I usually feel it when the leaves start to fall, when the sky drains of color, when the air grows chilly and listlessly stirs the dead leaves on the sidewalk. I can feel part of my brain start to shut down, as it has done year after year, about this time, when the leaves start to fall. They tell me it is chemical, but that can't explain the piercing of my heart, the emotional pain that causes me to shudder as fear and sadness begin to grow in my chest. And I can't stand to look another human in the...
"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...
I'm with stupid. It's Jerry's favorite T-shirt. He wears it all the time. It doesn't matter where we're going, he'll wear the shirt. Church, court, the museum-- he just shrugs his shoulders and gives me that grin when I ask him not to wear it. The more inappropriate the occasion, the more it seems to spur him to wear it.
Jerry's never really cared about impressions, that I get. But he also doesn't seem to get that I do. Sometimes, I think he gets some sick pleasure out of watching me squirm while he's talking to a prospective client at...
The present is moving too fast for the future, and I am deathly afraid of not feeling this world. But it is not time that is our enemy, but our minds that hold it. Oh to be the turritopsis nutricula, the everlasting jellyfish, invading our planet as we speak. Ever fecund, ever flashing, forward and backwards, too beautiful for time.
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,...
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 am in love with a robot.
That's quite simply the only way to describe it.
Because although the robot wears His clothes, and says what He would say, I never actually see Him.
I never hear His voice, I don't get to look into His eyes, it has been so long since I felt the touch of His hands...
Therefore, the only way that I can describe my relationship with him, is that I am in love with a robot. Or more accurately, my mobile phone. Because my phone offers me the comfort of His words when I can't...
He had crossed the crunchy yard to the Cathedral many times, and he proceeded as usual without thinking too much about the crossing. He didn't really hear the crunch of his boots on the blue metal surface. He didn't really see the wattle beginning to bloom. He didn't really smell the sweet air of spring. Bishop Smith was worried: someone was stealing the sacred host from the ciborium.
It puzzled him. Would anyone in the 21st century really steal the consecrated host for black magic? No one could possibly want the bread to satisfy hunger: the wafers were thin and...
The Bronx Zoo in my mind was empty. Maybe the gazelles were milling around Yankee Stadium, waiting for Catfish Hunter. The green grass of memory, my synapses folding in the sweeping July breeze, beheld the sweet roots of my birthday candles, climbing the kitchen air like lithesome monkeys, nimble as the imagination.
There's somebody standing in the corner of my room.
The 'experts' can talk all they like about Sleep Paralysis but I'm not convinced. I want to believe them, I really do, but that 'somebody' has always been there.
It's my first memory and will probably be my last. A shadow, a presence looming over my life. Never speaking but all seeing and so very dark.
Spritualists want to convince me it's my 'guardian angel' but I'm not convinced. I don't feel very guarded by it. Quite the opposite.
I should have never acknowledged it, never mentioned it, never tried to...