I wanted to give him everything I had. He was my love, and I knew, at long last, what I wanted out of life.
I wanted him.
Foolishness, of course. We couldn't have been more different if we had been created that way. Still, I tried. Someone once told me that you should always reach for the stars. Whether you catch one or not, at least you will have risen above the mud for a while.
That's why I ran for Congress, because I thought that was where my destiny lay. When the corruption scandal was laid at my feet,...
I came down the stairs after I heard the rumbling in the streets. Something shook my potted plant, the one my grandmother gave me before she died. It shook so hard, it fell to the ground.
Earthquakes don't happen in Chicago, and my third floor one-bedroom was luckily sturdy enough to withstand whatever caused all this motion.
The rumble happened again. This time more prominent feel. The earth began to split farther up the street. Cars rocked on their shocks.
I knew what this was, and I knew it was here for me. The shaking continued, the sky darkened. He...
"Well shit, that didn't work," the conductor said.
He walked around the wreckage, pulling out passengers. Women, mostly. The men waved off his advances.
One gloriously attired woman emerged from a smoldering welt of torn metal as though she were departing at Poughkeepsie. Nary a scratch or displaced hat-feather.
"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on," the conductor thought. What he said was, "Ma'am."
The day was still high above them, children kicking rocks along the tracks. The conductor scratched under his hat and wondered, well what the hell now?
A man sitting in the...
i had a dream. It was so weird! I dreamt is was in a truck cruising down the highway. I looked up at the driver and said "Where am i?" He turned around, slow, very slow. I gasped. He was a cat! a gray tabby with neon eyes. "Why am i here?" i asked, thinking that, hey this was a dream. if this cat can drive, then maybe he can talk too. he opened his mouth. "Meow?" was all that came out. So much for the "if he can drive, he can talk" theory. I sat up. We were driving...
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...
Giving in wasn't an option. To surrender to that demon wench, horrifically taunting him with all the glories of his gender-bent body that he knew made him sick, was out of the question. He'd sooner stab himself, or worse, let his younger brother best him in their next bout.
He could not deny, however, he was getting cornered into a difficult position. There was something off about the way the chimera chose to come at him this time. Aside from letting watermelons of bosoms bounce and burst out of his vest at him.
He inwardly shuddered. That had to be...
I had a dream the other night. We were sitting alone in our rooms, all of us, every single one, when suddenly —
The walls just fell away. There was no sound, no pyrotechnics; with a quiet resignation, all the matter in the world, except for our warm, breathing bodies, fell down into the void, leaving us floating purposelessly, naked.
And we all looked at each other, as the psychic frameworks that we etched into the streets, into our homes – our routines, our beaten paths, all the conventions that existed not in the world, but in the world as...
AwesomeAwesome. The goal is to write like the wind? I think not. Friday is a black day for productivity. This is illustrated in our hero, Freewrite. Optimism is a dying breed in Friday, where nothing gets done, and we must relax. we are constricted by it. Freewrite goes on a quest, to the edge of Friday, on a sacred quest to find Work Ethic, said to redeem the last Optimisms in the land. But the victory, my friends, is that Work Ethic is not found, but made. Hard work redeems Optimism, comrades. specially on a Friday, when I could eat...
The last thing before the end
Once again I found myself wondering what we were doing. If anyone had told me that I would have found meaning at the bottom of a dark place trying to keep the world safe froma secret that wasn't mind-numbing, but mass panic and hysteria wouldn't be too far from the expected.
It was still a terrible thing to be haunted by things that really just wanted to be a part of the sunshine and sky again.
I was what you could call a keeper of dragons. But the truth about dragons I have found...
"I object!"
The whole church turned and stared at the woman panting uncontrollably at the doors. Heather couldn't believe she actualy made it right on time. This type of thing only happened on T.V, or so she thought.
She moved steadily down the ilse, getting mixtures of confusion, anger and outright amusement gazes from the crowd. Of course, Paul would look confused. He stepped away from his bride, who could have melted the mesh of her veil from the looks she gave.
"Heather," Paul cleared his throat, looking around the huge crowd. "What the heck are you doing here?"
"Fighting,"...