The Death Notice
The newspaper boy stood shouting EXTRA!! EXTRA!! read all about it!!! The town streets were quiet, hidden under a dark blanket of clouds, but this was nothing unusual for a sleepy haunted place such as Nightmare. For the last 500 years, the town had been governed by a young man named Authur Crypt. The day came and Mr. Crypt met his demise but what happened? The notice of death was written in secret tongues translated read…Now I lay me down to sleep…I pray the Lord, my soul, to take…shall I die before I wake, I’ve been salted at the stake.
“The painting changed.”
“What do you mean?” asked the cop.
He wasn’t sure.
“Do you mean it’s a different painting?”
He shook his head.
“Well, then… We’re off.”
That’s when he saw a slight movement.
The hands. It was the hands.
The cops wouldn’t believe him, he thought.
So, he threw the painting in the garbage. Too disturbing.
The neighbor across the street snatched it and placed it at the window facing the street.
Better not tell anyone, he thought, but the hands waved at him.
He didn’t want to be taken to that place… again.
One dark and stormy night in a haunted forest lived a child unable to escape the walls of her family home. Only there now to watch over ones she left behind.
Her only means of getting out was to attach herself to another living only through what they felt, saw, touched and heard. The gift of laughter no longer her own, memories lived on in those who came after her life lived in stone.
She knows who they are but to them shes an unknown, never spoke of in shame, a mystery of the little child cracked, locked in stone.
Driven to win and lost in reality..within a dream and a space in time none around her understand. To win means so much more than to cross a finish line. To thrive against one’s self in a universe unforgiving of itself in its own abandon but to win really to win is to be comfortable in one’s skin in this space within that only the soul sees knows and understands. Expressed only by bliss and opportunity. The truth of one’s reality an un-spoken story that is hers and hers alone. The truest winner and only in this place she wins.
The mask protected me from the pinprick of the needle targeted at the height of my face in the bathroom stall. The contents of the syringe would put me out of sync and unable to function for two weeks. I was being singled out for the large crop of wine grapes I planned to process into my famous, Rose wine.
A drive to the print shop to expose the Darling family was scheduled. I headed for the terminal to catch a flight to New Jersey where I would hire the crew I needed to teach the Darling family a lesson.
When Brenda exited the terminal in her darling, little polka dot print dress, I said I would drive her to the house. I gave her one scarlet rose and drove quickly to show her the grapes that we would harvest this year.
I felt a little out of sync, but a pinprick of passion in my heart tore the mask of candor away from my face, and I confessed to her that I had cheated on her while she was away getting a dilation and curettage followed by a tubal ligation.
Brenda was a real sport and a real trooper.
Blue eyes drift, a wistful gaze drawn through cracked glass to the desolate street below. With quill in hand, rolled ever so slowly between aged fingers, echoes of previous times drift over her thoughts forming a shield, obscuring the present.
An unsteady lift of the hand raises the instrument above paper yellowed with age, the shaft devoid of ink but unnoticed. A soft sigh escapes as invisible words are scratched upon the surface in a flurry. Day and again the ritual resumes, written words spoken to echoes of the past. Alone, the quill and times gone by her only companions.
People ask where my wickedness came from… I’m not sure, but there’s one day that clearly stands out in my mind.
It was the day the fair came to town, and the big, ugly brute at the ‘Try Your Strength’ machine laughed in my face when I asked for a go.
“This is a man’s game”, he said, “not for weak little girls like you”
That’s when I grabbed him by the balls and started to squeeze as hard as I could, and I didn’t stop until his screaming ceased, as he slumped unconscious to the floor.
Who needs strength?
Billbert clung to his tree branch and wished he had thought it through when Roderick told him to grab a bag. How was he to know it would become his only article of clothing.
Considering jumping again, he suddenly lost the choice when his branch gave way.
Either the bag he wore was magic, or he did have superpowers. Instead of falling to the ground, he shot off, above the heads of the unsuspecting students and landed gracefully on the administration building.
He just had to figure out how to get his clothes back from Roderick and get to class.
Tavis sat at the bar, neon lights changing the color of his birthday cupcake, courtesy of Mr. Romo, the barkeep.
Tavis saw Romo go for the taser shotgun when the obvious tough talked into the bar, eyes on Tavis. Romo went down with a dart in his neck. Tavis whirled, placing two slugs in the chest of the sneak in the booth, courtesy of the bar’s mirror. Next, two in the tough. They both fell collapsed.
Tavis turned away, and heard the click prepared himself, heard the shot, and saw his cupcake blown to smithereens by the tough’s final act.
They call me cupcake.
You’d think there was nothing nicer – sweet, cute, and so desirable – you just want to have me.
But there’s more to me than just looks – and just like the pastry cupcake – too much of a good thing can be very bad for you.
All that sugary sweetness can make you nauseous, rot your insides, and ruin your health. No matter how good it might look, or how delicious it may be, too much cupcake, over time, can kill you.
I don’t have the time to spare though, so I’ll stick to strychnine instead!