jordanjaprice
He presented me with the medal of honour; his esteemed judges were his feelings of excited nervousness and the crumpled corners of his nice guy act. The dye of my incredible corruption was visibly creeping up through the veins of his tissue paper soul. All he had to do was dip himself in, only for an instant.
Decorated, we stepped out onto Station Boulevard. We had more triangles on our clothing than we could count, and our sweaters were those type that look like they were bought on a Mexican vacation. Hipster was our collective identity but as a moniker that term was shunned.
Crews of minions flew out of the sky carried by large plasmic sheets of interstellar gunk. None of this made any sense to the New Yorkers and was therefore ignored. Everybody went on with their days, the aliens' buzzes were killed, and they went back to their dimension.
She rang me up, and I bolted down to the street, intending to catch a cab to the plaza she lived near. As I left the elevator, I came across the manager, whose face was sporting a rather smug look. As I went for the lobby doorknob, it became clear that this was a setup; I was locked in. In the reflection of the glass doors I could see the manager looking at my back, and large security guards started to come out of the back room. Definitely a setup. Was she in on this?
Only the most fragile of bandages could have saved her from the wound that had severed the connection between her conscious mind and her instinctual soul.
Adviser spirits hang around this house of ash. Their ultraviolet glows cast unnoticeable shadows on my conscience and tell me what to do. I know this but I've never noticed. I don't know how to stop them, and I don't know if I want to. But again, that might be the adviser spirits talking.
Could ignorant suggestions be worse than itchy silence? We'll scratch out the quiet and it's done but the ignorance will linger forever.
her ring finger was all that was recovered. the rest had been obliterated by the enormous turbine while her son, Rosalind's grandfather, watched in shock and ashamed wonder. years later, Rosalind still hasn't been able to bring herself to sell the ring, even while her two young sons are withering away.
There's a bucket there with my name on it, literally and figuratively. Its contents are a scorpion and its prey, which I have supplied; today it's a grasshopper. It's my pet, and has been since my eleventh birthday.
Something is different about today, though. I feel like by the end of the day I won't be able to stand it any longer, my mind will shatter, and I'll thrust my hand into the bucket and let nature take its course.