Ring, ring. Ring, ring.
Stella looked up. The pay phone beside her was ringing. Turning her attention back to the book she was reading, she tried her best to ignore it.
Ring, ring. Ring, ring.
Glancing around, she plucker up the courage and picked up the phone.
'....Hello?'
'Stella. I thought you weren't going to answer.' the voice said.
'Who is this?' How did he know her name?
'That's not important here.'
'Is that you Danny?' she almost laughed. This was typical of her eldest son. Always the joker.
'Call me Danny, if that makes this easier.'
'Danny, come on....
The water was clear. "I cannot be stopped, I shall continue."
The stone was implacable. "I am stone, I have been here for millions of years, not some come by night dribble. And I shall not be moved.
But the water was clear, the water would be moved, eventually. Through ten seasons and ten seasons more, the water made it's argument, and every drip, every gush, every freeze, its argument was stronger, and one season, the water continued, and the stone was nothing more than ten thousand grains of sand, each with its own mind, no longer implacable. The stone...
There's somebody standing in the corner of my room.
I can't tell if he means me harm or not - he's not doing anything. He's just standing there.
I'm not certain if he knows that I'm here. Maybe he isn't certain if he's here.
I can't quite bring myself to approach him; I know I should do, I'm a scientist at heart, I should be testing my experience, the environment. Verifying what I think I'm seeing, what I'm perceiving.
But I'm also a coward at heart; a self-preservationist, a vulnerable young woman. With a strange man in her bedroom.
I...
I held it at arm's length. The adoption paper. MY adoption paper. Why didn't they ever tell me I was adopted? People had often remarked that I didn't look at thing like them - my... parents. Now I know why. I'm not even their daughter! Instead, I'm the daughter of Kaitlynn and Joshua Robins. Really! I can't believe that no one... Why didn't they tell me? I don't think I'll ever be able to believe another "I love you" ever again. How can I after this betrayal? What am I supposed to do now? Well, I suppose I'll see if...
There was this mouse, see, and her name was Dot. Dot the mouse. Anyway, Dot had a son whose name was Dwight. Dwight was hungry all the time because the only thing he would eat was Egg Foo Yung from the Golden Chopsticks restaurant in downtown Buffalo. Problem was Dot, Dwight, and the owner of the house, Helen Quartermain, lived in Detroit.
So Dot was pigging out on cheese and rice that Helen Quartermain had left on the floor. Dwight wouldn't touch it. So Dot goes up to Helen and says: "Yo, HQ. My baby's starvin and you better pick...
She had already been waiting for half an hour, her foot tap tap tapping its heel against the cold tiles. A quick glance up at the clock on the wall – an old, crotchety thing which spurted into life once every creaking minute – tells her nothing beyond the fact that she's more nervous mow that the last time she looked. He was supposed to be here; him, with his knowing smile and faux-nervous laugh. A small case sat by her side; it was battered and scuffed in only the way something truly loved can be, something that has been carried and...
"Pull!" Erin directed us. We pulled.
"Argh, it's no use!" Ted lamented. "He's never getting unstuck."
Paul's head and chest might as well have been fastened to the tree by some kind of industrial-strength Krazy glue.
"Dammit," Erin said, winded. Even the three of us, with our combined strength, had no hope of dislodging our companion. "Whose idea was it to bring that stuff to our picnic, anyway?" she demanded, scowling at the wicker basket full of the white adhesive.
No one said anything. In truth, we'd all agreed, even Paul and Erin. We thought we needed it to keep...
Wine. The only way I can escape. The bitter taste of beer and harsh sting of liquour, far too much for me to handle. So I drink wine.
The man has been watching me for a while now. The one with no face. There names for him on the internet, there are stories, and jokes.
But there are few believers.
So I keep to myself. When I'm not drinking wine, I search for answers, but that often makes things worse. The more I read, the more real it seems, although to everyone else he is just a story.
I thought...
"Eff off rain! I want a tan, not for my green shirt to get wet!"
Look, I admit, I'm at least partly responsible for the situation. It's my fault I'M here, and not his, er, mine.
The pronouns can get really confusing, so maybe I should just back up. It's not easy being a clone, or, shall I say a time-displaced duplicate of him. I mean, of myself (see?). The accident happened a while ago, really long enough for him, the other me, to get used to it. We both decided that we'd stay in the same house and have the same life; he owed me that much, for saving his (my) life.
I DON'T...