A Well Thought Out Plan_THE MEMORY OF A LIFETIME_For Better or Worse - 62 Years Late_Miami Ice
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A Well Thought Out Plan
The kids were at school, the housekeeper was given the day off and the spouses were sat in front of each other. It was strange how they sat, hands crossed and on opposite ends of the obnoxiously long glass table. It was something too business-like to be in a family setting.Daniela rubbed her thumb in circles while her husband twirled his wedding ring around his finger. Daniela wondered why she’d been summoned and why her husband looked like he wanted to run to the nearest window to jump out of.“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, his head bowed down. Daniela pursed her lips but mot...
THE MEMORY OF A LIFETIME
I stared at myself In the mirror, it was a few hours before the clock would tick and the happy New Years would erupt from the mouths of the people around me. Who were those people even? I didn't know. I was to drunk off my ass to tell what was even happening around me. And the reason, you ask: I cared to much. I didn't want people to see me, thwww.onedoor.cce way I saw myself. My solution to this dilemma was how can people see me when, I can barely see them. If you want to know why I feel this way, well here's the story. I woke up last year, the first day of January first and I told myself that I was going ...
For Better or Worse - 62 Years Late
"Harriet. Sweet Harriet."Oh, for the love of everything holy, he was starting out with a joke. Harriet wondered how The Almighty thought this was a good idea. Devon was the first of three husbands and the only one she mistook for true love. How could a man who was supposed to be her true love start out trying to be amusing? She started to turn back, but she didn't know where to go. So she did what she always did, "That's me. Sweet as a peach." Sarcasm begets sarcasm.The Devon she knew from decades ago gave her a sideways look with a crooked little smile. Then she remembered. It was from their ...
Miami Ice
MIAMI ICE by Martin Buckell I stand there on the beach in smiting snow and biting wind. There’s already a white dusting on the ground. I clutch my Ambre Solaire, wrap a beach towel tight round my shivering torso and schlep back to the hotel.“What the fuck?” I say to the concierge.“Fucking climate change,” he says.I hear the distant whine of sirens. I go up to my room leaving a trail of melting snow in my wake. I turn on the television. It’s all over the news. Freak snowstorm hits Miami. It’s July, fucking July in the sunshine state. It was eighty-five degrees blu...