“Good luck on your first day of school honey!” my mom yelled from the kitchen. Today would have been five years since cancer took her away from me.
I put on my new clothes to show my husband.
I can tell by his hollow and corpse eyes that he really likes it.
When I was a kid, there was SOMETHING invisible in my room that would lift the handle on my dresser and let it drop, “clink!”, if I stayed up too late. I had forgotten all about it until the knocker on my front door started knocking itself on clear, windless nights.
I hear people dragging a sofa upstairs.
And we don’t have an upstairs.
I offered her the mushroom soup as I did each night at the same time (apart from Sundays) and she ate it with great satisfaction before slumping to the floor. The crowd called out “encore”.
My husband stopped by my room to say hello tonight, as he always did after work. He passed away two years ago.
When I was a child, I had this reoccurring nightmare that my mother was replaced with a doppelganger. It wasn’t until I was 14 that I realized she was… when I saw her staring into the mirror smiling and winking at my screaming mother.
After three months alone on the remote, uninhabited island I was longing to return to my university post. Unable to contact my ship, I made my way to the emergency rendezvous point only to find, tacked to a tree, a rumpled note reading, “missed you – be back next year.”
Sometimes I go to the roof if my building with a sniper rifle and target people. That’s enough for me . . . for now.
Marjorie loves the broad evening sky: a huge, hundred mile canvas of ambrosia, piled massively like a heavenly feast but delicately shaded in purple, grey and blue. She would see more from the balcony, her concrete diving board – but the ground leaps at her like a tiger, murderous and terrifying, whirling and falling and leaping again.
Every night while I sleep I meet the person of my dreams. Every morning I wake up and realize she’s lying next to me.
I was alone when I took it. That wasn’t the case when I posted the selfie on Instagram.
“I’m one lucky bastard”, he thought as he looked at the diamond ring he bought, and smiled once again. She looked into the distance as the plane left the runway, and whispered a final farewell to the city and the seven years of misery.
“We must learn to move on,” she said. For the last time, we saw the fireworks reflect in our eyes as the memories clung desperately to the edges of the old year, only to be washed away— to be drowned in the new— far, far away.
I was thinking about sticking my pencil into the little button-hole eyes of my boss who thinks he’s a big shot, treating me like some insignificant clerk that files meaningless papers over 9 hours a day, 365 days a year for more than 20 years, while I am actually the secret daughter of the President of the United States! But then again, he’s just a poor guy who doesn’t know the truth so I’ll continue to work through the night as I don’t want anyone to discover my hidden identity.