A Short Story : A Story?

Isobel was shaken awaken by her dad shaking her. They had been on the plane for five hours and she had fallen asleep at three.

Ringing the doorbell several times, Karen screamed, pounding on the door, she yelled, “Wake up Dan. Wake up, Dan! I need your help.”

He was right there in front of me, kneeling with arms out-stretched, waiting for me to jump in them. His face was indistinguishable because of the shadow his cover cast upon it, but a smile was clearly on his face; and I knew, my eyes shining with emotion, were reflected somewhere under that cover. I ran to him as fast as my legs could carry me, but before I could reach him, the world around me transformed and I was alone once more. I was outside, in front of my climbing tree, around its trunk was the ribbon. I hated this ribbon and wished with all my might that I could tear it down. It was the yellow service ribbon- a, "ribbon of waiting" my mother used to call it. It was nothing but a reminder, a signal to everyone around us. All it did was mock me with its presence, mocked me with the cruel reminder that the man I was running after would always be just out of my grasp, unattainable to me.

While driving down Lemon Grove Blvd. after leaving the motel, Marlene smiled, recalling the past few hours she had spent there and wanted to get home before Jerry and Andrew arrived. Driving down her driveway she parked, brushed her hair, freshened her lipstick before rushing into the house, calling out, “Honey, I’m home” Hearing no response, relieved that she was safe, going into the kitchen, she made a fresh pot of coffee. While waiting, she sat at the counter and glanced through the morning paper. Answering the phone when it rang, Marlene asked, “Barnes residence, may I help you?”

“Hannah drove her to the doctor,” Shaw told him. “She needed something to help her relax.”

The city was ablaze with activity. People walked to and fro, too absorbed in their own lives to pay Blake any attention. He certainly did not mind. He strolled down the streets steadily.

I headed into the house. It was a Victorian style, nicely decorated. I wandered what job the husband had but pushed the thought away before I started up the stairs to the attic. They were creepy steps, extremely steep and creaked when you stepped on the wooden planks. When I neared the top, I braced myself for the sight, but the impact never came. I guess I expected to see lots of blood but at first I didn’t see anything until I turned the light on. Light

He reached out to her. She set her hand in his and looked up at him. Her eyes sweet and lovely. Hope flared in him, bright, hot, and white. Brighter than the sun, brighter than all the stars in the sky.

Joe woke up. He turned his head to the left to look it at his clock. It read June 28 2020. He could feel the warm summer air in his room and the smell of breakfast coming from down the hallway. He opened his door and looked down the hallway and saw his father cooking bacon and eggs. He could hear his mom in the shower listening to music. He walked down his hallway say “good morning” to his dad as he walked by his dad. His dad just looked in his direction and kept cooking. As he sait down he felt something was off about his dad. His dad was a very talkative person with something always on his mind dieing to tell anyone.

“He sure did.” He replied as he took a closer look. The bone chilling Oregon morning had us shivering until the heat blasted on in my family’s 2006 silver Seqouia. We loaded up the car and suitcases filled the whole third row as I dozed off in the dark leather back seat. 30 minutes later I received an onslaught of pokes and prods from my older sister, Chloe, informing me of our arrival at the airport.

He checked his rearview. Several cars back a white van followed. He’d noticed it twice now. It was the kind of van the mob used, no side or back windows, a solid screen separating the cab from the rear. He’d keep an eye on it. Doing so was second nature. Used to following, he was expert at knowing when he was followed. But the van turned off.

I awoke from my bed and saw my sister’s eyes filled, all of a sudden she shouted, “Mama is sick, wake up, mama is sick!”

The putrid purple of old bruises gleamed helplessly against the limpid replacements— it was all my fault.

The warm garlic bread scraped and clawed in my throat, begging not to be thrown into the dark dungeon, known as my stomach. Still, I held my nose and swallowed. I tore piece after piece of the garlic bread and plopped them into my mouth, begging myself to swallow. They’re still watching, I thought as I grabbed the last piece of garlic bread.

Knowing by the tone of his voice something was wrong, Andrew said, “I’m never too busy to talk. Bill, what is going on? You sound as though you are about to lose it.”