Ways to deal with fear daily at 10 p.m. EST; nifty vocabulary posts at 9 p.m. on Tuesdays and Fridays.

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Guess what, thought I’d have time to write posts and I don’t, happy day before moving!

461. Sunset on the mesa is beautiful. The orange light spills across the rocks, like it’s soaking into the nearby rock pillars. It soaks into everything. It soaks into you, staining, ossifying. (tag Josh)

854. The receptionist ushers you into a windowless little room. It’s sparser than a waiting room – one chair, one table. The lock clicks shut behind you. When you look at the door the security guard is staring through the little window at the top, targeting-cross eyes locked on your face.

973. Leaves blow through the street. It’s eight o’clock and the town is empty. The light is fading. You stand in the middle of the street as the wind picks up and watch the streetlights flicker out in pairs.

221. The crisp smell of fall trails behind you as you pad through the darkness. The only sound is the crinkling of leaves underfoot. Each breath settles the cold and dark deeper into your lungs.

315. When you wake up your entire apartment is bathed in soft green light. It’s like a stoplight – green means go. Now. You are no longer welcome here.

958. Something is wrong with this paper. The things you’ve written on it are fading out, letter by letter then word by word. As the sentences unravel the thoughts they were trying to organize go with them, emptying out of your head.

143. “You are going to be late.” The drizzle makes the streetlights hazy. You spare a dirty look for your phone as you hustle down the street. “You are going to be late.” You splash through a puddle on your way to a shortcut. “You are going to be late.” Only when you turn the corner and see something huge move in the alley do you realize that it wasn’t talking about the time.

787. You catch the chain the next time it swings towards you. The links are as thick as your wrist. Examine one. Something is etched deep into the metal: WHY? You pull the next link over, hoping for an answer. WHY? The link after that is the same, and the one after. Endless links pass through your hands. WHY? If the chain is anchored to anything, there is no sign of it.

592. The school hallways are dark and empty, but not quite silent. You try a classroom door – it’s locked, of course. The noises are getting louder. Face the door you think they’re coming from. There’s no telling what your fears have planned tonight.

ABECEDARIAN

noun: a person learning the alphabet; a beginner; one teaching the alphabet or fundamentals of a subject.

(source)

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