They were listening.
Whispering things. What he should do.
Of course he'd scream that he shouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't, wouldn't, wouldn't, and could they just PLEASEJUSTOUTOFHISHEADANDLEAVEHIMALONEALONEALONE
....
....
....
He couldn't suppress a smirk as another blanched and walked away from him as fast as they could. Ah well, they'd just assume it's another 'facet' of him appearing. It'd be lost in the mountain of expressions he showed or said. One good thing about this was he could do whatever he wanted w/o question.
Who knew acting crazy could leave him to be so free?
Hospitals won't help a dying man. At least not one who is truly dying. Most hospitals will rush to help a man who's body is dying but very few will ever stop to nurse the man who's life is dying. Right before the eyes of his friends and family, he begins to fade away. Slowly at first, but then more rapidly until one day, he is no longer alive. Sure, he will still walk around, eat, sleep, talk - all the things that are needed too be considered "alive". Anyone who has ever felt truly alive, like you do when...
She cradled the faun's head. She listened to its soft breath, listened to its complaint, listened its petition. But what could she do? What judgment could she give that would hold in the face of her ever-shrinking kingdom. Every year she shrunk, every year there were more men, and every year there was less.
At night under the moon she called her sisters, who had all once been close, close enough to be one, but now far and spread. They came if they could, sent emissaries if they could not. They talked until the edge of the sun, bloated and...
She could tell I was faking it. They all could. They'd have to have known I wasn't "fine". I mean, come on. It's not really rocket science to figure out when someone's on the edge, is it? Am I really hiding everything so well that no one even thinks to ask me for a real answer? Don't people get tired of all those stupid, meaningless conversations?
"Hey. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm good."
No, you're not. No one is ever quite as "good" as they say they are, so why do we let them say that they are? What if...
I'm in love with a robot. I know, I know, that sounds strange. But I am. It's name, or at least the name I gave it, is David. That was the name of my boyfriend. He died a few years ago. I designed David to be exactly like him. I love David, I really do. Although we cannot do anything physical, my heart is not longer broken. I feel...full again, full of love and emotion. I'm happy with David. David doesn't know he's a robot. He looks like a human, he looks like David. He talks like Davis, his personality...
The lamp wouldn't turn on. This was no surprise considering the power was out all over the city; still, Harold tried anyway, just out of habit. Upon defeat, he turned around and headed down the hall to the kitchen, where the Drawer of Random Stuff resided.
He reached in and grabbed the flashlight, but knew this was futile since buying batteries for it was something on his perpetually procrastinated to-do list, so he did what countless others do when they grab a flashlight that is more than likely dead--he flicked the switch and shook the electric torch furiously, just hoping...
The girl with the blond pony tail sits down on the grass with her fluffy pink skirt creating a cloud around her little body. She bends down and cups her little hands to the ground. Gingerly, she peeks at the treasure in her hands, lets out a shriek and runs to me. "Mommy! Mommy! Look at him!" Her little arm is thrust out to me and she lets me peek inside her hands. "Isn't he cute, Mommy?" I smile and tell her that the frog is very cute. Seeming satisfied with my answer, she runs back under a large tree,...
"You know what 'fuck' means?" said Dean, almost skipping. Behind porthole glasses, David couldn't avoid looking bewildered.
"Um-"
"It means you put your penis," gesture, "in a girls vagina," gesture, gesture. "And you go uh uh uh uh!" More gestures. David felt awkward, but had to laugh a little bit. Maybe middle school in England was different than it was in America, he wondered.
Dean cheerfully stepped along, singing the word "fuck" in just about every melodic interval he could think of. Maybe this was normal, David thought, and his conservative Christian upbringing hadn't prepared him for what life was...
"Hmm, urg, turn down the heat," he thought to himself as his attention turned to the pain in his armpits and ankles. "Who jumped me?" He thought, before he realized he'd soon pry open the almost necrotic lids of his gummed up eyeballs.
it occurred to him that a lot had already transpired that day, and he was just getting started. He looked out the window and hurried to the kitchen, then started heating up some coffee. Then he rustled up the morning paper and, fuzzy eyed, stared at it without much comprehension.
His companion hadn't gotten up yet, so...
It was the fall that surprised me most. I had never been a graceful person, and I was no stranger to the more than occasional stumble and bumble, but to actually lose my balance, to land hard on my rump, feet splayed out in front of me with no chance to catch myself, that was a surprise.
Luckily, I didn't land on my trombone, which was strapped to my back in a relatively unprotected cloth gig bag. Trombone players are marginally useful as it is, and trust me, NOBODY needs a trombone player with a flat bell or bent slide....