Katherine Brucks
Stories (4/0)
Wednesday
"Well of course," Hugh muttered under his breath. "Bloody Wednesdays." It was indeed Wednesday, and Hugh was a firm believer, after years of compelling evidence, that most of life's unfortunate events happened on Wednesdays. This particular Wednesday was no exception. It began with a typical onslaught of inconveniences: a stubbed toe as he was getting out of bed, a raw egg splattered on the floor as he fumbled his way through breakfast, a tie tied with such an unexpected burst of enthusiasm that he nearly choked himself to death. It was, in short, exactly what Hugh had come to expect of Wednesdays. It was for this reason that the appearance of, and subsequent fall caused by, a strange box on the landing outside his front door did not come as a surprise to Hugh. "Bloody Wednesdays," he repeated, picking himself up from the gravel driveway. "Not even eight o'clock. Could've been killed." Hugh slowly climbed back up the three stairs to his front door, grunting with pain at each step, his hand on his low back. "Bloody postman has it out for me," he grumbled, stooping over the small box that had nearly added 'broken neck' to Hugh's list of Wednesday-morning tragedies.
By Katherine Brucksabout a year ago in Fiction
For the Jellyfish
It is the hottest summer in human history (as far as I’m concerned), and I am spending it in Toronto, the hottest city on planet Earth (in my personal opinion). My tiny fifth-floor apartment has no air-conditioning because May, my roommate, is "allergic" to air-conditioning. As if, May. I’m allergic to living on the surface of the Sun, but oh no, no special treatment for me.
By Katherine Brucksabout a year ago in Fiction