Jimmy said to the bartender, “I’m not one of them guys that gives a crap whether the glass is half empty or half full. Just fill it with somethin’ good.”
My face within inches of the broken mirror, I stroked my dead, gray skin and was grateful that, for however long I’d wander the earth in this post-life state, I wouldn’t have to shave. And my hair — my hair was intact.
The writer wrote a two-sentence story not worth writing. You read the writer’s writing and wondered why he’d written the thing that we wrote.
I refused to believe what I had become, or what I had done, until I found the cracked mirror on the sidewalk among the silenced wreckage once known as Derwood, Maryland. There I was, growling involuntarily, staring back at a gray-skinned fiend with milky green eyes, blood crusted around my cracked lips, and more of the red stuff soaking my formerly pristine white T-shirt.