Just playing my part
It was Jim’s idea to hill her. It was me what had to do it, though.
It was Jim’s idea to hill her. It was me what had to do it, though.
I was at my father’s funeral. As I reached the casket he opened his eyes.
For her final act, Maria pulls a rabbit out of her hat. The rabbit explodes—killing everyone in the venue.
I kissed her, she kissed back— she tasted of lust. Holding her tight, I began to notice how cold her body was.
My twin sister died yesterday. Now I wish the doctors had separated us at birth.
I was amazed to find that she lived for several weeks after I had cut off her head. I’ve read that the same curious phenomenon is also sometimes found in cockroaches.
Out on my first blind date, he reached over to stroke my face. He turned, a devilish grin creeping across his pockmarked face and said, “I love how your skin feels; let’s see what it’s like from the inside.”
She stroked her fingers though his hair and stared lovingly into his eyes before letting out a short, light sigh and falling asleep. He pulled the knife out, wiped it, and left.
The sound of children laughing and playing wafted through my home one balmy summer night. Only one problem, I don’t have any children.
I can’t do anything right.
I hear the tink, tink, tink of the shell casing setlling on the floor soon followed by the splat of the limp body’s face smacking the hard tile. I open my eyes and can see blood and brain matter sprayed on the wall, and I realize I’m alone and something has gone horribly wrong.
If I lose my mind please look for it. If you find it I will know.
I walked past gibbering madness, blank stares, hollow shells of men, and found the girl huddled in the corner. My diplomatic offer of flowers was met with a scream, a recoil, and a whisper: “They’re still alive, and I can hear their dying screams…”
His superpower is standing up. Mine is sitting on the floor.
She threw the old man’s ring into the weeds of the vacant lot, as her father cursed in Italian in the background. She would marry whom she chose.
I begin tucking him into bed and he tells me, “Daddy check for monsters under my bed.” I look underneath for his amusement and see him, another him, under the bed, staring back at me quivering and whispering, “Daddy there’s somebody on my bed.”
I wanted a banana for lunch, so I could cut it up and eat it. When I finally got the courage to do so, all bananas seemed to have lost any resemblance of a banana.
She craves real stories. Nothing you can give her is close to reality, so she craves real stories.
One moonlit evening, Jacob kept his eyes on the road and smiled a Cheshire-cat grin; as he concentrated on driving, Vivian concentrated on driving her tongue along the highway of his neck—kissing it, flicking it, nibbling on it—her journey continued around the curve of his ear. Vivian cradled his unresponsive hand in the ICU and whispered, “My God, what have I done?”
We headed back into the world; our self-imposed exile left us feeling blind as moles and numb to feeling, like amoebas, single-celled organisms, unable to comprehend what it means to be something.
It was a piteous way to return.