"HEY!" screeched a bullet right before it ran through my head, ricocheting off the inner walls of my skull, scribbling random axioms and mathematical proofs of life expectancy. Before the bullet could compute a total of zero I saw Satan giving God a piggy back ride while discussing their political affiliations. I think God retracted his revelation so Satan could bless me with his...
I locked the door. I pet my cat. I told myself it was for the best. I cried and never admitted it. I opened my phone and saw nothing. I checked my email and facebook and IM's and twitter and saw nothing.
There was nothing in the fridge. I checked the door. I opened my phone and there was still nothing so I deleted your number and threw my phone at the wall and my cat ran off. I said goodbye to him, but heard nothing.
she now lived only the music. she'd worked out how to make the melody her sway, the rhythm her swagger and the lyrics her speech. that which had been her, the real product of her foundations, had disappeared, now replaced by playlists constructed in order to reconstruct herself. he never knew this. he never knew that she had stolen his iPod and used his music, to rebuild herself into the fantasy he dreamed of.
The rifles were ready for anything. Behind the locked door, they found the doctor’s secret library. With wingback chairs and two grand pianos. Their boots tromped mud on the oriental rugs, so they tiptoed out and tried to fix the lock. They didn’t touch anything, because all the books were in German, and so were the pianos.
Katydids done, birds haven't started; dead silence. An hour before dawn, when blackest imagining and worst-case scenarios entertain the racing insomniac mind, I lie, aware enough to notice the hours chime by too fast. I hear Cheryl breathe; currents tickle my back. Humans breathe each other's air--a most intimate, continuous exchange--yet can't sense how we alter atmospheric gas concentrations. But mosquitoes can.
He plucked away the moments one by one, like a month in a calendar, hoping for a skip on the record. But time doesn’t take two left steps before a right. Love went on like derelict gray. He hears it: a muddled melody.
She rode the dusty needle, patiently, until it stopped. Someone should’a dusted the record, she thought.
He forgave the song when it didn’t warn him it was over. It just was, though it said good-bye.