The rain hammered down on Annabelle but she didn’t mind. She hated her every waking moment. Her life was akin to a left foot being shoved into a right shoe, a shoe filled with alarming amount of fine gravel. But she did find a sanctuary in her desolation: a single gnarled old birch next to a puddle of a lake. There she lost herself in fictions and fantasies to drown her sorrows. And it was this rainy day, her fantasies finally reached out from beyond the watery depth and whisked her away. Her troubles never found her again.
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More stories from Jerry Liang and writers in Fiction and other communities.
The Conductor
I awoke to the rhythmic jolting of a train. Perhaps awaking is not the right verb. To be awake, one need to have slept but no one slept on this train. Proverbially, I came to myself in the middle of this foreign but familiar coach. All I could see was rows upon rows of seats and of course their associated souls. The coach is full but silent, not too different from a church awaiting the beginning of a sermon. In fact, if it weren’t for the long line of windows on either side showing the same grey and bland landscape speeding by, I would well have said I awoke to the ceremonial monotony of a church. But of course, that would imply a number of sins which I would do well to avoid given my current circumstances.
By Jerry Liang2 years ago in Fiction
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson5 days ago in Fiction
Storm Chaser
In the calm expanse of Indiana's sky, the hint of a thunderstorm promised a break from the monotony of a quiet meteorology student's life. It was a stark contrast to the violent storms that define Tornado Alley or the blizzards that occasionally sweep in from Chicago. Our state mostly saw pea-sized hail, with any severe weather usually passing us by. Even our storm-chasing courses, led by the dynamic Professor Jansen, felt like adventures in waiting.
By Arshad Mecci3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
A sad ending which also seems inevitable. I liked your description of how she doesn't "fit" with such a simple analogy but one which, ironically, fits.