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.
Camile thought nothing of the four figures walking together at the side of the road, other than perhaps it wasn’t the safest idea in the middle of the night with only headlights to illuminate the road. It was only when she glanced to the left that she saw the graveyard that stretched into the darkness, and when she looked again for the figures they were gone.
Nora stared at the grotesque statue embedded in the rough-hewn facade of the seaside fortress, transfixed by its hideous mouth frozen in a silent scream. As if offended by the tourist’s disgusted gaze, the stony monster who had once been still suddenly jutted out from the weather-beaten wall and with its blackened teeth took a bite of Nora’s face.
“How much further?” the cab driver asked as he passed a sign indicating they were 100 miles outside of town. His passengers only response was to press the revolver harder against the cabbies skull.
Kenny Darter thought he was having fun by tossing broken bits of peanuts at his friends as they sat around the table. His friends decided their only option for revenge was to take the newly expectant fathers face off and wear it.
Kenny had playfully tossed a bean bag at Mardibug, hitting her in the upper back. Mardibug knew she had no choice, really, but to retaliate with a fastball that replaced Kenny’s left eye with a blood-soaked bean bag.
When I look at the sun as it settles under the horizon, I feel the end has come and peace I shall find until the hour the sun rises. Just then I’ll be thrilled at the thought of the fresh unexplored time in front of these sleepy eyes of mine.
I was so angry with what he was doing after all i had told him, all he knew. Then suddenly I realized i had done the exact same to him, and I was actually angry with myself.
Leaving the house without applying lotion was, in the end, a terrible oversight. Because when she got to work, her face had peeled off from chin to forehead, just as she always said it would if she forgot to use her Mary Kay.
The coroner felt suddenly uneasy as she opened the door to leave the room full of freshly dead corpses awaiting autopsy. Turning around slowly, her heart stood still at the sight of all ten cadavers sitting upright on their tables, black body bags still zipped over their mangled, reanimated remains.
When he left the office, his desk was clean, free of clutter, almost pristine. Three days later his coworkers had managed to pile it high with files, random junk and their own personal belongings.
The bed sunk on his side when he threw back the sheets and stumbled toward the bathroom. Time passed, some indeterminable number of minutes in the thick fog of her unencumbered sleep, and the bed sunk again when he got back in bed, breathing hard, smelling sour, and feeling different when her hand brushed the stranger’s.
Crazed clown goes on a murderous rampage.
Terrified children scurry away!
Eight of them perched like grotesque leaves on the gnarled tree by the side of the road, and as Amy approached she began to regret the curiosity that had drawn her into the woods. Cradled in the skeletal roots of the tree lay the thing responsible for the congregation of flesh-eating birds: a bloated and rotting human corpse that was missing its face.
With sarcasm dripping from every word, he said, “It’s good that you don’t drink at happy hour, when I’m the only one sipping on something stronger than Diet Coke with a lime wedge.”
“Getting good and hammered at happy hour is too expensive,” she replied, and chugged the rest of her wine.
The overweight, generously paid, and undertrained TSA Agent pulled the trigger on his brand new Glock 27 at the fleeing terrorist, hearing a deafening click. The terrorist, dressed in all black pseudo military garb, cooly turned and fired four rounds into Agent Paulson’s chest.
It was that time of year again, spring, and this year Pat was determined to cut down the apple tree that seemed to attract bees every year that gave him bad dreams. A few minutes with a reciprocating saw, a loud crack and a quick rustle as the branches fell to the ground was followed by the sound from Pats nightmares: thousands of bees bursting from their now grounded nest, attacking Pat in their rage and killing him within minutes.
It was a big day, and he wanted to look his clean-shaven best. But now his sideburns were deceased, having been executed by overzealous experimentation and a hungry Mach3 razor.