In the beginning, there were no gods.
A human boy named Micah, not yet a man, was the first to make the discovery that if the Earth existed, then there must be a heaven; a divine source, a metaphysical origin of the crude, material plane that we inhabit. And so, partly by accident, and partly by perseverance, he discovered the doorway to heaven.
He went through it without a second thought. His other human peers had always mocked him for being too short, too weak, too strange. His family ignored him. He had the time to uncover the doorway because...
She was lost in a land, not exactly a physical one. She was surrounded by things that made her happy. She was floating endlessly in a world that was completely hers, and she loved it here.
Was she alone? How could she not be. Yet the silence was filled with voiced and faces. You see she could be whoever she wanted, do whatever she wanted and love whoever she wanted. As she lay there asleep but awake in this marvelous world she spotted her, in the distance. Her long brown hair not easily missed, she lay there too just waiting....
I stare at the row of perfect houses resting on the perfectly manicured lawns beneath a perfectly blue sky by perfectly green trees. I am surrounded by perfection, but I have not been given it.
Sometimes I wonder why I'm doing this.
I bend down to the ground. There is a ball lying there, perfectly out of place. I pick it up. My son could've played with this ball. He would have been good at sports, I'm certain. Slowly I curl my fingers around it, and feel the perfectly creased leather, shiny with memories of sunny afternoons and perfect throws...
I turned on my computer, the screen showed me that my picture was unavailable. I pased this as something that happens to me all the time. Then I rememmbered. When you turn on a computer it dosent give you a responcd like this. I turned around and grabed my mouse, then it desapered under my hand. Then the lights went out. Hands with thick leathery gloves on grasped my neek. I screamed but notinh came out. I coundt breath untill it let go. i took a gulp of air and just in the nick of time because after the last...
She heard their labored breathing coming closer now. She huddled closer into the doorway, willing herself to be blend into the red painted facade of the building. She shut her eyes, a childish hold-over, believing that if she couldn't seem them, they couldn't see her. Of course she knew that wasn't true, but maybe if she closed her eyes, tight enough, she could mute the pounding of her heart; a sound so loud she was convinced her pursuers could hear it echoing in the damp and empty alley way.
"BANG!" She nearly screamed out, at the sudden and intrusive sound....
My mother was not svelte. She spent her life washing clothes, lifting children, and hauling sacks of potato and flour from the market to our small apartment in Flushing. My father frequently looked at the Sears catalog, commenting on the models within. "Why don't you look more like this one?" he would ask, as though the answer weren't obvious. My father did not look like Marlon Brando (young), and my mother did not look like Marlene Dietrich. Yet somehow, I never heard my mother ask my father why he didn't look like this one. Long suffering, some might say.
She...
I remember when it started. We were playing cards, as we had done for years. It's a a simple way to pass the time when visiting your grandparents in the country. The comfort in the shuffling by sturdy hands. Methodical. Solid. Dependable.
"I don't seem to remember how the game starts. Refresh my memory."
Confusion was set deep in those smiling brown eyes.
We made it through that game, but it was the last game. Forgotten card game rules progressed into forgetting how to car and confusion over items.
I visit her in the nursing home, wishing I could pull...
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The droplets of drool fell like stones from the gaping monstrous mouth. Gusts of racid breathes portruded before it. Sckirrrrrrrrrrr. The earsplitting whistle of its call, feeling like nails were being dragged down a chalk board next to my ear.
More were coming. My fearful eyes could see the shadows dragging themselves along the ground.
Useless bloodied limbs, torn apart by the undergrowth hanging uselessly between their ferocious canines. Blood surrounded their snout.
They were coming. For me.
He heaved a sigh as he walked down the hallway. The revolver hung heavy in his hand. He had no idea what model or brand or whatever the gun was supposed to be. He'd gotten it at a pawn shop for $15, along with a little blue soldier toy for a mere 50 cents. It was cheap. The paint on the toy was chipped, but its expression of determination haunted him.
He was exhausted. He was done. He couldn't take this any longer.
"Hey, kiddo..." He called. He'd reached his son's room. This was probably the first time they'd talked...
It's not easy being funny.
People expect things of you. They come to you down in the mouth, looking for a laugh. Most of the time you can oblige them, but it's hard creating something from nothing. I'm not a music box that you can wind up and expect to hear a tune. At least say "please."
I guess it comes from watching too much television. Sitcoms really mold a kid who spends half his day on the couch. That, and a willingness to tell the truth to people's faces.
Anyway, it's easy to ask for a laugh. It's just...