It was a pleasure to burn.
Holding the papers over the flame and watching as the flames spread over each one. Swallowing the words and memories as it went. The demons danced in the flames until there was nothing more for them to devour. Until the fire had taken every last word. Every last sentence and turned them into nothing more than a pile of ash on the ground.
Each piece of paper a different memory. A different time, another thing that needed to be burnt away. Each strike of the match burst into a flash of bright light. Each...
Some rotten git had destroyed the nest. Only one chick survived. I cradled him all the way home. Mum made up a 'nest' in a shoebox and I went out digging for worms.
'He don't want worms just yet' my mum said and she brought a bowl of bread soaked in warm milk.
That's how Sammy the Song Trush came to stay.
As he grew older he began to hop around the house. My brother would lay on the floor with a Pot Noodle and Sammy would perch on the rim and pick out the noodles. We all found this...
Gigantic. Positively so. It towered over the shelves, reaching to the ceiling. The blue paint shone brightly. I reached up to the chest.
It was a masterpiece, if I say so myself. This creation of mine is a marvel of modern technology. I turned the switch, and the servos inside whirred to life.
The automaton lurched a step towards me, electricity sparking from the antennae on its head. I had programmed it with a sense of right and wrong. I had orchestrated a scenario to test its power. I looked out the window, and saw the fire spreading across the...
This was the painting that sold for millions. I watched as the porters wrapped it up and carried it from the gallery to the awaiting truck.
The new owner transferred cash from his account, smiling, probably thanking God for his luck. I watched him shaking hands with everyone, swigging the curtesty glass of expensive champagne, posing for photos.
John Masters, the gallery owner, smug and insincere triumphant for once in his sorry life.
Not for long.
He paid me peanuts as a commission for this painting, unknown I had used special paint which would melt in due course and reveal...
Until now, she'd never thought of herself as pretty. Standing in front of the mirror in her brand new $800 gown, she surveyed the woman staring back at her. Straight black hair brushed her jaw, defining vivid blue eyes. Long limbs made for a pleasing figure and as she ran her hands over the smooth fabric of the dress, she thought she just might impress him tonight. Or at least, she would be rid of her problem.
She pushed open the door and entered the elegant white room where the party was being held. He didn't pass up the opportunity...
It was a pleasure to burn, in the end. Sarah had known it was coming without being told. Knowing things without being told was all part of being a witch, she supposed.
She hadn't ever chosen, as such - but rather she preferred to let the currents and grooves of the world guide her path through it. And the world had chosen for her to be a witch.
To anybody else, this might have seemed like a state of affairs that could be analysed and considered - weighing up the pros (foresight; cackling) and the cons (burning) - but for...
Mr. Marlin calls it the "war effort" though it's not a war. I see effort, but not of a thoughtful variety. Everyone involved is dressed in the same color. Any tool is a weapon. They'll be murdered, the whole lot of them.
"I told you this day would come," shouts Mr. Marlin. Imagine waiting on such a horrible day. It was only morning but the skies were growing dark. Cloudless and dark. He threw a croquet mallet at me.
I stared at it like it was a frozen dog.
I had a best friend. He was almost exactly the same as me, except he was... different. He followed me around almost everywhere I went. I only ever saw him during the day, and when it was cloudy, he almost never showed up. He never spoke a word, he kept quiet. I sometimes wondered what was going on in that wide head of his. He is the only person that understands me, that's why I called him my best friend.
It only took me 6 years to realise, he was my shadow.
The alligator with the cardboard mouth. The whipped cream on the stairs. Hollow clang. Syncopated clatter.
The brighter colors remind me of childhood. Not that adulthood has been faded yellows or softening greys. But a luminescent green or radiant orange triggers my primary nostalgia.
The set is bare. The slice of bread reads 5 in ketchup. A lazy harmonica.
When time runs out here, it starts over there. Follow the alligator king.
I was not at ease without the lights. I definitely felt an insect of some sort, crawling along my chest... Perhaps it was a spider? Wait, is a spider an insect? Well, it can't be a mammal, that's for sure.
The lights. I felt along the side of the wall, hoping to catch the lamp unplugged; but no, it was plugged in and my heart sank a bit. I didn't want to change the bulb. But what if it wasn't the bulb? What if it was an electrical outage?
What if this was the return of the dark ages, where...