Feel Like a Number

"I've come to be depersonalized."

"Good!  You're in the right place.  Please take a number before you sit.  Thank you."

The plastic number dispenser already had a string of three numbers hanging un-torn from its mouth.  He held number fifty-three and firmly tugged number fifty-two free.

Psychic Reader Neon

One day the yellow brick house had a red and blue neon sign glowing in the sun porch window: Psychic Reader.  A triangle with an eye glowed gold in the middle.  The air was blue with dusk making the sign a beacon to all.

Language Barrier

El'alha knew three languages; unfortunately, none were the one those in the courtroom were speaking.  She knew they were discussing her, but could only judge what was happening by their faces and voice quality.  El'a had been arrested two nights ago, but she did not know why.  She only knew she had been arrested because they locked her in a cell with three other females.  Again, the others only spoke one language, and it wasn't one of hers.  She asked in every way possible to speak to her family or a translator, but either she wasn't understood, or she was ignored.

This morning, an angry man in a too-large suit ordered a guard to let her out and they sat in a room with windows and a large table to talk.  She figured out the man was probably a lawyer, but he only spoke one language, too.  El'a drew pictures to make him understand, but either he couldn't find a translator, or he didn't understand.

The Last Antacid

Harlan's thoughts trod the worn path of self-hate and hopelessness without him noticing.  It was a warm burn behind the eyes and a tightness in this stomach that never went away, no matter what over the counter medicine he tried.  He swallowed the chalkiness of antacid and his waist bent, and his arm performed the motion of picking up the wrapper he dropped next to the trashcan.  If he knew it would be his last antacid, Harlan might have tried to let it linger, despite the unpleasant taste.

Inner Thoughts

Time was running out and Clara was panicking.  Her blood was pounding a tick-tock in her ears, counting off the seconds.  The more she heard, the faster they came, building until her hands shook and she had tunnel vision.

Clara could hear her own inner voice floating outside the panic, looking on and commenting on her sad state.  "Maybe sit down and relax for a minute?  Why do you do this to yourself?  Look at yourself.  This certainly isn't helping."

"Nothing is helping!" Clara sobbed, her whole face running.

"A tissue, Clara.  For god's sake, get yourself a tissue before your snot adds to the scene you're making."  Clara stumbled to the bathroom, hand cupped under her chin.  "Look at yourself.  Wow.  Your head is going to be stuffed all night."

"I don't care, I don't careIdon'tcareIdon'tcare..."

"Clearly."

Off the Grid

In all her years--growing up in an upper middle class house in a quiet suburb, graduating high school with honors, going to college, getting a Master's degree, working various well-paying jobs--Natalie never thought she'd find herself dumpster diving for food.

It wasn't a lark, as some college-aged kids tried to live "off the grid".  Natalie was actually leaning over the metal rim of an actual freaking dumpster actually touching actual garbage.  She tried to work fast because being caught would be too embarrassing, and she managed a partial loaf of bread, wrapped safely in the original plastic bag, three apples, and a take-out container with half a sandwich and a handful of fries.  Nat started to cry as she slipped the treasurers into the pressed-fabric reusable grocery bag for what she told herself were her "shopping trips".

Perpetual Motion

Jack was seven when he became friends with Willem, who hadn't seen seven in sixty years.  Jack and his mother had just moved into the apartment above Willem one week and one day before the strange noises coming through the floor in his bedroom caused him to investigate.