She held the letter, tears flowing down her face. Somehow she'd known it would always come to this. That no matter how hard she tried to steer him in the right direction, he was bound and determined to go his own way, like a shopping cart with a busted wheel.
The letter was short and to the point, mostly complaining about the food. Thankfully, he wasn't hurt, though he was thrown into solitary once for fighting.
As she re-read the letter, she sobbed, for she too was confined in a prison not of her choosing.
"Everyone is a sun," he insisted, but no one was arguing.
"Every dog has his drug," he affirmed, and they all agreed.
"He's an unusual kid," I decided, and they all agreed.
"Everyone is a sun," he repeated, adding, "but not you," and he pointed his peanut butter fist at me.
The sky was hazy and blue, like the sun in a balloon, and the road was cold and icy.
I uncoiled my hand-knit scarf and decided to wait for the moon.
Half a life lived
within four walls
the once unthinkable
now familiar
with endless routine
a strange comfort
a life reset every day to run
the same sweep of hours
One small act
stealing from my future
thinking to be happy
now...then
realizing too late
the mistake
giving hostages
to my good behavior
Moments of quiet
hours of noise
time in the yard
never solitary
taking comfort
in the dark
giving in
the dark
Twenty years
one more small act
now here I am
standing
outside those walls
a life lived as half a whole
now to be lived
an...
The wind blew across the plains, picking up clods of dirt as it ran past, and I gripped my son's shoulder, as if by some instinct. Soon the dust would blow through the cracks in our log cabin, and the kitchen -- the tiny corner we called the kitchen -- would soon fill with what looked for all the world like soot. That we could take. The ground and the wind had been trying to kill us for years. We were used to it. But lately we'd had to contend with spiders. Tarantulas. Tough sons of bitches that put their...
It was happening again. Blindfolded, naked, cold and shivering she sat on a chair. She could see herself, as if she was detached from her body. Blood and saliva dripped from her lip and her right eye was swelling from where her attacker had punched her. She had tried to fight him off but he had sneaked up from behind and wrapped his arms around her. She had thought she would suffocate as he squeeze the breath from her body. Blackness surrounded her as she passed out. When she came to she was in the boot of car. She couldn't...
Sex wasn't always the first thing on Mandy's mind but it was today. The long zip at the front of the dress was perfect for what she had in mind. The photo of the online date didn't do him justice, he was much better looking. Even the meeting spot was quirky, the old churchyard. He knew she was into anything ancient, spooky, derelict from their messages.
He had suggested a picnic by the river which was adjoining the graveyard then said he'd take her home to meet his mother who always wanted to see his dates. She was very traditional...
The pistol was cocked, ready to go. Its bags were packed, you might say. Its shoes were on, and it was at Grandma's. Its teeth were brushed, its coat on and backpack packed. With bullets.
"Reach for the sky!" Criminal Pete shouted, holding the pistol from the previous paragraph at the unsuspecting victims.
"Okay, okay," the unsuspecting victims all said in unison. They all reached for the sky at the exact same time. They were synchronized mug victims. It was a living!
"Stop that, it's creepy, like dolls or clowns," Criminal Pete said. It was a bit creepy, but less...
Tears dripped down her cheeks. She was alone. Finally, sadly, happily alone.
Her husband was searching for her. She prayed that he would not find her. She had managed to escape her home while he searched for weapons to use against her. When he stomped towards the kitchen, dripping angry sweat and hurling abuse, she thought of the knives.
She didn't remember how she got between her home and the doorway. All she knew was that she was safe, for the time being.
Where next? She had no family. Her friends were his friends or the wives of his friends....
Old Joseph "Moonshine" Clark was sitting in his tattered wooden rocking chair facing the door, sleeping. The beer he'd downed an hour previously was good stuff and he was sleeping it off. He awoke suddenly. There was a scratch at the door. Then another scratch. And then the house erupted in nails-on-chalkboard scratching sounds, all over the place. As the symphony of scratching grew louder and louder, Moonshine shivered. Adding to the terrible noises was a new, more heart-wrenching sound- the plaintative crying of a baby. Moonshine groaned. He'd known somehow that they'd do this, try to drive him mad...
Life Drawing
Staring up at me from behind the glass, a mouth that never seems to quite close and two bulbous eyes. They follow my finger as it traces lines up and down the screen, creating bubbles in its wake. My friend, golden scales and graceful fins, swims in his electronic cage, making loops and pinwheeling along with the actions of my moving digit. He doesn't seem to know his home, the aqua-blue paradise of his existence filled with fiery coral, sunken ships, and bright shining trinkets is only a dream - one that is not even his own.