Kent was stabbing someone. I think it was Mary. Maybe it was Bill. I don't know. The important thing is that it was a person and he or she was in the process of being killed by Kent, who everyone called "The Guy Who Likes to Stab People." Once he tried to stab Tony buy Tony was wearing chainmail so it didn't work. Later they went for figs.
Kent finished stabbing the person, who then died. The person was red, slick with blood. I didn't know if it was a man or woman. When he was done, Kent wiped his...
The year was 1986, a foggy memory bubbling up to the surface of John's mind. He felt the asphault digging into his palms as he pushed himself up to his feet. His back screamed at him to stay down, but there was no time to remain limp on the floor.
200 years, thought John. This was the world as it was 200 years ago. John smiled to himself then, everyone had told him he was crazy... that his ideas were ludicrous. Time travel?.. a concept for the inept and idealistic as one professor had put it. With the arrival of...
I had been running for just over an hour, almost breathless. Whose idea was it to train for this marathon anyways? I've always liked running, but never really enjoyed it, you know? There are only so many routes you can take. This time, I decided to say screw the concrete jungle, I'm going to take this somewhere different. So I took to the hills, as they say. Not gonna lie, it was much more interesting than running on pavement. The damp grass under my shoes, the crunching of the twigs, all that good stuff. I stopped at the top of...
Gigantic. It's not a word you use to describe a penis. It's too bulky. Women want softer words. More exotic words. Words that whisper and moan.
Never start with sex either. You start in the middle of things and the audience has nowhere to go. I recommend a bus stop. You get a conversation going. Maybe about how yellow the daisies are lately or why the bees are dying.
Of course you'll think the audience will get impatient. Get to the hard core sex already! But they won't. Anticipation and all. I once wrote a story that had fourteen pages...
The two of them sat there, staring at their glasses. They each had their of Johnny Walker, black for one, red for the other.
The bar tender walked by, they almost simultaneously motioned toward their glasses.
The pour seemed slow, but they paid no attention to it. Garbed in black suits, with white shirts and black ties, they hunched over their vessels, as if protecting the precious liquid from some evil darkness.
"I just can't wrap my head around it, Gabriel."
"I know Joseph."
"I mean, today was one of those days you read about, you watch in movies, man."...
“Right next to the heart-shaped waffle maker, that’s where it sits.” Like so many other thoughtful, can’t-miss gifts that were utilized immediately and then quickly forgotten about.
“No, not the deflated exercise ball, it’s there on the other side. Can’t you see how neatly and purposely it’s stacked?” A thin, film of dust had collected and moisture had started to claim some of the top pages. But it was all still there, the zenith of my existence and purpose in this life.
“No I’m not talking about heart-shaped waffles!” She’s antagonizing me now… “Oh, haven’t you heard? They were all...
"Following up from the fight we had last night Darren"
"I don't wanna talk about it Judy"
I can see the fear in Darren's eyes, i know he wants to tell me something, I just don't know what. His hands are trembling, while peeling the potatoes preparing for dinner. The look on his face is getting worrying. He suddenly falls to the floor, the peeler is down there with him. What did he do? What did I do? 911. PLease..
The pidgeon man rolled off the sky-scraper. Thousands of birds flew with the updraft, gaining momentum as they hurled their bodies into his back. The crawling taxis below wailed insistently. Pedestrians opened their umbrellas, one by one. Sunset embalmed the towers in reflective flame.
The pidgeon man did not see what was beneath him. He only and always looked up.
His shadow grew on the pavement. He was seconds away from landing, yet the birds continued their sacrifice.
I don't like this piece at all. It is a depressing photo. :(
Read something else.
The coldness of the water caught her by surprise, ripping what little breath she had managed to grab hold of from her lungs, leaving her vulnerable and blinded.
Her feet were bound, but her arms were free; she had managed to untangle the untidy and hastily tied knots as she walked from the boat to the end of the plank. Thankfully. Although it was still a struggle, at least she could at least try to save herself.
Pirates and their superstitions. No women on board the ship when it sets sale. Ridiculous. And yet, they said, there were enough incidents...
I was an optimist. I thought that I, like Hemingway, could weave my influence between countries, live in the welcoming limbo between a government I believed in and one that spoke my language. I stopped trying to return to the United States thirty years ago. I am an airplane steward now. Sometimes I write in imperfect Spanish for a newspaper named after a boat named after a nameless elderly woman half a century dead. I believe every word I write. I am happy.
But the days I spent in the narrow land come back to me every day. They knew...