CrazyBeautiful's profile

It’s just about closing time. In about ten minutes, I’ll be hollering last call and there’ll be a bit of a rush as everybody orders one more drink for the night. This is my favorite time of the day. Right before I close up, I sit back and smoke a cigarette and observe the patrons of my bar. Men with gold bands on their fingers talking to girls half their age. College students in the corner picking songs from the jukebox and dancing provocatively. The regulars, sitting alone, ordering shots of...

If you decide to go, you will first have to make your way there. The place is situated off the main highway, a few miles outside of the city. It would be difficult to find if the owners hadn't strategically placed billboards along the road, pointing their patrons in the right direction. You will see many of these signs on your way. One says, "THE END IS NEAR," and in smaller print, "1 mile ahead." People that aren't headed to the place will wonder about these words. They will call their frien...

You will never know what it’s like. You will wake up tomorrow, safe, snug in your bed, the same bed you’ve slept in for as long as you can remember, in your house, the house that carries memories of scraped knees and first kisses. You will never worry about stepping out of your front door, of answering the phone, of opening a letter. You won’t struggle to keep your eyes open while they’re recording every yawn, every word, every move. You won’t know what it’s like to feel alone while you’re su...

The man’s room was dark, lit only by a few scattered candles placed around the bed. A portrait hung above the nightstand. In the dim light, she had to squint her eyes to make out their faces, but she already knew who they were. In the picture, the man’s arm was draped around a woman – the wife – and two boys, grown now, were seated in front of the couple. She remembered seeing the wife a few times in the office - once she had come to bring the man his dinner - though they had never spoken. No...

She blamed her father. She could remember being a child of thirteen, when she first had thoughts of swallowing a bottle of pills. Secretly, she had told herself that if, and when, she decided to end her life, her father would be the one to blame. Again, at twenty-one, when she moved out of her mother’s house only to come crawling back weeks later, she justified her failure by pointing the finger. And now, as she lay on her back and waited for the man to come out of the bathroom, she knew that...