This Is Exile

Just how exactly does a house become haunted?

A sort of prequel to 'There Was A Wizard In My Room', 'Haunt These Halls' & 'id'.

Do not read this expecting a nice short telling. Notice the genre and the CAUTION!

Note: This is written by Kylie, not Dorothy. Kylie rendered her account inaccessible, and asked to post it here instead.
Author's note: This is completely true, every word, and it follows my thoughts and actions in what I intended to be my final weeks. Please read with caution.

Kylie smiled her first genuine smile in several weeks, maybe even months. The plan was simple, but genius, and foolproof. An hour later, she set her plan in motion.

I’m moving out on January 4, her text to her case manager read. We can talk about it on Tues, if you want.

The first step was taken; there was no turning back. That simple action -a text message- banished any fears or uncertainty she may have had. She went downstairs to the staff office to add some momentum.

Copyright Rues  ©2012 post on free sites if you wish. I strongly caution if your not feeling well and read this, it's a bit strong. Something I did in 3 minutes sorry forgot to add this, your comment and feelings on this. blaze away
Fate?

The deaths of Anthony Threadgold and his wife Taiko, who were both artists, were described as a ''terrible tragedy'....

Lay down
Your sweet and weary head
Night is falling
You’ve come to journey's end
Sleep now
And dream of the ones who came before
They are calling
From across the distant shore

I giggled as I raised the spinning mower blade all the way up and put it into forward. In front of me the Gardener laid vainly trying to roll out of the way. He wouldn’t make it. Absolutely amazing the poisons found in ordinary household products.

Author’s note: As those of you who are always good enough to read my offerings (and some of you even better for paying for them :) you will know that most of my work relates to nice people often placed in adverse circumstances. My trademark is goodness, justice and mercy prevails, or at least just enough to give us a happy ending. This time I have tried something different, with not so pleasant people in, well, I suppose the only description could be shitty circumstances.

Please note, the dialogue is undertaken in a Scottish accent, so please bear that in mind and dinna (EXAMPLE) pick me up for spelling and grammar, as I’ve tried to write phonetically where appropriate.

She was Only Fifteen

By Luthien Maxwell

I'm looking at the last photo I've got of you but I'm not really seeing it, instead I'm seeing you at different points through your life and noticing all the details I should have noticed then.

As I sat there in the church, I thought of how fragile and short life is. My friend Christy had found out she had Cancer and felt the pain would be too much to bear so she ended her life. She had been dealing with Bipolar Disorder all of her life and I guess the added news of her diagnosis proved to be too much. I had even had thoughts of doing the same thing. The stress of living my life to make my family happy was beginning to become too much. I spent twenty three years of my life trying to fit into a role as a son, grandson and brother. I was miserable.

The crowd in the park, nearly forty stories below, looks like ants running around an ant-hill. The perfectly sunny, spring Saturday had brought many people out from their winter hibernations, releasing their enthusiasm and bringing a nearly euphoric buzz to the park.

The problem for me is that I’m standing at the top of the building, not in the park, and if I move one step farther I’ll quickly enter the street next to it.

After a long fall, that is.

I had hoped for so long it wouldn't end like this.

I'd tried hiding it, denying who I was, and making myself fit in, but in the end his words proved right.

Driving to work this morning, the traffic sucked, as it usually does in the Metroplex. I made up some time once I got past the inevitable fender-bender that had slowed everybody down; and arrived at work only a few minutes late. Joe, my supervisor, was waiting for me when I walked in.

“My office, please, Sharon.”

He breathed a sigh of relief as he got to the end of the poorly maintained dirt road with its pandemic of pot holes and twisty ruts. His ancient Chevy's headlights goaded the muggy midsummer night's hoards of flying bugs into maniacal Kamikaze attacks on his rusting piebald vehicle.