She sang. Her beautiful voice rang out through the dense smoke in the room, pushing out into the ears, minds and hearts of the patrons. The band began to play, their music swinging through the air.
Feet began to tap, then arms started rising, and before they knew it - they were dancing, without a care in the world. Moving to and fro. Gliding across the floor. Sliding up and down. No one danced consistently. This was their show, they were going to perform how they wanted to.
A saxophone pierced through the rest of the instruments, blurting out a...
She didn't look at him, just opened the back door at the (deeper than usual) scratching, but it wasn't the cat to which she'd turned her back.
My face turning a scary shade of blue, hands stiffening, heart slowly...slowly shutting down. Panic surrounds me, but no words escape my throat. There is nothing I can do now. The first time can be your last, so I've heard, and it's real this time. I want to reach for my throat, even try self-Heimlich, but my hands won't unclench themselves out of the white-knuckled fists they're stuck in. I can start to feel numbness through my feet, creeping up my legs, cramping in my stomach. A whoosh of air escaping my lungs, while my eyes rolled back into my...
"No. I won't go back."
I listened, expecting and shoring up my supply of reasons in advance.
"I tried. I really tried."
Around me, the contents of my storage facility. I would rather die than let them use that label on me. So, yeah, I had no running water, no electricity, no nothing except the contents of my closets and drawers slung everywhere serving as a multipurpose couch/bed/cocoon. Yeah. I'm that person. Rehab had been so not for me.
The streets - my arms are too scarred for tattoo ink. This, this is slightly better than the alternatives, of which...
The pistol was cocked, ready to go. Aiming at the highway man was easy, pulling the trigger was the problem. I couldn't do it no matter how much I wanted to. His dark brown eyes bore into my soul, that's how if felt at that precise moment. My body responded, unexpectedly, primitive feelings, not appropriate for this situation. My older, pregnant sister and I held up enroute for our summer vacation.
His long black hair fastened by a long navy ribbon, his light mahogany skin, full lips smiling at me was all I could think about. The right eyebrow raised,...
The last I saw of the angel was at sunrise yesterday. I knew that one day I'd meet him again, the certainty was so strong that the actual date and time felt on the tip of my tongue. Morgan is the name he gave me. Morgan Freemantle. He appeared at my side just when I needed some one the most, when my sister collapsed on our long walk away from our home, the abuse, neglect.
As I was comforting her, smoothing her long blond hair away from her sweating face, telling her everything would be ok even though we were...
Marchiel stared into Francis's twisted visage. The black rose stood just behind the broken man and Marchiel wanted her. Francis put a hand on Marchiel's chest as the younger man started forward.
"No, brother. You will not have her. She has chosen me. ME!" Francis crowed in triumph. It was true. The Black Rose had chosen his twisted, fire-marked brother over Marchiel. Marchiel's heart ached at the rejection.
"You have placed a spell on her, Francis. I will break it with true love's kiss." Marchiel brushed his brother aside and continued up the steps towards his love. "Chereal," he whispered...
I held it at arm's length. The talking cat. No, I'm not insane. It's voice was higher and softer than human of course, but it talked just like the rest of us in English. I did ask if any other languages were known to it, but I was told it had been brought up by a family originally from Wales that had not been allowed to speak their mother tongue in their small village in Somerset.
Bob was it's name. Jet black. Educated, knew far more than me about current affairs, history, geography and was a whizz with the internet,...
The visitor asked, "Can you write a story without a prompt?"
"I don't know," said the writer. "I've never tried."
"Really? You mean all those stories you wrote arose from something you'd seen or heard?"
"Or something I'd read. Tasted. Felt. Wondered about."
"And the novels? The poems? That terrible album you wrote and recorded?"
The writer smiled. "Yes, all of them. I need to have something to start from, some germ of a concept that I can build on. It's like the way a jazz musician riffs off a set theme. They start with what they have and make...
It was a surpise to discover that grandad's home disappeared down the sink hole. The ground literally swallowed him up, not a trace for over ten years.
Now I was grown up, I was allowed to stand around with the paramedics and police and watch the removal of the body. I didn't avert my eyes like Mrs Wozniak standing next to me, one moment excited and chattering, eating ham and mustard sandwiches, spitting crumbs, next moment for once in her life she was quiet. The reality of life versus CSI on tv. Soon after turning her thick neck away she...