The sunglasses sat on the floor, a beam of sunlight shining on them through the window. Her blood, splattered across the wooden slats of the floor boards shone like rubies scattered in the sunlight.
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I sit at my desk, wondering why you don’t try. It has been over 8 years and still you make no effort to understand. You have no compassion. You make no move to understand what he goes through. Words overwhelm him and yet you continue to throw them at him like knives. I can’t help but believe that you think bullying him will somehow make him not what he is. He will always be what he is. It’s not for you to force him to understand what you need, but it is for you to help him understand what he needs.
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It was boring and bland but he said nothing, for fear he would be attacked and have chunks of his flesh bitten out in repayment for his honesty. So he chocked down the oatmeal, drank his coffee and kissed Mary on the cheek on his way out the door.
Oatmeal. His life had become oatmeal. Bland and boring. At this point, even having his flesh bitten out in chunks would be more desirable. At least it would be SOMETHING.
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The dank smell of the basement crawled into Cheryl’s nostrils as she descended the steps. She wrinkled her dainty nose and stepped cautiously into the dark at the bottom of the stairs. She stepped forward, reaching for the light switch on the wall and felt her foot touch something soft. She jerked her foot back, afraid it was a mouse or rat. She found the switch and flipped it on and quickly looked to the floor.
A scream built in her throat as she took in the view of Miguel. He was obviously dead on the floor with sewing pins sticking out of his pupils and dried blood that had dripped down the sides of his face like tears.
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She was kind but willful. Her face was pretty, but not beautiful. She was not perfect, but she was not human. Tom watched her, marveling at how real she looked. He wondered at how her skin appeared to glow, giving the illusion of blood pulsing below the surface.
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He stood in the room alone, waiting for those he knew would come. It was dark, with only a thin stream of light coming from under the closed and locked door. He could hear himself breathing. It was not the quick and harsh breath of one who was afraid, but the smooth and steady breath of one who knew what was to come and was prepared.
They came, finally, their hard, quick steps resounding in the hallway long before the door opened. One of them came to him and the hood was placed over his head before they lead him from the room, his hands tied behind his back.
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I stood, disbelieving, staring at the hatred in her eyes. Her hair was wild, blown by the wind, it’s dark strands like slashes across her face. Beautiful hands clenched in rage.
“Torch it.” She said.
I opened my mouth to speak, to argue with her decision, but nothing came out. I struck the match on the box’s strike pad and watched the flame flare. I glanced once at her. She was drunk with her rage. I tossed the match and watched it’s flame tumble through the air toward the target.
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“Be calm. Be professional. And above all else, for the love of all that is holy, don’t fart.”
I had been coaching myself all morning in preparation for the interview. Unfortunately when nervous, I get gassy. I was terrified I was going to fart during the interview. It had happened before. I really wanted this internship.
To prepare myself, I had taken some beano, some pepto bismal, and not eaten anything for 24 hours. Hopefully that would work nicely.
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The crescent roll sat in front of me, steaming, the butter melting down the sides and dripping onto the petite plate.
I sat with my hands in my lap, staring at the butter, thinking about adding some jam to the mess when my door buzzer rang. I sat there for a moment more, hoping whoever it was would go away when the buzzer rang again. Two short bursts of noise and then one long buzz.
“Great.” I thought. “It’s Marvin.”
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Happy Writing! 🙂
I had decided. This was it. I had to adopt a weird habit. I was too normal. Too plain. From my plain brown hair to my plain brown eyes. Plain Jane. That’s me. So, I decided to change something else. I’m going to take up a weird habit. Like collecting gerbil figurines or crocheting one sock that has no match.
Eileen Maki 