The wind howled around me like a pack of starving wolves as I entered the cemeteries rusty iron gates. Yet it seemed so wild and chaotic that it reminded me of home, so it didn’t bother me at all, I was used to it. My brother’s headstone was only a ten minute walk away so I let myself drink in the moonlight and the memories the cemetery held. I remembered the first time I went there with my mother, just after Jason died... She led me down the now familiar mud track past the eerie, dancing trees, to the spot she planned on burying him. And it wasn’t until I was standing in front of the headstone that I realized he was gone ; that was the first time I truly cried. I slowly walked down the pebbly path and admired the cherry blossoms that were flourishing around the graveyard. It was a cold Aprils night and it was going to be dark soon.…
Inside the cottage, Maggie sat at the table. The cigarette still hung loosely from her fingers. Her skin had browned and grown tight around her bones as it dried with age. Her head had shrunk considerably, the empty sockets of her eyes receding deep within. Maggie’s stomach, where the Coroner had crudely sewn her back together, had pulled apart at the stiches leaving gaping diagonal crevices. The wedding dress they buried her in was wrinkled. Her hair, while wiry, laid neatly groomed. Sam, having taken her brush from the bathroom, had done it before…
Gone was the quick, flashing eye that irritated my sensibilities and quickened my heart when we were younger. Her beauty had faded into a shadow of her brilliance during those winter nights in society. That evening on the hallowed grounds of our meeting place, she picked her steps slowly, content to leave her hand in mine. Her gaze was melancholy, solemn. They were worldly eyes. They had seen a darker side of existence.…
The street’s familiar scent of tobacco and mint helped to calm my nerves. It wasn’t cold outside, however a chill grabbed at my back. The path to the station was instinctual, today it seemed foreign and alien. My steps were slow and without the usual spring, their movement matched the grim expression I wore on my face. I’m not normally one to want to be caught in the act of doing something wrong, but today, I was greatly dispirited, I wasn’t stopped. I would have thought someone cared more about me.…
At one-thirty in the afternoon, Carolee Mitchell was running the vacuum cleaner, or she would have heard the first sirens and looked out. After the first, there weren’t any others. The calling voices, even the number of dogs barking, could have been students on their way back to school, high-spirited in the bright, cold earliness of the year. Thinking back on the sounds, Carolee remembered a number of car doors being slammed, that swallow of air and report which made her smooth her hair automatically even if she wasn’t expecting anyone. But what caught her eye finally was what…
Sarah always fixed her golden blonde hair in a style that I thought looked like a big, fat hamburger bun on the top of her head. She had piercing blue eyes, a sharp nose, and China doll perched lips. Her matronly figure was usually adorned in her work attire which was entirely white from her jacket, blouse, skirt, nylons, and even down to her orthopedic white shoes. She did, however, wear a pretty, pink laced handkerchief that rested on her left bosom. Sara worked at the local Morrison's Cafeteria as a server in the salad and fruit section of the food line. Even though Sarah resembled an angel in white, the glare that was in her eyes reminded me of the devil or she was probably like one of the women in the juvenile home that would stand over me with a big, thick stick to hit me if I didn't scrub the floors hard enough were I ever so unfortunate to end up in that…
She stepped slowly from the doorframe, letting the light touch her old and faded face as if it were the sun that was to appreciate her presence. She hardly went on walks when I was around. She’d always just stay in and moan about it being too bright. I definitely remembered this old hag. And if you think 'old hag' was a bit of a harsh term, I am more than willing to argue. Despite her frail appearance and gentle expression, I know what truly lied behind the facet of wrinkles. Stubborn and headstrong like that of a wild boar, with a tongue so sharp, one could nearly be sliced in two if Katherine believed you to be worth her time in the very least, let alone bothered to utter a word to you at all. As a boy, I had the misfortune of continuously…
Days, months, years passed and she had evidently shut up the top floor of the house. Like the carven torso of an idol in a niche, looking or not looking out at the town’s people, they could never tell which. She passed from generation to generation, dear, inescapable, impervious, tranquil, and perverse. And so she died. Fell ill in the house filled with dust and shadows, with only a doddering Negro man to wait on her. She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy…
I enter through the creaky gate of the decaying garden; walking through the yard; her pulchritudinous roses, withered away with each step I took. Peregrinating to the door the wood rotting at the edges termites conversing, as if we were at a party, I refused to touch the repulsing door but in consideration for my mothers salubriousness. However the home didn't have the smell of death or decay, it smelt of warm cinnamon bread toasting in the oven. Warm Cinnamon bread the most delectable treat mama ever made for me; I couldn’t resist to take a…
Frown sinking to worry. Forgetting all fears of darkness, the clicking of heels reaches the boy’s side. This woman’s smile calming, light, voice lulling. She's careful not to startle him as she brings him securely to her chest. Her once spotless outfit washing in the mud-stained concrete. Meanwhile, a spark has grown in the boy’s eye. This stranger matching visions of guardians in his past. His weak body comes alive, a flash of silver brightens the street. The boy shoots up. A jagged silver strip tearing the woman's cloth. Her heart halting - mid beat failing. Gone is this privileged girl an empty shell in her place. Organs once keeping her inside now dangling on the street. Cackling breaks the mist. Excited hands fiddling with the tan coloured skin, mouth straining so unused to his smile. So our scene can now fade on the platted strings of flesh, the boy having gained one tiny spot of enjoyment…
The daily scream therapy of my neighbour in the shower does not fail to act as an alarm clock every morning. This daily “alarm clock” was a good enough reason to not succumb into the pressure of calling the police. The rhythmic sound of everyone’s steps outside gave birth to the gravel, small as peas which moved beneath their feet and from it a faint dust rose, the perfume of the town. This perfume I had to get used to now, this perfume I will smell for the years to come. This foreign town was now my new home, away from all the sadness, unfulfilled relationships and the past, a town full of versatile people, some doctors, some painters, some chocolatiers and some farmers, all with big houses towering over them. A town still rich with bicycles and kids playing in the streets early in the morning, the streets filled with the aroma of bread this all felt very new to me, I was a city dweller, this made me feel great unease.…
The cold harsh winds of the winter whistled through the ranch. Nothing moved, the grounds lay bare the only sign of life was an illuminated window on the far side of the silent ranch. The light came from a small wooden shack; the shack appeared newer than the rest of the weather worn buildings, it also looked better cared for than the other buildings. Next to the shack was a small garden and in it were gravestones. Two were lined side by side, but another sat lonely in the corner of the garden. The lonely gravestone was simple it was made from wood unlike the other two that had been carefully crafted out of stone. Then a creak echoed around the garden and the shack, it was no louder than a whisper but in a place where nothing made a single noise it seemed loud. The door of the shack rolled open, a small elderly man appeared holding a tattered leather bag. He slung it over his shoulder, he took a step outside, and he shivered as a gust of chilling wind passed over him. He looked back into the shack, deciding whether to put a coat on. He briskly emerged from the shack once more still with no coat or gloves or any added clothing but a gun. He took the gun and carefully wrapped it in a piece of cloth he had taken from his trouser pocket. He then lowered his wrinkled hand which clutched the gun back into his pocket. He limped badly stopping and wincing in pain. He soldiered on still clutching the gun in his pocket. He reached the entrance to the garden; he limped through the battered wooden gate, as he passed it let out a loud screech. The elderly man quickly scanned around him looking whether his carelessness had aroused any one from their business. He waited a while then let out a sigh of relief as no one had appeared from there bunkhouse.…
Looking into the distance; there floated an insignificant, lonely cloud. Separated from its kind. Roosters were cooing early in the morning and her eyes came to life. Just another day. Better get ready she thought. Tired from sleep, Angela threw on her largest coat and searched for the door. There was a tingling sensation once she stepped in the white tiled room. At the polished sink, Angela reached for her worn-out toothbrush and the Colgate and paused when she caught her reflection, watching herself.…
Nicolette Larson was loading the dishwasher with her husband, Kevin, and telling him about the first meeting of the Manchester United Tournament Organizing Committee. Nicolette, a self-confessed "soccer mom," had been elected tournament director and was responsible for organizing the club's first summer tournament. Manchester United Soccer Club (MUSC) located in Manchester, New Hampshire, was formed in 1992 as a way of bringing recreational players to a higher level of competition and preparing them for the State Olympic Development Program and/or high school teams. The club currently has 24 boys and girls (ranging in age from under 9 to 16) on teams affiliated with the Hampshire Soccer Association and the Granite State Girls Soccer League. The club's board of directors decided in the fall to sponsor a summer invitational soccer tournament to generate revenue. Given the boom in youth soccer, hosting summer tournaments has become a popular method for raising funds. MUSC teams regularly compete in three to four tournaments each summer at different locales in New England. These tournaments have been reported to generate between $50,000 and $70,000 for the host club. MUSC needs additional revenue to refurbish and expand the number of soccer fields at the Rock Rimmon soccer complex. Funds would also be used to augment the club's scholarship program, which provides financial aid to players who cannot afford the $450 annual club dues. Nicolette gave her husband a blow-by-blow account of what transpired during the first tournament committee meeting that night. She started the meeting by having everyone introduce themselves and by proclaiming how excited…
He usually wakes up at 6:25 o’clock when his alarm is screaming for help to set it off. He is always very sleepy at that time and still laying in his bed for ten minutes. After he gets out of bed he goes into the bathroom and puts in his contacts. Before breakfast he puts his books into the backpack and then go downstairs to the kitchen to have a breakfast. It always consists of two pop tarts and a big glass of orange juice. While he is having breakfast he is ether reading the sports section in the newspaper or on the computer. When he is done with breakfast he gets his lunch ready for school.…