She could feel the urge building. She needed a fix, but had to find some time
alone. Eventually she retreated to the
bedroom and pulled out what she required from under the bed. She was shaking, unable to contain her
excitement. She fumbled with the power
cord. Finally, she got what she desired
I’d been watching him for a few minutes before he noticed me.He looked up as he passed and our eyes met.We both smiled, cautiously but genuinely, before he was swept away by the crowd.The subway doors closed, the train lurched forward and I revelled in the lingering happiness of a shared moment.
Finally, the change she’d been hoping for arrived. After months of waiting, she felt the temperature drop and the moisture in the air. She saw the rain falling in the distance and hoped that the winds would bring it here; that this hope she now saw in front of her would not pass her by.
Looking this way and that, over the pale horizon, she searched the distance for anything that would bring her hope.Each day, she stood upon the porch, looking for signs.She studied the trees and smelled the wind.Nothing today.She knew eventually, the rains would come and her crops would flourish again.But when?
From where she stood, looking out upon the world, everything looked perfectly normal.She got up each day, ate, went about her daily duties and slept soundly every night, not giving it much thought.But when she did stop to think, she was able to remember that not everyone lived in an ornate, gilded cage.
Growing up, we lived at the bottom of a big hill.We would race down the hill on anything that had wheels – bikes, skateboards, rollerskates – then climb back up to do it again.One time someone tried the same thing with his car, except it ended up parked against the tree in our front yard.
She lay in bed, knees tucked to her chin, silently screaming in anguish. She couldn’t stop the tears -- but the children must not hear her sobs. She choked them back and buried her face in the pillow. Later, after she recovered, she could only hope that the mascara stains on the pillowcase would wash out.
The last rays of summer sunshine beat down mercilessly -- it doesn’t feel like September. I love spending the long lazy holidays hanging out with the children and part of me always dreads them going back to school. This year is bittersweet: while they are learning life skills, I will be building a new life.
She’d been playing this game of pretend for so long, she almost believed it was real. Except she knew deep down, if this life she was living was real, she’d be happy and it wouldn’t take so much effort. Plus, there was that one thing she could never fake, because everyone knows Faeries can fly…
“I like the rain,” she replied. It was true: the rain reminded her of her childhood and of places she had traveled. The rain brought many pleasant memories with it.
“I like you,” he said, with that crooked smile of his that belied his age, revealing a youthful innocence, which, he knew, made him irresistible to her.
“Did you know,” she started, trying to keep her composure if only for a moment longer as he stepped closer to her, “that dragonflies swarm before it rains?”
“No,” he mumbled from behind her, his lips skimming the tender softness of her shoulder.
“I learned that when I lived in China,” she volunteered, wondering if perhaps this flippant fact would interest him more than her skin, her smell, her shallow breath, her anticipation.
But it was exactly these facts about her past, her travels and adventures that she offered up so trivially, that made her so fascinating to him - and so desirable.
In one quick motion he pulled her to him with one hand, while the other hand brushed back her long, dark hair, allowing him to kiss that sweet spot on the back of her neck where she had the dragonfly tattoo.
She closed her eyes and sighed, losing herself in the moment and the tenderness of his lips, forgetting all about dragonflies and the rain.
I stood on the platform, waiting for the train to pull in to the station. The shrieks of hysteria in my native language jarred me out of my complacency. “Oh my God, it’s all in German! We’ll never find the right train!” I offered to help, and thus began an adventure and an enduring friendship.
OK, so it's not fiction... It's still a 55 for G-man
I was sitting there in plain sight.The parking lot was empty but for a few abandoned vehicles.It was spring and I could hear birds chirping merrily though the open sunroof above me.The sunshine was slowly thickening the air in the car, making it difficult to breathe.Cars passed by on the road above, their drivers failing to notice that the hillside leading from the pavement to the parking lot was covered in lush green grass and a colourful mixture of purple and yellow weeds.Soon the gardener will come to mow the lawn, shearing off the coloured heads of the flowers and returning the hillside to an appropriate state of monotony.
The young man didn’t see me as he passed.He crossed the parking lot with a bounce in his step.He wore brown dress pants, just the right length, and a black button-down shirt.He looked dressy but in a casual sort of way befitting his years and, most likely, his station in life.He must like his job here at the art gallery the way he walked up the hill toward the front doors of the building.Not trudging up the hill, but walking effortlessly, as if the ground was level.
Then he stopped, bent over, reached to the ground and with his left hand picked something from the grass.I didn’t recognize what it was until he turned and brought it to his lips.He blew gently, and with a faint smile, watched the dandelion seeds carry through the air on the breeze.
We hadn’t been dating long, but we’d been friends for years so after the party I spent the night. Next morning, while he cooked breakfast, I got the marmite and ketchup. I dropped the bottle and there was an explosion of red just as the door opened. It wasn’t how I’d pictured meeting his parents.
OK, so it's not fiction... It's still a 55 for G-man.
She called to him and he hurried to her. Her eyes were closed against the sunlight, peeking through the half-closed shutters on the window. He crawled into bed beside her, brushing aside her hair that fanned across the pillow. He wrapped his arms around her, whispering sweetness to her, as she took her last breath.
No one knew why we were building a dam across the creek. It was a neighbourhood project which invariably ended with us sloshing home, rubber boots full of water from when we got too deep or simply fell in, hoping we wouldn’t get yelled at when we got there. If we did, I don’t remember.