Majestic words like maelstrom, preponderance, warbling swirl through my creative whirlpool, pulling in pieces of conversation, tail-ends of admonitions, the lilt of swearing. I live by the calendar, fitting my days into the squares, x'ing the boxes at midnight.
Friday is the wave that crashed but hasn't withdrawn to the sea. I'll compose this in the spiked surf.
Ceci n'est pas un garçon.
She pulled her red gown high over her head, trying to shield herself from the oncoming terror, but to no avail. The sheer vivid colour of the gown made her stand out from the bustling crowds, no matter how much she tried to huddle into the dank doorway of the closed shop.
"Please let me in," She whispered, scratching desperately on the chipped wooden panelling, "please." Tears started to fall down her cheeks as she heard the heavy footsteps of her pursuers getting closer and closer, the people around her seeming not to notice her distress.
Suddenly the door creaked...
The results were in, she said. And he ran and ran and ran and ran, disregarding the shouts of teachers behind him, just running and running and running till he reached the office. It was up on the bulletin board, sandwiched between changes in the lunch menu and posters for bake sales. He stopped for a moment, breathless, eager. Slowly he let himself look at it. The names were up. He scanned through them: Joe Malone. Hendrick Smith. Jerry Pandrip. Jonathan Sinker. Hetty Carbuncle.... so many names. He knew most of them: they had been his companions during the test,...
I had a dream the other night. We were sitting alone in our rooms, all of us, every single one, when suddenly —
The walls just fell away. There was no sound, no pyrotechnics; with a quiet resignation, all the matter in the world, except for our warm, breathing bodies, fell down into the void, leaving us floating purposelessly, naked.
And we all looked at each other, as the psychic frameworks that we etched into the streets, into our homes – our routines, our beaten paths, all the conventions that existed not in the world, but in the world as...
He ran into the room, his heart poundinf, and his clothes soaking wet. He had never felt sich all consuming fear as when he had walked into her bedroom to find her gone.
His darling, his little one, the part of him that was part of his wife as well. His Bella.
The ransom note was pretty standard so the police said. £5000000 pounds. Non sequential. Not marked.
He had the money, so he got it together and walked to the meet.
They got the money, but his Bella wasn't there. He heard no more from the kidnappers.
The police...
Holy crap, this guy is annoying me again. I mean Jesus Christ, what does he want now?
He always bugs me, hits my head and walks right behind me. It seems no matter where I go, he is there waiting.
Then, when I need him, he can't be found. He disappears for what appears to be hours on end, only to take his pants off and then call for me.
What am I? A servant? I don't fetch things like beer. I don't fold clothes.
Fuck man, I'm cat.
I keep the creases in the clothes nice by laying on...
She couldn't go outside very often, but when she did, it made her feel like the cancer wasn't as bad as it was the day before. It was summer; Lea had to go outside in her almost hospital-like pajamas; sanitary and sterile for her safety. Her mom sat on their apartment stoop as she watched Lea splash in the Manhattan fire hydrant. The trees looked dead around her still, and made her worry about Lea; her only daughter, at 12 she was already dying. Terminal illness doesn't warn you when it's taking over; it's not like the President declaring war...
Fish meant for market was found dumped in a bin outside the school. The mother believed the rotting smell would disguise her hidden bundle beneath. Her post-birth addled brain forgetting only papers were supposed to be in that container and what she tried to dispose would be eventually found.
Margarita wasn't a bad person. She did what she thought best at the time. Took her baby to the church and left her on the steps timing so the priest would find it. The bloody towels, rags, her own clothing stuffed below the fish. She kept the umbilical cord and placenta....
"Now, tell me again," said the attractive blond in the black-rimmed glasses, "why do you think you're a super villain?"
Her patient sighed. He was draped across her leather couch, one hand hanging limp over its side, grazing the lush carpet as though it was soft grass.
The therapist chewed on her pencil and waited.
"How many times do I have to tell you?" he said. "I'm a scientist. I come from a long line of super villainy, and it's up to me to keep up the family reputation." He turned on his side to gaze at her. "Have I...