Sitting up, I observed the light rush of snowflakes as they danced past my third floor window. It wasn’t easy to make them out in the dark, so I crawled to the foot of my bed where the window was and looked down. Clouds of brilliant snow filtered through the street lamp’s eerie light, appearing like a ghostly apparition as they slowly spun downward to finally settle below. An impending feeling struck me, a slight churning in my stomach, an ominous warning of sorts – a warning that something was out there, on the streets, waiting for me. I sat silently, wondering at my strange feeling.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
It was the rattling of the loose window from the wind that woke me up. For a moment, I lay flat, staring into blackness. The pale yellow light etching the outline of my closed bedroom door was the first sensible feature my eyes matured to in the cold dark. The drone of the television, like an annoying fly, faintly seeped into my vibrating ears, and my old bed creaked dramatically as I rolled onto my elbow and strained to listen. Hearing nothing in particular, I stared around my room. It was a depressing sight, the dark, peeling walls, with their ugly patches and holes where sandy plaster crumbled onto the floor. And the old, drooping ceiling and cold, bare wooded floor. Why did I live here? Couldn’t we afford a better place to live than this? I decided to shake the worthless thoughts off – it was Christmas Eve, after all.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
The ringing was coming from the counter.
Marty Peterson looked up wearily from his hand notebook. A small, dark-haired boy was at the counter, standing on tippy-toe. An assortment of nuts and bolts lay scattered over the counter, his intended purchase.
Sighing, Marty slipped his notebook into his apron and made his way over to the counter. He had been alone in the old store, which was the way he liked it. It was why he took the early shift. But a customer was a customer, and needed to be served. He had known that when he applied for the job.
Gathering up the handful of nuts and bolts, he paid no attention to the small boy. As he silently rung up the price, he sensed the child glancing at him. There’s nothing here for you to see, he thought bitterly to himself.
Monday, November 28, 2011
INTRODUCTION - Please read first: This episode is based on the ABC series LOST and takes place directly after the finale. It's my version of "what happened next". Disclaimer: If you are not familiar with the series, the following characters were established during the series (and thus their relationships and backstories are already established as well) and the following epsiode may give away details that occurred during the series itself (in case you are planning on watching it at some point, which I recommend!).
A fire crackles in the background. Shadows cover the form of a man who lies on his back, a ratty blanket tossed over him. The man groans slightly.
Hurley appears from the shadows, his face anxious. He bends down beside the man. “Dude… are you OK?”
The man blinks. It is Desmond, his face haggard. He peers at Hurley without recognition. “Where am I?”
Hurley smiles sympathetically. “You’re on the island.”
Desmond closes his eyes as if to wish this realization away. “Here --- help me up, Hurley ---” Desmond attempts to lift himself up, but winces in pain.
“You might want to take it easy, dude. I have no idea what happened to you down in the cave and everything, but you’ve been knocked out for like 24 hours straight…”
“Twenty-four hours?” Desmond’s eyes widen. “How --- how am I here? How am I… alive? Where’s Jack? I have to tell him that I was wrong! That it didn’t work!”
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Ephraim Flint had his revelation the moment his eyes locked with the parson's daughter. One simple look dismissed any doubt whatsoever from his mind.
Rain splashed down his cheeks. Without a hat for the first time in as long as he could remember, Ephraim felt the unusual sensation of nature's bounty drumming the top of his head. Peering up at the darkening sky, the Connecticut farmer took a deep breath. The heavy scent of earth filled his nostrils, teeming with clay and stone.
A deafening roar tore Ephraim from his thoughts. The sound left many of the gatherers pale and solemn. The parson spoke a few words, challenged only by the growing rain as it fell like soft tears upon the crowd.
Ephraim took the opportunity to glance at the parson’s daughter again. His eyes had not deceived him. A damp red handkerchief protruded oddly from the nape of her coat, an old but reliable sign. She was a loyalist to king and country.
I do not know how to explain my reaction to the noise.
The first time I heard it, my breath froze in my throat. Hot tea trickled onto my thumb as my trembling hands lowered the porcelain cup from my lips.
The second time it shook the house. The door rattled on its hinges while dark faces peered through the frosted windows. I sat without moving as if I could will away the presence that had so suddenly and so harshly entered my life. The third pounding brought me to my feet.
“Open the door at once!” The voice stabbed into me like a knife, spilling my courage to the floor. For an instant I fought against the reality of it, but my husband’s voice shattered my attempt at disbelief.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
The host turned to the Reeve from across the warm campfire. “Good Reeve, I hope it would not be too much to ask you to relate a tale to us. This, our lat night of the pilgrimage…the evening is young and you are one of the few who have yet to participate.”
The Reeve looked up from his cold mutton and continued to chew. Many of the others turned towards him, interested in what his reply would be. With a slight nod, the Reeve set his mutton down on his food cloth.
“Tell us a good one, fellow Reeve,” bellowed the Miller, clapping his hands together roughly. “I am in the mood for a warm tale!”
“If it is a warm tale you wish to hear, then it is a warm tale you shall receive.” The Reeve’s raspy voice caught the attention of audience and they crouched closer as he began to unravel his tale….