On Getting Lost"You see? There is no plan!"
Criminal Investigations The interrogating officer rubbed his eyes and tried again. "Name?" She sighed and repeated it for him. "Janice Whitmore." "Occupation?" "Professional writer." He nodded, as if she had answered a question correctly. "Yes. Professional writer. What kinds of stories do you write?" It was going to be a long night, but she played along. Maybe he'd get tired of the game and let her go if she did. "I write murder mysteries." Another nod, and he produced a stained handkerchief to wipe his bald pate with. "Ms. Whitmore, can you tell me what these are?" An accompanying officer dropped a stack of hardback books on the table. Janice spread them out in front of her and pretended to study each one. How could she not know these books? Each one had represented over
The GardenThe garden of truth experienced drought.
Because You Tried In the First PlaceFailure is still cause for celebration.
Someone Lied to MeRocky Road? But there's no marshmallows!
Tread LightlyGlass floor shattered under my feet.
Around the World in Eighty DaysDay forty:Islanders stole my ship.
It's Time to StopDear Heart,Just one more cheeseburger?
The Bus Depot The sun beat down on the little bus stop outside of Walmart. The riders scattered around the little shelter, some sitting under trees to keep cool, blankets spread under them like picnic blankets. The buskers and the panhandlers congregated in the shelter, comparing the day’s take and rolling homemade cigarettes out of a yellowing Tupperware container. At the other end of a long bench, a woman pressed an acquaintance for more and more details on her distant boyfriend. He shifted under her scrutiny and searched for any excuse to change the subject. A woman sat with too many bags and had ears only for her mp3 player. She worked her feet around in stiff new sandals and watched through a thin slit in the window for the bus to pull in and provide a temporary, air-conditioned asylum from the late June weather. They might have seemed an unlikely grouping if not for the dollar they each clutched in their hands like prayer beads. The
Not Utopia"Welcome to Earth!""...WHERE'S THE EXIT?!"
Saying Goodbye"Don't forget me," the widow cried.
Can't Escape Your Own ConscienceDreaming...I still hearYou Screaming
ItchyFirst anniversary: Paper.Our love unfolded.Seventh anniversary: Wool.It all unravelled.
Systematic Amnesia [10.2.12 Daywrite]They came for us at four in the morning. We had stayed up all night, of course we had, peering out of the windows into the darkness, foreheads pressed up against the icy glass. Our breath fogged our vision, but it didn't matter. We knew no number of sentries could keep us safe when they finally came. So they waited most of the night, just one more step in their game of playing with our minds. We were tired when they came, fearful. Edgy. But they arrived in silence, just a whisper as they surrounded our house. Then Cole's cell phone rang. Its trill in the deathly silence shocked us all out of whatever level of unconsciousness we each happened to be in, and we all stared at him with wide eyes. The only people with that number were supposedly in all in the room with us. "It's them," he said, voice tight. "They're doing it again." It was a power play of course, and we had all known it long before he said it. We were just clinging to that last hope
He Comes with the RainRain slides down Yesteryear Antiques' cheap stained-glass windows in lazy swirls and spirals. Tracking a drop with narrowed green eyes, Shay wrinkles her nose and steps around a haphazard stack of Life magazines. A sheaf of her thick auburn hair falls across the right half of her face. Pulling a hair tie from her wrist, she scoops the locks into a messy bun. The lights flicker, thunder rumbling. Shay glances again at the rain's path on the windows. Turning to a set of dresser drawers, she rifles through pens, paper clips, and crayola markers. A wad of teal tissue paper crinkles under her fingers and Shay pulls it from the drawer, unwrapping its contents. A pair of hand-carved bamboo chopsticks, topped with snarling dragons, roll onto her palm. She pokes them through her bun before diving back into the drawer."I could have sworn there was a--" A flashlight skips across the debris and Shay snatches it up. Grinning, she clicks the button. Clicks it again. Frustrated, her grin fading, she
Locked Out...Where was the secret entrance again?
The DaysLuna married Sol:A daughter - Dawn.
Stuck In The Past"Time tick tocks on without me."
Six Word StoryTides took her; death by water.
Musical ChairsThree women.Three bladders.Two toilets.
Kite's CanCut the strings to soar beyond.
CuriosityCuriosity made the cat kill itself.
I Believe- Six Word StoryI believe....Even though you don't.
No Time For Talk"I believe...""Your opinions...""...aren't welcome."
Golden TicketThe candy factory? But I'm diabetic.