Trivia. He'd always desired it. Kept and hoarded as much as he could. Sam Carson the youngest DOT COM Billionaire ever to spot, harness and reap a trend. Who knew that others liked (and would pay by micro-transaction) to keep their nostalgic memories in digital form. Still, his (actually quite vast) fortune hadn't stopped the throat cancer. Losing his persuasive voice was a hit that sent him into minimalism after that. Just the one wife. One mistress. All else he gave vicariously away. His tombstone was the final evidence of his loss of largesse. None of the LCD Virtually Real...
"What's taking you so long, dad?"
I'm eight, and we are on a fishing trip, and I'm having a terrible time. My father is attempting to set up our antique tent and making a great mess of things. He is not the type to keep particularly organized. Perhaps it was he who passed that onto me.
"This goddamn rod is bent all to shit," he grumbles. He always used to curse when he was irritated, which was often. I always knew to steer clear of him in those moments or he would find some arbitrary task for me to do...
The embroidery was hard to steal. Laser beams criss crossing the museum walls and floors. Two hours later I was opening the bag of cash, counting, shaking hands with my client, ignoring the warning thoughts invading my head since the moment I'd been hired.
'Moonlite Glow' was cursed. Apparently, anyone who handled it suffered misfortune. The last four owners died unexpectedly, gruesome and slow. One fell out of his bedroom window straight onto steel sharp railings, not found until the next day. Another drowned in his hot tub after his big toe got stuck somehow. He shut off his mind...
Mike had been walking for hours. Flamin' car. He knew he shouldn't have bought that old banger from Rob. The heat was belting down; it must have been at least 25 celsius. 'Hey, that's hot in Newcastle', he could hear himself saying defensively to Rob who always took holidays in Tunisia and Morocco.
The tarmac was beginning to soften and the collar on his shirt was chafing. No way he'd make that interview now. His first chance to get up the ladder in years, he'd been picturing telling Rob for ages, and now he'd blown it. Or, rather, the car...
Hooked up to machines and pipes, I lay here, hearing my hard breathing, my hard heart beating.
I hear the beeping of a machine. I hear the sheets of my bed move together and I shift my weight from my left to my right. I hear my joints grind.
It is so loud in this room. So many things making so many noises. I can't stand it. Someone just come in here and make some actual noise. Something that an old man can be distracted with and not focus on the frivolous.
The frivolous things such as the time I...
It was her masterpiece.
Jutting out of the water, everyone around could see what she'd created - what *she* had created.
Some, she knew, would say it was ugly. Some would say it was an eyesore. Some would say it was totally unnecessary, but she wouldn't let any of that bother her.
It was her creation, her mark on the world, and that was all that mattered.
She wouldn't live to see it, but as it happened, she was right. She left her mark, and as she'd ignored, everyone hated it. Everyone, by extension, hated *her*, and rarely did a...
One scoop chocolate, one scoop strawberry.
One scoop soil, one scoop blood.
One scoop of fear, one scoop of daring.
One scoop of regret, one scoop of happiness.
One scoop flesh, one scoop breath.
One scoop breath...
One scoop breath...
One scoop breath...
For more than one scoop blood
The audience stared open mouthed at me. I didn't know if I should cover up or keep dancing. Who would have thought I would have fallen out of my costume? A wardrobe malfunction, that's what they called it.
So I did what I thought was the right thing to do. I pushed myself back into the low-cut tube top and kept on dancing.
It wasn't like I was a double D floating through the air as the tassels twisted blindly around. I could fudge a C on a cold day.
I just hope someday I will live down the day...
The bird took off. The mail was delivered. A red car drove past. An old man with a cane walked past on the sidewalk.
Every day, these things happened in exactly the same way, at exactly the same times.
Other things were the same, too: the news, the conversations she had, the expressions on the faces of the people she met. The bus to work was always four minutes late, like clockwork.
But there were differences, too.
After about ten days, she started to notice things disappearing. First it was her keys, then her couch. Then the maple tree in...
Lost, without a hand to hold. Lizzie slowly sidled her fingers into the palm of Elder Barnes. He placed both hands on her soul bumps, feeling the hairy base of each above the fine stitch work, and the subtle movement below the skin. This act of passive acceptance of his touch was a necessary part of being his student.
"Tell me again of the Biclops." she asked. His fingers moved away from her head, more quickly than customary, forgetting to reciprocate. She understood the snub. He was not letting her feel his own soul flaps. He was angry.
"The Biclops...