Two stories up, three from the top, she tried to peck out a life for herself one character at a time. Her typewriter would be her freedom.
Birches line the snow swept highway. Beyond my headlights they lurk, they leer. Bony fingers beckoning. I comply, listing to their arms.
Bill was sure he had won his struggle with the doppelgänger, but washing the blood off his hands, he saw an unfamiliar birthmark on his arm.
I am not “bipolar.” And no, I haven’t taken my meds. I’ve been much too busy. Now please, I have to finish painting my neighbor’s house.
“Check for monsters,” she used to say. “In the cupboard. Under the bed.” It never occurred to her that the monster was the person checking.
And the Cloud soared playfully higher, but the cold became unbearable. It’s not fair, thought the Cloud. I am going to cry.