The Last Time

The last time I dreamed about sex it was like one of those dreams you have when you need to pee. You know, you run around looking for a bathroom but never find one. Well, in this dream it was like that. We we in a room with windows on all sides, or people kept coming in, there was one interruption after another. No joy in dreamland that night.

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “the last time.”


Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

4 thoughts on “The Last Time”

  1. The last time she had eaten chocolate was at her neighbor’s funeral, almost six months ago. It was summer and the chocolate had melted in her warm hands, dripping on the only good dress she had. She knew nobody there, except her mother and the dead, whom she was watching lying all stiff and pale, in the beautiful coffin made from cherry wood.

  2. She crushed the cigarette stub with her foot. This was the last time she would inhale poison. This was the last time she would let her nicotine addiction win. She was quitting right here, right now.

  3. Erin had seen and heard Jake for the last time 17 years ago when he said, “This may be the biggest mistake I’m probably making,” as he stood up and then left. She often wondered what had become of him. Was he well? Was he happy? She had tried looking for him on Facebook, but she knew from the start that this would be a dead end search since he was never interested in computers and hadn’t bothered to become computer-savvy. He probably didn’t even have an email account. She was hopeful that one of these days, he would cross her path again.

  4. It was a typical busy street , on a weekday morning.
    The narrow strip of asphalt was choked with honking autos, carts laden with gunny bags, pedestrians, commuters rushing to catch buses, school children, scrubbed and dressed, ready to
    board their school buses, hawkers calling out their wares.
    Streetside chai-shops doing brisk business, as plumes of sickly sweet vapour arose from boiling pots atop kerosene stoves.
    Then I saw him.
    Stout, slightly unkempt , in his crushed white shirt, large baggy trousers,almost balding, a dark stubble on his chin,unpolished shoes, walking rapidly away from it all.
    His eyes fixed ahead, almost robotic in his step.
    He had said he was going for a walk.
    He never came back home.
    Deep down in my heart, even at that moment, I knew.
    I was seeing him for the last time.

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