"Damn it!" She swore under her breath. The room was pitch black and she turned quickly. They were already gone. She twirled a piece of her hair, a nervous tic she picked up as a child.
"It's not funny, guys!" She yelled into the empty hallway. At least, she hoped she was facing in the direction of the hallway. And hopefully it was empty.
"Where are you?" She should have taken a flashlight. She could kick herself for being so stupid. They had been right behind her two minutes ago. She groped down the hallway, trying to find another door....
"I could never be a poet because I just can't seem to master the semicolon," I said.
"Not that hard to figure out, really," she replied. "Google it."
It wasn't that big of a deal to me. To be honest, I didn't even like poetry. Still, I Googled it anyway, and found out more than I ever wanted to know about the semicolon.
Later that night, I was hit by a semi; I had to have a section of my colon removed.
Uncanny, that was...
The warm breeze touched her face, sparking memories of his fingertips and how they would brush her hair from her eyes in their moments of tenderness. She remained standing still, her eyes closed, for some time.
Eventually she opened them and looked down the grassy hill to the town below, the tall ships in the harbour, the people bustling on the docks. He was there. Somewhere.
She could see his ship off in the distance, it's distinctive sails billowing in the wind. Glancing back down at the dock she wondered when others would spot it.
After what seemed like an...
Upon my soft upholstered chair
I sat and spoke into the air
For they were listening, you see
The ones who come and sit with me
I cannot see them, though I try
Their form is but a wistful sigh
More solemn than a flow'ring tree
The ones who come and sit with me
I have no proof that they exist
But still my thoughts of them persist
A secret kept? A fantasy?
The ones who come and sit with me
My audience in silence waits
As softly I pass though their gates
They were listening. Annette had no problem reading a report in school to a classroom full of students who were busy catching up on homework, drawing doodles, or discreetly pulling out their cellphones when nobody was looking; but this was different.
This was in front of people who'd come voluntarily. People who /wanted/ to hear what she'd written. People who actually enjoyed talking about math in their free time. Weirdos.
And that's what scared Annette. They were listening. If she'd done poorly, they'd actually care. They had a passion for the subject that she'd hated, despite her natural talent. Why,...
They were listening. Outside of the door, on the floor, in their footed pajamas. Listening while they heard yelling from their Mom and Dad. Listening to "Leave, I hate you," and "How could you love him and not me?" Holding empty sippy cups, on the verge of crying because they didn't know what was going on. Sitting there outside the door with their matching blonde hair and matching haircuts with matching faces. The twins Andrew and Erik holding each a stuffed cow and an empty sippy cup. Andrew started crying, screaming for his parents. The door opened, he stopped crying....
They were listening.
She couldn't believe it. They were actually listening. She looked around the room at the audience. They had come here to listen to her and she had found the right tone, the rigth words and they were listening.
She took a deep breath and scanned her notes. She looked up again and focused on a man five rows back, in a heavy gray sweater.
After her presentation was over she sat down and tried to relax. There was one more presentation to be made and then the floor was opened for a short panel discussion. She looked...
I had a dream the other night. We were sitting alone in our rooms, all of us, every single one, when suddenly —
The walls just fell away. There was no sound, no pyrotechnics; with a quiet resignation, all the matter in the world, except for our warm, breathing bodies, fell down into the void, leaving us floating purposelessly, naked.
And we all looked at each other, as the psychic frameworks that we etched into the streets, into our homes – our routines, our beaten paths, all the conventions that existed not in the world, but in the world as...
Mira had been blind for several years, but in a way, she never quite lost her sight. The smell of jalapeños sliced on the kitchen slabs made her taste green and itch with stinging eyes. The jasmine by the porch wrapped her in the white cream of Sunday clouds. The library books were still breathing dust and oil from the days they were salvaged from the great fire.
It was the fire that made Mira blind. It was the fire that Mira started. It was the fire that Mira conjured when she read from the black tome.
The lamp wouldn't turn on.
Strange, she thought, I just changed the bulb yesterday.
Feeling her way through the dark living room, Camille passed into the dining area and saw the stairs leading to the second floor were lit with tiny tealights. Following them up, she called out, "John?" No answer. A little louder, "John, are you home?." At the top of the landing, more candles lit a path from the stairs and into the hallway. Camille started down the hall but paused when she passed the closed bathroom door. Thinking John might be inside the bomb shelter-like walls, she...