Standing on the edge, my mind was white. No; it was clear. Nothing I had experienced in my 18 years was going through my head. Not my mother's voice, or the orange corduroy couch in my Aunt Lucy's basement.
And then I jumped. Rocks and crashing waves below this cliff in Martha's Vineyard, our family vacation spot. Rushing into my head were thoughts of my first kiss, first time, smoking pot under the high school bleachers... My dad's face when I learned to drive, my mom's when I crashed the minivan.
My white sneakers were about to get soaking wet,...
There was a party in the upstairs of the building. On the roof. It was my building too. I had lived there for many years. Paying rent, not having a pet (not allowed), putting up with all the noise and rubbish in the hallways and out. There was a lot of nastiness, to be sure, but it was my home. Come to find out, its the building's owners giving the party. A corporate landlord business that aims to put themselves first and the people trying to live in their wasted spaces last. The party was buzzing, I could hear the...
"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....
They gathered in the woods.
The circle wasn't complete. It probably wouldn't be - they were a dying breed, a dying art.
None of them were sure if the ceremony did anything - if it ever had. The elder members of the group - the ones who were dying out, the ones who were disappearing before they could share enough information to perpetuate them - claimed that it had worked, that it still worked, but the magic was dying with the belief.
The youngest walked the path of the circle, her bare feet already dirty, her old dress (torn, ruined,...
You can't be a hero if you can't move your arms. You can't get the girl with a stutter like that. What can you do in your condition? What did you expect? How can you live without the means to earn respect?
Well, mister President. Maybe I won't be a hero. Maybe I will show you how a villain gets respect. Maybe I will let you watch. Show me what a hero is, mister President.
she couldn't do it. her moist, clammy hands clung to the wooden pole with vicious might as she drew in intermittent, ragged breaths. the sweat dripped restlessly down her breast, sticking her shirt to her chest like a vulgar plastic case. her hands tightened around the weapon, her fingers wrapping around the cylindrical end as she struggled to raise it above her petite body. this was it. it had to be done. she clenched her eyes shut, sucked in a breath of dusty air and swung
- Ok, I'm going. Don't be late again!
Her voice pierced the steamy hot bathroom as I lay, half submerged, pondering the taps.
I don't reply.
Every morning it's the same. I sit here, enveloped in warm water and steam, my mind completely blank. But always, she invades my mind.
I wouldn't do it if it wasn't for her. I would lay here, topping up the bath with hot water as it grows tepid. Just blank.
Occassionally I think back to my childhood. As the hot water swirls in through the warm I am reminded of something my Mother always...
The water was clear. It was really vodka in her glass, though. Tonight she was getting wasted, for sure. Today's class lectures and her shitty breakup with Owen had Tonya crying about every 20 minutes in her dorm room, and she would run out of class like she had to go to the bathroom, but throwup and sob for about 5 minutes and nonchalantly go back to the lecture. Now she was at O'Callaghan's downtown and her vodka on the rocks was getting the job done, for now. She liked drinking straight, it got her drunk faster. Next she would...
Tigger stretched and yawned, as was typical--4 or five times a day, in between naps. But now, now it was spring. His tired old arthritic bones had changed his pace, but his prowess remained. As a long haired Cat, he was among the most regal. He resembled a Bobcat, but with long hair--a mane like no other domestic cat. I opened the sliding glass door for him, certain that he'd be out for the night, when the neighborhood Fox appeared. I tried to sway him back inside, but he was gone. In a moment, Captain, the Family dog came round...
Waves lapped at her toes as she stood in the wet sand and looked across the sound to the island. A small plume of smoke rose from the chimney, hidden behind black spruce and birch trees.
She could see the canoe tied to the island's dock, rocking gently with the waves.
The image of the waves coming in both directions unearthed a memory or feeling she had kept buried for quite some time. Tim's waves had pushed in one direction and her's had surge in the opposite.
"What was in the middle. What pushed them apart," she wondered.
Now she...