Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway.
"Are you my mom?" she would ask to the passersby.
Some people would stop and inquire if she was lost, but she would just shake her head.
Some people would offer to take the girl with them to the police, but she would just run away down a narrow alley where they couldn't follow.
Most people would just ignore her and her perfect, shining red gown, taking her for some unlucky trickster.
But one day, a young woman came down the street, her eyes veiled in...
It's not easy being funny.
People expect things of you. They come to you down in the mouth, looking for a laugh. Most of the time you can oblige them, but it's hard creating something from nothing. I'm not a music box that you can wind up and expect to hear a tune. At least say "please."
I guess it comes from watching too much television. Sitcoms really mold a kid who spends half his day on the couch. That, and a willingness to tell the truth to people's faces.
Anyway, it's easy to ask for a laugh. It's just...
The window was a lot harder to get open than I expected. I guess they aren’t really designed to be opened, but they do open if you pull hard enough. The air felt good; fresher higher up than on the lower floors. And I could see the cityscape below, half hidden in morning mist. It was going to be a beautiful day.
My office was private, not one of the cubicles most of the employees occupied, like rows of Dilberts enjoying only partial privacy. I had earned my space by bringing in the numbers. I had worked my way up...
There was blood on my pillow. A lot of blood. A ton of blood. Where did it come from? It seemed to be dripping from somewhere. I looked up. The celing was dry. I looked around, I felt my own face, hair, ears, nose...all dry. What the h*ll was going on? Then, I heard something. A step. Two steps. Steps moving across the wood floor near the staircase downstairs. Was this the source of the blood? Was it the cause of the blood? Am I next? I was not injured, but I was still terrifyed. Suddenly, something came bounding around...
They were outnumbered and they knew it. J'nox lifted his six-shooter as he and his comrades prepared to defend the herd of hippogriffs with their very lives. The elf's upswept ears strained to hear every sound, every muttered word from the enemy as he shifted in his saddle, the pegasus beneath him pawing at the air. It was a beautiful day, he thought grimly. A good day to die, and take as many of the savage dwarves with him as he could.
Suddenly, those short people attacked, their twisted beards flapping in the wind as they hooted, hollered, and raised...
100 feet away. He is only a hundred feet away. That's all the distance that I would need to cross to be in his arms, to be able to kiss him, to find the comfort that I am missing and to feel safe.
A hundred feet.
I have never wanted to move so much in my entire life.
He knows me. It has only been a few weeks and yet I feel it, He Knows Me.
He knows that when I'm unhappy I need to write, he knows that I believe in God for the small things not what they...
I saw the thing. It was preserved in the glass case, the only one of its kind. So faithfully had the curators touched it, applied the special fluids, made sure that never again, never again would it be forgotten. It had been once before, after all. After all, memory is a sieve. And this was memory itself. It shouldn't have been forgotten.
I can't remember the thing itself especially now. I suppose that's expected. My memory's not special in anyway, no, not at all. It doesn't matter, anyways, just that it was a record, so that people wouldn't forget, wouldn't...
"It was a cold and stormy night..." I read as I began to read another mystery novel. A lot of stories begin with this phrase/description of the scenery. Whenever I read it, I don't imagine something bad is going to happen because I have read it many times. But rather, if the opening scene was to describe a more creative and original scene I may be more interested. These are the thoughts that roam through my head as I try to do the reading assignment for my high school literary class. It's impossible to focus when you cannot read through...
The day after tomorrow, this will be all over. The waiting, the anxiety, the impatience will end. I have paced my room nearly every minute of every day, waiting...waiting. But, it will soon be all over.
I cannot imagine how I will feel. Will it be like the first time, or even the second? I highly doubt it. The first was special, sent a tingle up and down me when it arrived. The second was nearly as powerful, but still less so.
So, it wan't be like that. But, I still cannot wait.
I have He-Man and Battlecat.
I have...
The lamp wouldn't turn on. She must have damaged it when she fell and she kicked the small wooden table it rested on in frustration. "Damnit!" she whispered to the empty room. "Damn, damn, damn!" Then she felt ridiculous. Imagine throwing a tantrum like that when she had other things to do, such as search the room, find the treasure, get out with all her bodily organs in tact... That sort of thing.
Not daring to switch on the main light and not able to use the lamp, she pulled her lighter from her pocket and flicked it on. There...