Modelling had never been her idea. The vacuous stares, the hours in front of the mirror. Was it her fault her proportions were perfect for summer dresses? It was a life she escaped the moment she fled her mother's house.
She didn't pick the color of her hair. It didn't come on a shelf, stinking up the bathroom with it's noxious fumes, attracting evil eyes from other women who thought they knew what she was like simply from the glow of her yellow hair and the swing of her hips?
The pitch of her voice wasn't her fault. How did...
When represented on a flat surface, a right angle can appear acute or oblique.
I'm dead. Really dead. Not in the "there'll be a twist at the end and I'll be saved" kind of way. Just dead.
I suppose you want to know what happened. It was Geoff. In the bedroom with a vase. Not a very imaginitive death, really. But there you go. I went from a person to a statistic in the blink of an eye.
Dying is an odd sensation. Like when you're really drunk or hungover and the room spins when you sit up. It's just like that. I watched as he ran around wiping up the blood, hiding the...
They stood in front of one another with only the silence in between.
It had been like that for a while. She hadn't known what to say. He had been waiting for her to say it. So both stayed silent, begging each other to break it with any kind of sound.
The silence had actually begun from the moment the date had begun, strange because it wasn't their first. No, it was one of many. The pair had been together for almost three months now. He had asked her if a date that night sounded good. She said yes, because...
"Dammit it's cold today." Bard pulled his hat further down over his forehead and huddled into his fur. "This shit just ain't worth it, Jake." The mule nudged his shoulder and tugged on the lead. He knew where warmth was, as well as his grain.
Man and beast drudged along the logging trail beneath the cold, thin light of the winter sun. Behind them clouds piled up over the horizon, snow dark and ominous. Bard could hear the wind starting, a distant rush of sound bending tree branches and pushing the storm closer.
"Two more miles and we're home," he...
PUNCH
Graham Pererson was a murderer. He killed people. Often.
Under the guise of a little old man he scoured the late evening streets for his victims. He carried a small bag and a walking stick.
He had a nicely worked out system which had, to date, never failed him.
And so tonight, April 1, he locked his door behind him and headed towards the suberbs.
They were starting to head home in groups of two and three from their nights of debauchery. He hated them. All of them.
A young woman seperated from her group and turned a corner....
"Jesus Christ! Where am I now?"
As Martin gazed into the vast ocean in front of him, the broken teleporter still beeping in his left hand, he realized, that getting home might have just become impossible.
He tramped down an empty highway for hours, without meeting a single car, until he reached a gas station. Inside, there was no one. He went around the cash register, took out some change and dialed his brothers number from a pay phone next to the candy isle. It rang. "Come on, pick up." Nothing. He let it ring for a couple of minutes...
Bombs, were the last thing on his mind. Jack turned and spoke " It's funny, that today would have to be the day we become history." Jack lifted his left hand looked at it. and laughed. I puzzled said to him, What do you mean Jack, honey we can make it come on don't talk like th-." He said to me " you know what tomorrow is right?" still puzzled I didn't answer. " it was our to be our wedding day."
"Vanquished, you say?"
He murmured it, holding up the worn little book in the dusty light, crooning to it. He held it gently, but peculiarly—*that* wasn't the way her mother had told her how to hold old books. He held it like a creature, like it was a little, wounded thing in a forest.
She darted back behind the end of the shelf as the strange man stiffened, and held her breath as he slowly turned his head to look down the aisle. His eyes were wrong. His clothing was wrong, too, she knew it was older than it should...
She'd always come running when I called especially on the beach after a thunderstorm collecting amber. Knowing that I'd get worried because of the deep rockpools. As this was a different time, after the apocalypse, it was the other way around, she called out to me, worried that as an aging scavenger I'd come to harm on the shoreline each morning.
Keira, my beautiful grand daughter wanted me safe, home in front of the fire reading a newspaper, instead saw me beaten with fatigue, stumbling around the barren landscape hunting for food.
I love her.