Lacey made all her clothes, not caring for shopping mall bargains. There were exactly thirty-seven stitches in her sleeve hem; wound string was better, but human hair would do in a pinch. Of course, Lacey didn’t have long hair. Fortunately, living in a big city, who would notice the snip-snip of silver scissors that she always carried? The hair was harder to hide than her blades. She used to loop it through her belt loops until her dog ate it. That was a long story to relay to the vet. So, like her garments, she snipped and patched the truth.
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“That could be a story!” announced the scriptwriter, while watching the news. “In fact, it could be a script! And I’m going to write it!”
He hurriedly busied himself at the computer, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he typed. He typed the idea, the treatment, and the first scene. While watching TV with his wife that evening, a trailer for a new movie came on. “Oh, no!” cried the scriptwriter, his palm slapping his forehead. “What’s wrong?” his wife asked, looking at him with concern. The scriptwriter’s eyes remained closed as he replied, “Hollywood beat me to it.” Standing on a cliff's edge, the professor and his adolescent son watched in awe, as the sun set over the vast ocean.
The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below filled the air. The father explained how the sun's angle changes the way light is dispersed, creating beautiful colours. At the same time, the promise of a new day and a fresh start can also bring a sense of hope and optimism. Watching the sunset was a dramatic experience for the boy. He felt deeply emotional with a sense of sadness thinking about his departed mother. "Don't forget," the old woman says, handing me keys to my dream house with its sea view.
I laugh, dismissing her superstitious nonsense. There's no car access. Humping furniture down the narrow coastal path to the cottage is hard work. And my friends - initially excited by my purchase - are all suddenly very busy. I urinate into the salty waters below before collapsing into a deep sleep. The sound of splintering wood wakes me. Furious waves froth with anger and churn with rage. Outside, a seagull crackles like an old woman as the livid green ocean smashes through the front door. I lay in bed as long as I could, dreading the morning. Time to get up, I thought.
He was in the living room. An array of cardboard boxes were scattered there, waiting to be filled. I tried to smile. "Want some breakfast?" "Sure," he said plainly. "That'd be great." He filled a box with books, then turned to his paperweight collection. "I can help," I said. He reached for another box, plopping it down on the rug with a sound of rustling paperboard; and I realized that sound, that cardboard box sound, was the sound of relationships ending. The court clerk ushers us into our assigned chapel after we make sure our vows are just like us: godless. When you say I do, your smile shines brighter than the sequins on your rose gold dress. This is my third time saying I do and it feels right, for once.
After the ceremony, we wait for the court clerk to leave so we can take our wedding photos: KN95 kisses, our hands modeling our fresh wedding rings, a “Just Married” speech bubble held above us, a “Just Married” speech bubble held below my belt line; let the honeymoon begin. ‘’You need not pay the next month’s fee, Mrs. Chiders,’’ the piano teacher said. ‘’Alice is not interested in learning piano. It is best if we stop these lessons.’’
Macy Chiders stared at the mirror in front of her. Her mother stood there, hair greying at her sides, defeated and exhausted. Mrs. Chiders did not see her mobile-addicted daughter seated on the corner. Instead, she saw herself, a ten-year-old Macy, munching on crisps, waiting to be taken home to TV. Macy looked down, ashamed to face the tearful woman in the mirror. ‘’I am sorry, mom.’’ she whispered. Melanie skipped down the corridor clutching her book and diary as she had been chosen to read to Stella, the volunteer schoolreader. She had mastered the phonics and her teacher had changed her book.
She loved the silver haired Stella who was warm and cheerful. Melanie pressed on but was stuck on a word she could not build. Stella suggested that she missed the word, read the rest of the sentence and go back to it. Melanie was shocked to find she could read the impossible word. When she skipped back to her class she felt like a proper reader. My father loved you all. His final words were: "Do they still call my name, like that of some mystical warrior from a time gone by, or am I just lost in the Odyssey - in between the hidden chapters, long forgotten and disregarded like a grenade? I miss the feeling of adrenaline from the crowd - in the heat and the shine. I miss the storytelling, the sudden switch, the rush before the curtain, the hiss, the cheer. I miss not hiding behind a mask."
But sadly, it was cancer that kept his shoulders down for the one-two-three. No one approves. No one. Friends. Family. Still, she finds him charming. Handsome. Intelligent. Fun.
It’s the first time she questions everyone else’s opinion. But she knows. He’s the one. “Years from now, they’ll understand,” she tells herself. “They’ll see how wonderful he is. How happy we are.” She jumps out the window. He catches her. She smiles, giggling against his shoulder. Excited for the future. “You sure?” he asks, not wanting to deprive her of anything. “Positive,” she assures him. “I don’t need a wedding. I just need you.” “And just like that,” she tells her granddaughter, “we eloped.” The government announced the launching of a huge project in the valley. The deeply rooted, decades-old denizens of the area held the announcement as their death warrant. They trembled in terror and moaned the loss of joy, peace, and life that was to come shortly. They imagined how helmeted men would come around with devices and instruments, big and small, to move, measure and mark the targets. Then one day they would all be chopped or burnt alive one by one mercilessly. They would not be able even to run away from callous killers.
Alas, worry dried them to death! The gathering season is upon us and this year there is an abundance of graphene reeds growing within the shaw along the margins of the methane lake. Broken glass and corrupted and radio active microflakes make the task difficult and dangerous.
Matt and I are a team. We know how to work the system. The trick is to cleave to one another closely and watch out for tell tale signs of radio active poisoning. We are doing pretty well for ourselves, and soon we're going to buy tickets out of here on one of those space shuttles. Go somewhere nice. The editor reviewed the scientific manuscript several times. He sensed some of the experimental data didn’t add up to authors’ groundbreaking conclusions. With geriatric population growing worldwide resulting in exploding cases of “mind-robbing” Alzheimer’s disease, any flawed scientific study would push back the progress in the field.
Suddenly the existence of BloomMind, recent AI-guided smart chatbot appeared in editor’s head. He decided to select a few key words and ask the program to write a scientific paper. In seconds, the program produced a report matching the submitted manuscript, word by word. Stunned, the editor decided not speculating humanity’s future direction. Just before dawn, Marcus took his long-handled spade, walked out to the back field. No one was around to question what he was doing. The weeds had grown tall over the summer blocking any view of him. He reached a spot where he had already mowed a patch of ground and he began cutting, removing the thatch. Underneath, the soil was loamy and easy to dig.
He dug a wide hole about four feet deep. A heavy black bundle lay among the weeds. Slowly he dragged it to the excavation. He opened it up, a liner for his wildlife pond. “You’ll pay that if I work a week?”
“That’s right.” “And your daughter’s eighteen months?” “She’s eighteen. This is a live in position, but not here. She lives with a community in the south. Go for a week, gain her trust and bring her back.” “What if I want to stay there?” “Five grand says you don’t. Ten if she comes with you.” --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “You know we’re just supplying them with converts, Bill. We’re no closer to getting her back.” “It hasn’t cost us anything so far. If it doesn’t work this time, we’ll send in a chap. A handsome one.” I press and push you trying to win the battle. I stand into the doorway to reason with you. I push again, pleading with you to work with me. Please work with me. I have got to rush. I need to be at work at nine and my presentation must be quite fine. I pull at your strap and try to free you up. I look around you to see if there is any other way. Please I beg, stop resisting. I must get on with my day. Finally, you give in and open up, my new push button umbrella.
Home from the hospital, Janet grabbed her phone to call her mom. She saw a message from Steven, her ex, telling her he had changed the Hulu password.
She had been the one to break it off. He was holding her back, she had said. All he ever wanted to do was cuddle and watch tv. Why wasn’t he ever working on that app idea of his, she had asked. He was distracting her from writing her novel. She opened her docs, navigated to her book and checked the word count: 7031. The editor reviewed the scientific manuscript several times. He sensed some of the experimental data didn’t add up to authors’ groundbreaking conclusions. With geriatric population growing worldwide resulting in exploding cases of “mind-robbing” Alzheimer’s disease, any flawed scientific study would push back the progress in the field.
Suddenly the existence of BloomMind, recent AI-guided smart chatbot appeared in editor’s head. He decided to select a few key words and ask the program to write a scientific paper. In seconds, the program produced a report matching the submitted manuscript, word by word. Stunned, the editor decided not speculating humanity’s future direction. He no longer got the leading parts, or bowed before the audience from the centre of the stage, but more likely obscured by the drawn curtain. Back in his dressing room after the matinee, his costumes were headless ghosts all safely stored once more. In order, the most intact one on the outside, with each more distressed item to signify the progression of the war, inwards, the last dipped in the blood of the mortal wound.
They represent the passage of time and he looked at them, uncertain which to wear next, and whether it was all in the script. Why do I always seem to be doing the dishes when I don’t even cook? The full cup is lukewarm beside my elbow, one minute in the microwave will do. Why is it that online purchases come out of your credit card account immediately, but payments take days to process? The two-thirds cup is tepid, so back to the microwave for thirty seconds. Why do I bother scrolling, when asked for a headshot, even though I always end up selecting the same one, the one I hate least. The half-full cup is now cold. Pour it. Put on the kettle.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Howard, scooping up raisins and oatmeal.
“You know that scares me,” said Rachel. She folded the morning paper and put it on the table. “Let’s canoe the Yellowstone. It’s 643 miles long, longest undammed river in the country.” “We don’t know anything about canoes or rivers.” “It will be exciting, and a groovy thing to do.” Howard spooned up more oatmeal. “We’ll drown. Drowning isn’t a groovy thing.” “No, we won’t.” “You can’t be sure of that,” Rachel said. “Yes, I can.” “Are you trying to kill us?” “No. I’m trying to get us to live.” The spirit spoke
“Water is wetting my house,” Trevor woke up from his dream puzzled. He wonder what his dead aunt was trying to tell him from beyond the grave. He waits for the sun to rise then he rushes down to the burial spot to investigate. Examining the sepulture he saw a gaping hole in the roof of the structure and as he looked down he could see the coffin below. He took out some cement and sand he had in his car trunk and seal off the spot. “Ok,” he said, “That was what the dream all was about,” he said. On the second day of their wellness weekend, Mona and Julie were hiking in the woods behind the spa.
Mona stopped. “I gotta pee! That matcha crap goes right through me.” They found some tall grass, and Julie walked away for privacy. She stooped to admire a vivid wildflower when she heard her friend shriek. Mona was yanking up her leggings and pointing a trembling finger at the ground. Julie turned and recognized the spa’s yoga instructor, a bloody knife in her throat. “Omigosh! Julie yelled, “Call 911. Tell them she’s in corpse pose.” The carnival came every summer. It was Jay's favorite weekend. He galloped between rides, giggling, holding Amina's hand with fingers sticky from cotton candy. "Mom," he reminded her, "next year I'll be tall enough for the roller coaster!"
A year has passed. Amina stands behind the Ferris wheel alone. Her hand leaves her pocket. Ash sifts through her fingers. Tomorrow the carnival will be gone, the site an empty expanse of grass. But tonight Amina can smell the popcorn and see the lights, and she can almost hear Jay laughing as the wheel lifts him up to the sky. The elderly man cringes each time the pellets of rain strike his skin. The bridge’s overhang offers little respite from the inclement weather.
His white and gnarled fingers tug his threadbare coat closer to his body. But like the coat, his life hangs by a thread. He shivers, closes his eyes, and prays for warmth. Although he fears he will not find it tonight. Suddenly a voice beckons above the temporary shelter. The elderly man opens his eyes and sobs. The outreach worker carefully navigates a steep incline and soon takes the gentleman under his wing. |
"Classic"
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