RemembranceSerenity. Blissful hills of green grass, speckled with bright rhododendrons, daisies, tulips, other flowers and shrubs that I cannot name. But mostly, there is tall, lustrous grass. Strangely, there are no trees. Not even a bush. The hills of these spring colored plants roll on endlessly beneath a sky of robin’s egg blue, unadorned by any puffs of clouds. This is where I am, where I should be. It feels right.
I stroll at a leisurely pace to the crest of one such hill, and slowly spin a full 360 degrees, taking in everything around me. I notice splotches of red staining the mostly green surrounding me. Blazing crimson, shining like overripe empire apples in the glistening sun. They spark a memory, and I feel my mind tugged. The memory nags at me. Where are the people? I wondered. Why am I alone? Then the memories come back, and I collapse to my knees in one of the patches of blood-red flowers that sprinkled the scenic countryside.
What have I done?
Before my e
The Last Letter | The Tempest ReleasedNobody moved.
The three of us just warily eyed each other, waiting for someone to make the first move. The only sound was the thunderous beating of the rain on the roof, which was leaking in one corner of the room. Finally, Catherine broke the tension, saying, “May I ask just what is going on here?”
Andrew spoke up, replying, “I guess we weren’t expecting each other.”
That just about summed it up. Well put, coward.
“Why are you here?” he said to her.
“I came because I wanted to. Why are you here?”
He ignored her and addressed me instead. “Does she know about the…?” he trailed off.
“No, she doesn’t.”
Catherine flipped her gaze between the two of us, clearly aware she wasn’t included in something.
“What don’t I know?”
“Should we tell her?” I asked him.
“We might as well. She will only hound us if we don’t.”
So strange to be actually agree
Some Musings of an Invisible AntMind swimming.
Too much to take in.
I zone them out; they don’t bother me.
I love them dearly, I do, but there are times where I would just rather not be around them. The little ones jeer at each other and make noises not appropriate at the table. The older ones speak of things that have no meaning to me—politics, the economy, gossip about people that are not present. The ones closer to my age group find themselves inclined to join in the exploits of the mature and immature classes. There is even a point where one of the younger ones does something that got the older ones’ attention, and everyone either erupts in laughter or shakes their head disapprovingly. One or two do a little of both.
But not me. I just sit there, looking back and forth between the faces, wondering what I had missed. I turn to the uncle seated adjacent to me and inquire, but he doesn’t notice my efforts to get his attention. Perhaps I could have tried harder and commanded his attention, but
I'm No Relic“You’re too old to be doing this stuff. You’re like some ancient relic, belonging in a museum, too fragile to be useful anymore. Why don’t you just take the lift back down?”
The old man stared at the teenager with distaste. This was exactly the kind of kid that he wouldn’t mind giving an up-close-and-personal look at his old gun from back in the War. A shame he didn’t have on himself at the moment.
“You should not disrespect your elders, you little brat. Didn’t your parents ever teach you respect?”
“Oh, shut up. Go back to the home, old man, your generation has passed. The world belongs to us ‘youngsters’ now. I’m going down the slope now. Try not to break a hip or anything.”
The upstart spun around and took off down the slopes on his snowboard. The older man sighed, and pushed off after him on his skis. The man had a right mind to teach this kid a lesson somehow. He decided on simply racing him t
Sunset of Betrayal :: Chapter IXCHAPTER IX
“Having a good St. Valentine’s Day?” said George, strolling up behind Gatsby.
“You know I don’t celebrate that baloney, Butch.”
“I was just being polite. No need to be a wet blanket.”
The two of them stood atop the roof of an apartment building in Chicago, one of Gatsby’s new primary residences. George had found him standing there with his hands in his pockets observing the sunset.
It had become a habit of his in recent weeks, a ritual he followed almost every day. At first, he hadn’t been sure why he did it. He just naturally found himself gazing as the sun sank below the horizon one day. It had taken him a while to figure out what it was drawing him to the daily celestial event. Today, though, he felt he had finally deciphered this new instinct that had come over him. He’d always had that soft spot for good symbolism.
“You know, Butch, ever since that disaster in New York seven years ago, I feel like l
Sunset of Betrayal :: Chapter VIIICHAPTER VIII
Six days before the disastrous events that unfolded at the Keystone, Jay Carraway was having a bad day.
Or, at least it definitely wasn’t a good one.
He’d lost his favorite hat that his wife had given him that morning, and now he was going to have to put up with another one of Tom Wilson’s complaint stories of how the competition’s joints were so much better than the one they were managing now.
He took a seat and poured himself some homemade bathtub gin as Tom threw open the door and stalked into the Hooch House with the same scowl he wore on his face every Sunday night. No, wait – he wasn’t stalking in. He had a light bounce in his step tonight, and he was… smiling. What on Earth had put him in such high spirits? Jay noticed he was wearing a straw boater, like the one he had lost this morning. That only served put Jay in an even more sour mood.
“So, guess what happened last night,” Tom said, grinning.
Tom sat down and
Sunset of Betrayal :: Chapter VIICHAPTER VII
Myrtle, Gatsby, and George made their way up the stairs, and exited the apartment building next to the building that had housed the Keystone. Myrtle saw that George had his Thompson and the violin case with him. We could need that, she thought grimly.
They walked down the street and turned a corner. Some ways down, they came across a second alley that led to the courtyard, on the side opposite to the one Myrtle, Wilson, and Carraway had walked down to get here. They watched as Keitel carried a young flapper into the center of the space and was shot. He collapsed on the ground, and an officer walked over and knelt down next to him.
“I feel like I’m watching some sappy tragedy on stage,” Gatsby said apathetically.
Myrtle gave him a sidelong glance, surprised at his remark. She, for one, did feel a pang of remorse over how this night was turning out. If only she had not gone along with Carraway and set up this meeting to humiliate Wilson and take over