The only thing worse than motorway driving, is night-time motorway driving. The drizzle doesn’t help, glittering the glare of headlights and streetlights across the windscreen before the wipers smear it away, then it glitters again, then it’s smeared away again. On and on, the thump-thump, thump-thump a bass beat to […]
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In the spring of 1953, when I was nine years old I saw my brother die. I’ll remember that day for the rest of my life. The memory has never left me and it never will. Part of it is the trauma, the slow, insidious realization that he was gone, that crept into my life afterward. But there is more to it that I don’t talk about. I’ve held onto it for years, and I don’t want to hold onto it any longer.
Hello. My name is Raymond Daws. This recording should be considered my last will and testament. It is intended for whomever takes possession of this house at 12874 N. Pryor Road. After setting aside some money for family and other concerns, I should have approximately three hundred thousand dollars left
When I saw the car for sale on Craigslist, I was shocked. Not only was it a good price, decent shape, and reliable brand – but it was custom built for someone who didn’t have legs! Both of my legs had to be amputated due to a childhood illness. Obviously,
When I was in college, I developed a bad habit. No, not alcohol or drugs, something far tamer than those. I developed a habit of sleeping in class. You see, it seemed as though every class I had fell right after a meal: breakfast, then comp sci, lunch, then general
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I know they say Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year, but for me it’s Halloween. I deck the hall with cobwebs and fake spiders. It’s just such a special time. Autumn is here and the leaves are beginning to fall. It’s a time for dressing up and
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I live in a country where, unfortunately, Halloween is not a big thing. It’s almost not a thing at all, and this fact disappoints me to no end. I’m a bored 19-year-old living in a small town where everyone I know still acts like they did when they were 14.
Unfinished Business Read More »
Too many sages and soothsayers to reference, those thoughtful idiots, have lambasted the youth with the wizardry of profundity. They had answers to the esoteric. Of Life. Of Death. Of the end. Who are they? What do they really know of the darkness? What do they fancy as truth or
During my junior year of college, I was on a bit of a bender. My high school girlfriend finally called it quits for the third time and the lure of the one night stand caught in the sweaty mist of beer and perfume was too much for my angry brain
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It was ten minutes till close when I heard the door swing open. Jingle-jingle. Ugh. A customer this late? It was my first day at Tony’s Pizzeria, and I was eager to get home. My manager, Mason, had to leave early – his infant son had a fever – and I
Katy took a long hit on the pipe. Her eyes rolled up and back into her head. She choked on the smoke that invaded her lungs, and an attempt at a giggle was unsuccessful. Her blue eyes watered and her almost-laugh was strangled by another coughing fit. “I’m gonna die!”
Does it Hurt When You Die? Read More »
The Commuter, dressed in a business suit and carrying a briefcase, commutes to the office each morning on the Tube. He enters Baker Street station at around 7am every weekday, and catches the southbound train towards Canary Wharf on the Jubilee Line. The station is generally not very busy at
The land beyond the bridge had been in my family for generations, forty-four acres of farmland. My father was as rooted to it as the oak tree in our front yard. Although he was sympathetic to my plight, he was certainly not going to move just because his daughter’s college
Driving down the road far from home, on my way back from work – I’m surrounded by pastures and rural country houses. Late in the night, dark but backlit by a pale moon I drive fast, but not too fast. I’m tired. The day’s work has pushed me over the
“So why are you here?” she asked. Pretty standard opening for a psychologist sitting down with a patient for the first time. She was young, pretty and Shahrokh (an unnecessarily ethnic name) immediately felt comfortable in her presence. “Well, before I launch into what’s been happening recently I think I’d
Mr. Hansen’s body was interred in a stately mausoleum of his own design years ago, and yet he still works for us. I’m forced to interview with the remains of the sad dotard almost daily. The world honors Hansen for his invention of countless beloved animated characters, and it’s that
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A spectral woman stood in socks and sandals upon a stone overlooking a gentle brook, red dawn lips reflected in her silvery flute. I had lost something. Something crucial. Why was I here? Her melody, yes. Like warm honey to the ears. My legs ached and my head throbbed. Rest.
In the spring of 1953, when I was nine years old I saw my brother die. I’ll remember that day for the rest of my life. The memory has never left me and it never will. Part of it is the trauma, the slow, insidious realization that he was gone, that crept into my life afterward. But there is more to it that I don’t talk about. I’ve held onto it for years, and I don’t want to hold onto it any longer.
When people whistle, it kind of irritates me. Not like Axl Rose from “Patience” whistles, but just does so to pass the time. When people whistle or hum to themselves it’s always just kind of grated on me, but only when it’s been tuneless. When there’s a tune to it, a melody, it doesn’t get on my nerves, it just makes me… unsettled.
I am currently sitting in front of my computer, scared witless. Any moment now I am going to be killed. Today a friend of mine told me a story. His aunt had taken care of him since he was a small boy, and she told him last night about how
The rain beat a steady rhythm on the asphalt. In the dark sky above, the rumble of distant thunder rolled slowly toward us. “Daniel.” The sound of my name pulled me from my reverie. I turned my head away from the drenched playground and toward Miss Wasson. “Are you with
After a short time of exploring the Oklahoma territory where they were forced to go, a group of Native Americans stumbled upon a mysterious plant while hunting. This plant looked like a gnarled tree root, with so many twists and turns within its seemingly fragile length that one could barely
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“When is Miracle Girl coming?” I asked and got a stony look of disapproval from my uncle in return. If he read comic books, he’d appreciate my nickname for an immortal elementary schooler. Grandpa laid his good, gray eye on me. The filmy, unseeing one wandered off, like the old
“Halloa! Below there!” When he heard a voice thus calling to him, he was standing at the door of his box, with a flag in his hand, furled round its short pole. One would have thought, considering the nature of the ground, that he could not have doubted from what
