It was only the briefest of interactions...
The beast lay in its containment chamber, loathe in the fact it was once more dissolving in the volatile concoction of hydrochloric acid. Viscous fleshy chunks pooled off his rapidly decaying hide, his keratin-enriched mane already microscopic particles in the vat. Bone was visible on its face, iconic to the images the public knew it as.
Reptilian eyes watched me as I entered the containment room, blatantly conveying its want, need, and desire, to kill me. The only words I could get out of it were "Die, now." And then the fun began....
The butterflies danced outside her window bidding her to come and play. Lessons, lessons, lessons, She looked again just as a fairy slipped beneath the rose petals on her windowsill. She looked closer but couldn't be sure. Was that a fairy foot or just some dust. Mum was calling from downstairs. She looked around and then opened the window just big enough to squeeze through.
On the ledge her wings unfurled and she was off. Dancing in the breeze. The hummingbirds joined her and together they flew off to the honeysuckle where there was a party for the king....
Rip Van Winkle was a story that I never understood. How could a man that slept for forty years in a forest, aging all the while, just waltz back into town and have such and unremarkable story? Imagine having an absolutely perfect memory of the incidents, the setting and the culture of a time before this. I've always loved history, so I guess I'm just gushing out of a personal fetish, but if I was to lock myself away for years and come out of it, I would like to think that someone would really appreciate my particular knowledge.
Walking...
He grimaced as the flash went off, realizing too late that the final extant image of himself would so clearly portray the unease he was feeling at that moment. All well, he thought -- better that way.
On the one-off cedar deck table he had placed his remaining possessions. The cool glass beneath had the strange optical effect of making them seem blurred, though he knew his exhaustion was catching up with him.
"Ok, what do we do now?" he said to himself. Another sign, he chuckled, that things were going terribly.
He grabbed his smart phone first, and, unsurprised...
The white sedan zipped down the city streets, passing cars frantically, horn honking. Inside, Mark Strickland sat behind the wheel, his knuckles white as he gripped it. "You're gonna get us killed before we ever get there," Mary, Mark's wife, said calmly as she reached out and gently held Mark's hand, making him ease up on the hand control which regulated the gas pedal on the car. Her other hand rested lightly on her protruding stomach.
"Sorry," Mark said as he slowed the vehicle down. "I'm just anxious." His eyes lit up as he saw the hospital sign and quickly...
"Looking at things changes us so it is impossible to look at anything the same way twice," said Foley.
I did a double take and looked at him again. He had changed: something was sprouting from the top of his head and his eyelids appeared to be melting.
"Is this me or you this time?" I asked him.
He said nothing, but gestured upwards, extending a single finger to the sky above our heads. There was the moon, a milky smudge behind the racing clouds. Suddenly it came into full view and it had changed, too. The moon would never...
They called it co-dependent. They labelled it, the need to go from one relationship to another, to never be alone - they labelled it like it was bad. Like it wasn't what everyone did.
Alright, maybe - just maybe - she took it too far, maybe she was a little too reliant on whoever's hand was (by rights) hers at that moment. Maybe it wasn't what they had decided was healthy, but their healthy? They could keep their healthy.
Their healthy was not her healthy, and it wasn't what she wanted. They decided all of these things, using test after...
I never liked black and white photos, it's because I don't see colours well and everything looks blurry. Can't make out shapes or faces. So I don't really know what my parents looked like when they were younger let alone anyone older.
Thing is, there was something odd about this particular snap. As though it was alive. My fingers felt wet,salt in the air and I could have sworn that there was sand between my toes, they had that uncomfortable gritty feeling. Coincidence or not, gulls flew overhead, circling, making me jump with their loud shrill cry. Then I heard...
I didn't take her seriously. I mean everyone cheats. At least that's what I told myself. I can't imagine my face when she walked in. I remember her words, though. Or rather, her word.
"Mom!"
Everything else was blades and blood. The woman was like a ninja - I would have sworn there were two or three of her. It seems like everything from the past few months flashed before my eyes in seconds.
"We shouldn't," I had protested. "Rachel is...well, she deserves better. We really..."
Rachel's mom was unbelievably gorgeous. Being a yoga instructor hadn't hurt her physique one...
She'd always come running when I called, well figuratively anyway. The experience of that rush of warmth when her headlights punched holes through those dark and cold nights. The litany of why me questions she'd serve as I kept my hands firmly pressed on the vents to chase away the chill. I'd never known anyone before or since who could shift so smooth. Especially given the roughly 75 scrunchies positioned on the gear shifter.
I would share with her the joys and triumphs of the seventeen year old psyche. Then after waiting out the enevidable diatribe on my selfishness we...