Mr. C stares at the sign and sighs. Still gone as it has been for 50 years. He’s stranded in this desolate place as his brain kept wandering back to that fateful night. What went wrong? “I triple-checked that spirit-meter, didn’t I?” He muttered.
“They call this the “Scrooge Farm”. Instead of Christmas decoration each year, around Christmas, there would be scarecrows dressed in rags and sandbags for heads popping up in random places ’round the farm. Now, no one has ever seen the owner as there’s no house on the hundred-acre property. “
Tossing his jacket onto the table, he sat down and sighed. He couldn’t believe it. Another pandemic. I’m 109, how many more events do I need to go through?
Great, fantastique, awesome, super. Just how many more different ways can I exaggerate this situation? I don’t know what gave anyone the idea or the impression I can single-handedly put together a Thanksgiving dinner in 4 hours. 4 HOURS!!! There I was, slaving away in the kitchen – turkey, vegetables, and stuffing in the oven,…
Sitting on this park bench, I am supposed to feel cold but somehow, I feel nothing except exhaustion and resignation.
Sitting in her car, Shelley debates whether she should go in.
Melanie rests her chin on her hands on the window ledge of her father’s car.
“Welcome to the future!” A large headline flashes before me. I suppress a laugh.
With her hand in mine, my daughter and I walk toward the Ferris wheel. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“How dare you destroy my precious piano?” Grandma? I wanted to say but my lips had turned to jello.
“My husband is missing, you must help me!” I pleaded in broken French.
I live in a doomed world, I think grimly as I huddle in the dark corner of the Red Mountain Market and Deli, my go-to grocery store some 20 years ago. Teeth clattering, hands shaking, I reach into my jacket pocket for my trusty bottle of Ibuprofen. Great, final two.
I had originally planned to present this story at Toastmasters (a club to practice public speaking) last October but I was so busy at the time that I couldn’t get it written in time. It’s my take on one of my favorite Edgar Allen Poe’s short-stories which I think it was perfect for Halloween.
“Tell me how you find these again?” Jen asked.
“The scream, which occurs every day at precisely 3 PM, can be heard from a mile away.
“There’s got to be a way to stop this wretched winter!” Jezebel, the eldest of the witch sisters, said, slamming shut the thick book on her lap.
With one hand on the wheel, I undo my tie with the other. Just three hours before, I shouted, “I’m done,” and stalked out.
Chuy barked, tilted his head and sniffed the air. “What is it, boy?” I bent down and patted his head. Chuy barked again but before I could get a hold on his leash, Chuy shot into the woods. “Chuy, wait!” I yelled and ran after him. Running after him was like running after a car.…
“Jimmy, how many times do I have to tell you?” Mom said in her usual-nagging-southern-accent.
One, two, three, four, I count the seconds-pass mentally as I jab the piece of paper into the slot with my pen.
“It doesn’t matter when, the dark clouds will eventually disappear to let the sun shine.” Her mother’s words ring in her ears as she stands on the damp green grass of the cemetery.
Ryan guffawed when Sam told him his weather wizard worked. “Oh yeah? If you don’t believe me, go take a look yourself.”
It was a minute after someone yanked the sack from his head that he registered his surroundings.