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woodstoveThe fan in our woodstove turned on and I suddenly became drowsy as the grating voices of late night TV suddenly hushed into breaths of warm, dry air. The cat with an abnormally long tail leapt onto the mantle, knocking down a thick green candle, then, scared by her own clumsiness, leapt away again into the dim shadows behind the couch. One thirteen AM.
I kicked the loosely crocheted blanket off my feet and reached lazily for the remote, finding the power button with my thumb and watching with relief as the picture was suddenly replaced by black. Bliss. Tiredness is a constant presence when one is an insomniac, but the feeling of sleepiness, of feeling calm enough to actually lie down and drift off, is rare and cherished. Overwhelmed by such sleepiness, I jogged heavily up the stairs and into my cold, uncomfortable bed. The twenty year-old mattress creaked and my blankets rustled slightly as I slid down to the foot and curled into a loose ball, the only position I've ever been able to s
super8Matt's most prized possession was his super eight film projector. He kept it on the floor next to his bed and every night, before he went to sleep, he would smile at it and think of the films he had watched that day. Families in the park, teenagers by the sea, children on ponies at the fair and birthday parties lit only by the glow of candles on a thickly frosted cake.
Every morning, when he woke up, he would pat it right before he threw back the blankets and got out of bed to get ready for work. The commute to work was slow and dull, all buildings and pavement and sidewalk, hardly a tree to provide some sort of reminder of life. Buildings and sidewalk and pavement all just looked like death. Cold and hard and useless and remote, nothing he could walk up to and put his hand on and feel breath or warmth or comfort in. pulling into the company parking garage, locking his car and dropping the keys on their heavy pewter key chain into his right pocket, he strode softly over the dead concre
poor ferdinandYou know, I think the real reason Ferdinand was such a jerk was because his name was Ferdinand. A child can't grow up under the enormous strain of being a "Ferdinand" without somehow toughening himself into becoming immune from the incredulous looks and huge guffaws that ensue once he reveals his name as yes, nothing other than the pretentiously soul-crushing fame of Ferdinand-hood. There is no good nickname for Ferdinand, and nor was his middle name, Rupert, any better. Ferdinand Rupert James. A fairly anonymous last name, yes. A last name a boy would have no problem being connected with, especially with such awkward forenames. The problem with young Ferdinand Rupert James was that when he introduced himself, he couldn't very well say his name was just James, as awkward and confusing name-discussions soon followed, during which his real name was revealed, and you see, that was the problem we'd begun with.
Anyway, Ferdinand was a jerk, excuses notwithstanding. To his credit, he was an
muh"Muh" was the best attempt at communication she could muster. It was just too hot for anything else. Maybe after she had drained her glass of ice water she could manage a real word. Maybe even two syllables!
"Muh," she said, again. Maybe not… She lifted the glass to her cheek and sighed. "Mmmmm…" she continued. "Mmmmmmm…" She moved the glass to her forehead and then drank a few sips. Maybe if she took a cold bath. All she had to do was go across the hall and turn on the water. She lazily placed the glass back on the end table next to her bed, where she was reclining, and watched as the napkin beneath it soaked up the beads of condensation. Oooo, osmosis. What a world. She mused over what a cold bubble bath would be like. Did the heat of the water effect the bubble solution? Maybe the soap only foamed when it was hot. She dropped her head back and looked up at the fan, trying to see the individual blades swirl rather than just a blur of white. Squinting, she moved her head slightly in m
IronmanHear me read it
My friends used to call William "Ironman" because the first time we kissed he got a nosebleed and the taste of his blood haunted me for a long time after it. We'd only been twelve years old and apparently the anxiety spiked his blood pressure to the point of combustion... I remember that when we were forced to take sex ed a few years later we were divided into separate classes for boys and girls, in case a diagram of an ovary was too risqué and we became animalistic and started clawing at each other in our seats, but nonetheless when our teacher Ms Jacobs had explained to us what an erection was in my mind all I could picture was the blood rushing to his nose and then the slash of cranberry across my blouse.
With the idea planted in his mind it didn't take long for William's hands to start wandering, but the image persisted. Every time I thought about just letting it happen I wondered what would happen if he got too excite
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