“For the absolutely last time, will you stop playing with that chainsaw!”
“Sorry”, replied Pinocchio.
Big Stories in Two Little Sentences
“For the absolutely last time, will you stop playing with that chainsaw!”
“Sorry”, replied Pinocchio.
All the thousands and thousands of half decisions I barely made eventually accumulated.
And now here I am, a puppet whisperer.
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.
It was a dead sheep covered in rose petals and surrounded in empty soup cans.
Modern art, she scoffed.
I’d love to be with you!
(You’re not going to get fat are you?)
Baby, don’t hurt me.
Don’t hurt me, no more.
Don’t be afraid to call if you need anything.
A silver stake for example.
Now that I’ve declared my love for you I can expect protracted negotiations, give and take, threats, bribes, and then, perhaps, a signing of some type of accord.
Or … you could just say you love me too?
Pixies, fairies and the clitoris.
All mythical I tell you!
She stepped over her fear and gave me some of her short stories to read.
They were really good but all I said was “did you used to be sad a lot?” because I was so jealous.
There was a power failure the night that my mother died; adding insult to injury. Stumbling around in the dark looking for, matches, a candle, a glimmer of hope of ever feeling happy again seemed appropriate for our state of mind.
The old guy on the bus said I should “gird my loins for the coming apocalypse”.
Gird means touch, right?
I knew you long before we met,whispering words of endearment, caressing you to sleep and holding you awkwardly at peace.
Your mother lay exhausted with the sweat of childbirth all around, but my eyes beheld an awesome sight though wrinkled and with a frown.
Is school a sanding machine that smoothes us all off?
Or is it a hacking machine that cuts off vital parts?
The cup of Christ, gold shavings, wine brewed by Da Vinci, telepathic strawberries, Martian sugar, stirred and shaken and then placed on the body of a freshly killed Dodo (there’s still a few left).
The most expensive drink ever made.
She checks the answering machine as soon as she enters the house, something she’s done for more years than she can remember, hoping against hope that he will finally call, and she can be happy again.
Trying to absorb his scent from his clothes, she sniffs and sniffs until her nose feels raw, and then the crushing reality once again slams her upside her head, and crushes her heart: Her son is dead.
Tragedy marred an otherwise peaceful and routine zombie flash-mob in Vancouver, BC, when a troop of heavily armed schizophrenics laid waste to the costumed celebrators with guns, torches, and clubs.
Said police, this is what comes of crying wolf.
The fish by the door had a little drama today and spent some time on the carpet. So if he ends up a floater it’s probably not your fault.
So I should have kissed you.
This has only happened a billion times.
Welcome to the Strange World.
Take your football helmet of hamsters and step this way please.