Lately your scent has been following me,

lingering when I need it the least.

Your smile haunts my dreams,

making me happy in ways I can't describe-

until I wake up.

I thought the dreams of you were gone for good,

that the images of the two of us

would stop flashing in my mind,

teasing me about what could have been.

I thought I was done missing you.

I wasn't.

I thought it went away,

they said it would,

the heart that squeezes

bleeding tears

as memories

of joys and sorrows

little hurts

and big dreams

flood the mind

shared moments

when you were

still

and I could call

or visit

or write

and know

you would be there

with smiles

and hugs

and laughter

and love;

I thought it went away,

and I could face each day

with you tucked safely

deeply

in a corner of my mind

ache softened

dulled

by the passing years

growing older

than you ever were

and away

from when

our lives

entwined;

I thought it went away.

But then yesterday,

--was it an old song?

the huge full moon

as I drove home from work?

nature dressed in fall colors

under the clear, blue sky?

a joke that would have made you laugh?--

I picked up the phone

~I picked up the phone~

to share a silly nothing,

but there's no number to dial

that you will answer

and I can no longer hear

the echo of your voice

and your only smiles

are in fading pictures

and our only hugs

are the ones I give myself

wearing your sweater

full of holes

falling to pieces

like me

after all this time

I thought it went away,

grief;

I was mistaken.

A raspy cackle raises my hackles,

and my feet stop, as if in shackles

near a dark, godforsaken chapel.

A diabolical laugh crackles

again, as if wheezing jackals

are stalking me, trying to tackle

my soul, treating it like an apple

to be devoured without a grapple,

followed by a burp and a cackle.

John, a typical American guy in his mid-30s, was overly confident in his DIY skills. Whenever something broke in the house, he’d always announce, “I can fix that!” His wife, Susan, would usually roll her eyes and wait for the inevitable: within a few hours, the house would turn into a disaster zone, and John, flailing around with tools, would insist that he was “almost done.”

Today’s project? The washing machine. Seemed like a simple enough task—unless you were John.

“I’m just going to fix it up real quick,” he told Susan cheerfully, grabbing his toolbox.

“You’ll call a professional if things go wrong, right?” she asked hopefully, knowing full well that conversations like this usually ended in chaos.

“A professional? For me? Susan, you forget who the engineer in this house is!” he declared proudly, though his engineering experience mostly came down to assembling IKEA furniture... without reading the instructions.

The moment John opened up the washing machine panel, he felt like an explorer venturing into unknown territory. Before him lay a labyrinth of tubes, wires, and parts that looked like alien technology. Truthfully, half of it, he didn’t even know existed.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he muttered, pulling out an oversized wrench. John was convinced that any repair job always started with a wrench. Always.

The first sign of impending disaster came when John unscrewed the wrong bolt. Instead of removing a small panel, he accidentally disconnected a pipe, and a small stream of water began to trickle out of the machine.

“Oops, just a tiny leak! I’ve got it under control!” John called out, already ankle-deep in water.

From the kitchen, Susan peeked over at the unfolding situation and muttered under her breath,

“And why do I always believe he’ll manage this time?”

Five minutes later, the sound from the laundry room could best be described as “a shipwreck.” John was frantically twisting the water valve, trying to shut off the flow, but instead of reducing the pressure, he turned the valve off completely, causing a geyser of water to shoot out like something out of a disaster movie.

“John!” Susan shouted, hopping onto a stool to avoid getting her feet wet in the rapidly forming indoor lake.

“I’m almost done, sweetheart!” John shouted back, now waist-deep in water, one hand desperately pressing on the pipe, the other holding a bolt between his teeth.

“You always say that!” Susan yelled, but at this point, she didn’t even bother arguing. It was pointless.

Suddenly, John noticed something seriously alarming: the washing machine began to shake. As if the ghost of all past laundry cycles had come back to haunt it. The machine growled, and in the next second, a flood of soap bubbles erupted from it, filling the room. Now, not only was John soaking wet, but he was also covered in foam.

“Are you making soap bubbles now too?” Susan laughed as John’s arm emerged from the foam, still trying to close the machine’s lid.

But the machine had decided it wasn’t done yet. It continued spewing out foam, water, and—wait—a few socks from last week’s missing laundry.

“Maybe we should call a professional?” Susan suggested again, watching John hopelessly wrestle with the chaos.

“A professional?!” John, now moving like a sprinter, ran to the power switch and finally turned the machine off. But it was too late. The laundry room now resembled a swimming pool full of bubbles. “I fixed it! Just one small problem… Where’s our cat?”

At that moment, the cat’s head emerged from under a mountain of foam, looking like a spiky hedgehog made of soap. He glared at John with a look that said he understood everything about John’s “handyman skills” and slowly padded out of the room, leaving wet paw prints behind him.

John stood there, dripping wet, soap bubbles slowly sliding off his face, while Susan, now laughing uncontrollably, wiped away tears from her eyes. The cat, meanwhile, slinked off into the living room to recover from his unexpected bubble bath, leaving John to face the consequences of his latest DIY disaster.

John, however, wasn’t one to give up so easily.

“Okay, that didn’t go as planned,” he muttered, brushing the remaining bubbles from his head. “But I’m not done yet. I just need a different tool. The right tool.”

Susan raised an eyebrow. “John, the only tool you need right now is a phone to call the plumber.”

“No way,” John insisted, rummaging through his tool box. “This is just a minor setback. I’ve got this.”

With newfound determination, John pulled out a rubber mallet, as if this would somehow resolve all his problems. He gave the washing machine a tentative tap. Nothing happened. Encouraged, he gave it another, slightly harder whack.

“John, what are you doing?” Susan asked, her laughter fading into genuine concern.

“Just… recalibrating!” he replied confidently, even though the washing machine clearly didn’t need “recalibrating.” It needed a miracle.

Susan shook her head, now preparing for the next wave of chaos. “Recalibrating, right. So, when’s the last time you ‘recalibrated’ something successfully?”

“Remember that time I fixed the dishwasher?” John said, puffing out his chest.

“Oh, you mean the time we had to replace half the kitchen floor after it flooded?”

John blinked, momentarily thrown off, but quickly recovered. “Well, yes, but that was just bad luck! This time, I’ve got everything under control.”

Just as he said that, the washing machine made a low groaning noise—a sound that no household appliance should ever make. Before either of them could react, there was a loud bang, and the door of the machine flew open, sending a wave of water and soap crashing across the floor.

John was now completely drenched from head to toe, standing in a sea of bubbles, his rubber mallet still in hand.

Susan couldn’t hold back her laughter anymore. “Control, huh?”

John looked down at the foam-covered floor, then up at Susan, who was trying to stay upright on her stool. “I might’ve… underestimated the situation.”

“Might’ve?” Susan cackled. “John, this is like Tsunami 2.0 in here! I’m surprised we’re not floating!”

John sighed, finally accepting defeat. “Okay, maybe it’s time to call a professional.”

Susan hopped off the stool, shaking her head with a smile. “I’ll go grab the phone. Let’s just hope the plumber doesn’t bring a lifeboat.”

As Susan left the room, John looked back at the washing machine. He wasn’t sure whether it was the glint of soap bubbles or his imagination, but he could swear the machine was mocking him.

"Alright, alright," he grumbled. "You win this round, but I’ll be back."

Meanwhile, the cat, now dry but still looking like it had just escaped a war zone, peeked around the corner, as if to check whether the coast was clear. Satisfied that John was no longer wielding his tools like a madman, it cautiously approached Susan, likely plotting its own revenge for the impromptu bath.

Just as Susan dialed the plumber, she heard John muttering to himself in the laundry room.

“What was that?” she called.

“Nothing!” John yelled back, though he was already eyeing the dishwasher. Surely there was something he could fix there. He was, after all, a man of ambition.

Susan turned back to the phone. “Hello, yes? I need a plumber. Urgently.”

By the time the plumber arrived, John had managed to half-dry the laundry room—well, sort of. The floor was still damp, and the washing machine looked like it had been through a hurricane, but at least the flood had been stopped. Susan greeted the plumber at the door, trying to suppress her amusement.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “It’s… well, you’ll see.”

As the plumber entered the laundry room, his eyes widened. He surveyed the scene: soap bubbles clung to the walls, puddles of water gleamed on the floor, and in the middle of it all stood John, holding a bucket, as if that had been his grand solution all along.

The plumber, trying to keep a straight face, cleared his throat. “So… what seems to be the problem?”

John, desperate to salvage some dignity, quickly chimed in. “It’s just a small issue with the washing machine. I think the water valve’s acting up.”

The plumber nodded, though it was clear he didn’t buy John’s story. He crouched down, expertly inspecting the washing machine, which by now looked like it had survived an earthquake. After a few minutes, he stood up and looked at John.

“Well, I can fix it, but…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Next time, maybe give us a call before things get this far.”

Susan, unable to hold back anymore, burst out laughing. Even John, standing there in his soaked socks, couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I’ll let the professionals handle it next time.”

But of course, everyone knew that wasn’t true.

That evening, after the plumber had fixed the washing machine and left, Susan and John sat together in the living room, sipping tea. The house was finally quiet, and the chaos of the day seemed like a distant memory. The cat had forgiven John, or at least tolerated him again, and was curled up on the couch, blissfully unaware of future catastrophes.

“You know,” Susan said with a grin, “you should really write a book about all your ‘fix-it’ adventures.”

John rolled his eyes. “Very funny. But you know, I’m not that bad. I almost fixed it.”

“Almost doesn’t count, John,” she teased, nudging him playfully.

He sighed, taking a sip of his tea. “Okay, okay. Maybe I’ll stick to smaller projects. Like changing light bulbs.”

“Let’s just hope you don’t turn that into an emergency too,” Susan laughed.

But despite the teasing, there was something comforting in the familiarity of it all. John might have been the clumsiest handyman on the planet, but he always tried his best, and Susan loved him for it—disasters and all.

Just as they settled into the cozy evening, John’s phone buzzed with a notification. He glanced at it, his eyes lighting up.

“Hey, look at this!” he said excitedly, showing Susan the screen. “There’s a sale on power tools this weekend!”

Susan froze, her smile slowly fading.

“John, no.”

But John was already scrolling through the options. “What? Come on, think of all the things I could fix around here! The possibilities are endless!”

Susan sighed, leaning back on the couch. She knew how this story would go, and she had a feeling the next chapter in “Operation: Fix-it” was right around the corner.

She just hoped it wouldn’t involve the dishwasher.

The End (Or is it?) :-D

Victoria Lunar

Is She Worth It?

October 16, 2024

Perhaps

Perhaps not

Someone has to give

For sharing is caring

And few care that much

Is the offer worth the cost

Can you watch another eat your breakfast?

Or cash your paycheck?

With property comes rights

Is she property?

Do we strive for the silver medal?

Is second place noteworthy?

Is it sloppy?

Let that sink in

Before you sink it in

Is she worth the trouble?

Or is the triangle only a ruse

A cover for three

Who are really just two

Is she the odd man out?

Perhaps

Perhaps not

12:54 p.m.

I'm sitting in my history class

door to my left, phone to my right.

writing a letter to God

instead of taking notes

like I should be.

I'm tired.

My hands twitch constantly,

the foreign feeling of my

twitching fingers tugging

lightly on my forearm

as if nudging me

to write, to paint,

to create.

I pray silently that

my day won't be as

colorless as the sky.

A reason to smile for real would be nice.

1:25 p.m.

My professor rambles about French maps.

I can't unstick the thick feeling of guilt

from deep inside my chest. It hurts early,

I have not broken our hearts.

Yet.

1:56 p.m.

The professor tells us about Dubai in the 1980’s, a picture of the old city’s dirt road on the projector.

My right hand twitches again.

My professor mentions war.

1:59 p.m.

What about me?

What about

the pain-free life

I’ve craved since birth?

My guilt grows. I feel selfish.

People all around the world

are dying, starving…

Suffering.

At least in that I keep them company.

2:14 p.m.

My professor dismisses us.

I get up and walk

out the door

leaving his classroom

behind,

begging God to

let my troubles

stay back

with it.

Once more my mind falls victim to

the thickness of my guilt, gluing

the thoughts deep in my chest, and

just like always they stay,

walking right back out

the cold wooden door

along with me.

The whispers started at midnight, soft at first, then louder, like dry leaves scraping across the floor. Claire froze in bed, clutching her blankets. She'd locked the door. No one was inside.

But something was.

A shadow slid from beneath the wardrobe, stretching tall, eyes gleaming red in the darkness. It grinned, its mouth wide, teeth sharp as broken glass.

"You shouldn’t have opened the box," it hissed, voice like a blade on bone.

Claire’s heart raced. She tried to scream but her throat tightened.

The last thing she felt was its cold breath on her skin.

Then a silence.