A Short Story : A Story?

Lilly glanced down the row of cars all parked up under the trees. A chill moved through her. She brought her knees up to her chest, pressed her thighs against her rib cage and let her head sink down. She needed to find a place to stay. She needed somewhere to sleep and she needed to be able to get ready tomorrow to make sure Bobby saw her looking hot again. Because he would kick himself once he saw her all made-up in a nice dress and nice shoes. He’d feel pretty dumb for avoiding her this last year over a stupid pair of flip-flops. But how was she going to be that girl who turned his head if she spent tonight sleeping rough? Lilly closed her eyes and tried not to let it upset her. Puffed up eyes was the last thing she

As Connie got into the car she felt a wave of grief. She couldn’t get away from the invisible gates surrounding and trapping her as if she were a hunted animal. The ride seemed like a journey, going on forever and ever. Trying to pry information causally, Connie would ask Arnold ,” Where are you taking me?” Arnold just turned around and gave her that sleepy smile of his and , “Don’tcha worry ‘bout a thing honey. You are safe with me.” His smile, that reassuring yet mysterious smile quenched her longing for home and diminished the thought of how her family would think about the absence of their youngest daughter. It seemed to mask her thoughts of how how her cold mother and father would react seeing the their screen door wide open and the music that Connie listened to

It had not seemed this bright since he first laid eyes on Anna’s mother twenty years ago. He loved her the moment he laid eyes on her. She, unfortunately, loved John. If things had only been different, but they weren’t. Stephen continued drinking the scotch as he reminisced about Emily Wellington, the love of his life, although so unrequited. He thought of her long flowing blonde hair and her innocent blue eyes. Why hadn’t she been wearing her seat belt the day of the accident? Emily always wore a seat belt. A tear began to stream down Stephen’s cheek as the thought of the possibilities that would never be, not now. Anna crossed his mind for a moment. Since she looked just like her father, Stephen’s thoughts quickly returned to Emily. As the bottle of scotch neared the bottom, Stephen’s guilt of Emily’s death urged him to apologize to her. He took some stationary from the old oak wood desk’s top drawer and began to pen a letter to Emily. He explained all the details of his horrific plan in detail, the payoff, the cut brake lines, his hope of her surviving the crash and eventually marrying

The phone on the counter rang looking at the ID Marlene saw it was her mother calling, rolling her eyes, she picked up the phone. Without giving her a chance to say hello, Katherine screamed, “Marlene Sue Barnes, you little cheating bitch. Don’t you care a damn thing about your family?” Pausing to catch her breath, she continued, “Your boyfriend, Frank Forrester called. What are you doing?”

“I understand, but I need to get home before Jerry does,” Marlene said, picking up her purse, “I’ll see you in a few days,” she said, closing the door. While driving down the street, her thoughts lingered on the time spent with her lover. She turned on the radio and sang along with Garth Brooks while driving faster than normal to get home ahead of her husband.

At the end of the service, they buried Katherine beside her husband in the family cemetery. Afterwards, Marlene and Jerry invited their family, friends and neighbors to their home for lunch. While the main topics of conversation were to see the killer stopped before they murdered again, and why Stephanie failed to come home for Katherine’s service. Although, at this point neither topic interested Marlene since she only wanted to adjust to life without her mother and to see the killer brought to justice.

Mrs.Chipley and Sally are at the front door soaking wet the moon was so close I felt like I could touch it. We knocked on the door someone was opening the door.

All of James' life he thought that he was just a simple man and that he would die, perfectly ordinary, in his small village. For 18 years he had lived life as it came to him, growing up in Thornwood. His life was peaceful and dull. Every day since he was young he gathered edibles and alchemy ingredients from the forest, to be sold at a small price. It was an easy job that he was good enough at, but for a long time, he had held a secret dream, to leave this place. If only he had more money, more power, he could do whatever he wanted.

“Please tell me, why there is an ostrich in my living room.” Kendal said from her bedroom door. She closed it to keep her Hemingway cat and her hubsand’s new lab puppy in there.

Hetty brought a tortoise the day after her daughter died. Her only daughter, as it turned out. Her only daughter and her only tortoise, as it had also turned out. That was almost twenty years ago. The tortoise, Bertram, was, all these years later, still going strong. Still ambling around the house like an old man with dementia, bumping into furniture, getting lodged beneath furniture and nibbling said furniture in case it turned out to be as edible (or more edible) than it appeared. Sometimes, often in fact, he would creep up behind Hetty while she was doing the washing up or making breakfast, lunch or dinner and she was now in the habit, had been for approximately nineteen and a half years, of checking where she was putting her feet before moving away from the sink, the cooker or the kitchen surface, or anywhere else she had been standing still for longer than a couple of minutes, so as to prevent herself from feeling Bertram’s hard carapace beneath her foot, or worse, hearing the soft crunch of that carapace being crushed beneath her shoe.

The city was ablaze with activity. People walked to and fro, too absorbed in their own lives to pay Blake any attention. He certainly did not mind. He strolled down the streets steadily.

myself breakfast suddenly I hear a knock at the door and as I went to open it I see Liam standing there with a box “ merry christmas “ he said “ you shouldn’t have gotten me anything” I told him “just open the box” he said and there was a ring made of gold with little snowflakes around it, “ it’s beautiful but why would you get me this “ I ask him “ the ring is made from a special type of gold and the snowflakes represents the times we have been together” he tells me. “It’s lovely thank you but I have gotten anything for you” I tell him , “ it’s okay the best gift you could gave me is being mine” he replied. As the years went on I started to wonder what happened that night that I pass out as I start to remember i start to feel this weird but powerful energy and I let out this loud scream and as I look up into the sky little snowflakes start to fall down and the sky starts to get dark that’s where adam came in a hurry and tells me that he has to talk to me. “ what the hell adam it’s been two years since we seen each other and know you just want to talk if like nothing didn’t happened” I told him, “ I know but you don’t know why I stop talking to you” he said “ the only thing thing I remember is that liam told me that you didn’t want to be my friend and that hurt but you know what hurt the most that you told liam instead of talking to me” I replied , “ that’s not what happened Liam lied to you he told you those lies so that he could keep you to himself” he said “ what the

My heels are clicking against the cement in rhythmic pattern, and the rain falling in its own. It is gray, cold and wet. roughly 15 degrees today. I hear the shuffling of police men and detectives, mumbling to themselves and . I catch the attention of a curly haired woman

Pidge sighed and flopped down onto her bed. "Ugh... I'm so bored," she muttered. She lied there, staring at the ceiling blankly. She blinked, the ceiling light making her squint. No wonder her eyesight was so bad. She turned over and picked up her phone. As the screen lit up, she had an idea. She called Lance.

It was the smell of smoke that was the reason I awoke on that dreadful night.The smoke was not from that of a candle nor of a fire, but rather the heavy pungent smoke from a cigarette.The unmistakable scent sent shivers racing up my spine and memories seeping into my brain.In the 25 years, I have lived only one individual I had encountered smoked strawberry cigarettes.I sat silently and pleaded that I was still dreaming, that the scent was conjured up by my imagination.And when I finally did sit up in bed I let out a blood-curdling scream.Standing in the doorway of the room watching me intently was my father.