It’s as clear as a photograph on a sunny day that you hate me. You say things to shame and devalue me but all I hear with these great, big ears is what you are so desperate to conceal.
Your lame attempts to hide your real motives under a veil of disgust may throw your friends off but I can smell the fear, as potent and rancid as sour milk. It seeps out from every forced chuckle and fake grin.
These big eyes see that behind the macho facade there is a little boy trying his best to mimic a man. So, when I saunter in unapologetically, flaunting my large frame as a feminine triumph, your tiny ego can’t handle it. A large, powerful woman has always been a threat to the manhood of the miniscule.
You can’t walk by a single store without some grotesque pink and red tribute to the vilest holiday ever to be spewed from the festering underbelly of hell. Worse yet, you get to see happy couples frolicking about blissfully unaware that they are making people ill with their toxic cuteness. I’m sure that’s what people must feel when they see Bill with his whore. God knows, it makes me want to retch every time.
Like me, Bill was never big on holidays. I never received so much as a card on Valentine’s Day. Not that it bothered me, mind you. We had plenty of ways of expressing our love without overpriced flowers, crappy chocolates oozing with unidentifiable fillings, and sappy Hallmark cards. Love doesn’t come from a store. All that mattered was that we were happy. Or at least I thought we were.
The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman is the chilling tale of a doctor’s wife being driven mad. The tale is set during an era when conditions like depression were treated with extended periods of bed rest and a pronounced lack of stimulating activities. It’s not hard to fathom how this could have caused many people to fall into a state of psychosis. The story reads as journal entries that become progressively disturbing. This short story is highly recommended for those who like a darker, moody, creepy tale.
English: American feminist poet and writer Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860–1935) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
While being a conjoined twin was always difficult, nothing prepared her for this. Born in a small village in Africa, her mother was too destitute to pay a hospital to separate them. It had taken ages for a charity to offer their services to the unfortunate teens.
For weeks they dared to dream of living a normal life. Yet, two days before the surgery, Bahati had awoken to a cold and lifeless sister. She was forced to endure being attached to a corpse. There would be no ‘normal’ for her after this. For the first time, she wept alone.
Timmy knew exactly what to do. He just had to turn the big hand on the clock backwards. Grandpa called it ‘Daylight Savings Time’.
He prodded the clock in the kitchen with a broom, until it fell down. Relief crashed through him when the clock remained intact. He picked it up and slowly spun the big hand. He paused for a moment. Had it worked?
He peered into the living room. His mother was passed out drunk on the sofa. Was she like that before he took the clock? He couldn’t remember. He usually took care not to disturb her as he navigated around the bottles strewn about the floor but today his mind was racing in a million directions.
As he sprinted to the hallway, he let the bottles fall where they may. He didn’t even think twice about how much trouble he was going to be in for letting their mouths drip beer and wet ash all over his grandmother’s oriental rug.