He’d been a quiet sort during their marriage, and he was still a quiet sort now she supposed, as she plucked the leaves and popped them on top of the tomato and mozzarella. In a way, they were closer than they’d ever been – and lets face it, he was delicious – her husband, her Basil.
The uncountable dead lay strewn about the Killing Fields, bearing oblivious witness to the dawn.
A lone figure surveyed his artwork in anguish, “What have I done?”
It was a dead sheep covered in rose petals and surrounded in empty soup cans.
Modern art, she scoffed.
I once had this cool piece of art with a girl on it crying and a guy saying “Don’t cry – Don’t you know I love you!”
I gave this to a girl and it totally came true ten months later.
The internet has made stalking so easy. As I sit within the bushes outside her window, I realize I am engaged in a lost art.
It’s always been easier to cut flesh, to cleave sinew and separate bone.
Putting them back together requires so much more effort: look what beauty I have made!