"You are at the centre of all this, Meg. I know a love spell…" Pog said indignantly.
"Aye, ya do that, young Pog. How long was it since you came tripping to my door, full of admiration for a plough boy, and wanting him warmed?" The old woman chuckled as she pronounced 'warmed' with a long 'wahr'.
Both Pog and Tom blushed. The witch laughed again. "Not you, ya stupid ninny. HIM!" her pointed finger singled out Will, stood just inside the door.
The farmer gently turned his wife around. "What is all this?"
"The cake. The Apple cake I...
As he wandered through the countryside, he couldn't quite believe he'd done it. He'd done it. Gene Black had actually done it. Finally. And although it had been something he had been planning for months, years, maybe his whole life, he didn't feel quite as good as he thought he would.
He had dreamed of being a murderer for as long as he could remember. He had wanted to feel life draining away in his hands, to watch as the soul departed the body. If it did. It was all about experimentation and, perhaps understandably, there was nothing he could...
As she sat she thought and thought quick furtive thoughts.... of how how how and when could she move away from that place, move across the narrow streets of the city, and out into the fields of the countryside. It was too dark to see, but important to leave before dawn. Red that recedes like a shade in the dark, shouts in the daytime. She ought to have worn brown, her vanity tripping her up again. Her hands clasped the small bag of pearls, the only money she can bring back with her, the only reward for these weeks of...
Christmas parties at work. Always held during the day. I lift my head from my desk, shuffle to the lunch room, punch out.
No booze, no music. A potluck. This close to Thanksgiving in a soup kitchen. The owner of the company is a well-known philanthropist and a lesser-known miser.
The meal's adequate. Warm soda floating in the ice of a wet cooler. Outside, the rain falls. The ground's as soggy as the bread slices set beside the ranch dressing.
Merry Christmas. Back to work. I see Caesar in the hall and thank him for his salad.
"Send it back," he said, his mouth shaped like a cruel stink.
"Why, whatsa matter with it?" I laughed.
"It's not a twist, that's a wedge. I didn't ask for a goddamn wedge. This is not an ice tea."
The busboy removed the drink, soon replacing it with another.
"Are you goddamn kidding me? This is the same thing. Do you know what a twist is?"
"Yeah," said the busboy, "it's what my fate has suddenly taken."
And he drank it down. Wedge and all.
Tom watched the sun set slowly over the skeletal remains of Brighton Pier. He had spent the day wandering through the narrow lanes of the town, stopping in the curio shops, selecting strange items from dusty shelves. A pocket watch, its mechanism rusted by age and inattention, was warm in his hand. Its smooth surface, touched by a hundred hands, was plain and unadorned. He wondered who had bought it, seen it in the window of a watchmakers, taken it home. Who had carried it in their pocket. Had they perhaps stood at this very spot, looking out to sea,...
"This is your fault," his wife said to him. If you would just put your mother in her place I wouldn't have to and we wouldn't be fighting right now.
He replied loudly, "My fault? How is it my fault she's nosy? She doesn't mean anything by it anyway. You don't have to be such a bitch about every little thing."
"Oh. My. God. Seriously?" She was on a roll now. "It's your fault she's so nosy because you never say anything at all to her when she crosses a line. And once again, I wouldn't have to be such...
It was a picture to burn.
His arm was wrapped around her waist and they were cheek to cheek, grinning like fools at the blank eye of the camera. Her arms were flung around his neck, a laugh frozen on her lips as they stood, all dressed down for a summer evening together, in her driveway.
She carefully held it to the candle flame and watched the smooth paper blacken and burn. Watched the image slowly eaten away to ash that fell like dark snow over the candle.
The dusting of ash of what had been her life: lies, broken...
Day 1750: It feels eerily similar to Day 1. I wake up with the sun beating down on my face, no longer held in check by the facade I'm sleeping against. The heat is starting to sting, which I contemplate for a few moments. I'm so glad to be feeling something upon my skin which isn't gravel or my own beard, curling back up to itch me in the very same spots where I'm sore. It's as if even my own face wants nothing more than to detach and fly away.
I'm in love with a robot, thats all there is to it. When his parents tell him how to live his life, where to go to college, where to work, even when to go on dates, he just goes along with it. He makes me so upset sometimes. I know that he has brilliant ideas and knows exactly what he wants to do with his life, and yet he lets others decide everything for him. If only he would stand up for himself. I know who he really is. He is wonderfully funny, incredibly smart, and full of ambition. But...