I’ve watched them come and go, the people in all shapes and sizes. They look at me and turn away. My once vibrant yellowed paint has faded and chipped, but I still hold the stories of those who’ve entered my door. The first child born here, the last to die here. White-haired and stooped, the couple who kept insisting it would be their last summer. The lanky tanned teens who pleaded with Gran and Pop to keep it just one…
The great Mystique whooped and jumped from the open plane. Cold air stung his cheeks as he somersaulted and dipped through the air. He loved showing off for new students, making their first solo dives. The small group zipped towards him, and Mystique plunged through the circle they formed. Once clear, he deployed his parachute, but it failed to open. Free falling towards the earth, he yanked again. Nothing. The ground rushed closer, and a student spotting Mystique’s distress dove…
Sam collected the time discarded along the path he trudged towards the old brick building. He scooped up lost hours from people scrolling on their phones. At the bus stop, while people moaned about the weather, he gathered spare minutes and packed them in the glass jar nestled within his satchel. He walked the stark corridors, inhaling the musty smell of the nursing home. Shoulders squared, he pushed open the heavy door. “Gran, I’ve brought you extra time.” He poured…