It was his favourite shirt. But in the rush to leave, it had been forgotten on the line. She stared at it every day from her window. Today it was an especially bitter reminder as she stood at the window, mixing up a batch of cookies.
The cookies were for her son's funeral. The son who had worn that shirt day in, day out, until the day he left. The son who had climbed that tree as a boy, played hide and seek in that yard. The teenager who brought girls home to kiss behind the big tree when he...
I could hear it whipping in the wind outside my bedroom; his coat that was left on the laundry line to hang dry. You can't leave clothes out on a line when it's winter in New York; 'specially the mountains. The cuffs and the buttons froze when I finally had the courage to get it. A crow sat on the line right by it and cawed when I went to release the jacket from the clothespins.
I brought it into my mama, who told me he aint' never comin' back to Saranac. It's sad, you know, that he left her....
I'm lucky that shirt was red already.
I put it through the wash, but the stain doesn't seem to have come out, but I guess I can explain it as bolognese sauce or something. I took care of any signs of what happened, I mopped the floor, cleaned everything else, and then made a slight mess so things didn't seem suspicious.
I probably shouldn't worry so much, but my mother is visiting and if she finds out, she'll scream, so I'm panicking a little. The clock says it's 17:54, she's supposed to get back in five minutes. That isn't long...
I hoped they would stop worshiping the coat soon. After my husband Ed spilled coffee on his shoulder I'd washed it and put it out on the line to dry.
Someone from town happened to pass by as it swung from the line. He said he saw the face of Jesus in it. Right where Ed had spilled the coffee.
They came after. Ed tried to run them off with his shotgun. He tried to sick the dogs on them. They still came. All wanting to look at it. Take a piece of it home with them.
I took it...
His life was on the line.
Strung from tree to tree, across the back yard, his priorities blew in the wind. There were his coat and slacks, accompanied by an assortment of lively, but respectable, neckties. There was his underwear. There was his hockey jersey.
There were his one-year-old's Big Boy Diapers, and his wife's sweaters, and his dog's blanket.
And there was the note.
He slowly, thoughtfully pulled in the line, taking the items down, one by one. When he reached the paper, his heart caught in his throat.
"If you had another chance," it said to him, "would...
I woke around dawn, unable to sleep any longer. I wrapped the plaid blanket around my shoulders and head and climbed out the window. I walked through the small amout of dawn light filtering through the Brazilian pepper tree's enormous branches. I looked through the small peephole i had left for myself and immediately regretted ever climbing out that window. The reason: a 2 ton bear hurtling towards me. I felt unable to breathe. I tried to run, but my feet were rooted to the spot. as the bear drew closer, i said but one word: HELP!
Spinning.
The tiny clockwork bird danced (for want of a better term) in a circle, twirling, singing out its jaunty song.
She sat, watching it sing out its tune, listening to the unique tinny sound of the music box - there was something about that music, that paticular brand, which brought her back to childhood. As a child she had watched the bird, watched it in her mother's palm.
Her mother had, briefly, convinced her that this was a real bird, that this was what happened to them when they were caught, tamed. That you could teach them these songs,...
"Knives."
The scientist looked up. The musician was bright-eyed, excited, although there were bags under his eyes. She replaced her spectacles (why did she always take them off for the close-up work? It didn't make sense) and gave him her full attence. "Knives?"
"Knives." He sat down on the stool, gangly, limbs too long. He was not suited for the labratory - not a huge surprise, really. "Knives are the answer. We...we cut."
It was almost cute, watching him try to describe what he presumed the scientific method was. "Do you mean dissection?"
He nodded, enthusiastic, excited. "Yes! Yes, we...
The red, white and black jacket hovered mysteriously outside my bedroom window, under the old tree. It had been there for about a week, and it didn't appear to be going anywhere any time soon. By the way, what's black and white, and read all over?
I asked my dad about the jacket, and he told me that it was something I'd just have to get used to.
"But why is it there?"
"It just is, son."
"Have you seen it here before?"
"No, I haven't."
"Doesn't it strike you as sort of... odd?"
"Not really."
Throughout the entire conversation,...
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...