The Trade

By Tim Bloodfield

This story that I am writing I have kept secret for thirty years. I put it in my will that upon my death my wife would get this letter. Please forgive me, my love, but it was for your own good. Now many years have passed and I am dead so it is okay to tell you what happened the time I was out all night. I know you had your suspicions—you thought that I had cheated on you—well my love, it was a lot worse than that. I did not cheat on you that night. I love you and would never hurt you that way. Now I will tell you what happened that February 12, 1985.
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Chapel, Dark Of Night

by Charlotte North

I know it’s been a long time since we’ve spoken
I can’t recall the last time I even said your name
But I’m at the end of my rope, and it’s breaking
Nothing I know will ever be the same

I think I’m asking you for a miracle
I have nothing left to give
There’s nothing more that I can take
I’ve gone over the edge, and I’m in freefall
Any moment now I’ll crash and break
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The Window

by Tim Bloodfield

 

It was a day like any other day: you get out of bed and try to get mobile, and most important, you explain to yourself the necessity of enduring the daily grind. You are about to embark on the same mind-numbing, tediously redundant commute to a job that follows the same daily pattern as every day. You do it anyway because it is your duty as an adult. When you are growing up you idolize the fun things about being an adult but you find out that it all was overrated and being an adult really sucks.

 

As a market analyst it is no party like it’s your birthday but I am really good at it so I make the best of it. My day went like any other: I prioritize, analyze and marginize data. I dream like any other stuck-in-a-rut schmuck that wants more out of life but never gets the opportunity or most likely the motivation to pursue the finer things in life as the wealthy that have all those things would say. But again, it is my duty as an adult to drudge on no matter how soul killing it may be and yet still cling to the hope of better days.

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Equal

by Charlotte North

 

She stood and clicked off the television set. She was trembling in anger.

How could they have let him out of prison on parole? The one who had killed her sister, stabbed her to death with a knife and then shot her just to be sure the job was done; leaving her body on the floor in a pool of blood, never showing an ounce of remorse, even when he was convicted of the crime — he was given parole? He was allowed to go free? It wasn’t right. It was wrong, through and through.

“Prison wasn’t harsh enough,” she thought. “If this is what it comes to. Well then,” she whispered aloud. “I’ll just have to take care of it myself. He will pay for what he’s done.”

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