Most of us knew the main points of the unsettling thing that happened to Sarita Pench within eight hours of it happening to her. Sarita traditionally wasted no time broadcasting her trials and tribulations to the rest of us through social networking, the incident in question definitely falling under the heading of tribulation – not because of what actually happened (uncanny as it was), but because of what Sarita thought had actually happened (fact + fear).
It was only then I discovered there was a glass wall between my bathroom and the neighbor’s. Imagine my surprise when a light came on and a beautiful, young woman entered and started undressing right in front if me. My first reaction was to hide, so I ducked down beneath the sink and sat there for a while trying to figure out what to do next. Continue reading
The computer screen lights the room around me. I stare at the blinking line on the white blank page that mocks me. It knows I’ve run out of ideas; it knows I won’t write tonight. I turn the speakers on, and European pop streams out. The heavy melodies and emotional voices normally help me write, especially the melodramatic English bands. Still nothing. Should my new story be about a single man? Should I try a detective novel this time? Did anyone really care about stories that don’t have vampires? I can’t do the undead; I don’t have the patience for immortal sagas. Continue reading
Lying here, among faces that stare at me in despair, unable to move legs or arms, I begin to remember. The only open road is driving me backwards. The poet in me finally awakens, on the most inappropriate moment though, when I should concentrate all my strength to save myself from the disease that is trying to throw my body into the dustbin of time.
A dive into the past,
where happiness seems to lie,
nothing is made to last,
yet the soul longs to fly
It’s not only the disease. Continue reading
I was foolish enough to get myself into this table tonight. There are four of us remaining, but I think Ol’ Bill let the others join the table so that it wouldn’t be just us two. The Sicilian is looking at me now. It’s my turn. The others are looking down the table. I’m trying to stay as still as I can, as I end their game.
My father’s tell was rubbing his palm on his knee when he had a good hand. I learned that two days after Continue reading