I feel the scream rise, but I crush it back down into a solid lump of coal, and then further, harder, until it becomes an imperfect diamond of rage stuck in my throat. I can’t let it out. I can’t swallow it. It sits, laboring my breathing. I shove it down as hard as I can, store it, just like all the others. The rage, the sorrow, the pain. It all goes to the same place.
My life is like a demented fairy tale where the princess barfs jewels and escapes the evil Prince in her shitty Honda. I should be rich from all this.
Removed at the request of the author
I met a man named Frank today. He knows how to throw his voice. He said he learned it from his dad. Fun!
Beef, potatoes, gravy, fork and knife to the left, glass to the right. The volume set to eleven and the table lamp lit, not the standalone lamp.
Bianca’s visit was cancelled so I had to throw away the pies. Also if I’m being honest to myself I don’t like pies.
A raccoon family found the pies. The two trash cans were open and garbage all over our driveway when he left for work. I need to learn! How can I be so stupid!? My shirt’s ruined now of course. A shower will clean my face, but my shirt is ruined. The gray-brownish liquid. It’s in my hair! I need a shower.
Sylvie looked down at the dishes. In the slightly greasy water her fingers disappeared under the foam. The light sparkled and popped as tiny globes exploded and infinitesimal rainbows vanished in the blink of an eye.
She had always loved bubbles, the luxurious bath type ones that wrapped you in a quilt of scented foam. The ones children, and sometimes Sylvie herself, made blowing through a plastic ring, and the sort that floated out of wonderful bubble machines. Of all the things she wished she had, and there were many, a bubble machine came pretty high on the list.