It is muddy. I went for a walk and there was mud everywhere. Even in the woods, which are supposed to be haunted, But I dont care. I am suicidal so if I get killed by a ghost or a goblin, it's no skin off my back.
I entered the forest and I got mud all over my slippers. Up ahead there was an animated scarecrow holding a scythe. "Hello," I said. The scarecrow cut off both my legs. Blood flew everywhere. But then my stumps started to itch and throb and vibrate. From them grew pogo sticks. My legs...
I slowly push myself up from the place I lay crumpled on the ground. My head is throbbing and I can't quite think of why I'm here. Or where here is. I check myself over. There is a little blood seeping from a cut on my head but everything seems to be in order so I do the only thing I can think of to do. I walk. I walk and walk until my legs are sore but still nothing in this town seems familiar. I sink to my knees against the brick wall of a bakery and allow myself...
2070, by 2070 i want all the bad things to be gone. i want there to be a cure to all the bad things that affect our world. cancer, gone. war, gone. i think that by 2070 the world should just have figured all of its issues out and be a eutopia. by 2070 i want peace on earth, no more starving children, no more impoverished nations. but it starts with now, this generation. i feel like before now everyone has put issues off to the next generation. But it cant keep happening. by 2070 i want the children of...
I stare at the row of perfect houses resting on the perfectly manicured lawns beneath a perfectly blue sky by perfectly green trees. I am surrounded by perfection, but I have not been given it.
Sometimes I wonder why I'm doing this.
I bend down to the ground. There is a ball lying there, perfectly out of place. I pick it up. My son could've played with this ball. He would have been good at sports, I'm certain. Slowly I curl my fingers around it, and feel the perfectly creased leather, shiny with memories of sunny afternoons and perfect throws...
We sit in white rooms now, spartan furnishings, novel-sized windows. The tea is warm yet still melts the chocolate. Today they let us hear a bird song. The leap of its whistle reminded me of something that used to occur, when things used to occur.
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...
She'd have preferred the electric chair, at least that one bloody moved. She could get up a good speed on that one, maybe she could get out of it, escape their sympathetic looks. It was bad enough losing the power in your legs without their condescending looks. Idiots.
Apparently it was a "power chair", but, frankly, bollocks to that. Jokingt that she was living out a death sentence was one of her few pleasures left - that terror in their eyes, the "oh god how do we respond to that" was what she was living for right now.
Actually, that...
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...