Author: Jill

Gulp. I was mortified. So guilt-ridden that I hung up without saying my punch line, “Well then, you better go catch it!”

Where the hell is the finish line?! Are we even close?

I had to maintain a certain level of decorum in dealing with this bee. I was at a funeral after all.

I remember turning my cart toward her, with the intent of approaching her and saying hello when I suddenly remembered that Becky had died.

I am fourteen, remember. The youngest of the group. Trying to fit in. And now I am absolutely mortified.

She answered that it was legal as long as the one-eyed pilot had a co-pilot.

We drive twenty minutes to get to the club with nary a mention by anyone of the green blob.

“I hear a beeping,” he says. What’s that supposed to mean? Is he schizophrenic, hearing noises that aren’t there? I’ve apparently approached the wrong stranger for help.

I pull on the cord and it comes whipping up to me…without a pronged plug at the end.

I am airborne for a few seconds and then find myself lying spread eagle on my belly, atop the cement driveway. Too late, I let go of the leash.