisted. “But she has pneumonia. That makes her mine,” the gray argued.
They’re debating how I should die. They are Deaths. But I wasn’t afraid. Why?
Because I had wished for death. Parts of me had already died over the years, little by little, with my body still trapped in this world.
Long ago, I believed motherhood was a dream and a purpose. The children would bring me love and joy. But somewhere along the way, I became only a laboring device. Now my lungs are infected, and my body carries the same heaviness as the rest of my life.
My days condensed to a looping cycle: children, cleaning, cooking. I didn’t have much left to live for. And my husband? More married to his phone than to me. Except for one thing… That thing men always want.
I guess I was still fuckable.
Loneliness and unfulfilled dreams burned inside me like a wildfire. I was already one foot in the world of the dead, so why fear death?
“Am I dying?” I interrupted their debate. Both figures turned towards me. I strained to see beneath their hoods, which swayed like funeral drapes. “You will tonight,” they said in unison.
That finally hit me. I thought about death many times. But now it wasn’t just a distant possibility—it was here. I swallowed through a painful throat. “Suicide?” I couldn’t help asking. “No. You are not suicidal.” Both shook their hoods. “You want to live,” the gray assured, “but not like this.” The sleeve gestured toward the piles of toys, the scattered books, and the clothes tossed in corners.
Shame spilled over me. Yes, this place was a mess. Five people made it, but only two hands cleaned it. And yet, who is judged? Not the men or kids, but—the mothers. Always the mothers. Even when we are drowning in exhaustion.
Tears welled up. I had never imagined living like this; so burnt out. Defeated.
“I don’t want to die embarrassed,” I said quietly, thinking of the police and paramedics stepping into this disaster of a home, picking up my body, and making a judgment about the mess I left behind.
A brittle rustle filled the space: their laughter.
“You think this is messy?” the black asked, pointing to the pileups. The sleeve stretched, revealing a skeletal hand that glowed in blue and green. “You are managing just fine,” assured the other. A small cough broke through. My sick daughter was sleeping beside me. “Does she go with her?” inquired the one in black. “We could take her too, so neither of us returns empty-handed,” suggested the gray. “No! She’s only four!” I screamed in panic, but my voice broke into a cascade of coughs. “Pneumonia for the mom, accidental suffocation for the little one. It will look as if the mother collapsed on her,” the black one proposed coldly.
They turned. I saw their hands approaching like luminescent icicles reaching towards us.
“She has never been part of this,” I gasped between hacks, pulling my daughter close. The coughs tore at my lungs.
“Mommy?” her sleepy voice in my ear. I wrapped my arms around her tighter, still fighting for a breath.
God, I prayed. Where are you? This child is the most beautiful human. Let her live!
Before I could finish, a pain impelled my wrist. A glacial wave rippled through me, paralyzing my body. The coughing stopped. I watched in horror as my daughter vanished into a blur of cold fluorescent light.
The room faded out.
*
Golden sunlight spilled through the half-open blinds. My cough was gone. I jolted upright, recognizing the now-empty bedroom. My daughter lay beside me, her chest rising and falling with each breath. Frantically, I drew her close, holding her as tightly as I could. Her warm breath brushed my neck. She is alive! I buried my face in her hair, kissing it and inhaling her innocent scent. She made a discomforting sound in her sleep.
The Deaths were right: I didn’t want to die!
I looked at the clutter on the floor, and finally saw it as a sign of life and laughter—the life I wanted.
I caught my reflection in a wall mirror, noticing an unusual glow about myself. No dark circles under my eyes, and my hair was smoother. That terrifying dream had somehow given me a beauty of rest. I smiled.
But then my eyes landed on the other side of the bed. I turned my head and froze. It was my lifeless body. Lying still—dead.
Of course I was dead. No pain, no cough. Everything felt weightless.
The door creaked open, and there it was—the edge of a cape and a fluorescent hand reaching out.
Death was done waiting.
It was time.
I kissed my daughter, feeling her warmth on my lips. I rose, like an obedient child, and followed the cape.
If you’re curious about what happened before this (how I got the idea for the Elf Ninjas) you can read here.
About three years ago, while packing up for Canada, I found and old, tattered post-it with a pencil scribble: “Elf Ninjas— a story for kids.” I couldn’t recall the story at all, but I remembered writing the note, after inventing a hilarious bedtime story for my kids.
A couple days later, I woke up in Canada at 3:30 am. and I couldn’t fall back asleep. I stared at a wall as the street light crept through the half-open blinds, casting stripes across the ceiling. Everything else was dark and still.
The post-it came to mind. The elves.
But nothing else. No details about what had made my kids laugh so hard that night. My memory had completely failed me.
Then I thought: if I createdastory once, whycouldn’tI create another?
So I began building a snowy village in my head: How many elves? Three, just like my kids. Are they all boys? No, of course not. What are their names? What made each of them special?
I was afraid I would forget everything again, so I fished out my notebook and began writing in the dark. I could barely see the page, but I jotted down the names and the skills.
Before the morning light spilled inside, I fell asleep with three Elf Ninjas saving Christmas from pre-holiday disasters.
Within a few weeks I had a complete draft. Then a hundred revisions followed. Eventually I hired an editor who loved the story.
Then came the major hurdle for the entire process: illustrations.
I had no idea how expensive professional illustration could be. And I did not have the budget for it. I search everywhere for a professional artists, students, illustrators outside the United States—but nothing seemed to stick.
Two years later, I still had no illustrations. Eventually, I stopped even looking and, honestly, I was beginning to think the book might never happen.
Until one day someone knocked on my door.
My neighbor, a comic book artist who knew about my project, handed me the contact information for his friend—an illustrator in Mexico. The same night, I sent out an email with a manuscript, my notes, and a request for a sample illustration.
Next day I got a picture of Knox—exactly as I have envisioned him!
Although the price exceeded my budget, something told me that I have two choices: hire Marcelo to illustrate the story, or accept the fact that Elf Ninjas might never meet the children.
I hired Marcelo.
The next 18 months I became an editor, book designer, art director, production manager, publisher—and God only knows what else. I learned each task as I went. I secured copyrights, assigned ISBNs, changed my mind a hundred of times, made many mistakes and fixed them… but Idid notgive up.
Humor runs in my family. My great-grandfather, my grandfather, my father, my brother and I—we all have it. Perhaps it’s been written into our DNA, making our double helix twist into a grin.
When I was little, my grandfather and I could ping-pong lines back and forth, picking at each other. He would say something with his quarter-smile and I would fire back. We kept going until we both cracked up. Those are my favorite memories of him.
I was raised on humor, and I wanted my children to thrive on it too. Fortunately, they inherited the signature strand and Izabella got a double dose.
My need for comedy follows me into everything I read, whether it’s rom-com or a thriller, I crave those moments when characters deliver sharp, witty lines. So naturally, when I began reading to my children, I searched for books that would make them laugh. I found plenty of beautiful books, meaningful books, educational books, and books advertised as hilarious. But very few could satisfy our peculiar appetite for humor. I hunted for stories that would let my children lose themselves in laughter.
At some point, without consciously deciding to, I began slipping my own jokes between the lines. Sometimes I extended a story or invented a sequel. Eventually, my children began asking me to make up stories or continue the adventures of characters I had invented the night before.
One night around Christmas, I created a tale about elves. I no longer remember what I told them that night, but the story turned their darkened room into a circus. Max, who must have been about four, bounced on the mattress, unable to contain his laughter. Nellie screamed and kicked the wall, disturbing our neighbors. I laughed so hard I couldn’t finish my own sentences—completely failing to put them to sleep.
When I finally left their room, I paused behind the door, still laughing. I remember shaking my head, thinking, “This would make one heck of a book!”
A spark warmed my chest, and a thought blazed through my mind:
MaybeI couldwrite it?
But as I stepped into our messy kitchen and saw the pile of dishes in the sink, reality anchored me back to my life. So before getting my hands wet, I found a Post-it and wrote: ELF NINJAS—A FUNNY STORY FOR KIDS. I stuck it to the back of my bedroom door and promised myself I would write that story before I forgot it.
Since I became a mother, every idea, every project, every undertaking had disappeared beneath dishes, laundry, and everybody else’s needs. I didn’t want this one to fizzle out with the others.
But it did.
That note was covered by bags and hats—lost and forgotten for years.
Until three years ago… It found me.
I couldn’t remember the story at all. But I remembered the promise. That scribbled promise eventually became my first children’s book:The Elf Ninjas Save Christmas.
I rest my hand on my daughter’s chest. Beneath my touch, her heartbeat jumps like a rabbit through wildflowers. “Can you feel love?” I ask. She giggles and presses her tiny palm over my heart. “I can’t feel yours, Mommy.” I cup her cheek and tell her to listen. She leans her ear against my sternum. I hold my breath, afraid she might not find it. The room seems to listen with her until she murmurs, “I hear it.” I ask what it’s saying. She holds still, her lips parting slightly. I whisper that every beat repeats the same words.
I love you.
She doesn’t answer for a moment. Then she nods, leans closer, and squeezes me tight. “I hear it,” she says again. I close my eyes, memorizing the sound.
A woman hurried across the street, dodging a man crouched in the corner, talking to himself. His hair was long, his clothes smelled, and his raspy voice mumbled something that made passersby uncomfortable. Most stare at the ground and veer away.
In Los Angeles, this is as normal as a sunny day. We call them homeless, crazy, or addicts raising tents under a freeway. But we don’t see them as what they once were: humans with big dreams.
Not all of them came chasing fame. Some escaped disasters.
Back then, there was courage in their hearts. They packed their cars or boarded a bus with a guitar. Some told their parents they were leaving their small town because there was a world out there—a place where dreams take shape. They arrived in Hollywood, seeking their big break.
It’s brave; it takes confidence. Yet, we won’t admit it, or perhaps, we never think this deeply.
But chasing dreams in Los Angeles has a lethal price tag. Undoubtedly, some made it, while others fell into the throat of this city. LA chews on dreamers, swallowing them piece by piece. Rent first. Then health. Then dignity. While the sun shines bright. And when the time and resources run out, the verdict follows: ‘they didn’t try hard enough.’
This is survivorship bias.
We hear inspiring stories from singers, actors, or entrepreneurs who slept in a car and “never gave up.” Social media is flooded with success biographies of high school dropouts-turned-icons, praising perseverance, resilience, and never quitting.
But what about the other side? The majority: the people who gave it all and still didn’t make it. Life intervened, money ran out, or timing didn’t line up.
Is the effort alone enough? We love breakthrough tales. They are inspirational and make the world seem fair. But that’s not true; life isn’t fair. Not everyone excels from trying, and not everyone succeeds.
Cemeteries remind us of that. Have you ever walked past rows, reading names, and finding small gaps between birth and death? I ask, what’s their story? What did they dream of?
Los Angeles is a cemetery— except the names are still breathing. The graveyard of broken dreams lives on sidewalks. In tents. In people we avoid because if we look too closely, we might recognize ourselves.
I think about this because my child wants to sing. Just a girl with a voice and a dream. She plays guitar, sings, and… believes. I support her, drive her to lessons, and applaud from my couch. Dreams are beautiful—I don’t want her to stop dreaming! But in LA, dreams without a backup plan are like jumping off a cliff and hoping to land on a mattress. Especially now with social media blaring, “just keep pushing indefinitely, success is inevitable.”
Is it? Really?
Having an alternate plan isn’t a failure. Proposing checkpoints or a deadline doesn’t mean quitting. It’s tracking progress instead of blindly sacrificing years and hoping luck shows up before rent is due. What’s noble about starving for a dream when there were other ways to survive?
The happiest lives I know run on two tracks: financial stability and passion; one feeds the soul, and one feeds the body. Yet social media favors extremes: Fame or failure. It doesn’t show the middle: the people who built parallel paths. And it certainly doesn’t show the ones who disappeared.
Every soul sleeping on the street has a story. Some are still missed back at home. Some never had a home to begin with.
I want my daughter to believe in herself, knowing that her worth (or her singing) doesn’t depend on applause or validation.
Don’t let a dream kill your life. Feed your mouth before you feed your dreams. LA is full of people who believed—and paid that lethal price.
So work, create, pursue, and dream. Dream boldly— with your head on your shoulders and your feet on the ground.
