The Girl in the Attic by Paul Thompson

typewriterMy eyes are either shut or simply not working.

Hoping for the former I open my eyes, face down on the floor, my vision consisting of vague shapes and rough colours. Lifting my head takes muster, my brain reluctant to keep up with the images it receives. Everything shimmers like an old video recording. Shapes flicker but never settle, as though I am travelling through time without any way of stopping.

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Johnny and Frankie by Nancy Robinette

typewriterOne thousand and three green squares from one end to the other.  Lime green squares, match the lime green jello, match the lime green curtains, match the lime green creamed peas. You get the picture. I’m sure the nurses wonder why I wheel slowly up and down the corridor. It’s the number. One thousand and three. Where’s the symmetry in that? I demand order, discipline. So I count again. To confirm. You wouldn’t think that such a detail would matter in the grand scheme of things, but these days, that’s about as grand as my days get. I enjoy uniformity. Regimentation. Forty years in the military will do that to you. “Career Army” they used to call me. Married to Uncle Sam. I wonder how Lorna felt about that.

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The 3 a.m. Litterateur by Tony Conaway

typewriterThe snow reflects the moonlight and the sound of my boots.  “I am,” I mutter to myself, “Zhivago, tromping from Yuriatin back to Moscow in the unforgiving Russian winter.”

She has a chain link fence around her place.  It’s little more than waist-high; meant to keep her dogs in, not people out.  In my condition, it only takes me about fifteen minutes to traverse it.  After several attempts, I manage to fall on the inside of the fence.

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