The doctor told me the swelling would soon subside. This made me happy. I hate swellings. Especially in my nose. Once my nose swelled up to the size of the moon. Literally. I was upstairs in the attic when my schnoz grew to the size of a lunar satellite. It crushed all of Prince Edward Island and displaced half of the Atlantic Ocean. People in Pakistan died.
Yes, having a nose the size of the moon is not good. For that matter, having a foot that is the size of a football stadium is also not good. That is what...
It was all a laugh. The lion hunting, being carried around by the natives, sweating on the African planes. Life was one big hurrah. We were, after all, the Empire. Not just an empire, but the Empire. Below the snows of Kilimanjaro, we posed for our picture, giggling, playing with one another. This was life. This was the life that power built. Our power? Not so much. It was more a power build over the years. One conquest after another. Royal Africa Company. East India Company. Liverpool. Manchester. Watt, Arkwright, and so forth. We were something unique. The cool arrogance...
It was supposed to be a nice relaxing drive. We were going to my mother's house for Christmas, the presents all stacked up in the trunk and carols playing on the radio. I sat in the passenger's seat. My husband was driving. It was getting a bit late, but we hoped to reach her house by about ten. Not a lot of traffic. Nice country road. But that all changed. I had closed my eyes and was about to drift off when I heard a loud, inhuman scream. My eyes shot open and I looked at my husband's pale cheeks....
Elle courait dans le couloir comme le matin les joggers courent le long de la piste cyclable. C'était son entrainement quotidien. A défaut de joli chemin en plein air, le corridor était son stade. Et elle était rémunérée pour courir. Non pas pour faire la gloire de la Chine aux JO, non, mais pour faire circuler l'air dans cet immeuble-ville. Les mouvement d'air provoqué par ses déplacements assuraient en partie la ventilation de l'habitation. Elle fait partie cette génération remise au goût moderne des enfants des mines.
Une fois son jogging d'une heure effectué, elle pouvait vaquer à ses occupations...
With a thundering bang, the gate closed behind them. They had not realized that they were being followed. Startled, the pair spun around. On the other side of the gate, a female figure stood, a heavy, elegant cloak draped about her shoulders, her dark hair streaming down her back. As she raised her arm ever so slightly, the trapped pair caught the smallest glimpse of... keys! The woman held the keys to the gate in her hand and tossed a disgusted look over her shoulder as she turned and began to walk away in the direction of the manor.
The...
Daring to be noticed for the first time in her life, she pushed her chair back and stood up. She realized her mistake. Cheeks going red, the burning feeling of all eyes on her, she wanted to sit back down but froze in that position, the terror rendering her unable to go further and unable to sit back down. Why did she want to be noticed? What had prompted such a stupid exercise in self will. The teacher stopped her lesson and looked at her. "Is everything okay?" she asked.
She didn't know what to respond. Was everything okay? No,...
It wasn't anything that could be helped. I had to go, so I went. Just before I reached the door, I managed to glance through the front window and saw my mother and Mrs. West arguing. I don't know what they were arguing about, but I knew for certain that one of them had the box, and also that both of them wanted it.
I wanted it it too, of course, and had already made up my mind that I would not be leaving this hick town until I had it. As the word spread day by day, my odds...
She could tell I was faking it. They all could. They'd have to have known I wasn't "fine". I mean, come on. It's not really rocket science to figure out when someone's on the edge, is it? Am I really hiding everything so well that no one even thinks to ask me for a real answer? Don't people get tired of all those stupid, meaningless conversations?
"Hey. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm good."
No, you're not. No one is ever quite as "good" as they say they are, so why do we let them say that they are? What if...
It was his job to paint portraits of people. They'd give him huge sums to paint them. Just look in the mirror, idiots! But it was his living, and he did it well. He lifted his brush to the canvas and glanced back at the young lady, who smiled. He smiled back weakly and started to paint. He loved the way the brush flowed over the canvas like ink out of a pen. It was beautiful. He painted slowly but surely, letting the paint take him where it needed to go. Soon the painting was finished. He showed the young...
I stare up into the sky, watching all the birds fly by.
Someday I'm gonna fly too.
My balloons float, why can't I?
I'm just a girl, I'm not special like you.
You flew and I want to fly after.
Not yet, but someday.
My head sighs but my heart beats faster.
I'll find a way.