Wine makes you drunk if you drink too much. I like wine. Its like grape juice with alcohol. They should put it in juice packs and give it to adults. If you drink wine while your pregnant, then your baby will get messed up and look like a raisin. i like raisins. they are grapes that got old and they got shriveled up, like my uncle. He drank too much wine and got messed up. My mother doesn't drink wine anymore. It kills you slowly.
It was cold. Freezing, really. There at the stoop, on the street, glowing in red. Dark, straight hair raking her face. She shivered, stood and walked down the street. To me, this place is foreign. To her, she knows the environment like the stories her mother told her. She walks down the road away from the doorway. Where they threw her out. Spit on her. But now she walks down the road trying to keep warm. She coughs. The shivers shake her again. The cold day drops her onto the street, rejecting her and the brightness of her clothes. The...
There were three daughters of the Feng family, and when the father lost his business and the mother lost her mind, the three daughters were left to serve others on their own china, long ago sold for half its value to a family of gloating pretenders.
The first daughter married a nice young man from across the way, not a family of any importance but he was a hard worker and that was enough. The second daughter died young, and since no one cared to remember her family, much less her, her life was brief and short and unremarkable.
The...
Marvin knew that he had to return the salad dressing. Last night, it started screaming at him. "BRING ME DWARVES!" it yelled. Strange, since as far as Marvin knew, salad dressing does not have vocal cords.
So he put the salad dressing in a baggie and threw it in the back of his backpack. He could hear the salad dressing yelling. "I HATE THE DARK AND I HATE THE WARMTH!!! THIS IS WORSE THAN THE FRIDGE! THAT WAS DARK BUT AT LEAST IT WAS COLD!!!"
Down the stairs Marvin ran. As he pushed his way out the door, he ran...
Once upon a time in a bright, little forrest,
there were three Elves named Jimmie, Bob and Horace.
Jimmie was an arsonist, Bob was a drug lord,
and Horace killed hookers with an old VCR-cord.
They went into prison but just now they broke out,
"Each take a hostage and run to the river!", Bob shouts.
They stole a get-a-way boat to cross the stream,
when Bob decided to work against the team.
He killed two hostages and shot Jimmie in the leg,
So Horace had to put a bullet in Bob's head.
"My leg hurts like a bitch!", Jimmie...
I saw the thing. It was preserved in the glass case, the only one of its kind. So faithfully had the curators touched it, applied the special fluids, made sure that never again, never again would it be forgotten. It had been once before, after all. After all, memory is a sieve. And this was memory itself. It shouldn't have been forgotten.
I can't remember the thing itself especially now. I suppose that's expected. My memory's not special in anyway, no, not at all. It doesn't matter, anyways, just that it was a record, so that people wouldn't forget, wouldn't...
I walked down the street with my pants around my ankles, arms akimbo, doing the Super Bowl Shuffle with a boombox wrapped around my ears. I had picked up 20 D batteries at the store, and if I was going to do something, I was going to do it right.
With the screaming vocals of Ronnie James Dio blaring from two overworked speakers, I strutted along the Santa Monica Pier. Rather, I did the Penguin Push all down the boardwalk. It was times like these when I was proud to say that I could rock out with my cock out....
Turning twice to see the darkness and the light, Keeley lost track of the zombie that had been running along behind her at surprising speed. Somehow he slipped in to the shadows as her light-blinded eyes took too long to adjust. No matter. Keep moving. She had to keep moving. She'd learned that early on. They were too slow to give chase. Except this one. Something about they way he moved led her to think that he was different. Faster, yes. But also more precise.
The bridge ahead of her looked empty. Still, she approached it warily, knowing that appearances...
She found the key on the internet.
It seemed silly, a little, to buy a physical and tangible thing like that to open up a locked trunk in a dream. But it was necessary, she was sure. She'd been trying to get into the trunk in the bedroom of the house of doors - the house she returned to over and over again in her lucid dreams - for years. For as long as she could remember.
The trunk, solid and wooden, banded with brass and locked. It was impenetrable. She'd tried peering through the keyhole, picking the lock, everything....
"I'm in love with a robot!" "Oh, Barbie, congratulations!" Woody exclaimed, "but what happened to Ken?"
You see, Ken just didn't cut it anymore. Barbie had loved him for so long despite his all-polyester wardrobe, but recently she discovered that he had the hots for Bo Peep.
"What's his name?" asked Mrs. Potato Head. "Alfie, Alfie the spelling robot!" Barbie screamed. "I'm in love and I don't care who knows it!" "Awww," sighed Slink, "another romance in Andy's room."
"Have ya kissed em yet, Barb?"
"Yes, Skipper, I have."
"Awwww." said