"Hey Macarena!"
Robert watched in complete disbelief as the group of Anonymous supporters-turned-flash mob began to dance in the middle of the campus. They raised their hands, moving with the music. Several onlookers giggled at the sight,, others rolled their eyes. One yelled out "What's the frequency Kenneth?!"
Robert just shook his head. Crazy kids, he thought.
The children were not at school. They had better, bolder, brighter things to be doing. The teachers didn't notice. They never did.
They ran out while at break, amidst the confusion of supposed bruises and teases and stolen lunches. The gates were easy enough to get past. Each girl's hair was neatly done up with a hairpin, after all.
The sky was bluer once they got out, it seemed. So they ran, ran hard, ran free, ran wild. They quickly enough leaped through the confines of urbanity and into spaces never explored before, wild forests filled with strange creatures. Each...
You can count me out, I said. I am not doing it. No. I left this years ago. I have a life now, I told them. No more of this stuff for me- I'm out now.
Of course, they pleaded. They always do. But I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders in movements perfected over the years. Please, please, please! We'll give you anything you want.
Never any creativity, really. It was all the same thing. They were small. They wanted to be big. How did their little prods affect me? They were merely molehills aspiring to be mountains,...
Deluxe. Platinum. Gold. That is the key to success, she said to the audience, wine glass in hand. Everyone broke our clapping. She smiled, made a short, stunted half-bow and left the stage. She passed through the crowd with elegance and with purpose, deftly sidestepping those stumbling drunkenly about and avoiding any pitfalls into small talk and conversation. They smiled as she passed, vaguely recognizing her, but not exactly sure what her name was. Passing by a waiter, uniform and immaculate amidst it all, she left her wine glass on his tray. It was only a pleasantry, after all. It...
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...
The results were in, she said. And he ran and ran and ran and ran, disregarding the shouts of teachers behind him, just running and running and running till he reached the office. It was up on the bulletin board, sandwiched between changes in the lunch menu and posters for bake sales. He stopped for a moment, breathless, eager. Slowly he let himself look at it. The names were up. He scanned through them: Joe Malone. Hendrick Smith. Jerry Pandrip. Jonathan Sinker. Hetty Carbuncle.... so many names. He knew most of them: they had been his companions during the test,...
Dear Santa,
My name is David Jordan. I have ben a very good boy this yeer. I would relly like a new He-Man toy and maybe a Night Rider too. My litle brother wants some Linkin Logs. And Santa, could you bring mama a new car. She recked hers last week.
Ill hav cookies and milk for you when you get here.
Thanks Santa,
David
Mark rolled his black wheelchair into the school cafeteria, casting furtive glances at those around him as he admired the Christmas decorations. The school was flouting current anti-holiday laws, but they didn't care. Christmas was a time to celebrate, a time of joy. And Mark, for one, was extremely impressed by the middle school's principled stand.
He rolled into the cafeteria, nodding at those who looked at him, but otherwise ignoring them. it was always thus. The boy, so different, had built a shell around himself, one that he could not break down lest he end up hurt. It was...
The building appeared one day with only a white-haired gentleman who could have noticed. He didn't however, because he was too busy unwrapping a chocolate bar on the wooden bench he sat at every Wednesday. So only the wind grew unsettled with the sight of the 2-storied Japanese pagoda that shot into place in the middle of Central Park with only a sleek "pop" to give away it's sneak-up appearance.
Almost immediately, a black cat jumped from an overhanding willow tree into the window framed with yellow lacquer slats of wood. The man continued to peel away at the silver...
He was a walking arsenal with knives strapped to his armor at forearms, biceps, chest and back. Two smaller throwing knives protruded from his boots. Across his back, a large Claymore peeked over his head.
He was a walking arsenal. Deadly. Powerful. Angry at the world. His deep black eyes burned with flame. His lantern jaw was clenched with determination. He eld himself erect, his arms resting easily at his sides. Suddenly, the call came and he swept into the undead hordes ahead of him, knives leading the way. His word came out at the last instant, slashing through the...