He came home and was surprised to see a gigantic rock in his yard. He asked God, “Why?” God told him for now, his purpose in life was to push against the rock daily with all his strength. He did. A year later, he cried out in frustration, “I’m a failure! After all this time, and the rock hasn’t budged an inch!” “My child,” the Lord responded, “Look at you. Your shoulders are broader. Your arms and legs are stronger. Your stature is more muscular. The purpose was never to move the rock, the purpose was to make you stronger.”
A child-prodigy, Ms. Sushmita Sen started her acting-career at age of four. Now in mid-forties, she portrayed every imaginable difficult character, elevating her to country’s most famous stage-actress.
Tonight, she had an age-progressive dual-role in a socio-political drama. In the beginning, she was a dazzling young woman. As the plot advanced, she became a widow appearing in all-white. A sudden thought crystallized. Her acting-career was coming to an end yielding to a younger generation. She froze, stood speechless in dark, and lowered eyes, a few droplets rolling down. The audience understood, rewarding her curtain call with an everlasting standing ovation. I often walked the footpath along the canal. One day I had an uneasy feeling, someone was close behind me.
Suddenly a pain. I awoke days later in a hospital bed. Beside me the man who had found me whilst jogging, and had phoned the emergency services, saved my life. He had visited me every day since. I looked forward to his visits and we grew close. A year later we walked hand in hand along the canal path. I bent down to redo my laces and shuddered, turning I asked, "It was you, wasn't it?' 'Yes', he answered. Each one represented the pain she caused him while they were man and wife - twelve years of put-downs, violence and emotional blackmail hidden from the outside world because he couldn't bring himself to admit it to anyone. Martin put up with the black eyes and the bruises; suffered her vicious temper in silence.
Now, he didn't have to pretend anymore. He finished arranging the last stone on the cairn and walked away, smiling for the first time in a decade. A small mound of stones marked the start of a new life without her – the chance to begin again. Sixty today. I forced a smile, fighting off the feelings of being old. It didn’t work. Part of me had looked forward to this day, but now that it was here... I think the fear was more dominant. I’d always known that one day I’d reach sixty, now it seemed too soon.
Work had just been a routine day. Perhaps this is what I need, a complete change. No-one at work had even said goodbye. A lone tear rolled down my cheek. I reached the complex, handed over my card. The perfunctory official simply said, “Re-cycling booth 27”. Too soon. My apologies for the second story of the day, but I reckoned this one couldn't wait a week – GL Suddenly, Leyla stopped scratching at the rock. "Look, Maria!" she gasped. "Ever seen one of these for real?"
"Is that a...?" asked the younger archaeologist. Layla pointed out the tell-tale features. "I've only seen pictures in books of those strange bits they had, but... I'm pretty certain." Maria scratched her head. "I never really quite understood – what was their purpose?" Leyla reminded her that sperm banks were only invented in the late twentieth century; the pair shuddered and giggled at the thought. "Apart from that, not much," said Leyla. "When everyone realised the world was overpopulated, the solution was obvious." He looked at the others, exactly like him, all waiting for the order to deploy. Identical in their uniformity, it was impossible to tell one from the other. Their mission was simple; attack and kill. Families, individuals, it didn’t matter, everyone was a target. The old and the young were the weakest, most of them would fall easily, even the strong could be brought to their knees. There would be resistance, and a few would escape, but the overall success of the mission was guaranteed.
The order was about to be given. Anticipation gave way to excitement. ‘Influenza! Roll out!’ The landscape appeared like a glorious canvas combining Van Gogh’s impressionism with Georges Seurat’s pointillism. Indian photojournalist Arjun Singh felt overwhelmed at nature’s beauty in front of him at the border of his country with neighboring Pakistan. He was covering a suicide-bombing happened just a week ago.
Soon, he heard the drum-roll of advancing war, when F-16 jet-fighters (US-built) of both countries began playing the cat-&-mouse game over distant mountain-range. He’s aware of millions of starving poor people on both sides, while millions of dollars got spent securing those war-instruments. Who benefits from their sales? Mr. Singh knew the answer. After lightly knocking, Officer Clemens was greeted by puffy eyes, which was regretfully his accustomed salutation. “Oh, hello Officer. Is there something else about the accident?” she almost whispered.
He looked down at the round tummy. “Um, yes. I just wanted to let you know that I found out your husband was having lunch with a client at the hotel before the accident.” He watched some comfort seep into her being. Driving away, he felt pleased knowing she would pass on fond memories. Handling the mistress staying at the hotel wasn’t so easy. That night a storm raged, tearing wildly at everything in its path, showing no mercy. An anger had been dispatched from the heavens, the wind and rain its chosen weapons.
Dark-grey skies streaked with illumination, white and blue, lightning bolts accompanied by a symphony of thunder. The sea defenceless-submits, waves grow higher and crash angrily to the shore, stirring rocks and battering fragile cliffs. All was thrown about. Hours passed filled with noise, relentless power sent destruction - a perfect storm. Then, suddenly, all was silent, all was still. God's anger spent, and He was pleased with His punishment. We watch our daughter jump from puddle to puddle on the sidewalk. Her umbrella is completely forgotten in her excitement of making the water “go splash”. Raindrops race down her poncho as she dashes to each small and big pool that has formed on the ground.
Every so often, her head would whip around to see if we are paying attention to the splashes she is making from each leap. We smile and nod in approval. We see her eyes widen in excitement as she sees a large puddle before her. We rush forward to join her in this spectacle. Cody sits by his father’s bedside and clutches his frail hand. The nurse tells him to go home.
“You need to eat and get some rest,” says Courtney . “I want to stay with father,” says Cody. “If he dies and I am not with him, I will never forgive myself.” The bedside monitor suddenly alarms. Courtney notices that the EKG rhythm has become irregular. She knows death is now imminent. Cody takes a few deep breaths. He is afraid to move. He suddenly closes his eyes, and he starts to pray. There is so much he still needs to say. It could be called restoration, I suppose. Or reclamation, perhaps. I'm not really sure of the correct terminology. He's the same but different. I know I called him a robot when we used to argue, but I did love him. I really did. When he died I had him converted into a real robot and now we don't argue any more. And he finally does whatever I ask. The result of all of this is that I still love him, but not for the same reasons. It may sound funny, but life is so much easier with a robot husband.
Dear Ms Austen
An intriguing project, and with amendments, has possibilities. However, there are a few points to which you must attend as outlined in my full report, but in brief: POV wanders uncertainly and, until the third chapter, seems to be the POV of the father. Your grasp of the English language is masterful, but you are using far too much exposition and there is an urgent need to align far more with the ‘show, don’t tell’ principle. The title is weak; ‘Pride and Prejudice’ – really…? And that is why Jane Austen’s masterpiece would not be published today. “I’m so glad I right-swiped you, Linda,” Mark said.
She clinked glasses. “Likewise.” “Would you meet me again?” She looked away. “Perhaps.” “Only perhaps?” “Look, Mark, there’s a problem.” “Tell me, I won’t be shocked.” She turned back towards him. “You won't understand,” smiling to reveal blood-covered fangs in her mouth. “Goodness!” “Did I shock you?” “Not shocked, surprised.” Mark grinned, revealing his own razor-sharp fangs. “Dating apps are fantastic at finding matches.” “Perfect! I’d love to date you again.” “Can I see you home?” “Yes, but no sex on our first night.” “No sex. Perhaps a little necking?” “Naturally.” When a witch he recognized was buzzed into the building, Horace lunged to keep the door from closing, and then slipped in behind her. Racing the elevator upstairs, he reached the third-floor hallway in time to observe into which apartment she had entered. Approaching that door, he blocked the peephole with a bag of Chinese take-out and then knocked. It opened just enough for an elderly woman to peek over the chain.
“Oh, it’s you, Horace,” said Griselda, the Coven High Priestess. “No warlocks allowed.” “But Griselda,” Horace pleaded, “I self-identify as a witch.” “Ain’t curses a bitch?” said Griselda. The cold had forced its way inside his bones. His breath danced as it escaped his lips in the dim yellow streetlights. There was no shelter here.
He shook his empty paper cup as the faces passed, footsteps clopping. He heard her then, her clops louder than the others. A pair of black shoes paused and a coin dropped into his cup, a pound? He glanced up and she smiled before disappearing. Shaking, he pulled the cup and peered inside. A pound. He thanked them in his mind, shook his cup and was ignored for the rest of the day. I furiously pull into an illegal parking zone, leave my blinkers on, rush into the cupcake store and order a variety of four. They place them into a nice brown box with the word ‘love’ plastered on it. I dig into the cream at first and then devour the cake part. I am in cupcake heaven. I see crazy-colored rainbows and galloping unicorns as I relish my velvety dream, wishing that this sugary trance would never end. Like a cat, I lick the icing off my fingers. To think, I had been angry just a few minutes ago
He plucked memories of her from the darkness staring at him. Chestnut hair. Ruby lips. Emerald eyes flirting with his deep brown. Her chatter, lively. Laughter, heartwarming.
Yesterday she cuddled with him. Left abruptly after stating an ultimatum. “I’ll be back,” she said. “If you fix what needs to be fixed.” He contemplated what life would be like without her. Discarded the picture. More resolved than ever to work on a solution. He won’t let the other guys get between him and her. Alone he sat, spray can in hand. Ready to battle the army of silverfish invading his apartment. “Beautiful,” he murmured, hugging her from behind.
“Don’t,” she hissed, swatting his arms away, her plum lips stretched thin with annoyance. “You’re going to crush the silk.” He withdrew his hands and backed away a step. She continued to focus on her reflection. “When’s my birthday?” she demanded. His shoulders slumped. “Haven’t we gone over this enough already?” She glared at him in the mirror. “You said the same thing last year. Only for us to lose the Best Couple award by just one question.” He sighed, “24th January.” “Good.” She smiled perfectly. “Now get rid of that hideous tie.” A somber mood was prevailing. International efforts from past decades produced no effective treatment for dementia in Alzheimer disease. Then in a roundtable-discussion:
Prof. Moore (Oxford): Let’s advise people to tweet more. Prof. Smith (Harvard): What? Prof. Moore: Look at your strongman; even at seventy, wakes up at 4-00am to tweet all day, while governing. Prof. Sorensen (Karolinska): But, they’re all lies, insults, and bully-statements. Prof. Moore: We’re not moral ethicists, but scientists. Several other strongmen found success in him, so statistical benefit is there. Gordon Jeffrey, the science-editor, Guardian tweeted to the world “Scientists claim the health-benefit of tweeting.” Josh noticed 3 sets of flowers on the memorial seat outside a church. He threw his cigarette away, not in the bin of course, and picked up a bunch.
"This will do nicely!" he sneered. "Oh, you are so romantic," beamed Chantelle, "you've even written me a message. How sweet." It read, "To Martha, miss you always, you loved this view." She pushed the flowers back to Josh and stormed off swearing. Josh dropped and stamped on them in a petulant rage, then crossed the road. Unfortunately, a car narrowly missed him. Brad’s sleep is interrupted by strange sounds as he lay on the stretcher. He groans and pulls the hospital sheet over his head. But the noise remains accompanied by the occasional abdominal cramp.
His memory is foggy when it all comes back to him. . “The visual examination went well, Brad,” says Dr. Smith as he walks over and touches his patient on the shoulder. “I told him it wouldn’t be so bad,” says Brad’s wife walking over and kissing her husband on the cheek. Dr. Smith replies with a gleam in his eye. “I will schedule you for next week.” Norman’s face shines with self-satisfaction and pleasure when he pulls off his wife’s birthday surprise. But her mood darkens, face red when the same Singing Telegram from last year performs. A modest woman, pretty with golden hair, Norm teases her relentlessly reciting the most current blonde jokes along with tired one-liners featuring sex toys and used condoms. All eyes on her, he looks for her reaction when he announces her age along with a wisecrack about antique cars. A cold silence fills the room. Her second marriage has her longing for the first. Too late for a change of heart.
Old Man Jarrett wasn’t a recluse, nor was he that old. In fact, the handsome gentleman often fraternized with the locals at community events. He simply adored his vast acreage and felt no reason to travel. The majority of each day was occupied tending to a truly majestic butterfly garden while sipping coffee from a thermos.
In time, a lovely young lady rivaled the haven. Full of energy, she begged him to see the world with her. He consented. Consequently, as the plane plummeted, he prayed not for his life, but for forgiveness from his beloved butterflies. |
"Classic"
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