"Grandpop's teeth didn't look like that."

"How do you know?"

"Because mom always said you got his teeth. Do your teeth look like that?"

"Maybe after they'd been in the ground for fifty years."

"Not even. Look at the length of them."

"No, teeth keep growing after you die."

"That's nails, dummy. And they have to be attached still. You think teeth keep growing if they're just loose like this?"

"Who can say?"

"You know who would know?"

"Yeah, but she can't exactly tell us, now can she?"

"Well, she'd know for sure."

"Grandma's probably the one who did it...

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The fields were parched. There was no water. Where was the rain, she wondered as she stared across the cracked land. There were clouds rolling in from the east but they brought no hope of rain. The stream that used to run through here had been clear and sweet, she remembered. Sighing, she turned from the depressing sight and got back to preparing the evening meal. Jim and the boys would be home soon and they would be hungry after a long day in the fields.
"I can help you." A small voice said.
She jumped and looked around in...

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"I feel boxed in," she said.

"I'm sorry?" he replied, not quite understanding.

"Well, the basic thing is this: the image is quite boring, and the color scheme is obnoxious, a weird, misguided attempt at the painterly surrealism that Richard Linklater's Waking Life first presented in film. Add to that two gigantic butterflies, and the whole thing just falls apart. But despite the silliness of the painting, however, there's really no room for absurdity. Characters can't wave pistols around or smoke cigars or get hit in the forehead with boards. I'm boxed in. I have nowhere to go. It's too...

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Well, it's not everyday that you actually get woken up by a ghost that you didn't believe in, but there it was (he?) - a fuzzy apparition perhaps imagined more than actually manifesting before your shimmering eyes in the night (shimmering to eyes as tinnitus is to ears) - and the thud of the door as it fell from it's hinges to the floor. It (he) was assumed to be the grumpy man who lived 89 years alone in the old house, leaving crates and crates of dusty homemade wine in the basement, bottled in old milk bottles stopped with...

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Maybe we all do. Maybe we all did. Precious things like our youth framed by handle bars, the hole dug beside the roots.

When I first got the hang of whistling, I sang at the birds. But I was just the needle through which they thread. Winter was rolling down those cooling autumn hills. The flocks were heading south for those mountains.

There was gold in those mountains, precious like the air between a frame.

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The contours of her form were clear under the light shining through my window. She was laying there nude on my couch as I drew her. My eyes, flicking back and forth from the paper to her. My hand, gliding wildly across the paper in motions similar to a snake whipping it's way across a desert. I had asked her to model for me. Not because I have a crush on her. Not because I'm trying to date her. But because her body is so gorgeous. It flows with every move she makes, twisting and bending and flowing. She lays...

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“We are such stuff as dreams are made of.” Smith quipped. “The Tempest. Act four…”
“…Scene one. And it’s ‘on’ not ‘of’.” I retorted. “It continues. And our little life is rounded with a sleep.”

Smith snorted. “Ever the pessimist. And yet.” He paused for effect. “I propose to travel forward in Time by one second.”

“Smith, you can’t. Except by the traditional route. Which just takes one second to do. Except we are moving in Space-Time. Not just Time. Only light can do that without feeling the time pass.”

Smith shrugged. I tried to explain. “The Earth spins 460m/s....

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Eternal life.

That's what he'd promised, wasn't it?

Jane didn't know the tall, dark-haired man who had approached her late that night. He appeared as if an apparition as she exited the lonely subway terminal on the way home from an excruciating double shift.

He had spoken just two words. Eternal life. It was a dreamlike declaration - not quite a question, not a statement, just a whisper. But that was impossible.

She had looked at him with a mix of fear and curiosity before shaking her head and walking briskly up the dimly lit staircase. Just before walking into...

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He likes his own room, but he likes mine more. He's five. Half the time, if he had his way he would climb back inside me. He can never get close enough. Half the time. The other half he's complaining. Scowling. "You're interfering with my personal space!" Like he's breaking up with me.
So when he stands there, waiting, in the corner, and he asks if he can share our room, our bed, our space, I do what any rational human would do. And that's to pick him up and hold him, smell his head, that getting-bigger head, and say,...

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The dream had been wonderful, yet it would never be real. All property already let. Already sold. Already gone.

"Renting or buying?" The neat young executive type, sipping his coffee next to me, pointed at the property paper. I'd been looking for 6 months and it was killing me.

"It's murder." I shifted to give him space to sit, and sighed. "I own a small shit hole I've got to get out of. You an Estate Agent?"

"No, but these guys will get you somewhere to rest your bones…" My gaze followed his finger to a small ad tucked under...

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