She knelt on the tile floor, carefully picking up the shards of glass. Why did it have to be this one that broke? The dust swirled from the broken jar as water trickled out, bits of greenery carried along with it. World jars were expensive, and none to easy to make or acquire.
Another small little universe left to dry on the floor. She wept a bit as she tried to sweep the glass together with her hands, avoiding the sharp edges. She really should get a broom, but the strength to stand seemed to have left her. Why did...
"No. Seriously. More natural. It won't kill you.
"What? The camera. The wait, though. The wait might kill me.
"You, sit down. No, please. *Please* sit down. No, not you. Because you're in white trousers, that's why!
"Look, I know this is new. This is new to me, too. But in the future? Oh, yes! In the future! This will be the thing. THE. THING.
"What? No. No, they won't need flash pans. I'm certain. Or these -- these tents. No, they'll be able to carry them around in their pockets. No, not like those pockets. No, sir, please, hands...
The first time I saw Tommy, I knew he was a total douche. I don't allow my sister to date douches; shit — no brother should. That's rule number 2.
Rule number 1, in case you are wondering, is that you don't interfere with your sister's romances. But I take exception with douches.
Of course, there's a perfectly civil way to address his low-life status without resorting to a politically un-savvy term like "douche," which can alienate the polite, women, and my parents equally well, but anyone who knows me will say there ain't a bone of misogyny in this...
I clutched onto the flowers. Today was the day. I am only 19 but I am getting married right now. My father was a rich businessman and my mother died when I was very young. My father than re-married and she married a beautiful Parisian woman. You may think she is a beauty but she is a pain in the arse. She treats me like rubbish. "Go fetch me my earrings," she would call out. But one year later after marrying my father she died suddenly.
My father couldn't bear this again, so he sent me to an orphanage. I...
When the father arrived home to his squalid, Lower East Side tenement building, he was exhausted. He paused at the door to pose for a Jacob Riis photo, and then trudged though the entryway. The grit of coal from the furnace in the oil refinery still covered his face. This, despite the fact that we worked on the docks hauling fish. His apartment was in the rear of the building: a cramped, filthy space overlooking a pile of rubbish that the realtor had described as a “quaint fixer-upper with a partial city view.” He approached the door, removed a rat...
"what is it," he asked, "With people today?"
"Well, that's a fairly broad question, isn't it? There couldn't possibly be a sufficient answer," I started to say. I got as far as "We..." before he started back in again.
"No no no no no." The volume doubled. "NO NO NO NO NO NO!"
"No what, dude?" I tried to sip, but my glass was empty. Worst service ever. If I could just catch the eye of the damn
"NO!" He grabbed my arm. "Don't be this, like, moral relativist. Some things are better than others, and people used to read...
That night everything changed. She would never think of the stars in the same way. Or the grass, or the flowers. In five minutes her whole perception of the world changed. She could acknowledge that the thoughts running through her head at that moment were not what she would have imagned she would be thinking in a scenario such as this. Her thoughts were clear and concise. Practical almost. She blinked. It hurt. A seering pain shot from her left eye through (what it felt like anyway) her brain. She tried turn her head to the left where she knew...
There once was a man who live on Richmond street, he died a few years back. Took care of his elderly mother who used to shave her head and named her pet cat Winston Churchill, she had a few pet birds too. Anyway, the man was a Musician. He used to park his van down by this old run down building in the center of town and sit with the door open playing his guitar. He wasn't the greatest and he wasn't the worst, he just really enjoyed what he did. I forget his name but I haven't forgotten the...
The old folks filed away from Gregoire slowly, creeping off to investigate a small marble statue of Psyche being ravished by Cupid. The chandelier hung precariously over them, and Gregoire wondered how many shots from his 19th-century pistol would send it crashing down on their aged heads.
But would Bonaparte commit such a gauche act? Gregoire thought not. Even in exile, surrounded by mad old women, he still had his dignity. He held his head high, hoping that the extra height of his admiral's hat would exceed that of the straw bonnets behind him. He would win this psychological battle....
"So anyway that was what he said yesterday and she wouldn't agree with anything he was...."
The sound drifted away as he continued to stare straight across the carriage. It was the same every morning, she would complain about everything that happened the day before, all the way in on the train, and then again that evening, all the way home.
He, well, he would do the same as always every morning, stare straight ahead at the woman directly across from him. She was beautiful. Here light browne hair rested neatly on her shoulders as she read what seemed to...