Sitting at the edge at the bathtub, naked, bald, one hand clutching a bottle of bourbon, the other a bottle of pills, Alex felt sad, alone, and lost.
Deeper and Deeper we trek into the woods. We must be at least almost two miles in by now as my throat begins to feel parch. What does he want with me and why me? I keep asking myself as I focus on hatching a plan.
Sometimes, I think there’re more interesting things happening behind the camera than in front.
“Re…lax,” I inhale and exhale, dragging the word, doing everything to calm the tension in my body. I shouldn’t be this nervous. Come on, I’m performing to a crowd on Zoom, not some important figure.
I stood there, staring at my husband’s desk. I should’ve known it’d be too good to be true. Neat-freaks and scatterbrains aren’t opposites. They don’t attract. They repel.
“What cha doin’?” George asks.
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.
A typical wintry scene here – snowy mountains and an almost-full moon.
Sitting in her car, Shelley debates whether she should go in.
“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.
“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.…