Psychological
The Last Payphone. Runner-Up in Last Call Challenge.
The last payphone was anything but special. Its black stand was chipped and covered in stickers ranging from Hello Kitty to a skeleton flipping you the bird. Its rectangular casing was cracked and the left half was pretty much non-existent. The phone book was gone, rust clung to the corners, and the phone was worn and covered in dirt.
By Josh Ripperger2 months ago in Fiction
The Sad Old Tree
Eliza was only fourteen at the time that her dad died, but when her dad died the wind was knocked out of her - right in her noggin, she was hit in the head. It was the day that her dad disappeared too, May fourteenth. It was a frightening time for Eliza - because her dad meant everything to her. She held their relationship dearly in her heart. She admired her dad. He was a professor, and she was just five when she found out her dad's profession and that's when she started to admire him and his work that he did and the heart, he displayed in his work. He worked hard every day - and when the time came that Eliza had to start high school, she knew that she would be good at it because she thought to herself often "My dad is a professor, there is no way I don't pass these classes"
By Aubrie Belle 2 months ago in Fiction
Working Late
“How may I help you?” “I’m stuck, and need help; it hurts.” “Where are you? What is hurting?” The caller didn't respond. Renee was in the last few minutes of her 3-11 p.m. shift. She and her co-workers called the time immediately before clocking out the last call . And when the phone rang, it was literally the last call during her last call . Her shift would continue now, and she wouldn’t be paid overtime.
By Andrea Corwin 2 months ago in Fiction
It's always the husband.. Honorable Mention in Last Call Challenge.
New York is a place where late-night calls feel just as normal as conversations at happy hour. But when a married man is calling you after midnight—well, you know how the story can go. It was only four months into my counseling sessions with Dion and Anna Caruso when his messages became more frequent and more predictable after our Wednesday night sessions. We ended at six, and like clockwork, by midnight, my phone would vibrate. At first it was casual frustration; then it got more personal. He’d mention arguments with Anna that he didn’t speak about during our time with her. From my experience, they needed a divorce— but of course I didn’t tell them that — what kind of therapist would I be? The Carusos were well-off, and maybe I used that to my advantage. I took Dion as a private client, off the record, while continuing to counsel them together every Wednesday. Yes, it was unethical. Anna didn’t know. And yes, legally, I was potentially losing my neutrality, but I felt bad for Dion. One Friday night, I was on my sofa going over some patient notes. Michael hated when I took work home with me, but that night he was on an overnight shift at Mount Sinai, so I had the apartment to myself. My work phone kept going off. Message after message. It was Dion . I didn’t answer right away. It’d been the same old thing with him. Talks about leaving Anna, dragged out until all hours. Anna was drinking again, calling him every name in the book. They’d fight over whose turn it was to pick up their son from Trinity—a prestigious Manhattan prep school. He said Anna complained about constantly catering to their son’s extracurriculars alone, then rushing home to make dinner. It left her no time to get her highlights done, so Anna hired a young maid to take the load off and accused Dion of gawking at the poor girl. Julia. Answer your phone. Please. I need you. Something happened. Pick up. I live a convenient three blocks away from my office on the Upper East Side. It took Dion eight minutes to get there from the San Remo to 86th and Madison. It was 1:23 in the morning. I was by the window when I heard heavy knocks at the door. Before I could even turn the knob, Dion pushed the door open with his shoulder, stumbling inside, grabbing my arms. Blood all over his palms. Now on my wrists and my blouse. I flung my arms away from him, and he collapsed to the floor. I pushed the door shut, and he reached, hugging my legs. I backed away. Disheveled, reeked of bourbon, and his hands drenched in red. Whatever the hell he had done, he had brought it to me. “Julia. Please.” He was sobbing on my floor. “Just listen.” “Whose blood is that?” I maintained my composure. Someone had to. “Who do you think?” “Where’s Anna?” He kept sobbing, burying his face in his palms. I yanked them off, knelt down beside him. “Where’s Anna? I know you can hear me, Dion. Where’s Anna?” Lost. Less sobbing, exhausted, his empty eyes wandering past me. “She’s gone. Julia…” “Gone where?” Naive question. We both knew where. “Gone.” “Did you kill her?” He looked up at me as if the question were absurd. But who in their right mind would believe him if he said no ? He was the husband and everyone knows— it’s always the husband.
By tatiana vitas2 months ago in Fiction
Tea with Friends
Note: the prompt for this Challenge was the following lyric from The Doors: Women seem wicked when you're unwanted I have heard this particular line many times, and I still think it is one of their best songs ( 'People Are Strange' ). And I think a drabble is in order.
By Kendall Defoe 2 months ago in Fiction
