There weren’t any sandwich bags, or wax paper, or clean tupperware, so we wrapped our peanut butter and jam sandwiches in tinfoil.
“We can use the tinfoil, if we get lost and need to survive on our own,” we reasoned.
We were only going out to pick apples. Which I am opposed to, on principle. Who pays to work? But it’s something she wanted to do, so we went. We’d gotten lost on the way there, and spent too long looking for the perfect tree.
A multitude of finches flew through the sky when we when uncrumpled the sandwich wrappers.
Prompt courtesy of Sue Vincent’s Photo Prompt.
There were things he wanted, but never had. Things he thought he needed. Turns out he didn’t. Turns out they were just excuses. Turns out he was never going to do the things he said he’d do. Not until something else happened. Divine intervention, basically. Meals on wheel on angel wings. People banging at the front door, the back door, the basement window, offering fame and fortune. Holy Hell, hadn’t he suffered?
He hadn’t. But he liked to think he did. It’d be easy, if he’d put in the work. And he would, eventually, or so he kept telling himself.
“Not quite,” the second vampire said. “I’d like them a little more, rustic. Maybe. I don’t know.”
They’d come all the way out here from downtown. Forty minute metro ride.
“It’s not my fault someone held the doors open,” the second said again, after a long five minutes of silence.
“I’m here for you. But I wish you weren’t so picky,” the first said.
“I’m particular. There’s a difference.”
“They have to smell a certain way?”
“Right,” the second said. “Cigarettes, scratch tickets, cake, sausage, and just a little too much perfume. Like when I was a kid.”
The neighbourhood gathered on the sidewalk, and watched the apartment complex burn.
“I stick things out. That’s what I do,” Hen said, her eyes on the firemen climbing into the burning building. “Hope the miserable bits go away. Eventually.”
The clerk from the corner store across the street hurried out his front door with a garden hose, and started spraying the front of his building.
Hen and Ewe watched him for a few minutes, and then shrugged to each other.
“What if they don’t?” Ewe asked.
Hen rubbed her fingers. “You just get used to them, I guess,” she said.
A Great Writer, I’d rather not say which, appeared at our campfire one night. Just materialized from between the scraggly pines and ferns. We offered him a beer and a roasted marshmallow, which he refused and accepted, respectively.
“Are you writing anything?” we asked.
He blew the flames from his charred marshmallow. Pulled it from the stick, Gooey spiderwebs between the two.
“Yes and no. Always and never,” he said, after licking his fingers, and rubbing the pointed end of the stick in the coals.
We didn’t know if that was profound or not, but acted as if it was.
God fed the machine another two dollars. Punched the button on the screen and got three lousy lemons. Again.
“Any luck?” Dog asked.
“It’s not about luck,” God answered, without looking away from the screen. “It’s about patience. Same for everything in life.”
“I was thinking about getting out of here.”
“Already?” God said. “I haven’t even sang karaoke yet.”
“I know,” God said, and fed the machine again.
Three cherries. Lights and sirens.Everyone turned their heads to see. God scooped a handful of quarters and handed them to Dog.
“Get yourself another beer.”
“I guess it’s kinda like Alcoholics Anonymous,” Buck said, getting two more beer out of the cooler.
“But for lonely people?”
“And they meet once a week?” Trout asked, rolling the wieners across the grill.
Buck kicked at the grass. “Once or twice, yeah.”
“How long have you been…?”
“Going. I was going to say going,” Trout said.
Buck looked over the lawn, the toys gathered in three separate piles. “Couple of months, I guess.”
Trout busied himself with the business of cooking. “You know,” he said. “You’re always welcome here, right?”
“Sure I do,” Buck said.
This is the 1500th story here. Thanks for reading.