Some mornings, when the sun rose just right, it was almost like nothing had happened. This was one of those mornings, a bright red dawn. I climbed out of my truck, zipped up my black hoodie and stretched to the sky.
Maybe it was all a dream? Surely it hadn't actually happened. I had gotten drunk, partied too hard, fallen asleep in the truck just outside of town, and now I could head back, and home would be home, and the residents would be people I knew and not those things.
I had nearly convinced myself of this happy thought...
The children were not at school. The administrators voice continued to echo tinnily in her ear, but she wasn't listening any more. The children were not at school. Their backpacks still sat on the stairs near the landing by the front door. The morning sunlight poured in through the kitchen window as she let the phone slip from her grasp to dangle from its cord, banging slightly against the wall.
She had told them to go away, to leave her alone. She turned looking down the hallway towards the front door, looking at the backpacks sitting on the landing next...
They gathered in the woods with pounding hearts. Each of them a liar. Some worried about it , others took it in their stride. The camp fire burned and they cooked stolen beans. Cigarettes were passed around and consumed with guilty pleasure.
CRACK! The sound of a breaking twig. The law? They all darted into the trees. Stomachs flipping and hearts pounding they watched as a figure edged towards the fire.
'Hey guys' came a familiar voice 'look what I got'. She held up a bottle of sherry. 'Woot' The rest of the gang raced to share the booty.
How...
Silence. Stillness. That's all I wanted. The screaming, the yelling, dishes breaking, I had to get away from it all.
This was supposed to be a family vacation, we were supposed to take time away from the every day to get to know each other better, to 'talk about our problems'. Thanks, Dr. Freud, but I don't think that's going to solve any of our problems. This little cottage overlooking the lake isn't going to make us understand and love one another.
Nobody notices when I walk away - they're too busy arguing. I've always been the quiet one, they...
Silent minutes ticked by. Neither of them spoke.
The wind gusted and Eloise pulled her coat closed. Daphne closed her eyes and sighed.
"Do you have any cigarettes?" said Eloise.
Daphne shook her head.
The dress, the hats, the purse - such a pitiful display. Not even any shoes. Before the war, Mme. Rocharde would have been laughed out of Paris for such a thin broth as this.
Now, though, when even this little rag of a dress was eight weeks wages....
Their shift at the factory started soon, but the sisters spent a few more minutes looking in the...
It never worked on Sundays. Not sure why. It was plugged in and the Hydro folks never disconnected us on Sundays. We could use the can opener Sundays. The microwave too. But the TV. Well, it would just sit there in the corner, gathering dust. We'd twist the knob but dang it all, screen stayed dark.
"Gol!" says Paw, who's about the biggest football fan in these parts. "I bought that TV just to watch my games and now it won't work."
"You can go down to Duncan's Bar," I suggested. "He's got all the games on the big TV."...
Until now, she’d never thought of herself as pretty. Beautiful, yes. Stunning, definitely. An angel fallen to earth, she’d occasionally even heard that one. But ‘pretty’? Pretty was little girl sweet and candy floss innocence. It was not her because it was not enough. Pretty just didn’t cut it.
She stared at herself in the mirror. She’d been doing the same thing for an hour now, barely moving, hardly breathing, not wanting a hair to fall out of place. Pretty was an insult. She couldn’t bear to hear it again, so she was going to make sure she didn’t. That...
I've forgotten how to do this...how to just sit down, and type out my thoughts, or my feelings. I find that I'm constantly carrying my notebook around, with my favourite Pilot pens...and then I will sit, and I sit, and sit...and nothing happens anymore. In my room, in boxes and boxes, are books and books and books. Countless stacks of written word from a lifetime's worth of contemplation, emotion, trials and tribulations. But now....now I cannot seem to pick up the pen, or tap on my keyboard...it just doesn't happen. And what's most frustrating is how I am constantly thinking...
"You know why girls suddenly change their hairstyles don't you?" He leered over my sister with that gap-toothed smug-motherfucker grin. "Girls change their hair every time they make a major change in life. Like pigtails right before or right after a break-up. Females actually believe this changes them as a person."
My sister giggled, which is my favorite part, right before she undid the top two buttons on her blouse, which is my least favorite part. "You're so right," she said. She kissed him, hard, right before she saw me peeking under the door.
She scowled at me, but she...
"Of all the times my back has to go out, it decides to do it with a freaking hurricane coming," Susan fumed. "I haven't even had time to board up the windows or glue down the silverware."
The dark storm clouds crept closer and closer and closer to her home.
"Why is that godforsaken mailbox so far from the house?" she cried, needing to focus her frustration at being completely helpless on something, on anything.
Susan tried to stretch out her back, tried to stand up, but the pain snapped at her lower back lips whips. She cried out, hoping...