I'm dead. Really dead. Not the "There'll be a twist in the end and I'll be saved" kind of way. Just dead.
I keep thinking back to how I died.
I don't remember how I died really. I think I fell.
Are you suppose to remember how you die? Or is that weird?
Is there some sort of weird rule of death that you can't remember how you die?
I feel like I can walk everywhere and find no one. Death is strangely lonely and empty. Am I the only one here?
I wish I could tell you what it...
There not much to say about this motorcycle that my grandfather gave me other than it's seen better days. The rust on the sides indicate multiple days and nights spent out in the rain and cold and the headlight is so dim that it must have been years since it's been changed. For me, this bike has no sentimental value, other than the value it's been given by my grandfather. He loved this bike more than anything. He would ride it across the country once every year just to see both coasts and catch up with old friends that he...
Knives.
Knives.
What was she going to use them on next?
The silver blades shimmered in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, capturing her image on the blades before she turned away to grab another freshly scrubbed potato from the colander in the gleaming, porcelain sink. Chop chop chop, went the blade, smooth up-and-down motions repeated again and again, reducing the vegetable before her into ever smaller and smaller bits.
She loved these new knives, worth every penny. It made her want to chop other things, to test their abilities, to watch the thin blades slice through produce, flesh,...
"Mallard duck," she said, just before she placed the binoculars back down on the car hood. "No doubt about it."
This was the third time she had drug my out to this place to observe ducks. Or, in her words, to "administer some duck justice."
"Do we really need to be here this early in the morning," I asked. "I didn't sleep very well."
"This is when they're most active," she told me. "This is when they feed most, and that's when they pick on him."
"Him" was a duck with, so she said, a clipped wing of some sort....
I saw it then, I see it now but somehow the access or more the feeling of ownership yes the feeling of ownership over the feeling has changed morphed become murky like I am seeing a man who was me thinking the thought but not remembering the thought myself
Orton stretched his arms and yawn smiled for a slight moment and then he pounced
Like the idea was implanted?
He stretched out this last word let it dangle in the dry air of the back office
Jim blinked, stared, coughed
Yes, yes just like just like that an implanted idea...
When Martin woke up, he was still in the back of the van. He didn't know, how long he was unconscious. He couldn't see anything but darkness, but he heard and felt, that the van was still driving. After a while, his eyes started to make out some details in the dark, when he spotted a tine hole in the van, through which a little light came in. He pressed his face onto the aluminum wall and tried his best to make out some details about his whereabouts. At first, all he could see was white, but then he spotted...
The oil had come months ago now. They had thought it would disappear. It had always done so before.
But it had remained. It had refused to go. It had clung to them, like a desperate duckling clinging to a mother, only this duckling was parasite.
It had tainted them.
There was no escaping it. None whatsoever. They had tried it all, but it followed them. They wore it like a winter coat they had no reason for. It was summer now.
So he had set out, away. That had been his goal at first, but later when he saw...
Fault.
The window?
The guardrail that gave way?
The father who opened the window earlier?
The mother who moved the ottoman too close to the window?
The gate that inexplicably stopped being baby-proof that night?
The nanny who ran into the other room to grab his bottle?
The parents who were away at a colleague's baby shower?
The decision to buy an apartment on the 15th floor?
The gusty winds that day?
The decision to go to the party?
The invite?
When I was young I was convinced that if you held onto a bunch of balloons you would go up in the air just like Mary Poppins. Ever since then they scared me. Phobic to tell the truth. So when I saw the girl lying down with the blue and pink balloons I had to scrabble around in my bag for medication and a paper bag. Only trouble is they were missing. Shit.
I was feeling myself get red. Hot. Sweaty. My legs turned to jelly. Trembly. Then suddenly around the corner walks a man holding a massive bunch of...
He ran into the room, his heart pounding, and his clothes soaking wet. "What happened?" we asked. He regained his breath, swallowed hard, and began. "Darryl was found on the beach. He's dead." he said. Everyone gasped. Only Delta was calm. She sat casually on her chair and said, "Well, he got what he deserved, then, didn't he?" Everyone looked at her in disbelief. "Delta! How could you say that! Darryl's dead!" Evelyn said, her hands flying up to her mouth. "And it's great! that snake of a man got exactly what he deserved." Delta said haughtily, standing up and...