Everyone thought he was a loser, especially the people he borrowed money from, and he borrowed money from pretty much everyone. The quicksand of debt slowly sucked him under as he struggled to pay his rent and utility bills. Justin needed a steady income.
Music distracted him. He composed musicals, compositions with notes gliding into intricate movements that enchanted listeners. He imagined that his work would intrigue music scholars and influence artists yet unborn. He was right.
Alleviating his financial woes, Justin succeeded in auto sales. As a composer, he feared he would have died in poverty. He was right
Soft, lavender petals fell around her rose, another cut flower which she knew would have been a perennial if not separated from the earth that sustained it. Still, John presented them to her. Lorna did not want cut flowers, and she did not want John.
With dainty precision, she wrote, “to Mark with all my love” inside a book about Hebrew society. Nothing interested him more. Every weekend she’d seek out some beautifully illustrated volume for him.
Although Mark stared into an ebook edition of the Torah, he thought only of Sarah, his Jewish princess. He’d cross their cultural divide.
Dottie balked at mopping the ER’s dead body room. Peers scoffed at her protests, refusing to budge, so she grudgingly mopped while her pin curls stood on end. A corpse’s evil essence preyed, stalking Dottie home.
Darkness fell and cast a Shadow over her. Later, an incubus bore down on her, tantalizing her id. He whispered sweet nothings and dealt temptation. With Faustian carelessness, she lost her soul in a tunnel of love, and Charon was the gondolier. Her demon clutched her heart until it ceased throbbing.
Now coworkers believe Dottie, feeling her heart would fail, foresaw her own death.
Who’s the scariest one of all? Trick-or-treaters tease my imagination, especially ones like Miranda. Perhaps because she tried to look wicked. Or perhaps because her black ruffled skirt ended high on her thighs and she wedged a broom between them. Or perhaps simply because she looked around eight years old.
Explaining that my candy basket needed refilling, I asked her in. I imagined what I’d do to her. An adult voice called, “Miranda!” She trotted obediently down my walkway. Gone.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall.” Breathing a cloud of fog onto it, I drew a stick witch with my finger.
