She stood without a coat shivering in the night air. Salt encrusted mascara stained her cheeks. “Please. Just one more chance. I promise, I… I… I’ve changed. It won’t be like it was before. Honest. Just one more chance.”
Silently he allowed her to finish. Then he turned and went back into the house alone.
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His heart stopped. After lying for hours in the cold and dark, he could hold out no longer. His legs, his arms, even his voice failed to answer the call from his brain.
The alley, which looked like a good short cut in the driving snow, was deserted. The entire neighborhood was bundled up inside.
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Judith Harper gives us our final story of the Blitz. Thanks to all who contributed!
As usual, Miriam was almost not-there. She stood alone—apart from the crowd, head wrapped in drab gray scarves, brain swathed in blacksmokefog, spirit buried in brownmudclay. She looked up at the Teacher, unshed tears calling to Him.
Lord, I despair!
He smiled at her. Clay crumbled, fog scattered, scarves fell off.
Daughter, rejoice!
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One more from Mort in this Reader Submission Blitz!
It was obvious: Mark was cheating. Makeup all over his towel and not hers. How could he? Then the phone rang. A woman asking for Mark. How could she? “We appreciate Mark’s volunteering at children’s hospital as a clown, but please ask him to use different makeup next time. Yesterday’s came off on everything.”
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A second submission from Mouse Tourmaline.
***
Liaisons without consequences, the advert screams.
After your night of pleasure at our agency, we’ll scientifically erase your memory of it, for a guaranteed guilt-free morning.
Intriguing concept… though of course, I’d never…
No. These liars need telling not to scam the public.
I stride in. The receptionist glances up.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Jackson!”
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The first of two stories from Mouse Tourmaline. It comes with the following note from Mouse: “This one’s a true story. Any Brits are welcome to figure out what we were
watching.”
This show last aired twenty years ago.
Now I sit with him. On screen, sunlit, alone: a monster, dying. In its past, dark destruction.
Innocent, I see nothing but a lost and lonely creature, far from its one-time home.
He sits astounded, wordless, as his daughter cries over the terror of his childhood nightmares.
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I clearly miscounted the number of stories I had in the queue! We’ll be going throughout the weekend, I think. This touching one comes from Dean Christianson.
2003
“Dad, they’re bombing someplace called Bagdad on TV!” exclaimed Seth, Ralph’s fifteen year-old son.”
“Yes, President Bush’s ridding the world of terrorists so you can have a long, prosperous life.”
2006
Ralph put the folded flag, a memorial to an eighteen year-old Marine, on the mantle and thought of long, prosperous lives.
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One last story from Betsy… for now.
Will discovered the badly decomposed body in the apartment next door.
Later, fumes snaked through Will’s vents and said:
I be Bad Meat.
Call me Bad.
I live wif you now.
Dat my chair.
Will was not pleased. Roommates can be difficult.
But now they get along swimmingly. They watch TV together. They like “Jeopardy”.
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Seems Betsy was on a creative jag
July 1902
Every day, after chores, she watched from her window. Now, finally, her mysterious neighbors were gingerly stepping outside, their feathers fluttering in the breeze, their jewelry tinkling like celestial bells. Their sunless existence had made their skin glow like iridescent pearls.
She dropped to her knees, crossing herself.
“Mama,” she whispered reverently. “Angels…”
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We’ve moving into Saturday with another from Betsy…
I loved him. He was my best friend.
He was accepted to Julliard, with an acting scholarship, but he just couldn’t go.
He just couldn’t.
“Never mix, never worry.”- Edward Albee.
But he did.
Vodka and Librium.
Richard doesn’t worry anymore.
I don’t worry about Richard anymore, either.
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Me.
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