A Contest of Sorts_Tropical Cures_Distractions_The Grass Lady
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A Contest of Sorts
Jasper’s hands shook like an earthquake was rocking the ground, and the hot coffee in his hand began to spill out of his cup, the liquid scorching his hand. He dropped the cup and it splattered into the air, over his jeans and the two women standing next to me.“Oh my god!” shrieked the younger one, glaring through glasses that framed her face in a manner reminiscent of a raccoon. Her long pointy nose continued to point in his direction as she shook her right leg first and then her left, drips flecking onto the concrete floor. The older woman shook her head, the gray hair bouncing around her f...
Tropical Cures
Tropical CuresWheels touched down on the black tarmac, shimmering in the tropical sun. Sally breathed a sigh of relief. She hated flying. Images of planes and people falling from the sky kept her from sleeping the entire flight. Sally had planned for this trip of a lifetime. She’d saved every cent from her mediocre server job to feel the humid sun on her skin. The plane jolted to a stop and Sally gripped her bag so hard; it threatened to cut her fingers in half. The woman next to her smiled kindly and stood to get her items from the overhead compartment. Sally forced air through her terror, se...
Distractions
Traffic this morning was particularly bad. The moment Ollie hit the interstate, she could tell there must be some sort of sporting event or conference happening in the city this week. Her normally clear drive to work was instead clustered with cars, vans, busses, and ever present road workers. She took her car out of cruise control and slowed the vehicle, falling into pace behind a beat up white pick-up truck. The morning radio show featured three personalities that helped distract her mind on the way to work every morning, and she turned up the volume this morning, enjoying the opportunity t...
The Grass Lady
She sits motionless in her armchair. She hears her neighbors shouting, and laughing, simply alive. She stares at her book of Virginia Woolf’s The Room of One’s Own and never turns the page over for the last hour. Is she reading? Is she pretending reading? Is it just an escape from her reality? Is it just fantasy?She is half dead, half alive. She remembers that she has been in this room for 2 years now and has never been out. Her room is familiar to you as if it were the real version of Vincent Van Gough’s The Bedroom. Like a weary creature, she looks like a soldier who lost her war that she h...