I shot my butler. His name was Greg. I shot him because I don't think butlers should be called Greg. They should be called things like Alfred or Jeeves or Cadbury or Pennyworth. Not Greg, who was from New Jersey. He didn't have a British accent. He lisped. And he was a dwarf. And his armpits stank. And he insisted on working naked. That wouldn't have been so bad if his scrotum hadn't been seven feet long so that it dragged behind him when he walked. True, it helped keep the marble floors a little more polished, but grandma kept...
It wasn't my fault. It couldn't have been. She was dead when I got there.
I know my fingerprints were on the gun. It was my gun, of course my fingerprints were on it. Yes, I was the last one to see her alive. But that was hours before she died. I do stand to inherit a large sum of money. I loved her. Why would I kill her over something like that?
The CCTV could easily have been doctored. Besides, you don't see the killer's face. It must be a coincidence that she and I have the same build....
She adjusted her collar, the mic hidden surreptitiously behind the pearly buttons. Her career was waning to the point were SNL parodies portrayed her as a confused old hag and the use of her name was synonymous with the people she had worked hard to objectify. She had once sparred with Palin, but was now firmly under the Madame President's heel.
"I can take you away from here," the apparition wavered into view. The faint scent of lavender and soft scratch of lace on silk pervaded the air. "Ma chèrie, souvenez vous la contracte?"
But I call it "swing theory." It's sort of an uneducated, improvised explanation of how everything clicks. How one digs the atom. Why one gets so coo-coo for photons. What hip event is on the horizon.
It's crazy, baby. Quantum bums.
It was hard to be in the elegant room, trying not to move while the crowd swarm around him. George stifled a sigh. If he wasn't getting the eight dollars an hour, he wouldn't have put up with the gawking crowds.
All he had to do was stand still for thirty minutes at a time, dressed as Napoleon. Simple, mindless, perfect job for George. No heavy lifting, no math, nothing that should have embarrassed him. But the crowds, God they were enough for him to scream.
"Who's that?" a snot nosed little girl asked a man, that hopefully was her...
Mira had been blind for several years, but in a way, she never quite lost her sight. The smell of jalapeños sliced on the kitchen slabs made her taste green and itch with stinging eyes. The jasmine by the porch wrapped her in the white cream of Sunday clouds. The library books were still breathing dust and oil from the days they were salvaged from the great fire.
It was the fire that made Mira blind. It was the fire that Mira started. It was the fire that Mira conjured when she read from the black tome.
War. Criminals. Theft. Violence. These things could not settle in his mind. As soon as they floated in they flew out. His thoughts were too preoccupied with positive, nostalgic memories. He felt no more sadness, anger, frustration towards the world. The only concept that could attract these ideas to his head is the same one which invokes passion, determination, hope into his heart. His love was an oxymoron. Numbing him to the world yet causing so much strife within himself, within his ideas of romance.. of Rome. The only thing that had any significance in his life lived a thousand...
He had her in his sights. The moment he saw her, he zeroed in on his prey. Her grace, her beauty... she stood apart from the rest of the herd. Easy pickings.
He waited for her to stop, her attention focused elsewhere, light illuminating her silhouette - almost like a halo. Perfect.
Ready, aim... *click*
"Excuse me, ma'am?" he asked, running over to her with the rapidly-drying Polaroid. "Would you like a souveneir of your trip here? Only five dollars for the pretty lady!"
The woman blushed and pushed the film away. "No thanks," she said, "I'm fine."
No doubt...
It was like the time he thought that Daddy was hurting Mummy, he was sure. He was certain there'd be a Reasonable Explanation, like when Mummy shouted at God in the middle of the night, and asked Him for 'more'.
He was trying to work it out, to see what the Reasonable Explanation could be. Sometimes there isn't one. One morning when Granddad Alan was alive and he was staying at the house, he'd found his granddad eating Smokey's SuperRabbit food for breakfast with Mummy's red label milk.
He'd tried to see the Reasonable Explanation but there hadn't been one,...