Alyssa Bushell: Cozy Mystery Author / Baker / Blogger
It was blank.
Both facing pages were completely blank. Nerves burning a hole in the pit of my stomach, I knelt and tentatively flipped to another. Still blank. I quickly thumbed through the entire second half – not a single word, symbol, or picture printed in the book.
Every writer has a few: those legendary lit mags we dream about when hitting “submit” on Submittable. The ones we read and reread when imposter syndrome sets in. The ones that feel just out of reach, but we can’t help but try anyway.
No one I had ever met had ever learned to read.
And yet here they were, books by their hundreds, being shelved day after day after day by dozens of unquestioning workers happy only to have a temporary job and a roof and a meal.
In the corner of the library, behind row on row of shelves, past the dusty and the musty and the entirely disused, there is a door without a handle.
His hands won’t stop trembling. His breath puffs out in ragged clouds that swirl and fade away, dissolving like a memory.
Angelina’s not worried about the letters anymore. She’s floating in the swimming pool leaking crimson ribbons that swirl like steeping tea.
She’ll sit the rest of the day in a drowsy Taco Bell that’s the only thing open within walking distance, drink too much Mountain Dew and wonder what has changed.
…unlike Pete and Patty’s green bean casserole, which, like their marriage, has been in the oven far too long and is starting to break down.
Renata loved to be sad. She positively basked in melancholy, as only someone who has never experienced real sadness could. She loved a tragedy, and we all know there’s no shortage of them to shed a tear over.
I’m pretty sure this product is made with toxic materials because ever since I got it, I’ve been gradually feeling worse and worse. I’ve got lower back pain, my knees grind and pop, and acid reflux keeps me awake every night.
Aly Writes