Tenure of a Sort

As unofficial house-poet of a borderline accredited girl’s junior college, Schwaa U’u had committed many acts that would almost certainly have been considered socially unacceptable outside the confines of the ivory tower. Such was the charismatic seediness of his reputation, that when, following his death by mystery, it was found his entire body of work consisted of little more than a handful of largely inscrutable bits of esoterica, the legend of his eccentric genius was assured.

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Don’t Go!

He heard them saying something about an accident and a time of death, as he lay there staring helplessly at a host of people, doctors and nurses he assumed, with masks on their faces and gloves on their hands.

As a noisy, whining machine was powered off above his head, and as the doctors and nurses walked away discussing what would be for lunch, he lay there, unable to move, breath, or even blink, trying to scream, “No wait, don’t go away!”

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the hanged man

The platform snaps open beneath the man’s brown shoes, and in an instant those shoes disappear as his neck pops against the noose, his feet swinging and clapping together. The crowd about August cheers — or perhaps they only give murmurs of approval; the world awaiting death is oft more quiet than that of life.

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Closure

They met online, emailed, talked on the phone for over a year, and finally, they were going to meet. Her heart pounded as she sat waiting, her hand in her pocket on the gun she would use to kill the man who had lured her baby sister to her death.

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