I never loved Jesus I just loved singing. The way my body filled with adrenaline at the sight of a choir of candles. The deep sadness of wailing chords and the fire of my brain's holy spirit. The serious intonations of a preacher speaking without thinking of anything other than leadership, speaking about ears to hear, speaking about the blind leading the blind.

Was he a good man? I suppose he tried to be and I doubt I would ever have directly murdered someone who was trying to be a good man. That's why I left him. That's why none...

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The best oak hand sawn carved by a master carpenter. Plush deep red velvet that is soft to the touch yet heavy, and sumptious, the heaviest brass polished to a mirror finish. Everything I bought was the best money could buy, my house photographed and featured in all the glossy magazines.

Rachmaninoff and Bach were always my favourite composers so it was fitting they were chosen, expert pianists played to give me the best send off. As I lay in my coffin in a gown made in Paris, my relatives knew I would be happy.

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When Martin stood there in disbelieve, but she was deadly serious. "I understand that you have every reason not to trust me here, Martin, but I'm not kidding. If I bring you to the camp, you will never get that chance again. Your teleporter will be gone forever. So please, do what I told you. And come back." Martin thought about his brother all of a sudden, and how he always pranked him into doing something stupid. He felt the little scar on his index finger, where his brother tricked him into touching mom's iron. And he also thought about...

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Modelling had never been her idea. The vacuous stares, the hours in front of the mirror. Was it her fault her proportions were perfect for summer dresses? It was a life she escaped the moment she fled her mother's house.

She didn't pick the color of her hair. It didn't come on a shelf, stinking up the bathroom with it's noxious fumes, attracting evil eyes from other women who thought they knew what she was like simply from the glow of her yellow hair and the swing of her hips?

The pitch of her voice wasn't her fault. How did...

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"Knives."

"Yeah. And?"

"Pepper. Salt. Ducks. Ivory, but don't tell anybody."

"Seriously? Knives?"

He handed me the duffle bag. "Knives. And everything you need to know is in there, too."

"Everything?"

"Everything. The molecular structure of Ferrous Oxide. The length of a stick. The speed of light under water."

"What about the temperature of Jupiters core? The average age of a bitch collie in its first heat? Foreign exchange rates for all currencies against Bhutan?"

"All of that. Plus the phone numbers of every Mossad agent, and their email address and blog addresses. Oh, and the starting lineup of the...

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She didn't look at him. She didn't want to. The idea that he was pleading for her forgiveness didn't soften her heart. Rather, it was hardened by the fact that she had given everything to him and had given up everything for him only for him to betray her.

"Please look at me," He pleaded, "Look at me and know that I'm sorry."

"Looks can be decieving," She said harshly, "YOU taught me that!"

He fell at her feet and grabbed her hand, which she shook away violently. Only then did she look at him and he almost wished he...

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The bird took off. The mail was delivered. A red car drove past. An old man with a cane walked past on the sidewalk.

Every day, these things happened in exactly the same way, at exactly the same times.

Other things were the same, too: the news, the conversations she had, the expressions on the faces of the people she met. The bus to work was always four minutes late, like clockwork.

But there were differences, too.

After about ten days, she started to notice things disappearing. First it was her keys, then her couch. Then the maple tree in...

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The general stood in the grand ballroom, waiting for everyone to clear out. Yes, the guests had a great time at the victory party; the rebels had been routed, and victory for his king had been ensured. But no one knew the price better than him. As the upper class cheered him, shook his hand, and touted him as the grandest of the grand, he mourned for those on the side of so-called evil. He knew many of them, if not personally, then through family. He hadn't grown up in this environment, but in that of the rebellion. Sure, his...

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She could tell I was faking it. She can always tell when I'm faking it. Something about the way my eyelids droop slightly, the way I chew at my bottom lip before I talk.
"It looks lovely."
"It doesn't. You're lying." Somehow, she always knows.
"Okay, it doesn't. It's a hideous dress. But you do. You always look lovely."
"Creep." She smiles, and swats at me with the scarf she's about to wrap around her shoulders instead of a coat.
I love the way she looks when she gets ready. How she frowns at the mirror when she puts on...

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"You had me at 'ox bow lake'." The girl laughed, twirling a strand of silky blonde hair around her finger and leaning towards David, giving him a tantalising glimpse of her cleavage. He swallowed hard, trying to stay calm. This girl...Megan? Mary? Melissa! Anyway, she was a student, one of his students, and he knew her game. There was at least one every year, the girl who attempted to coast through university on looks alone. Invariably she would behave just like this, taking front row seats in every lecture she attended but spending more time trying to make eye contact...

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