"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.
"I got a garbage brain," he sang as he swam.
"What?" she asked, spitting water.
"I got ninety six ears and ninety six eyes," he continued.
She knew she wasn't going to get a straight answer out of him and plunged down under the surface. She let the air escape her lungs as she sank deeper into the turquoise water.
A brightly coloured fish swam passed her. She wondered what kind of fish it was. She wondered why she hadn't ever been curious about fish before. Her lungs started to hurt.
She kicked and stroked and soon broke the surface....
The traitor looked at the girl with caramel coloured eyes through the bars of her cell. His glance paused at her bare breasts, then travelled up to meet her shimmering gaze.
"All you had to do was look the other way, and run with the rest of them," he said. "But no. Your stubborn principles got in the way and look where they have brought you."
The girl stared at him, whishing daggers in his eyes, his heart and his groin.
"Now, now," he said. "You don't seem too receptive to the guards advances. It's a shame, things would be...
Taste is a matter of where and where you grew up. I am lucky enough to be born in a Country where taste can be seen and savored on a daily base and almost everywhere. Italy is made of taste; great taste, not only concerning the food, but it applies also to cars, shoes, clothing, manners and beautiful ladies. We all know what a man should do to make a lady feel great, isn't that considered taste? When we eat at home or at the fanciest restaurant on the coast do we know what wine is to be matched with...
This dream was better than waking. But, as with all dreams, reality breaks the fragile bubble. He came and went with shocking speed. Bearing gifts, weaving dreams and peeling back years of frustration and pain. She should really hate him but she couldn't. Not because of the lost chance at love nor because of the deceit but because of her part in this beautiful charade.
She allowed herself to feel young again, to feel warm and receptive. It was a feeling that had been lost long ago. The remembrance made her feel foolish, but not for being drawn in to...
Thats the kind of life I dream about, one where i stop to arch in the wind alongside the flowers. The life I have, it's not so much like that, I rarely stop, seldom arch, I stride, I talk, I eat I drink, I spend, I worry. But I know the wind blows and the flowers go gently with it, and they'll be there one day when I stop to see them, to sit with them
and bend.
The gate closed behind them. Back to the land of the living, no walking into the light without a backward glance.
Angels watched the reluctant men, women and children hesitate, clutching hands with their loved ones, those that had passed on beforehand and had greeted them. Now comforting and advising it is the wrong time to stay. They were special, given a glimpse into heaven, a chance to alter their lives for good, inspire others that there is more to this life than most believe nowadays. They would return without the paralysing fear of death, they would welcome the last...
Raisins are evil. They just don't belong... anywhere really. They're grapes that couldn't make it and have a second chance as rai-sins... that's right. Sins. You read it right. You have to admit that it's pretty strange that sins is right there in raisins. They're evil little wanna bes that wreak havok on all things good and wholesome. Cinnamon buns for instance. What's worse in a cinnamon bun than raisins? Nothing! Raisins are the poops of the fruit world! And they end up in your cinnamon bun like little turds. Little fruit turds that have to be picked around and...
It was white. That was something that was abnormal about the entire situation. What was not something that one thought of when being beaten.
He wondered if perhaps it was heaven trying to tell him that he was closer than he though. He hoped that it was finally the light at the end of the tunnel, but when the next blow from the stick hit him across the back, he knew he had no such luck.
A small well of blood slowly came up his throat. It almost felt like a terrible hiccup to him. One of those hiccups that...
I could hear it whipping in the wind outside my bedroom; his coat that was left on the laundry line to hang dry. You can't leave clothes out on a line when it's winter in New York; 'specially the mountains. The cuffs and the buttons froze when I finally had the courage to get it. A crow sat on the line right by it and cawed when I went to release the jacket from the clothespins.
I brought it into my mama, who told me he aint' never comin' back to Saranac. It's sad, you know, that he left her....