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She Watches him...
She Watches him lay but again she is in pain. As the daylight dwindles so does a bit of hope. Wondering why this went wrong and why she is so different, but somehow grateful she can feel the warmth of the body of a man when she needs. "Why oh why can I not find someone, why no one can stay with me? Why do I feel the flowers will not wilt again when I give it my heart. I so thought he would be the one." Slowly she puts on her clothes and flutters out the window leaving his lifeless body behind.
When the hooves strike and splinter your front door with a crash, your body will freeze. The familiar clip-clop, out of place on your stairs, will seem less benign than you remember. Then near silence, hooves muffled by carpet as you wait, unsure if you’re dreaming, terrified, until the large equine head finally peers around your bedroom door. “What did I ever do to you?” A stupid question. Will you really expect an answer? No, because you will know well before it rears it’s hooves above your head, you will know that this horse is in no mood for talking.
I've been driving around this stupid track, stuck in 35th place for TWO HOURS NOW! I wish something would happen. Woah, what is that? I can almost make out a shape. A square? A wall, it's a wall. Why is a wall in the middle of the track? Who is hitting me? What are you guys doing, I'm surrounded. I can't get out of this. They are taking me to the Wall! Guys! Guys stop! AHHHHHHHHH! "What did you do to him?" "He said he was bored, I made something happen." "Your such a jerk Luci."
“He's too young, Papa! Don't let him see!” cried Miriam. “Woman, he's old enough!” Old Mark croaked. Jared strode into Agatha's cottage, bravado of youth burning and froze mid-stride, the odor hit him. He stared. “Jared, we left Earth eons ago to escape the curse. Our lives grew longer because we outran it and hid. I'm over a million years old, many of us are.” Tears cascaded from Mark's green eyes, mourning his lifeless wife. “See death, Jared. Understand it. The ancient hunter has found us. Go home and tell your Father, we fold out tonight.”
Together the Form
She watches patiently for what she desires. She hopes they get along, because sometimes they don't, but it doesn't matter, when it comes time they work together anyway. One by one they gather, sometimes a disagreement, and despite their different colors and sizes they grab those in front, behind and to their sides. They hold each other as strong as they would hang on a tree, and now in the beautiful shape of her desire. She approaches to feel the wonderful embrace and softness and tiny winds of the little fluttering wings. Flap, flap, her shadow on the ground below.
Noxos was different, again. Watching the invaders settle the blasted city like flies, he shed the furred skin of the conquered race that had shrouded him for 30 lifetimes. Chitin armour was replacing it, readying him to continue his master’s game plan. For the tenth time he would infiltrate the invaders and ensure they too were defenceless when the time came. He remembered a man on this planet, once called Earth, who wrote ‘As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods…..” How true. He walked towards the city as the invaders ships swarmed into the air, like flies….
Well, Can I ?
"Can I have chocolate pudding?” “Not before dinner, I’ve told you a million times!” I huffed. I am a second grader now! I leered with my brown eyes. I threw my book down on the shag. We exchanged arguments and snarls, again and again, and again once more. My ivory arms firmly crossed over the Aeropostale logo. Her raged fists pushed down on her bulging hips. Deep breathes have failed her today. From under her frayed ashen hair she forced out, “Fine, have the damn pudding!” I just walked with a restrained smile to my room. I wasn’t hungry anyway.
Springtime for Hyacinth.
Hyacinth Neuman asked me one April afternoon while watching the melting snow feed the brown grass in the barren field off the highway why love caused so much pain. “It starts off as an itch,” she said, “an itch that when you scratch it feels so comforting. So you keep feeding it until soon it burns and then bleeds fire.” She looked at me, eyes draining any remaining bodily fluids and said, “Why do I say this to you? You have never been in love, have you Toby?” I hid my skin like hyacinth bulbs of a fool in love.
Mementos packed, goodbyes said. Young Stanley Arthur prepared to leave. His parents were distraught, his sister weepy. That didn't matter now. Selected from 4 billion candidates, Stanley's mind and DNA, he was the perfect match. He would be galaxy’s away, becoming father to new races. Ympeti, ancestors to thousands of races were dying. Indescribably beautiful, Ympeti females needed Stanley's seed. His boundless intelligence and keen mind terrified his people. He had to leave. Better to let him go than face ultimate peace he proposed, unification of the new and old. Humanity had rejected a God. Young Stanley was going home.
No one spoke of him anymore. Hoagie could never figure out why his uncle had become the shame of the family. Uncle Mort was brilliant and funny, a bit odd in some ways but always an inventor. Hoagie remembered the day his uncle gave him the notebook with detailed designs. “They're going to take me away Hoagie, they think I am insane.” Hoagie asked “Why Uncle Mort? You invent stuff that helps people alot.” Uncle Mort smiled. “Yes Hoagie, I invent to help humanity. My truth field generators are active in Governments and Courthouses throughout the world.”
Head on Spears
Steam, cool, steam, cool, endless hours of working but the reason to continue is important. Pulling in and out of the steam, and so it shrinks to the familiar size of what it is intended. Sometimes a wonder of who this may be but is unimportant of what this is to cause. The cause is the less pain of the missing. Fresh and new this must continue to deceive those who caused the pain, as what can be so affecting than a susceptible familiar. Approach but then flutter back, as they care not to be the next heads on spears.
I am content. Pleased, almost. I have done what was necessary, and feel the hollow satisfaction and conceit of achievement. But . . . no, don’t think about it like that. You know what would have happened if you hadn’t intervened. You did the right thing. The screaming reaches into my very being and wretches whatever shred of compassion remains. Did they really deserve this? Dust-ridden smoke around me clears, and the painful, piercing screaming is replaced by gentle wails of affliction and inevitability. It will happen. Inevitability is unavoidable. You did the right thing. You did the right thing.
To some, it’s just another way of putting meaning to numbers. To me, it’s a way of putting numbers into some weirdly deranged meaning. Time is just a tick-tock mechanism which can turn a man insane. I should know, why do you think I’m here? I can count the days, hours, minutes and even seconds I’ve been here and all because of that stupid clock. They’ve put it there just to spite me. I know they have. I can feel drum of it’s ticking in my ears. I’m not crazy, am I? As they say, only time will tell.
Coverage In America.
Theo Fearling walked uneven on the perfected pavement. He wasn’t inebriated; he was a half inch off on the left leg, just enough to cause a slight disturbance in his gait. To justify this impurity Theo went to work for Ringling Brothers as a handstand artist while performing ballet movements that he called “poetry among limbs.” He eventually lost his ability to stand upside down and succumbed to lyrics. Today Theo owns a second-rate scooter that his insurance declined to pay for, and he lives in debt like the purest of Americans with the thought of hiring an insurance adjuster.
"Nice car! Can I buy it?” He asked. “Now?” I say. “Now, including everything in it. I’ll pay you double what it’s worth.” I look around the car, finding nothing of real value. “OK” I say, “but I need to get home first.” He follows me home and I sign a hasty contract whilst sat in the driver’s seat. Inside my house my dog starts barking as I hand back the contract. In his hand the man holds a studded dog collar. “My dog wasn’t in the car!” I protest. “Your dog wasn’t.” he says and reaches for my throat.
I stand in a darkening circular tower room. It contains only a coffin, its lid open. Being here now is stupid but it’s too late. Footsteps, slow and purposeful are climbing the spiral staircase. My only escape is past them, unthinkable. I look to the coffin, then the stairway. I can see the glow of my tormentors candle, flickering, closing. With no option and like the animal I am I crawl into my coffin and shut the lid, fear coursing my body despite my dead heart and silent veins and wait for my unlife to finally come to an end.
This is your once in a lifetime usage of the Time Machine. You will now have the opportunity to correct any wrong, erase any mistake for yourself or all of humanity. At the ding clearly speak your desired destination. Ding. “One year before the invention of bottled water.”
Friends retrieved our furniture and I swept out the debris. Nothing remained of him but a fortune cookie slip, probably about kindred spirits, discernment, or congratulations on a job well done. I leaned over the bridge by the dam and watched it flutter down, a pinwheel, an insect brought to life by persistent messaging. Maybe it was about money. Nothing prepared me for the moment that slip of truth hit the water and joined every thing that ever briefly lived. "Here you both existed," its vaporized letters still call in witness through frozen rock. "The river will remind you forever."
Integrity If you’re going to kill yourself, do something polite before doing something so rude. I assume you haven’t thought about the mess you’re going to make. Jesus. At least lay a towel down before you go through with it. And aren’t you against guns? Here you are letting one take your life. Surely, you see the irony in all this. You called to God. Naturally, I come instead. Oh, don’t let me bother you. I’m just hear to shed some light. It’s all your family will have to hold on to. Write them a goodbye letter before you go.
“Love is a construct without proportion. Analyze it, categorize it and still come up short. It is the basis of hate, death, and mayhem. Poets write endlessly about it, musicians and singers sing about it.” “Love is the bane of existence and keeps women from true equality, it keeps women oppressed. Women love men in the false pretense that men will love them back. Why should women place their well-being in a false notion that only brings pain?” “I see we have a question. What is it Mr. James?” “Professor Kenton, You are full of shit.”
"I just want to be taken seriously." Fred said as he walked up the apartment stairs. Oscar followed behind him. "Then you should consider a new wardrobe buddy." "What's wrong with how I dress?" "Nothing, if you want to be a pizza man for the rest of your life." Oscar carefully pinched Terrance's hood as if he were picking up a dirty napkin and made a face. His red hoodie was well worn with frayed edges. He wore the thing all the time. His sister gave it to him as a birthday present five years ago right before she disappeared.
I look up, squinting, I can see them approaching. Why didn’t we get any warning? Did ‘they’ know? Selfishly, I ponder my own mortality and realise I don’t have time . . . all I can think of is the waste. Instantly, I feel a wave of guilt that my thoughts are not immediately drawn to the Lithricon. No time to prepare, but we have to be ready. I won’t let them get it – we have resisted before. I am strong. We are strong. We must protect the Lithricon above our own lives. Do they know it’s our only weakness?
Ribon Wheeler sucked on lilacs blooms while her mother blew smoke rings toward the ceiling fan. This summer wouldn’t stray from ordinary routine; Ribon would live with her father and strategize how to kill her mother without laying a hand on her. “You’re taking your life in your hands living with that prick,” her mother said. “Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, you’re a freak,” Ribon whispered in her mother’s ear, then tossed the stalk of lilac blooms at the fan. The blades tore through the pedals leaving the kitchen air heavily sweet with a touch of ash.
Pedrolino and Columbina Take a Trip Across The Atlantic.
Harlequin sits on the wing of the plane. He laughs at me. I offer my hand to him one last time but he snarls and shakes his fist. “She will come for me, you’ll see. She is my Columbina” he shouts. I don’t argue with him, though I know his quest is futile. I take a tomato juice from the flight attendant and loosen my tie. I squeeze Columbina’s hand. She smiles. Au clair de la lune mon ami pierrot. They sang. But, look at me now. She loves me. I shed a tear. I shall miss the harlequin’s grin.