When she crossed the street and unlocked the gate and stepped into the yard and crouched behind the fountain, she did not want to pull the trigger; when she pulled the trigger she would hear unmistakably the whizzing of the bullet trough the cold air, the crack-thump when it reached the flesh, the murmur of love words she must forget, the squeaks of the new bed chosen among giggles, a bed she now hates, and she would see, once more, and in painful details, and rather surprisingly, the naked, bunched muscles of his back moving passionately over another woman.
He’d fallen victim to the pills, crushing them on his counter. He’d sworn he’d never fall into the cycles she went through. Watching her beg. Watching her relapse. Watching her suffer.
He swore he’d never be like her… But when she was gone, the pain became too much. And the pills became sweet like candy. Though he resented her, he began to understand. Began to find comfort in the numbness. Nothing could hurt then… But still, he cried, even through his smile. Weeping at the loss not of her, but himself. Broken promises. He swore he’d never be like her… Percy couldn’t forget the footprints in the snow. An unsuspecting trail meandering the tree line. Out for a stroll on the mountainside.
But he knew their fate. Knew where they would end. A path snuffed out too soon. Beneath the dark branches of the firs. Everyone in town assumed him missing—another hiker lost to the endless forest. But Percy knew better. He had seen what lurked in the shadows on the mountain. What lurked in the hearts of fellow men. The footprints vanished from the snow, but not his memory. Still, he prayed like their hiker, they would disappear. A fresh coat of glistening white snow had fallen overnight. Sue shrugged on her parka and pulled down her stocking cap. Wielding the snow shovel, she made sure the walk was clear and dug out the car. Again. Stomping her boots on the garage floor shook off the remnants of fluffy snow. Just then, Sue spotted the round saucer sled, covered with spiderwebs. The winter wind blew the dusty webs as she dragged it to the trash. Sue made sure no neighbors were outside as she detoured to the hill in the back, giving the sled one final ride.
‘How long did it take to write your novel, Morwenna?’
‘A year, writing evenings and weekends, Dad.’ ‘That seems a long time. Let’s see: typing at forty words a minute, for a book of, say, 80,000 words, you should be able to do it in around thirty-three hours. Less than a week’s work.’ ‘I know you’re a time and motion expert, Dad, but there’s more to writing than you think. It’s not just typing. There’s all the…’ ‘Business Efficiency Analyst, actually. If you need help writing your next book, Morwenna, let me know and I’ll arrange a schedule for you.’ Losing Emily broke my heart, shattered it into a thousand pieces. I’d never have another dog. I couldn’t bear the pain.
And, besides, I’d have more freedom. No rushing home for feeding. I could take a holiday; no need to find boarding kennels. But I didn’t stay out late or go on holiday. It’s no fun without someone to greet me when I arrive home. Two hopeful brown eyes met mine at the rescue centre. ‘Want to come home with me, Billy? I’ll tell you all about Emily. I’m sure she won’t mind if you play with her toys.’ I am terrified of flying, but sometimes I must do it for my job. Luckily, my therapist prescribes a sedative to help me sleep during the flight.
It did not work this time, so I got up to relieve myself. While exiting the bathroom, I noticed the other passengers were staring at me. I looked down to see if I had a piece of toilet paper stuck to my shoe. Looking back up, I recognized the other passengers; they were members of my family and friends who had already passed away. Just then, the fasten your seat belt sign illuminated. Two fairy sisters, Luna and Keiran, met at the entrance to the legendary Forbidden Tunnel.
"Don't go!" Keiran pleaded. "We've talked about this. Liam entered the tunnel and never came back. I have to find him. Hold this spool of spider thread while I tie the end to my ankle. When I tug on it, pull us back through the tunnel." Luna found Liam near the end of the tunnel. His once beautiful, translucent wings were crushed. "The legend is true. I couldn't get back," Liam cried. Luna took him in her arms and pulled the thread. The thread snapped. The regional conflict intensified. Still, educator Mohamed Ali couldn’t believe there wouldn’t be any Christmas celebration in Bethlehem that year. Born and brought up there, this was his favorite festival, even belonging to a different religion.
Mohamed flew to Kalambaka, Greece, famous for its historic monasteries founded by early Christians fleeing persecutions, on top of monolithic mountains. On Christmas morning he scaled the one on the tallest monolith, entered the main chapel and immediately noticed the shinning painting of “Jesus on Cross”. But, it was the white dove overhead filled him with joyous optimism: “Peace will come to my homeland.” I have permission to go out, running. As always there are rules. I wear a high-visibility vest, so he can watch me from upstairs, and a baseball cap hides my face. I’ve been dieting, lifting weights. Now I’m running, transforming myself because of the other, younger, woman.
Am I jealous of her? Of course. After my run, he allows me to use his en suite bathroom, then escorts me back to my personal space in the basement. The younger woman is in the cage beside mine. Snivelling, she says: “Why didn’t you escape?” “You’d like that,” I sneer, “wouldn’t you?” In the afterburn of divorce, my father bought a red Miata convertible and moved into a penthouse with his girlfriend. My mother pushed her wonk-wheeled shopping cart of a life to a beige townhouse in the suburbs.
“Great demographics,” said the realtor. “A horse corral for the middle-aged,” my mother said. One year later my father rang her doorbell. “Everything was a mistake,” he said. “Can I come back?” “No.” “Why not?” “Because I can’t feed a grown man who drives a jelly bean. Now giddyap outta here.” And she slammed the door in his face. Melodic strains of Maurice Ravel's "La Valse" filled the grand theater as Martini stepped into the dimly lit hall. Tonight, he bids farewell to his neighbor, good ol' Mr. Warren, who wields the conductor's baton.
As he settled into a plush seat, Martini marveled at how the auditorium mirrored the bittersweet symphony of his life. Tomorrow, he and his parents would embark on a new journey. This relocation marks the fourth upheaval in two years due to his father's job. Surrounded by the crescendo of change, Martini cherished the sweet waltz of a friendship that transcended distance and time. He who lost her invited the one who found her.
“You brought us closure,” declared the widower. His sole child, a daughter in her twenties, stood by. “Mom was an artist,” she stated. “I’m sure she would’ve wanted you to have one of her oils.” “My dog’s the hero,” the stranger said. “He found her first.” “Cathy loved dogs,” added the widower. “She volunteered at the animal rescue.” The man walked about examining the collection. “This one,” he confirmed. The work he chose featured a vibrantly picturesque river intent on luring an impressionist into the very depth of its soul. Before one toe pulls off the other sandal at the door; before the run across the busy street, wagon rattling; before the jump back as the wheel stud breaks and supplies tumble; before the fall on the outcropping just after the loss of purchase; before the bold push-back when the cashier tries to price- gouge; before the break away from joggers prancing at the stop sign; before sidestepping a complaint of Karens in the park; before the shuffle off the porch into the blinding sun, the mother’s voice trailing on the air, “Take the wagon─ those supplies will be heavy.”
“Just the usual trim, Stephanie?” I ran my fingers through the chocolate curls cascading down her back. Innocent looking Jersey cow eyes peeked back at me from her reflection in the brightly lit mirror.
“Thought I might go for something different, Janice. There’s a new man in my life. Maybe a layered style and a razor cut fringe. What do you think?” “I think a change would be good for you.” I put up the closed sign. Stephanie Peterson was my last appointment for the day. My newly sharpened scissors gleamed. She would not be stealing my man. “I think you should start by unblocking your ROOT chakra since you never bonded with your mother."
“No, it’s too late for that. Start with your SACRAL CHAKRA – all those unwanted touches need to be dealt with.” “I think you need to unlock your HEART CHAKRA – find love without conditions or betrayals.” “No, the THIRD EYE CHAKRA is the most important so you can be rooted in reality.” “No, you need to find your spirituality by unblocking your CROWN CHAKRA.” Amy made her decision. She would start with the THROAT CHAKRA and tell these women to mind their own business. Old Arthur always thought city folks were selfish and avoided visiting his son as much as he could. But it was his grandson's birthday.
By the end of the celebration Arthur's neck was hurting and his son dropped him off at the physiotherapist's the next day. As he waited, Arthur saw an old woman limping towards the lobby. Poor lady, she's being made to carry a steel stool. Arthur's heart wept. Selfish people. He ran up and grabbed the stool from her, "Let me help, madam." The lady went tumbling; a nurse came running, "Who snatched Mrs. Wallaby's walking aid?" The Head of the Global Government on Earth wrote to the Monarch of the Moon:
“Greetings from the nearest neighbour! Unfortunately, some of our own people are causing harm to the very source of our sustenance. We have not been able to stop them. No laws and no appeals are working. You have been our dearest, oldest, and closest friend. Could you suggest any remedy?” Soon came the reply from the Moon. “Thank you for your letter, dear Sir. Let me suggest a simple solution. Dispatch those foolhardy ones to the Moon. Here, they will learn to live on earth.” The newly married John tried to repair an ancient vacuum cleaner but all the bits flew round the room. He never ever mastered DIY skills.
Sixty years later the simple task of changing a light bulb defeated him. He screwed in the new bulb but no light appeared. No matter how hard he screwed success eluded him. After Andy Mann had established there was a flow of electricity he placed his hand on the bulb and the magic light appeared. “Ah,” said John. “Did I not tighten it enough?” “No. It was too tight. I just loosened it a notch.” Gordon's Choice In a miserable January week of weather, this certainly made me laugh – GL Chic always wanted to write – make a living therfrom. But what constichooted a tale? Was it just thoughts or must it contane a begining, middle, end? Did something dramatick have to ocur therin?
“Dramatick”, “therin” … words that Chic had to check as he couldn’t spell. In his present job there was plenty of cash to be made. Everything was on the way up. It was 1965; grate times for those up for it. Up for it, ha ha. Maybe Chic could write comedy – with puns therin. Meanwhile, he would make money completing this skyscraper. He could write storeys about it. Lisa's Choice She will not give up. She faithfully carries on the routine that has been part of her life for more years than she can remember. She won’t listen to those words of wisdom about doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. The staff recognize her, and they know that she will come in at some time during the day. There she is again with that undying hope. Then, suddenly there it is! In a flash of encouragement, the screen reads... two dollars and a free play.
Ray’s in lots of local community facebook groups. Initially he joined the one where his Mum lives. Some are in different countries.
He‘s quick to respond - Sad face at missing parcels. Heart hug when a flat cat is found. Eye roll at parking issues and he watches Ring doorbell footage like it’s a Netflix series. He yearns for Bank Holiday Bin disruption. Thumbs up. He CAN hear that high pitched screeching noise. He’s currently excited by a message from his actual local group. Until he opens it: “We’re removing you immediately! We suspect you don’t live in this area.” It's a new year, a fresh start, claimed my soul the first morning I opened my eyes after a joyful yet depleted end-of-year party.
I smiled, agreeing with my soul. Ending the conversation with God, I started working out, burning some calories augmented during the holiday. Letting the sweat vaporise, I set the shower. Under the shower rain, my thoughts strolled. They slinked in and out between the new year and the old one, which was only a few hours different. Wrapped in a towel, I went to my working spot, read the week's schedule, and found the incomplete errands. After weeks of roller-coaster rain, fluctuating between drizzle and deluge, with mist filling brief respites, the sun appeared, striking Aubrey like a silent sledgehammer as she ran her daily course through the woods -- a route she'd long ago memorized, every twist and incline of the now-muddy trail, every jutting branch and fallen trunk, every root that poked from the ground, hoping to trip her -- and she realized in that instant that she preferred the gray of clouds and the bite of cold, for the sun's illumination brought clarity, a sharpness, a focus: the very thing she was trying to escape.
She doubted words of eulogy would even begin to scratch the surface of the grief she felt. She’d spent an hour with the vicar trying to do justice to her child's short life but had given the ridiculous, childless man short shrift.
“Love is stronger than fear, life stronger than death, hope stronger than despair. We have to trust that the risk of loving is always worth taking." He spoke. He’d read her rather than listen, looked inside of her, saw with his own eyes the pain and conflict she felt and put into words everything she could not express. |
"Classic"
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