Death. As kids, we are terrified of this, but always reassure ourselves it won’t happen for a while. But for the past year and a half, reassuring myself has done nothing- I’ve already known the truth.
“She has one month.” My doctor whispers, leaning against the navy blue doorframe I know all too well.
“What do you mean, one month?” my mother questions him, matching his volume.
My father strokes her arm gently. “To live.” His voice is hoarse, as if he’s been crying. And he has. He looks into the door and I immediately sit back in my chair....
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....
Giving in wasn't an option. The first time Ted died he didn't really notice, being in a full on berserk. One of his incisors was embedded in the top of his shield. He only felt its loss after he lay beside the gnawed wood, head split by a centurion's short sword. Like most warrior souls, he didn't leave it there of course.
The second death was a spear. Ted bled out over a few days, his last fevered thought - blood poisoning - being one of confused pride he had all his own teeth 'this' time.
Ted's third demise was...
The ticking of the clock invigorated her. Every click pounded in her brain, every hourly chime let her know that she was that much closer to her release. Life, there's the rub... She would never know the calamity of a long life, and for that she was grateful. While others were doomed to grow old, lose their loved ones, die alone - she gave her life freely - knowing that her sacrifice would please their overlords, bringing peace to her village.
She said her farewells to a swelling sea of tear streaked faces, but her own was shining, brilliant. As...
"Rush! Hurry! We must get off the street before anyone realizes we've left. "
"Mummy, why?"
"Because I said so."
"Because he's bleeding, Mum? Is that why?" I grasped the edge of her suitcase, let it carry me along, my feet nearly leaving the ground. Breathless, visions of things much different from sugar plums. Blood. Screams, a distant siren, the smell of cordite. Done. Rush! Move! NOW! Hungry, what, no time. Leave the cat.
Down the stairs, falling, falling, falling out onto the cobblestones. Scent of mum's sweat mixed with tobacco, and the stench of death. Train sounds. Off to...
Sixteen years, almost to the day. He wasn't sure what was worse: how sad it was, or the fact that he knew how sad it was.
If only he could be one of those losers who didn't /know/ they were losers - a self-deluded idiot. Sure, they get laughed at by the world, but at least they're happy in and of themselves. They don't know that their dream is unreachable, that they're doomed to spending the rest of their life watching something they can't have.
Tom Hamil had been selling flowers for sixteen years at the same shop, in the...
There was nothing like getting the supplies in every month with the boys to lift everyone's spirits. Goodies, magazines, and letters abounded and everyone was excited waiting anxiously for their packages.
Sergeant Thomas was sorting through the packages and arranging them into groups to deliver when we came across a package for Lt. Roger. The Lietentant was a quiet sort that never received any sort of mail and never wrote any letters. But here before them was a nice package addressed to him that smelled of perfume and tobacco.
Thomas, thought it would be good to give the package to...
Marchiel stared into Francis's twisted visage. The black rose stood just behind the broken man and Marchiel wanted her. Francis put a hand on Marchiel's chest as the younger man started forward.
"No, brother. You will not have her. She has chosen me. ME!" Francis crowed in triumph. It was true. The Black Rose had chosen his twisted, fire-marked brother over Marchiel. Marchiel's heart ached at the rejection.
"You have placed a spell on her, Francis. I will break it with true love's kiss." Marchiel brushed his brother aside and continued up the steps towards his love. "Chereal," he whispered...
Lola, Lola. What have you done?
It was a day like any other, well if you account the slow, lumbering and brain hungry, zombies. Their presence no longer shocking just another danger living the city. I suppose. Well anyway Me and My Sister Lola have been hopping form building to building, only during the days mind you. We are looking for supplies food and water mainly. Lola, misses her friends and Mom. she really miss Mom.
Anyway like I said we were looting and stuff, when this dog comes out of a door I happened to open I knew where...
I tried automatic writing many times, all with obvious results, my inner self responding. However, last night something weird happened. The letter began with 'Dear Santa' which was no way in my mind.
The writing wasn't even like my own. Strange 'A's. Creepy.
Sissie, my twin left the room slamming the door, locking herself into the bathroom. She was gone for hours, eventually after a lot of banging and pleading she opened it and returned to sitting on the carpet, large bathtowel over her head, rocking back and forth, humming.
She is autistic. I knew what was wrong. She was...