She'd always come running when I called, well figuratively anyway. The experience of that rush of warmth when her headlights punched holes through those dark and cold nights. The litany of why me questions she'd serve as I kept my hands firmly pressed on the vents to chase away the chill. I'd never known anyone before or since who could shift so smooth. Especially given the roughly 75 scrunchies positioned on the gear shifter.
I would share with her the joys and triumphs of the seventeen year old psyche. Then after waiting out the enevidable diatribe on my selfishness we...
Good Lord! What is that old fool doing. He is out and about with only a tatty old dressing gown and a pair of mouldy slippers on his feet. Thank goodness - he appears to have his pjs on, under that disgusting robe. People like that should be looked after. It is disgusting how families neglect their old folk. I would hate to grow old like that - put me in a home - NO - put me down first. I would rather have euthanasia than be reduced to a quivering, brainless, incontinent wreck. Thank goodness I am still young...
Rip Van Winkle was a story that I never understood. How could a man that slept for forty years in a forest, aging all the while, just waltz back into town and have such and unremarkable story? Imagine having an absolutely perfect memory of the incidents, the setting and the culture of a time before this. I've always loved history, so I guess I'm just gushing out of a personal fetish, but if I was to lock myself away for years and come out of it, I would like to think that someone would really appreciate my particular knowledge.
Walking...
Heating nothing as I refrigerate.
Eating nothing as my body preserves.
We eat and are ultimately eaten.
Preheated, chilled and given to grubs.
We are products for sightless feeders.
Put a tag on me and ship me in a box.
Deliver me to the earth, to be opened up.
Reclined, collapsed, softened and served.
This oven of nothing is heated anyway.
I stare at the flames to assert my intention.
I am alive for now. For now.
I am still half dreaming as I open my eyes against the night. The alarm hasn't gone off yet, shaking me awake with its awful, soul grating shriek, and it is not yet morning. I glance at the slime green display on the clock - 2.18am. Not good. Something has disturbed my sleep at this usually, thankfully, unknown hour and I just hope that I can ignore it and drift back down into my rest.
I try, but there is a sound, or some movement, or maybe it's both things, and my eyes are open again even though I wish...
He didn't know what to say. No one did. It had never landed on anyone's finger before. The fabled winged bug, unlike any other on this planet, stayed away from all lifeforms. Of course there were stories about what would happen if it actually did touch someone, and he guessed he was about to find out. Would he die? Would untold riches come his way? Would he become the most famous person on Terra 12?
The bug, which felt lighter than a feather in his hand, looked up at him. He couldn't help but wonder what it thought. Or did...
The fields were parched. There was no water. Where was the rain, she wondered as she stared across the cracked land. There were clouds rolling in from the east but they brought no hope of rain. The stream that used to run through here had been clear and sweet, she remembered. Sighing, she turned from the depressing sight and got back to preparing the evening meal. Jim and the boys would be home soon and they would be hungry after a long day in the fields.
"I can help you." A small voice said.
She jumped and looked around in...
"I can't sleep with her next to me," I'd protested.
And, predictably, Elsa had looked wounded and said, "Love me, love my cat."
So I loved her cat. I mean, how could I not?
And a few days later:
"I can't sleep with the TV on," I said. "I'm sorry. I've tried."
"Okay, Julie," said Elsa reasonably. "That's fair."
And she turned the TV off, even though that got her to sleep quickets.
And a few days later:
"I can't sleep," I said. "It's just a thing. Go back to bed."
And she looked at me, and then she went...
When it started growing, it really started growing. Guisseppe spotted it one morning as he rolled his fruit cart into the market, a strange, brilliantly green shoot pushing its way up through the cobblestones, defiantly pointing towards the sky. The next morning it had doubled in size. Guisseppe had tried to pull it up, but it stubbornly clung to ground, remaining entrenched in the stones at the edge of the market.
Over the next several days, it shot up several stories, its thick green trunk bursting through the ground, its flat broad leaves opening and gathering in the sun. No...
The medicine man had always talked about the circle of life that continues unbroken like the circling stars in the heavens, but Mousaf had never been very religious. His village was small, but he was happy with what he had - the woven cloak on his back given to him by his long dead mother, the cello his brother had given him before the accident, and the breath in his lungs. What more could he possibly want?
So Mousaf made his living as the ancient bards had, traveling from village to village. His voice may not have captured hearts, but...