While Bach and Bethoven echoed in my ears, I slowly, stared at the monarch butterflies soaring in the fresh, thin air that surrounded me. I bit my lip, and then grabbed at them, but an unsuccessful attempt. I laughed and laughed. I doubled over, when I saw a man in a kyak capsize, and fall deep into the depths of the water. It felt calm and natural, sitting here, looking at the trees, the water and the sunset. A white butterfly, out lined with black-blue colors, flew in, beautifully flapping it's wings, and landed on my shoulder. I glanced at...
It was weird, the way the rest of the world could see something that you yourself couldn't.
Like, I look in the mirror and there's - yeah, there's a girl there. And...yes, those eyes are dark, and that hair is...kinda curly, if it's behaving, and that skin is pale, freckled -
And I'm seeing the things I need to do to get to beautiful. Pluck that, moisturise that, define that, conceal that (some mornings, conceal all of it, please)
The amount of times I look at myself and I think that I need to be fixed. That I need to...
Man do I ever love typing ampersands. Seriously. Whenever I type one, it's like the whole universe shits solid gold joy right on my lap. Life is all sunshine and rainbows and Barbie Doll bumholes whenever I type an ampersand. I'm actually feeling a bit melancholy right now, so I'm gonna type an ampersand.
&
HOLY SHIT AM I EVER HIGH ON LIFE RIGHT NOW!!!! SERIOUSLY, IT IS LIKE RONALD MCDONALD AND ORCA THE KILLER WHALE ARE BOTH TAKING ME ON A ROCKET TRIP TO PLUTO TO SEE SAMMY DAVIS JUNIOR STRANGLE MIMES WHILE WEARING LEONARD NIMOY'S SPOCK OUTFIT!!!!
Let...
Fred wanted the puppets. He wanted all the puppets, man. If Fred couldn't have puppets, he'd be a miserable SOB. All he could ever think about was puppets. He wore his socks on his hands. That's how much he loved puppets.
So when he saw the Punch and Judy set on ebay, he knew he had to act. Problem was: Sylvester Stallone was coming over for lunch. He'd slaved for hours over the meal (pickles on rye bread. And figs.) He wanted to impress Sylvester Stallone with stories of how he rubbed Cheez Whiz into the hair of his buttocks,...
Just put it away, I don't want to play.
Come on.
Not now.
Come on, we're just sitting here waiting. You know it'll take forever for them to get back to us.
Okay, fine.
All right, who invented the hot air balloon?
I did.
No, the Montgolfier Brothers.
Well...
Listen, if you're gonna answer "me" for every question, it's not gonna be fun.
It's not fun.
You're a real drag.
I'm just having an off day. Let's sit in silence.
Let's try another question.
Fine.
What is next week's winning lottery number?
That's it. I've got to go.
Oh, come...
"If life were only that easy."
The boy stood up and began his usual every day routine. He reached for his old and torn up sweat pants and applied them to his lower body with ease. He then walked over to his closet and yanked out the first t-shirt that he felt, moving it towards his face.
"It smells, but eh, it is Exodus!"
He put the musty shirt on and made his way into the kitchen. His sister, as usual, was making what he considered the greatest French Toast in the world. He knew that this claim was most...
"Skipper! Where are you, dammit?"
Op.8. Op.8.
"Wretched dog! You've only got so much time!"
Locate Rory. Locate. Locating. Locating.
"Where are you?" Another voice chimes in. "I want my paper. It's early in the morning. They told us you were an obedient creature."
Rory found, chasing butterflies on the south lawn. Come closer. Closer.
The little girl shouts, "Skipp-er! Skipp-er!"
Skipper barks, and Rory calls back. Safety is across the bridge, across the broken-windowed fairy house and shattered pond, but the voices are coming and Skipper has no idea how to stop them.
"I want my newspaper! Come over...
If I just write something, what if I reveal something unsavoury about myself?
What if I mess up the spelling?
What if I am under so much pressure to knock something out in six minutes that I don't write anything? A single blank page permanently appearing on my profile as a record of my inneptitude?
What if I write about something uncool, or unninteresting? First impressions count, after all. I'll be an outcast before I've even started.
Maybe I could just leave here and never come back. All this would be a brief, awkward memory. I could add it to...
"I have something to tell you."
These are not words you want to hear from your girlfriend when you first walk in the door after a late night at work. Still, Lewis tried to stay calm, tried not to let his imagination get ahead of him. He sat down at the formica kitchen table, looking up at Sadie. She was actually wringing her hands. He thought that only happened in stories. A long pause...
"Well, honey? What is it? You're making me kind of nervous here."
"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I just... Ok. Here goes. I'm... I'm a...
Marie wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. Breathing heavily, she glanced impatiently at the bland, hospital door; its paint peeling around the edges; the hinges rusted. She knew that her sister was not in the hands of the most experienced doctors in town, but it was the closest hospital to home. Unsure of what to do with her hands, she interlaced her fingers, scrutinising the short, stumpy nails; a result of her anxious gnawing. Marie's mind wandered, as far as it could from the looming thought of her sister's fate. But within seconds, her thoughts were pulled right back...