They found him keeled over and clutching a white gilded mushroom. He stirred and said, “I just wanted to taste a destroying angel…”
Before the deployment, his father gave him an engraved silver lighter for luck. It was his grandfather’s. He kept it in a chest pocket and pulled it out occasionally to smoke a spliff. During an exchange of gunfire a bullet caught him right in the lighter. His father received from the military a package containing a mangled silver lighter and soot covered dog tags.
The barrel was cold in his mouth. When he pulled the trigger it clicked. He was curious what it felt like to have a gun in his mouth. He pulled the trigger again. Then again. And for the last time, an overlooked bullet punched through the roof of his mouth and severed his spinal cord. His friends and family were astonished and said things like ‘He was so happy’ and ‘I don’t understand how this could have happened…’
It hung belly up in its bowl of water. It lay stiff and cold in the cage, its eyes and mouth grimaced open, its long ears a-lop. Its purr dwindled off to silence. After a series of small barks its rise of breath shuddered into non-motion. He sat in his deathbed and removed the tubing that crowded his arm and died happily.
The oilman put down his Black Russian and spread his grimed hands, shrugging: “The crude abides…”
It takes a wrong and a wrong to make a right or a simple clockwise turning of the steeringwheel.
The road slick taunted him. He braked, just to see. Tires slid silently over black-sheened ice.
Pen dragon, harnessed by giant’s hand and captive to the gray matters of its whims, vomits gouts of ink on virgin plains.
The cat sniffs the rabbit’s foot I know what she is thinking: that foot definitely is not a lucky charm for the mammal formerly whole as rabbit. Isn’t that the cat’s paw?
Regret, a sublime tool of self correction in a man’s wiser days.
Carter has just caught a cartoon. It wriggles in his hands like rubbery plastic, and he can feel the hand drawn colors on his fingertips.
Thinking ahead he pressed his foot into the threshold and thrust his hands against the turgid air that wailed and whipped past him. His eyes stung into tears and his smile abraded into a frown, he took the fatal step and relinquished his hold on the living. The howling engulfed him and nary was he seen again except in bouts of bad dreams from which one woke from, weakly laughing.
She wanted to elope but first, on the by way, needed some butter. So he, eighteen, absconded from his abode, unsalted sweet cream in hand, to leave his parents’ final impression of him a refrigerator missing a stick of butter. What buttery state of affairs is this?
Olive juice, once the last olive with its bit of pimento has made its final bob and is fished out of its container, goes down the drain. Glass, a class act of brittle neutrality to polar and non-polar entities alike indifferent to what and why fluids are spilled or not. The hand that reaches for the jar grasps its objective and ambulates it to an upright challenged position directly above a bowl of beaten metal inset with a drain hole and adjustable plug. The mind that moves hand knows not what moves it as the olive juice is poured and the jar is then washed to a luster and delegated to a cabinet organized for efficiency and maximum compartmentalization to accommodate glass jars with vegetable origin.
What is the diameter of a rabbit’s asshole? It depends on the size of the carrot.