The man in the yellow shirt entered the elevator and pressed the lowest button, which was marked 'B3'. The light next to the word 'DOWN' lit up, and down we went.
"Down?" I exclaimed in confusion. "I don't want to go down. I want to go up. I pressed 31. Why is the elevator obeying you and not me? I was here first."
"It likes me better," said the yellow-shirted man.
"Why would it like you? You're ugly looking and your shirt is stupid."
"How do you know what an elevator thinks is ugly? Maybe it likes my shirt."
I...
Spinning this wasn't going to be easy, Simon thought, suddenly conscious of his thumping heartbeat. What on earth was going to come out of his mouth? Oh well, sometimes you just have to plunge in and have faith that the words will come.
He stepped out of the wings and into the bright floodlights, smiling his confident way up to the podium. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he began. "Many of you will have seen the election results by now. . ."
The bear was furious. That much we were sure of. This had been its cave, and we'd simply marched in, claws bared, claiming a challenge, ready to fight. It had been nothing against the bear, per say. We'd simply needed a place, to stay, and this was the first shelter from the rain we'd found. It was simple, and it was away.
Away from all the hustle and bustle of the city, the terrible overload and smell and sound and sights; a wonderful palette for the senses to sample, yes, but far too much. We had simply taken it wrong,...
like a breeze?
this prompt sucks, she said as she typed away. thoughts aflutter even while she cursed whoever suggested it.
wasting time. time. like a breeze. sucksucksuck
sucking me out of existence, whooshing me past all opportunities. the wind too strong to lift my arm to grab the hand of the One thing that might save me from wasting more.
and yet, i experience. time flying by, whirlwind, and little i. left with the experience. like a breath. the wind.. swirled into the lung. exhaled, expelled, exploded back out.
all connected.
does wind have any way of Not be...
You're forgetting what happened and remembering what didn't
I'm now your memory and have given up mine
When you're gone
Will that be a blessing or a curse?
I lash out in frustration
But the strike is soon forgotten
And I'm the one left wounded
Twice over
You forget what happened
And I remember for you
And in doing so
I have given up the last pure memory of childhood
I'd trade, you know
You take mine, I'll take yours
But I think you'd find my memory
A bitter thing
You forgot
I remembered
What happened?
She'd have preferred the electric chair, at least that one bloody moved. She could get up a good speed on that one, maybe she could get out of it, escape their sympathetic looks. It was bad enough losing the power in your legs without their condescending looks. Idiots.
Apparently it was a "power chair", but, frankly, bollocks to that. Jokingt that she was living out a death sentence was one of her few pleasures left - that terror in their eyes, the "oh god how do we respond to that" was what she was living for right now.
Actually, that...
You can count me out. I'm over it. Through with you, done with everything....That's a lie. Count me in, it's about time, right? Six years is long enough to be apart. I've waited for this; you, maybe not. Either way, the date's approaching. Count me out, though, it might be a bad decision. No...count me in, I can't wait to see you. Remember that summer? Remember that WINTER? No, no, I can't see you, count me out. Count me in, count me out, I can't decide one way or the other. No, for sure, count me in, what am I...
Woof woof. Woof woof woof woof woof. Woof. Bark woof. Woof. Woof woof woof. Bark bark woof bark. Woof.
She was the most delicate girl in town - pale skin stretched tight over a skeletal face, hair the colour of fresh milk, body tall and angular. Her eyes were of the softest blue, her cheeks flushed pastel pink, her lips like an English rose. Fragile, barely there, more ghost than anything real: that's what people said about her, that's what they thought when they passed her in the street. But as delicate as she was, as insubstantial, there was something very real and present in the way that she held herself and in the manner of her walk. One...
Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway.
She was crouched over an open laptop, her scowl lit up by the screen as she stabbed cmd+R repeatedly. The browser blinked frantically as it reloaded the same white text area on the same light blue background over and over and over again.
"It's past midnight in the U.S.," she muttered. "Why hasn't the prompt been updated yet?"
She scrolled down the rest of the page, cmd-clicking every link until the Twitter page popped up.
"GODDAMMIT," she cried, 'THEY'RE ON THE WEST COAST."