She sat waiting in her normal spot overlooking the city. He said he'd return to her one day, and though it hadn't happened yet, she wouldn't give up hope. He'd always been a man of his word, and a measly thing like death wouldn't change that.
When the accident claimed his life, ripped him from her, she thought she'd find a way to join him in the afterlife. But one thing he said before passing for good gave her hope. "Wait for me." She knew what he meant; where he meant. And so she waited every day for the past...
The words from the poem mirrored the scene in front of him.
"Two roads diverged in a wood," he recited aloud.
"Which one should I take," he thought as he stood at the junction of the two paths in front of him leading down the dark forest.
He had come out for a walk to clear his head. He closed his eyes and took a step forward and another and another...
Half an hour later, he stood in front of a giant tree. He looked up into its branches and a large pile of snow fell on him. He grabbed...
Maurice looked at the empty mailbox and sighed.
His pension was supposed to be delivered today; first of the month, just like always, but instead the inside of the cold metal tube held only a few bills and a postcard advertising the latest whatever that he didn't need. What he needed was his damn pension.
He took a deep breath and took several careful steps back up his driveway to his front door. He checked around the bushes, painfully walked the outer perimeter of the house, even checked the cat flap, but no pension.
Son of a bitch, those damn...
It had been a long morning. The shouting and screaming had been relentless, as it always is with three children under six. She had spent the hours trying to patch up arguments, mollify sulkers, and generally bring a sense of cheer. Even the thought of their friend's birthday party had not raised a smile at one point. She felt like she was near the point of giving up completely.
The twins eventually seemed to decide that if they got ready they may enjoy the upcoming festivities. By quarter to twelve they were dressed in their finest party outfits and starting...
It flies through the air, flashing silver and disappearing. My fate depends on that coin landing face up. All I can hear is my own heart beating in my ears, blood rushing through me as the coin falls ever closer to the table. It clatters onto the scarred wood, spinning like a small planet. He holds his breath across from me, eyes fixed upon the little silver coin that will decide our fates. It's inscribed with the words "In God We Trust" on the side my life depends on. "OK then, God. Do your stuff." I thought silently. The coin...
Pierce Nolan had lived in Louisiana for the last twenty years, but he had never ventured much further than the edges of the town. He had always been a quiet man, a straightforward speaker with little reservations. The small town of Barkridge was where he maintained his practice, dealing mostly with the local people and their problems. It was not for the most part an exciting life, but it was comfortable enough. That morning Pierce left for work at the same time he always did, 8am sharp. He said goodbye to his wife Velma, and soon jumped aboard the 802...
Lost, without a hand to hold, I ran. I had no clue where I was going, but I knew from what I was running. The empty greyness of the city loomed over and surrounded me as I ran. I knew I was moving at some speed and yet I seemed not to be moving at all, enveloped as I was by miles of empty streets. I could see the sun setting and as the light dwindled, my heart began to pound harder and harder, faster and faster. The darkness dropped down onto me, covering the city in it's folds, like...
I'm dead. Really dead. Not the "There'll be a twist in the end and I'll be saved" kind of way. Just dead.
I keep thinking back to how I died.
I don't remember how I died really. I think I fell.
Are you suppose to remember how you die? Or is that weird?
Is there some sort of weird rule of death that you can't remember how you die?
I feel like I can walk everywhere and find no one. Death is strangely lonely and empty. Am I the only one here?
I wish I could tell you what it...
Leaving was the easiest decision to make, and the hardest action to take. The look in her eyes the stare. The stare told me to stay, but I must leave and find myself. The bags had been pack for near a week now and the train comes in the hour, but I can't just go. Her stare those eyes right to the soul "don't go" they exclaim.
I move to the door she embraces me and doesn't let go. I being to doubt myself this choice to go so easily thought up. "Stay" she mutter under the fall of tears....
Lola was a name that grated on my ears. Most people considered it sonorous and calming, but after my teenage years, fraught with rebellion, Lola was a name uttered in exasperation rather than cooed.
THat is why I insisted Spencer call me Lara. It was a close sound so that I would still answer to it, but distant enough from my childhood that I could free myself from my past mistakes. He didn't seem to care either way. Lola, Lara, both names meant love to him and loving me was all he knew to do.
He found me in the...