"What are you laughing about Jes?", inquired Sally.
"I just had the most wonderful dream", replied Jes.
"Can you tell me what is it about? Did you dream about winning the lottery? Or becoming a sophisticated cover shoot model? Come one now, spill it here? I want the details!"
Jes hesitatingly replies, "uhmm, well its about an ordinary day. I was in a beautiful beach and oh, i can only just imagine the warmth of the sun, the smell of the sea breeze and the feel of the wind in my hair".
"It was just perfect day", Jes added.
"That...
Bombs were the last thing on his mind. If he lost this poker game, it would be his death anyway. The lights flickered, the ceiling dripped and the cigarettes had long since expired. The gaunt janitor across from him wheezed in a satisfied rheumy way. There it is. His tell for a rotten hand.
The girl with the brown eyes sucked on her teeth. The bombs above loosed plaster from the ceiling and it salted her hair. She shook it off like a dog, her brow creased in concentration. She had been squinting the entire game, suffering her near-sighted bet...
The elephant dragged its feet. Since they were made of rubber, this made the task all the more difficult, as she pulled herself by her front legs across the linoleum floor. The intermittent squeals of her back feet dragging, followed by the silence as she readied herself for another pull, created the slow and steady rhythm of her despair. Why had the toymaker failed to provide her with decent appendages? What child wanted to cuddle up with a stuffed animal with hard-soled rubber feet? Why had fate seen fit to give her creator a pragmatic bent which resulted in her...
Standing along the shoreline was different. I took a deep breath as the gentle breeze blow passed me. I couldn't believe that this was my new home. It was so different from the tall buildings of the city. The water danced along my feet as the tide came in. I walked up to the dock and noticed how old it was. The boards had become worn and water logged. It would need to be replaced soon. I noted that I would have to tell my dad when he got here. Carefully, I climbed up onto the rickety dock and walked...
I jumped.
In a few years time I would be able to pin down the thought processes that had led to possibly the most insane decision of my life, but right now all I felt was the surge of adrenaline as I took that leap of faith and laced my fingers with those of the man next to me. The almost stranger, the man who'd watched me across the room for the past month. We'd barely even spoken until two days before yet here I was, my hot sweaty hand in his, leaping into the unknown.
I couldn't help it,...
Flan in the face, flan in the face, flan in the face.
A wild grin stretched across his face, an expression of pure exuberance, of joy and abandon, just before the pie tin splattered the gelatinous goo all over his tweed coat.
The students were gathered outside the lecture hall, sprawling in the hundreds in the oppressive heat. Here and there, groups had clustered beneath the maple branches, trying desperately to stave off exhaustion. They had been at it for two days already: the most notorious sit-in in America's higher educational history.
As if to further puzzle the wayward boomers...
The elephant dragged its feet. Meanwhile a man with a mustache spun in circles. A pink tutu hung limply around his waist, and the cigar held loosely in his mouth dropped ash onto the pavement. Olivia hated art movies, but she had agreed to join Richard. It was something about him wanting to impress his artsy friends. He didn't even know what all this meant. Olivia was sure that no one in the room did.
It was a little like placing a few blocks in a room and calling it art. She had gone to a museum with Emily recently....
The clocks and the teddy bears I could understand, but the fruit really threw me for a loop. If you'll pardon the... well, actually, don't worry about the pardon. The time for pardons has passed. Yes?
I would have thought there'd been more books, but I guess I should be thankful there was one at all. One book, two shoes. That's a bit mortifying, really, but it's only fair. One couldn't get very far with just one shoe. I mean, I couldn't. Then again, I never got very far with just one book.
And seeing Her again after all this...
The city was empty and so was she. There was an echo in the quiet streets and an echo in her ear. She had heard this sound before--this sound of nothingness--and it reminded her of something. That vacancy. It made her think of her marriage. That was the sound of her marriage, that emptiness. She felt comfortable in that sound. Above her a streetlight snapped on with an almost audible sound. She could hear the click or maybe just imagine it. The electricity lines opening, sending current to that one lamppost so that it could shine with its weak light....
"I shot my butler." I threw the manuscript across the room. Grabbed a scotch. No. Wait. Wanted a scotch, grabbed a bourbon. Drank it anyway. What kind of a piss-poor story ends with "I shot my butler?"
It was Fight Club, that's what did it. I think. All this unreliable narrator business. The publishing world hasn't been the same since, filled with hacks trying to seem clever with these terrible twist endings. It's almost unbearable.
I polished off my bourbon. Still wanted scotch. Rang for Jeffrey. The house is too big, I can't be expected to go all the way...