The tigers snarled at each other as they fought over the prize. Eyes narrowed, they watched for the slightest hesitation, the smallest weakness, in their enemy's eyes and stance. Finally, the larger of the two feinted to the left, then ran right with his booty. Quickly, the other followed as the world waited with baited breath.
Then, it happened. The great tiger leapt away from his pursuer, seeming to soar. The buzzer went off a split second after the ball dropped into the net and the crowd roared as the score changed: 63-59.
"I guess not everything's better in Metter,"...
I'm trapped. I came to the beach, ready to relax. Ready to escape my work, and every annoying person in my life. But now I'm caught in a storm. I don't see anyone, it's just me. A large palm tree accompanies me, falling over more every second. He's dying, just like I will. Can I run into someone's house? There are abandoned beach houses, probably locked. The storm rages even louder. It's thumping reminds me of my boss, ready to kill whoever used his coffee machine. I see waves start to form. Large ones. They threaten to destroy me. Wash...
"Wait, so he hit you?"
“No, I told you. He whispered just before I woke up.” I had already told the story a couple of times and Jack wasn’t listening. Obviously the porn on his cell phone far more interesting.
The voice had been at that moment when you feel yourself falling and jerk awake. ‘I really want to take you with me but I’m not allowed.’
Disorientated after several false awakenings, I felt extraordinarily tired. The short nap when my friend had gone for pizza had been a mistake. Struggling to a sitting position there was no sign of...
Dear friends:
I am standing in the field. The field where he died. The field where, for a time, I wished I had died. Sometimes still do.
This photo he took of the field was humbling. Ground-level. Weeds blowing. A branch sticking up. Forked. On that day he was forked. And I was blown. Blown flat.
Shit, guys, that sounds so dumb, doesn't it. I meant to write it on a postcard. I meant to get this photo printed -- Snapfish or something -- and have them sent to me glossy. And get one of those fine Sharpies and scribble...
I'm dead. Really dead. Not in the "there'll be a twist at the end and I'll be saved" kind of way. Just dead.
I lived a short life. Just 42 years young; at the peak of my career as a well-renowned chef in New York City. Most people say it was an accident; the gunman ran into my restaurant, and randomly shot rounds into the kitchen and at the restaurant patrons.
As a dead person, unreliably, I can tell you this is not true. I say unreliably because no one will ever know that I am telling the truth here....
Black and white. I couldn't believe Dad had done it again.
I know I'm lucky, I do. You can say I'm spoiled if you like, but it doesn't matter - I'd asked for ONE THING this Christmas, and it was colour.
I looked up at my father, tried to fake a smile, and said 'Thanks'. As soon as he turned away, I rolled my eyes, and unwrapped my next present.
A sweater. Great. I wondered what colour it was - if I went out wearing this and one of my friends actually GOT what she asked for and could see...
The water was clear. Crystal clear, not so unlike the crystal ball the gypsy read my fate from. I just so wanted to jump in the water. To breathe. To drink. To laugh. To swim.
Ryan begged me not to jump, but I didn't listen...I couldn't. He controlled so much of my life. I wanted to get away. And yet, I loved him still. The clear water was enticing. And brought feelings of hope to my heart.
"Please, Ry, please," I begged. He came towards me and I pressed my lips to the lower corner of his. I felt his...
When I was young, I would sneak out onto my roof with my father's cigarettes and chain smoke. They knew I did it. They found the butts on the ground in the yard. But no one said anything.
I sat up there, puff puffing away, texting a girl I thought I could never out grow.
"Run away with me," she said. I wanted to. I almost did. But I was almost done with my senior year of high school. Things were okay for me for the first time in years.
She never forgave me for saying no. The last time...
So, give me more details, sweetie. No, not that kind of detail!
Where'd you go? What'd you eat? What'd you wear? Come on, babe, we need more, more, more!
Did he pay? Wait, I need to light up...ok, go. Credit card? Flashy. You're kidding - champagne? On a first date? Seriously flashy.
Ok, so what next? Did he leave a tip? No way, cheapskate! Bet they remember him there anyway.
And where'd he take you? His flat? What, the old "my mother's staying with me so we've got to go to a hotel" line? You're kidding - no-one really says...
Sophie stood at the window, the curtains snug around her shoulders,trailing behind like a dress, or veil. The sun was dipping down behind the trees across the way.
He should be home by now, she thought, chewing the already ravaged thumbnail on her right hand.
She thought about the fight they had the night before. How she had held onto the seeds of those feelings for so long they had germinated and grew and soon the roots were twisted around with her insides, and the branches and leaves moved with her arms.
The anger had grown and become parasitic. And...