Fiction.

Christine Henison jerked. Ten cups of coffee after quitting time, she was drooping like a limp flower across her desk. Her fingers were numb with typing and the glare of the words on the page drilled into her head. Grimacing, Chris sat up straighter and took a deep gulp of coffee, emptying her mug. The office was ghostly so late at night. The sound of her breathing seemed to fill the entire wasteland of empty desks. Papers fluttered as the one rotating fan inside the wide newsroom sent its spray of air across one desk after another. Brain-dead, Chris stared blankly at her article. It bored even her. No one would read it, she was convinced of that. Or if they did they had no taste. Did anyone care about such mundane things as this? She cast a longing glance at the Vietnam conflict article that Harry Arnold had pinned up onto Mr. O’Neil’s gigantic bulletin board. She scowled at her own work, which simply would not achieve the tang of an interesting story, no matter how late she stayed to work on it. Sighing, she stood. No use falling asleep again, so it was back to the coffee pot. A sound echoed quietly through the hot office, startling her. It was clearly the sound of someone walking. The steps stopped as soon as her own did, making her mouth go dry. Who else was here so late? No one should have been, not even her. Everyone else had met their deadlines and left long ago. The work was done for the day except her own dry article.

“Harry?” She called, imagining that her playful coworker had stayed late for the express purpose of spooking her. Harry was a nice guy, but lately his flirtations were becoming borderline disturbed. She frowned. “I know it’s you Harry.”

The footsteps started again, a slow unsteady shuffle. Harry didn’t walk like that, even if he was trying to scare her. Suddenly Chris felt nausea creep into her stomach. The wind from the fan blew at her skirt, tickling her legs. “Harry?” Shhhh-clop. Shhhhh-clop. Shhhh-clop. The steps continued. Chris hurried towards the wall, groping for the light switch. She couldn’t find it behind the mass of papers tacked up everywhere. Her tiny desk light was a solitary star in a vast dark sky. The footsteps stopped. But now she could make out the faint sound of breathing behind the whiz of the fan. The breaths were low and rasping, as if the person making them had not stepped outside for a very long time.

“Who is it?” Christine was horrified by the shrill sound to her own voice. It was halfway between a whine and a scream. “Who’s there?” The steps began again, faster this time. Shhh-clop, shhh-clop, shhh-clop! It was a limp, that’s what it was. Turning, Christine pressed her back up against the wide office window that overlooked New York City. The sweat from her palms fogged the window so that the lights outside twinkled and puffed. “Who are you?” She whispered again as a shadowed figure stooped towards her. In her hand Christine felt warmth, as her fingernails dug into her skin. 

My silly little attempt at...well, you shall see.

Amy yawned loudly. She blew a brown curl out of her face and stood up, reluctant to begin another day. Then her heart leapt. It was Saturday. No school. Thank goodness! She was too tired for school and her brain was already aching with overuse. As always, she shuffled to the mirror to inspect herself and see what damage sleeping had done to her femininity.

“Ish.” Amy grimaced at the face in the mirror. Mascara skeletons ran down her cheeks and her eyelids were swollen. “Allergies.” She stuck out her tongue at her reflection. But to her shock, the reflection didn’t stick out its tongue back. Horrified, Amy stared as she watched the mirror girl blink. Amy hadn’t blinked. The reflection leaned forward and pressed its hand to the glass of the mirror in the alternate room that still looked exactly as Amy’s did only backwards. Spellbound, Amy pressed her own palm gingerly up against the mirror where the other girl's hand rested . The girl smiled out at her. Her heart racing, Amy smiled back. She remembered her childhood fantasy that the girl she saw in the mirror every day was alive and her friend. She felt her heart fill with delight over finding it to be true!

Laughing, Amy jumped up and down excitedly. But her hand remained. It started to burn. Her whole arm soon started to burn and her fingers were melting into the mirror. The mirror Amy still smiled, but her teeth flashed white and wicked and her green eyes turned yellow with the fiendish glow of satisfaction. Amy began to scream as her arm was sucked into the mirror and the pain crept steadily up into her flesh. The noise of shattering glass cut into her eardrums and her whole body shook as blood covered the mirror. Terrified, she tried desperately to extract her arm and shoulder from the mirror before her face touched it, but the pressure on her body only grew as she resisted. She felt the mirror swallow her up until her lungs could no longer expand. Then there was nothing but the image of her own leering face peering back at her from the world she had always known.

Newwww random post of a random story

Mrs. Margaret Wood didn’t look at my mother. Instead she just bent her head and scrubbed even harder at the crustings of flap-jack batter that stuck resolutely to her old second-hand stovetop. She’d been scrubbing when we knocked, and she didn’t meet my mother’s eyes even when she opened the kitchen door; rather, she studied me as she invited us in. She said she bet all I was taller than I had been yesterday. I didn’t dare to speak or smile, what with trying to feel sorry for her like Miss Cecelia said I ought, but I managed to nod and not make any silly faces. Mother didn’t like when I made faces at people, but it made David laugh, so I often did. This afternoon though, I was on my best behavior. Mrs. Margaret was a suffering soul, and suffering souls warranted respect.

“How are you getting along, Greta?” Mother said. It was odd to hear mother call another married lady by her first name, but then, Mrs. Margaret hardly seemed like a married lady. She wasn’t like any of the other housewives in Mayberly. She was young and pretty and her hair was cut like the actresses in the moving pictures.

“I’m alright.” Was all Mrs. Margaret said in reply. She suddenly stopped her ferocious torture of the batter drops and straightened up. She was really not much taller than me, or at least she didn’t seem to be now. I noticed she was barefoot. That was why. Ladies like her wore those high-heeled pumps that made them taller in public. She swabbed at her forehead with the back of her hand and breadcrumbs from the stove fell into her hair. “I’m really doing just fine. That’s what scares me. Everyone’s been looking after me, like I’m a church fence that needs a fresh coat of paint. Once the novelty wears off, they’ll all start in on the gossip and the shakin' their heads. They do it now, I know they do, only they's too careful not to do it to my face.” She sniffed loudly, and I thought maybe she was going to cry, but she didn’t. She just started back in on her scrubbing.

“Rosealeen May, go outside and see if Mrs. Wood’s cat has any kittens you like. She says you can take one home to keep if you would like to.” My mother spoke to me, but she was looking all the time at Mrs. Margaret. Her eyes had that light in them that made me suspect something was up. But the prospect of a kitten was too much to resist, so I slid to the edge of my chair and stood, scooping my skirt back down where it belonged. Grown-ups’ chairs were a nuisance to my wardrobe and dignity. 

A Poem

I want friends.

I want a life.

I want to see a movie.

I want to hear that song.

I want to be safe.

I want to be left alone.

I want to talk.

I want to dance.

I want money.

I want food.

I want the spotlight for once.

I want to be happy. 

I want someone in my life who will make me happy.

I want a luxurious house. 

I want a bigger closet. 

I want a shimmery prom dress.

I want a job.

I want a college degree. 

I want everything. 

I want.... to change. 

Help me change?

What do I do?

I'm listening. 

Now I see.

Now I hear.

Now I want to help. 

Help me, help.

What do you want? 

What do you.... need? 

Can I help you? 

Let me listen. 

Let me pray.

Let me be here when you need me.

Let me lift, let me carry, let me be a shoulder when you need to cry. 

Let me be your friend.

Let me be your hope.

Let me tell you the truth.

Let me give you everything you need.

I've changed. I've become. I've grown and I've learned. And now I know what I really want. 

I don't want everything. 

I want to be somebody's everything. 

9.2.2013.

“Who are you?”

“Me?” He asked, motioning towards himself as if she could possibly be asking someone else. The other waiters in the waiting room all seemed to be nearly asleep. Others were engrossed in their magazines, or busy caring for loved ones. Of course you. Who else?

“I just mean, you don’t really seem like a patient.” She added, motioning around the room at all the elderly and obviously ill patients.

“Neither do you.” He replied, smiling matter-of-factly. Emmy turned her eyes back down, feeling despair wash over her freshly at his words.

“Well I am.”

 I shouldn’t be. But I am.

“So am I.”

“Of doctor Regan’s?” Emmy glanced back up at him with surprise.

The stranger smiled sadly.

“I know. You might not believe it, but a year ago I was fighting it hard. Chemo was hell, but I guess it was worth it just so be able to say that I put up some sort of a fight for my life. But that’s all history now, so I went back to a real hairstyle and some nicer clothes than those silly gowns.”

His joking attitude masked him like a bandit. Emmy wasn’t even sure if he was really serious about being a patient, but surely, she thought, anyone who hadn’t experienced such things themself would be able to have such a callous attitude when speaking about them.

“I’m sorry,” Was all she could say. After all, he’d obviously lost his fight, and been forced to settle for the inevitable, a path she was likely to follow. Throwing her normal polite passiveness to the wind, Emmy dared to ask:

“How long do you have left?”

The young man sighed thickly, nervously almost, and looked up at her. His dark eyes were clear and his face was devoid of any bitterness. How was it possible? Emmy felt her own resentment against life and the injustice of the world weakening.

“Four months, if I’m lucky.”