"Dear Mom and Dad,
I made it to Boston. I figured you'd like the postcard I picked out. The dog reminds me of Rex, be sure to hug him for me. I came here with 25 dollars and a full tank of gas. I'm going to make it here someday, I'm telling you. Tell Dad I said thanks for repairing the car, and be sure to tell him I'll pay him back with a brand new car when I make it. I'm spending the night at some run-down hotel tonight, don't worry about me. I'm not coming back home until...
The year was 1986, when Madonna was telling her father not to tell her what to do, and life changed beyond my own imagination. The holiday had been planned for ages, but I had no desire to spend two terminally tedious weeks camping with my younger sisters. I had Mark, with his dark hair and warm lips, and I couldn't bear to leave him for a fortnight. He might fall under a bus, or worse, fall for Jayne Marsden and he stilletto heels.
The running wasn't the best part - but it was the part he did best. With pumping arms and striding legs, he moved gracefully around the track, passing others without a second thought or glance, as though there were mere statues standing still and in his way.
The best part was the winning. But he wasn't a very good winner. Oh, he smiled and shook hands and took his trophy or medal and posed for photos, but he was already thinking about the next race. And when fellow runners came to congratulate him, he didn't care. He was, if such...
It was an early morning. Anna was going for a morning run around her block. She was always found doing something worth while. She had always enjoyed looking at books about other countries. She had an infatuation with countries that had different letters to English ones. She came across a book on the ground, with funny, squiggly letters that Anna recognised to be Chinese writing. She flicked through the pages and found something that really interested her. It had birds, letters, photos of females and males and clothes that looked ancient.
She tried to decipher what the writing said over...
It approached. The first day of writing a 6 minute story. "Excuse me? A story about a story? That's so meta", I whispered to myself. The truth is, the story is really about life, and life is both the story and the story teller.
Four minutes. Really, it took two just to write that paragraph? "It's been so long since I've written creatively", I thought to myself. It's true. It's been years. Nowadays, most of my words are shaped in the form of technical documents, twitter updates, and code.
Three minutes. Time is ticking down. I look to my right,...
This is the doctor sewing the corpse
They kept locked up with the crowd in the morgue
That wicked Judas Priest all shaven and shorn
That harried the Dick all battered and worn
That missed the murderer all forlorn
Who sicked the cow with the crumpled skin
That lost the dog that woke the cat burglar
That nicked the hat then took the wallet
That lay on the louse that Jack killed
There was blood on my pillow. Along with a few small feathers. And upon closer inspection, there was also a long white whisker, and what I could only guess was a foot. I could be absolutely certain by just picking it up, but getting home from work ready to crash from a nap that was now being delayed did not lend itself to doing anything other than being infuriated.
Where the hell had Sebastian managed to catch a bird when I had all the windows and doors closed and locked?
"AAAAUGH! SEBASTIAN!" I whirled out of the room, shouting at...
The wise woman quietly opened the door, like a portal to the Other World, where a young woman's fist was held up as if to knock. Whether it was caught by her speed or its own hesitation, Meg wasn't sure.
"Expected was I?" a sweet voice entered the room.
The crone shrugged. "Bess is it?" At least it was mortal kin.
"We both know you would be here one way or another. One day or another."
"Do I have thy leave to enter, Elder One?" the spoken song continued. Sweet insolence lost on the witnesses.
"Do YOU not THOU me!"...
The lone zombie shambled toward the clubhouse, where we watched, armed with nine irons and pitching wedges. I turned to Adam and said, "Par three, buddy."
"You're on, Sev," Adam replied, and grabbed a bucket of balls, ran out to the porch, and teed up.
His swing was a bit off, and he hooked it, but the ball stayed on the fairway. Not bad, considering the threat of gruesome zombie death that potentially loomed.
"Okay, this time I got him!" Adam shouted, and teed up another ball.
This time, his shot was picture-perfect, and the ball whizzed through the air,...
Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway. She leaned on the door frame, getting support from the wood that she no longer got from her feat. The binding had just begun and already she has trouble balancing herself.
Her mother told her that this was tradition. That to go before the matchmaker she needed to be beautiful. To achieve the perfection of beauty she needed to sway in the wind like the willow tree.
The girl had no desire to sway in the wind, she wanted to be the wind. To go where...