Sunday was when we went. Dad wanted to leave on Sunday so we could avoid the McDonald family, who spent every Sunday molting on the front lawn. Last year, Mr. McDonald's head fell off. He grew another one the next day. Only now his hair was green and he could shoot laser beams out of his eyes. Also, he shat turnips. But enough of that.
We climbed into the station wagon and turned right onto Fallinott Street. The street was named after Lucas Fallinott, who lived in Detroit. He invented the toothbrush in 1762.
As we drove, we saw Mr....
"It worked!" He stood, startled by the sound of his own voice. What had worked?
Looking around, he wasn't quite sure if he should be more worried that he didn't know why he had said something he didn't understand, or about the fact that he was in a place he didn't recognise with no memory of having arrived there. A word caught his eye. Phone. He rolled it around his head. Yes. He could make a call. He should make a call. A number emerged from his growing consciousness. Should he be worried about that feeling of expansion, as though...
He ran into the room, his heart pounding, and his clothes soaking wet.
"What's wrong?!" she asked him.
He ducked into a side room away from the windows in the door. "The police are looking for me. They think I killed someone," he said.
"Oh my god! Why do they think that?"
"I don't know, but I didn't do anything."
"What happened?"
"I was our for a walk when the storm started, and I knocked on the door of the nearest house where I saw lights on. There was no answer, so I opened the door to see if anyone...
Peasants.
We all are peasants.
I am a peasant, endlessly tilling the vast land of my master. I have a perpetual inclination to become a slave for lack of education.
Still, I am not ashamed of what I am. My legacy, which I have inherited from my forefathers, will go on for posterity's sake. My sons and daughters will continue to till land. But I guarantee that the land would be theirs to cultivate, for I am about to storm the walls of my master.
May God have mercy on his soul!
It wasn’t a specific look, or anything she said exactly. It was the things she didn’t do that gave it away. The way that she didn’t automatically include me in the conversation, the way she didn’t look to me when something funny happened, the way she didn’t move up to get more space but stayed, leg pressed against mine, reminding me that she was there.
All the instincts we’d developed about one another over the many years we had been friends were now kicking into gear and compensating for all the things we couldn’t say, not with all these people...
Wow. The Statue of Liberty. I've lived in New York my whole life, and have personally seen it one time, and it's on my I heart NY credit card, of course. I played the Statue of Liberty once in a 5th grade play about America. I was "Miss Libby" and I sang about inflation. "The Red White and Blues" my song was called. I was 11. I wasn't a very great singer, but my teacher had great faith in me, as did my mother. There's a VHS tape of it somewhere, I do know that. Only once, though, have I...
The ceremony was fine, stuffy and long but fine. The party had been alright, except that her father had booked a stuffy classical six piece when they really wanted to get a soul band.
But the father-in-law was paying so you could only say so much, and she never ever stood up to him anyway. So he had to spend five hours in a restrictive tuxedo, stealing glances at her as she danced with her father, with the best man, nodding and smiling as old ladies pulled at his arms so they could kiss his cheeks and congratulate him, telling...
It was a vast open space. Where the distant hills cling to the horizon, and the blue sky above curves to fasten to the mountain tops below, and desert sand cloaks sheet metal on the floor, stretching as far as the eye can see. It was an illusion…
This is the place where all things die.
This is the place where it ends.
A man in a dark suit approaches me and shakes my hand.
"I’m glad you could make it."
As blood runs across the sand, and the sun drops, and red sky filters between the moments of openness...
Marie loved apples.
That would make her smile.
It was bad enough that Eric had messed up her homework, it was supposed to be a joke, who knew the dog would actually eat it. Puppies do that. She'd kind of laughed it off. She'd taken the shredded remnants of it to school, she'd come back, shadows under her eyes and Eric, waiting on her porch asked if she was in big trouble.
"Nah," she replied, "They laughed. I'm forgiven this time, and so are you."
Big hug.
And she munched a Pink Lady apple, a double celebration. She had one...
Forget all you know about everything. Forget history in it's whole. What If you'd not only have the power to control time, but everything else ? Not in a B-movie ' timemachine ' kind of way, no,no. Meet Ivan Barbossa. The undeniable man. The man who never dies, and when he does, he just shows up again. He only dies when time and space stop existing. The end of all things mean his end as well. This man has been around since the beginning of time, seen the first cell evolve, or met the first man and woman to have...