Skipper was panting from the last half hour of running, in fact he was frothing at the mouth. Compared to the rest of his pack however, Skipper was doing quite well. In their eerily black and white world, one of their best friends had begun to experiment on the poor dogs, and now, their world had exploded inexplicably into a cosmos of strange and disconcerting qualities. The farmer had, much to Skipper and the other dogs' dismay, altered the K-9's to the point that they had been forced to trust their previously useless eyes more than their noses. What had...
"Dragonflies are good luck," his grandmother used to say. "They are fairies' horses. Their wings spread wishes and wonder."
He remembered that and not much else about her. They would sit in the grass by the shore of the lake. He used to spend three weeks every summer out at his grandparents house. They picked blueberries and chopped wood, made cookies and walked in the woods.
He was an adult now. They were long dead.
His daughter stood in front of him, frowning, hands onm hips. "That's not true, daddy. Dragonflies are dragonflies, not horses. And fairies don't exist."
He...
They crouched to peer beneath the stairs. They were surprised by how small it was -- "I don't even think an adult could fit in there," he said.
"Sure, if it was an adult midget," she said.
"How big of a midget?" he said.
"We're not really going to discuss the relative sizes of midgets, are we?" she said, turning to look at him for the first time since they found the passageway.
"I think dwarf is the preferred nomenclature anyway," he said with a tired air, pushing the hair out of his eyes. His glasses had slid down his...
I'm lost.
The corn fields turned into and endless turning of green upon green, and I couldn't run because the leaves had become blades.
I've stopped walking. I've stopped screaming. Screaming only made me thirsty, and I even tried tearing a corn leaf to pieces to suck on something, anything. I tried to pull an ear and when I pulled the leaves back, a handful of black ear wigs fell onto my lap, pincher butts spread wide. I wiped them off and ran.
Something cut my upper arm.
I lay now, staring at the sky, it's gone from gray to...
It's ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. STOP it from ringing!
Karla never wanted to hear his voice again. Never wanted to hear that damn ring of the public phone at on the corner of East and Cherry. Never wanted to wait again; to see if he'd call, usually he wanted money. Always for drugs. Drug money. Meth money. That idiot, he was killing himself, and now he wanted their son. Brian wouldn't even look at Gray when he came to the lobby of their high rise, his dad was always high, red-eyed, and stumbling. They used the pay phone in case...
…and at some moment you realize how wrong you were all that time. You don't need this anymore. Absurd. So annoying. You hear same phrases, stories, noises. And you cant do anything about it. You try to explain but what can you do when you are not used to explaining yourself. You have that stoned look on your face and not a thing can disturb you now. Because all you can hear are your thoughts. All you can feel is…and you make your first shot...
Same silence, the only difference is that you can actually hear that ear-breaking noise. Three...
The radio program came back from commercial and the husky voiced woman continued talking about robots. Steve imagined her full lips moving closely to the microphone as she discussed how robots should and should not be used.
"Some people say it's unnatural to give the elderly a robot companion," she said. "But it gives them something to talk to, even if they never respond. Studies show that seniors who have pets are happier, and live longer. But a dog cannot answer either, so what's the opposition to robots?"
Steve thought that was a stretch of belief, but her thick whiskey...
This wasn't supposed to happen. You weren't supposed to feel this way; about your mother-in-law. But didn't the saying go, if you wanted to know what your wife would look like in 30 years...and that was another thing. She only had another few years in her. Her husband wasn't giving it to her. I'm a goddamn octo-phile, he thought. Was that the word? But she was perfect -- an insurance commercial, the cover of Mature Living, hell, the centerfold.
"Theo, is everything all right, dear?" Theo had begun mumbling to himself.
"Yes, mom. I'll have another hot dog, if you...
I wish I had something to say
But every idea I have just sounds HEY!
ARE THOSE BUTTERFLIES!
IN OCTOBER!? She cries.
Attention Deficit Disorder's the theme of my day.
Once I had a bad case of food poisoning,
So bad, I called my ex-wife loudly moaning.
I projectile vomited with pride.
The guy next to me died.
When the bill came, I resumed my groaning.
That's it?
No **it?
That was terrible.
You are horrible.
The ocean, the land, the bridge. These are the metaphors of my life. I stand on sinking ground, toes curled against the tension of the the surf and sand, the give and take, the conquest and retreat. Submerge into eternity or hold my ground a while longer?
There is, of course, the bridge. The mediator. It arches over the rivals, dipping into one, clutching the hands of the other. It's base is mossy, cool, a fuzzed pillar for fish to dart around. It's back is hot, sunbaked.
The bridge is the holder of peace. It is the symbol of one....