Until now, she’d never thought of herself as pretty. Beautiful, yes. Stunning, definitely. An angel fallen to earth, she’d occasionally even heard that one. But ‘pretty’? Pretty was little girl sweet and candy floss innocence. It was not her because it was not enough. Pretty just didn’t cut it.
She stared at herself in the mirror. She’d been doing the same thing for an hour now, barely moving, hardly breathing, not wanting a hair to fall out of place. Pretty was an insult. She couldn’t bear to hear it again, so she was going to make sure she didn’t. That...
"The day after tomorrow, this will all be over." He promised. Jason kissed Anna's hand as he said it and then returned his focus to the road.
"I know." She whispered into the passenger side window, "I just wish it could be over now. I'm so tired, Jason."
"Baby," He didn't break eye contact with road, "It'll all be over soon. And then we can start our life together. Isn't that what you want?"
"Yes." She sighed, "I just didn't want it this way."
"Well, this is the only way it can be." Anna knew he was right and she...
There's somebody standing in the corner of my room.
Did you not hear me?
Let me say it again.
There is somebody standing in the corner of my room.
A blonde little girl sucking her thumb and staring back at me with these big brown eyes. She wears a ragged green dress that she held fisted in the hand that wasn't in her mouth.
"Hi," she muttered around her thumb. "Someone told me you could help me."
I stared back at her dumbstruck with my jaw on the floor. After I picked it up I asked, "Who exactly are you?"...
Homeless, the art installation won first prize. John Wentworth had planned to ruin the artist Kitty More. She used his idea. The one he told her about during their snakebite drinking days. The ones when they both woke up with hangovers worthy of bad poetry, the agony of headaches.
John posted intimate, embarassing photos of her. Lovers amateur sex tapes. Recorded snores and farts. Millions of hits. She retreated from the public eye, she always had low self esteem.
But he never thought she was the suicidal type.
The conversation lasted two words:
"Please?"
"No."
Afterwards, Katy wondered if she and Daddy had actually been talking about the same thing or not. Maybe he thought she still wanted to have ponies at her birthday party. Didn't he know she had gotten over that already? Or maybe he figured she was asking for a sip of that grown-up drink he had been holding.
She resolved to sort things out. That evening, when he arrived home from work, Katy shuffled meekly into the kitchen and said, "Daddy..."
"No," he replied brusquely. But his eyes said something different.
Embolded, Katy blurted...
The conversation lasted two words.
At least, by the computer's definition of 'word'. That was definitely the source of the bug.
Gigantic. Alana stared at it, her mouth open wide. The only word to describe it was gigantic.
"I - I don't know what to say." her voice was barely louder than a whisper.
"Say 'yes'." prompted Max, his eyes wide with anticipation.
Alana stared at it, not daring to make eye contact with him. It was all such a shock and she hated suprises.
He should know that, if he knew her as much as he said he did, he would know this about her. That he didn't raised all sorts of questions.
Braving a glance at Max, she saw...
A tattoo of a shadow remains when the light recedes.
Mock the sun, then, and ridicule the clouds. They've always seemed so stupid anyway.
Clouds. The poets can have them. They can have the clouds and the sun. Where are their clouds on a sunny day? And where's their sun on this overcast morning?
That's my shadow. I always have it. I don't need the weather -- just the steady hand of a artist.
Tattooed, herself.
Well, I said I wanted it to be a quiet vacation. You can't get much quieter than this. Even if this atmosphere were thick enough to conduct sound waves, I'm the only sentient being on Mars.
Yep, nice and quiet. Finally.
What have I got, eight more? Ten, maybe?
No, eleven. Eleven protein-carbo bars and four liters of water. The fusion pack is good for another twenty-eight years, so if the waste recycle unit continues at ninety-eight percent efficiency...
That means I can keep re-eating my own feces and re-drinking my own urine for another twelve years.
I guess I...