Cold feet. She wore pink shoes under her white gown to match the theme. Pink. Well, Blush and Bashful just like Steel Magnolias - if you asked her, she wouldn't say Pink.
Cold feet. A pink winter wedding was all she wanted; Blush and Bashful were the colors; THE colors she had to have. Muffs on the bridesmaids' hands, all in the light-colored dresses. And roses. Lots and lots and tons and tons of roses. All in pink and white.
Cold feet. She spent the last 7 years with Austin, and this winter wedding was all she ever wanted. But...
"Everyone is a sun," he insisted, but no one was arguing.
"Every dog has his drug," he affirmed, and they all agreed.
"He's an unusual kid," I decided, and they all agreed.
"Everyone is a sun," he repeated, adding, "but not you," and he pointed his peanut butter fist at me.
The sky was hazy and blue, like the sun in a balloon, and the road was cold and icy.
I uncoiled my hand-knit scarf and decided to wait for the moon.
There's somebody standing in the corner of my room. He just stands there in diffused light - brooding and making no noise.
Oddly enough, he makes no attempt at escaping. Perhaps its because I stapled him to the dresser drawer as he had refused to have his picture taken.
He looks so much better in person anyway...
Life Drawing
Staring up at me from behind the glass, a mouth that never seems to quite close and two bulbous eyes. They follow my finger as it traces lines up and down the screen, creating bubbles in its wake. My friend, golden scales and graceful fins, swims in his electronic cage, making loops and pinwheeling along with the actions of my moving digit. He doesn't seem to know his home, the aqua-blue paradise of his existence filled with fiery coral, sunken ships, and bright shining trinkets is only a dream - one that is not even his own.
The dog told him to kill people. It wasn't like it was the first time either. Mr. Muffins had been telling Jim to kill people since he was but a pup.
At first it was the normal crazy things. Kill the president. Kill Madonna. Kill that guy who sells ice cream cones for 2 bucks down the street.
Really. Where was a 10 year old going to get 2 bucks for ice cream? The lemonade stand only earned him seventy five cents. And a bluegreen ball of yarn from Mrs. Patacki.
He managed to ignore the dog. Puppy voices were...
"Do you remember?"
"I remember"
"We were so..."
"Young"
"Stupid."
"We were kids."
"Would you still buy that excuse if one of yours said that to you?"
"Ha, I guess not."
"Because we were idiots."
"Clearly we haven't learned our lesson."
"Of course we have, there's some method to the madness these days."
"You call it method, I call it being surrounded."
"Go out with a bang though?"
"Always."
And with a nod, the two old friends picked up their paint ball guns.
"On three?"
"On three."
"One... two..."
Into the battle once more they ran, best friends who had...
I couldn't sleep with her next to me. Her body was cold, hard like marble, but also soft -- like frozen meat. That's all she was now: meat. The light was gone, and I could not sleep curled up next to my dead sister.
I needed to sleep. It would be at least another day before we made it to the border, maybe even two before we hit the safe house. Sonia would start to stink by then. And I would lose my mind if I didn't sleep.
Still, her body next to mine reminded me that it was only...
She held the letter, tears flowing down her face. Somehow she'd known it would always come to this. That no matter how hard she tried to steer him in the right direction, he was bound and determined to go his own way, like a shopping cart with a busted wheel.
The letter was short and to the point, mostly complaining about the food. Thankfully, he wasn't hurt, though he was thrown into solitary once for fighting.
As she re-read the letter, she sobbed, for she too was confined in a prison not of her choosing.
In 1921, he flew from the Great Rift Valley, along the trails left by the ancient Martians, to find the Temple of the Sun. It was buried, like so much else on Mars, in red sands over the course of millennia, but that meant nothing when you had a native to escort you to their ancestral home.
"So, how can we breathe here?" Pete asked the small, silver creature before him.
It sat in the biplane, strapped in, looking ridiculously small in the pilot's seat. "Air bubble," it replied, fiddling with the dials.
Pete had never flown in a biplane...
Stupid, insignificant human! Does he not realise his days are numbered? As soon as he releases me from this cardboard prison, he will die! Now I just need to get him to let me out. Perhaps mewing pathetically will do the trick. I do hate to degrade myself in such a manner, but if needs must...
I tell you, my life was perfect before he came along. The Owners used to feed me, tickle me under the chin until I purred, and let me take over the Big Bed during the day. Sometimes even at night too. Mmmm. Those were...