Although after our initial stroll around the block, no dogs dare barked at him (those that were left), and cats simply vanished. None of the neighborhood gangs bothered us, so that was good.
I didn’t realize when I agreed to take care of my boss’s dog that his pet was Cerberus. That’s right, Cerberus. The three-headed giant beast with a serpent tail that guards Hell. Feeding him was difficult, to say the least (don’t be tardy with his food I learned after he took three sizeable chunks out of my arm) and walking him daily was a true nightmare.
Although after our initial stroll around the block, no dogs dare barked at him (those that were left), and cats simply vanished. None of the neighborhood gangs bothered us, so that was good. I glanced across the table at the devil who smiled. I needed a royal flush to win.
How could I have been so stupid? Betting my soul in a game of poker? Was I really that depressed to gamble my soul for an eternity in hell? About to fold a voice in my ear stayed my hand. What did he say? ‘You can’t lose what already belongs to me.’ the voice said. I looked again, there was the king, a royal flush. I finally understood and smiled back at the devil who frowned. Once again, the King saved my soul. The last words Whitney heard before Brett boarded the plane were "snail mail".
He loved her and wanted the whole world to know it. The antique postcard of the Trevi Fountain, to be mailed immediately upon his arrival in Rome, was the most sincere and sentimental way to express his eternal love. In his best penmanship he wrote, "Will you marry me and be mine forever? Love, Brett". Whitney never received the postcard. Heart broken, she could only surmise that the ocean embraced Brett and it alone knew the meaning of the words, "snail mail". A black cauldron engulfed in flames. Inside a headless man coiled in rope. Two busty females, also headless, dressed in leopard skins, held spears, one on each side of the pot.
As if standing behind a guillotine, Sally, Phyllis, and Frank rested their chins on the curves on top of a large piece of plywood. — Action! The ten-year-old cousins smiled. Phyllis’s dad frowned. A camera clicked. “You’ll be receiving your picture postcard in a few days,” said the photographer on the boardwalk of the Amusement Park called the Pike. All during seventh-grade, Cissy pestered her mother to buy her some high-heeled pumps for church. Mom told her she could get high heels when she reached eighth-grade. Finally, the time came, and Cissy triumphantly purchased a pair of elegant white pumps with 3-inch heels. The first Sunday she wore them, her feet were killing her by the time she got home from church. After a month, she was begging Mom for new shoes. Mom said she could either wear the white shoes, or last year’s short-heeled pumps.
Never again in her life did Cissy wear heels taller than one inch. Neighbor Robert keeps to himself. Like me. We say hello in passing.
Once, from my window opposite his, I see clutter everywhere. I joke about mine. He smiles. It’s his shadow I usually see, illuminated behind drapes. I have shutters, closed. Then I stop seeing Robert’s shadow, yet every night a light, on and off. Probably a timer. Is he traveling? Why aren’t I? The light goes dark. A Got Junk? truck arrives to haul away the shadow’s life. Robert had left to die. He was 55. Will my life get hauled away by a Got Junk? truck? I wonder. “Please don’t do it, you don’t realize that he is using you. You are one of us!” exclaimed the ranger before he got shot. The bounty hunter had finished his last mission, and finally, he could rest, all he had to do was erase all of Kevin's imaginary friends. That dirty cowboy was the last one. But soon everything began to fall apart and turn white. A repetitive buzzing destroyed everything, stunning the bounty hunter. “Kevin, pay attention” said his friends from school while he saw the window, daydreaming. “The school bell is ringing, it's recess time.”
‘People are saying it’s changing the thriller genre.’ The interviewer smiled at me, ‘I mean the way you get inside the killers head is amazing, how did you do that?’
‘I killed someone,’ I said with a straight face. The interviewer laughed. ‘Just kidding, I watched a lot of true crime documentaries and a lot of crime novels. Much easier that murder.’ We both chuckled at my answer to the question. She didn’t need to know about the blood stains on the carpet. And she didn’t need to know about the body that was in my shed a year ago. Excitement surges within, I can barely contain my emotions. Who will I tell first. My Mum wouldn’t understand, but my friends will. They’ll rally around me, protect me, support me. We’ll find a way together.
To feel the touch of a tiny hand, the sweet smell of milky breath. It will finally be all mine, and I won’t have to share it. He’s long gone, and I want to shout it from the rooftops. The alarm rings. I lift the stick. One line. A lead weight falls heavy within me. Disappointment. Sadness. Relief. There she is, my wife. It took so long to get to where we are today. She was my gardener and I recklessly fell in love with her. One day she ran over a teenager and she stopped loving me, and everything around her. After years of therapy I got her back, the woman I fell in love with. And now there she is, in the hospital bed, wheezing as she fights for life.
Now I have to get avenge for my wife, for the woman who ran her over was the woman my wife hit many years ago. She hid in the corner, a young child scared and so alone.
How could they have left her? She was tired, too tired to go to the shelter and they had forgotten her. The blind was down, blacked out as they had been taught. She covered her ears and the siren muted slightly. There was no bomb yet, perhaps it was a false alarm. She could hear her family coming back, "I'm here" she called, blinking in the sudden light. "What are you doing there Mrs Finney"? "Hop back into bed, the ambulance has gone now" Young Jonathan slurped thin long rods of pasta into his mouth along with homemade tomato sauce. He stopped halfway and spit out the messy clump onto his plate.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “I’m not hungry,” he replied. When he didn’t resume eating, I realized the situation was serious. “Are you not feeling well?” “It happened before. Remember?” “What happened?” I asked, taking a forkful. Then, another. Jonathan sat unwilling to budge. “Mom, it’s together with the food on my plate. One of your hairs got twisted with my angel pasta. Can you please tie your hair back when you’re cooking?” “You can’t change the past. What’s done is done, so stop worrying,” he counsels.
“But the future bothers me too,” I reply. “Ach! Live in the present for the now is all that’s real,” he philosophizes. “Yet I’m also anxious about the present,” I counter. “I meant the immediate moment. Look at that tree for example, then meditate and forget,” he advises. “Doesn’t this merely erase what’s in our minds?” I ask. “Yes, making us free!” he exults. “Creating a mental void,” I think, returning happily to my anxieties, this blabberer exemplifying the saying that “empty vessels make most noise.” It wasn’t her kinky blonde curls.
Or her flashy suits. What grabbed the attention of male stockbrokers at the NYSE were Lila’s stilettos. Sky high. Expensive, even for Wall Street, yet on the trading floor Lila was still just an assistant. By age 22, however, she knew her way around the exchanges and even some boardrooms. Her personal portfolio focused on the stilettos. Their custom design allowed each high heel to be removed, revealing another stiletto inside. Stilettos: Shiny by day, sharp by night. Ultimately, Lila’s investment became her downfall. The tabloids called her The Misandrous Mistress of Wall Street. ‘I had to sign for this one.’ He waved an envelope at her. ‘But here’s an invitation to your sister’s wedding. Is this third time lucky?’
‘That was addressed to me.’ ‘Sorry, darling. Pour me another coffee.’ ‘I hope Jess is happier in this marriage.’ ‘No staying power, that girl: always running from her problems.’ ‘She married an adulterer, and then a bully. Sometimes you have to run away.’ ‘Selfish nonsense. Any croissants left?’ ‘You ate the last two.’ ‘Buy more next time. Now, I wonder what’s in my letter.’ ‘Only our divorce papers.' |
"Classic"
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