"Well...that happened," thought the little pup as he watched his owner be eaten by a sharktopus. At least, he thought it was a sharktopus. His owner had been talking about it over and over again to random objects in the house like the small, hard thing that glows and vibrates every five minutes or the really loud block that holds the other block. He did very much like his owner, but he was often quite dumbfounded at his owner's abilities. For instance, whenever talking to him, his owner changed his voice as if he were someone else. Sometimes, when he...
"Two-thousand-seventy bottles of beer on the wall, two-thousand and seventy bottles of beeeeeer. Take one down, pass it around, two-thousand-and-sixty-nine bottles of beer on the waaaaaaaaaaaaaaall."
Johnny steps down from the stage to thunderous, silent applause. A few faces are comically stunned. Most are arranged in various expressions of disgust.
I'm sure the patrons of the Poet's Society were hoping for better lyrics from the Frontman of the Year. I walk hurriedly to the publicist to begin my explanation. Should I go for the cancer, the break-up, the drugs, or the booze option? I'm sure that's what everyone's thinking anyway....
The clocks and the teddy bears I could understand, but the fruit really threw me for a loop. If you'll pardon the... well, actually, don't worry about the pardon. The time for pardons has passed. Yes?
I would have thought there'd been more books, but I guess I should be thankful there was one at all. One book, two shoes. That's a bit mortifying, really, but it's only fair. One couldn't get very far with just one shoe. I mean, I couldn't. Then again, I never got very far with just one book.
And seeing Her again after all this...
I sat on the bench in the park. Breathed in the air. Smelled the ash and dust.
It was quiet here, beneath the shade of the building, and it wasn't something so surprising. The city was empty. I was alone.
They say that death sends you somewhere either utterly amazing or utterly horrible. I can say that death brings you to neither. I died a while ago, though time seems to freeze here. I wondered where I was, for a while, and where everyone else was. But this place, this quiet, lonely place, is now my home.
I lean back...
Fault.
The window?
The guardrail that gave way?
The father who opened the window earlier?
The mother who moved the ottoman too close to the window?
The gate that inexplicably stopped being baby-proof that night?
The nanny who ran into the other room to grab his bottle?
The parents who were away at a colleague's baby shower?
The decision to buy an apartment on the 15th floor?
The gusty winds that day?
The decision to go to the party?
The invite?
When Martin woke up, he was still in the back of the van. He didn't know, how long he was unconscious. He couldn't see anything but darkness, but he heard and felt, that the van was still driving. After a while, his eyes started to make out some details in the dark, when he spotted a tine hole in the van, through which a little light came in. He pressed his face onto the aluminum wall and tried his best to make out some details about his whereabouts. At first, all he could see was white, but then he spotted...
I slowly lifted my head, spat the straw out of my mouth and wondered who the hell had encased my skull in lead.
What a party!
The details were a little vague. I knew Big Dave was there and I had a faint recollection of him laying in the bath fast asleep and covered in lipstick. I laughed quietly so as not to hurt my head.
'Heavy night mate' came a voice from behind?
I responded with a grunt, the best I could manage with a mouth like a sandpit.I turned very slowly and my eyes finally began to focus....
They had come up this mountain every wensday evening for the last three years, from the creation of there IOGT-lodge. The first one in this country and now there outdoor meetings was to come to an end. The lodge house was soon to be finished and there common soberity had a place to live
Indeed in a hundred years another generation will look at this photo and now the story some even beeing related to the heroic pioners of the movement.
How the small movement for soberity started in New York state now lived on and inspired so many generations...
It rose. She held his hand and it felt like grass. It was grass between her fingers; but for all she cared at that moment, it was his brown hair.
She had always promised to watch it with him. To let the gold clothe their bodies slowly as they sat together, her tousling his hair. She leaned her back against the cold, flat stone behind her back and stretched her legs.
She smiled. She was happy for the first time in her life. She had fulfilled her duty to him, her last promise. Her head told her she should feel...
"Listen," I whisper. "Hear the waves crash."
She listens, head cocked to one side. Her beautiful golden hair cascades down her face, a blonde waterfall.
"They're telling you stories," I tell her. "And you can hear them, if you listen."
You can almost hear her, the force it takes for her air-filled brain to concentrate, and listen. Now, she is perfectly poised, on the edge of the cliff. The waves break below her, screaming in her ear. It only takes a slight shove, and she topples off the edge. Even in death she is picture-perfect. For a few moments she...