“Memories for sale! Get your reminiscing and musing here! Memories for sale—!”
“Childhood daydreams, first birthdays, and flights of fancy, yours for only three hundred—!”
“Piano lessons, cooking classes, foreign languages, we’ve got ‘em all! Get your practical skills now—!”
“Memories for sale! What’s past is present again! Memories for sale!” Continue reading
I didn’t look upward, but I was going that way. The air was damp. The cold, rough rungs were all I saw, all I dared see. I was afraid, too afraid to tremble—afraid that if I stopped to rest or to look for the walls of the shaft in the darkness, the rungs would crumble loose, their anchors give way.
I climbed for hours. Weary. I kept climbing. I didn’t know why. I couldn’t even remember where I’d started, when I’d started, any time before I’d started. Always climbing, and that was all. All that existed for me was one steel rung, then the next, and the next. Maybe I would see stars again, if I would just keep going. Continue reading
Peering up, the boy chewed the inside of his cheek contemplatively. It was uncharacteristic of him to find his attention so firmly fixed on such a still and static thing as a statue, but here he now stood.
Shifting his backpack lightly across his shoulders, the boy pondered alone as the class slowly filtered down the hall filled with canvas and ancient marble. He’d lost interest in the droning guide and whispered chattering of his peers.
“A thing of beauty.”
The boy turned his head, taking in at a glance the gray-haired man with bright eyes who had appeared at his side. Continue reading
Do you remember the end? When the world went dark?
I do. I can’t ever forget.
We played our role well, I think. To the hilt, and beyond, we lived our parts. How could we not, after all? For us, there was nothing but our casting upon the stage.
Adventures and horrors, valor and despair, love and hate. I learned what these things mean, and I can tell you when our journeys educated me. At every point along the road, there was something worth noting, worth saying. It would be a cruel thing to believe otherwise.
But now, someone has wiped it all away. Continue reading
It’s been a long day. I’m finally sitting down at home in my incredibly comfy papasan chair with a cup of tea that I’ve been wanting all day, intending to spend only a few seconds checking my personal email before curling up with a book or catching up with my latest Netflix obsession. However, my plans for the next ten minutes change suddenly when I see the following subject line:
New Chapter from WriterWoman01* (FanFiction.net)
Yes, you read correctly. I confess. I read, write, and follow fanfiction. Continue reading
Mark stepped out the door to Switzerland. His wife, Lisbeth, remained in the kitchen frying pancakes for breakfast that could be refrigerated and re-heated later.
As she cooked, she was speaking on her phone’s earpiece to her friend Hanna, currently visiting her own husband, Gregory, who worked in Tokyo. He, at just the moment, was on a business trip to London, but he would be back in time for dinner, which preparation currently occupied Hanna.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Lisbeth spoke inoffensively, though reproach and disagreement veined her remarks on the subject; “maybe getting into trouble is just a part of growing up.” Continue reading
“It’s late, Will.” A sharp gaze pierces the gloomy air, sweeping the untidy study with a mix of concern and resignation. “Nearly the witching hour.”
William pauses for a moment before he carefully moves his hand to the side. The quill’s dark tip hovers over a spattered square of thick paper and slowly drips a fat drop of sable ink. In the dim light of the smoldering hearth, the dark spot glistens ever so faintly with a deep red cast. When it finally splatters quietly on the creamy but sullied scrap, John is reminded of darker rooms and deeds darker still.
“I know,” William murmurs dully. His watery eyes are fixed on the words that he has written, and on the empty space below them. “Did Meg send you down?” he asks in the same tone: remote and weary.
John shakes his head. “She’s given up on that, I think. The room was dark when I passed it.” He runs a hand through his lank and sandy hair, but he doesn’t mention the solitary, muffled sob from behind that door.
John understands better than she does, and knows what cannot be changed. Continue reading
Milo Thorpe was an average guy. His parents had always told him that, and so had his teachers, and his friends. He wondered what it meant to be average, really. Did it mean that he looked pretty much like everybody else, and earned decent grades, and went to a middling university? Did it mean that he felt kind of happy most of the time, but still worried a lot, when he remembered to, about things that most people wouldn’t remember (the cat he saw wandering outside the alley behind the supermarket, for instance)? Or, did it have more to do with taking over his parents’ bakery when he graduated? He thought that would be okay, but it didn’t keep him awake at night.
What kept him awake at night was wondering about being average. Continue reading