The Morning After

Tired, she muttered. She stretched, moaned, and stood beside the bed. Yep, still alive. Who was that guy in the bar? She turned quickly to look in her bed. Empty. Whew! At least she hadn’t done that. She stumbled toward the bathroom. Wait. There was a phone number scrawled on her arm in fat, black marker.

Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “the morning after.”

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Author: Virginia DeBolt

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

4 thoughts on “The Morning After”

  1. The morning after her midnight Christmas Eve phone call to me, I decided. I’d started thinking about it four months ago, when her calls became more frequent. She would call at odd hours, and I, the obliging friend of 20 years, would answer and listen. A kind suggestion on my part to resolve her husband problem would be met with her many variations of “. . .but I won’t find anybody else. I’m stuck staying with him,” even though he mistreated her and she hated him. It’s my nature to be understanding and empathetic, and I didn’t know how she would react. Still, I decided. The next time she phoned, I would tell her it was my advice to leave him. I may lose a long time friend, but that was what I decided.

  2. The total gravity of the situation hit Barbara the morning after her friend, Mattie, told her the results of the biopsy’s frozen section. To boot, there were already metastases to the liver. Barbara knew the prognosis wasn’t good—not good at all. She knew her friend was putting on a front; the cheery voice, the rapid speech pattern. It was totally unlike her. Barbara sat and pondered on the fact that Mattie had recently moved south and was living in the house of her dreams—and now this. She thought of the unfairness of life and began to cry.

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