I’m out target shooting in the country when I hear the gravel crunch and somebody yells “Hey asshole, what are you doing?” Without thinking, I turn and shoot him. Well, shit, nobody should sneak up on somebody and scare him like that. Before, I can check him out; somebody comes running up with a handgun and screams “You shot my brother.” I turn around and shoot him too. Him carrying the handgun, I figure it is self defense. The first guy was sort of an accident.
Here we are at week 189, doesn’t time fly when you are having your last hour in your bed? Any other time it is just its usual slow mundane shite.
Now this has been done in a bit of a rush, but no matter what, I really need to warn you not to read on if you are a wee bit sensitive. I’ve got myself into enough trouble lately with my words so I thought I would give you all plenty of time to bail out.
If you like religion and cherish pregnancy, you may be a bit perturbed with a couple of parts, so walk away now.
If you don’t then don’t moan as you will just look like a twat.
She pulled out the Nuclear option and tossed it on the table like the Ace of Spades.
Nothing to do but bluff.
He then called her back and said “Let’s not ruin three lives here. Stick to the current agreement. ”
“Ok, but you better make your payments every month. Get a job at Starbucks.”
“Yes. I will,” he replied not knowing exactly how he was going to do that.
And that was it.
It just sort of came out.
They were sitting on the couch. Dave was watching and laughing at a screwball comedy where, during their honeymoon, the hero and his wife get their signals crossed. She winds up in Bermuda at a four-star hotel while he finds himself with the Inuit eating muskox somewhere near Greenland. Somehow, they reunite.
The worms are hook shaped, tiny translucent segments with black antennas and bulbous brown eyes, specks floating.
I can see them in the corner of my eyes, wiggling and multiplying.
They have to come out.
The doctor thinks I’m crazy. I tell him about the worms squirming away in my eye, swimming in my tear ducts. I see them, whether my eyes are open or closed. I feel them, the same way I could feel a bug in my ear, a spider in my mouth. The relentless whisper of antenna against my eyelid makes it twitch nonstop.
I stared at the black homespun dress, large bonnet, prayer cap, and starched white apron that covered her from neck to ankles. She held the hand-lettered sign that read, IOWA. I pulled off onto the shoulder. “You’re not from around here, are you?” I asked.
In this year of unrest, Daniel Luis was sharing a small house with his mother, sister, his pregnant wife, and daughter. He needed work.
“You will be the new janitor at the Municipal Theater,” his uncle said, “It pays little, but the work is easy. Clean up after every performance. Do your work and be invisible, and maybe in time, I can find you something better. Here is the key to the door. They say the theater is haunted, so wear your crucifix.”
Continue reading “Theatrical Spirits by Kilmeny MacMichael.”
‘Hello, Tycho Centre, this is shuttle Nostromo, over.’
‘Yes Nostromo, Tycho here, over.’
‘There was a hell of a judder as we left the rail launcher, and there’s a red light flashing on the front control console, over.’
‘Hold one Nostromo, checking, over.’
The only reason that I’m starting this way is that I have the radio on.
I fucking hate ‘Coldplay’.
‘Fix You’ just showcases what a whining, irritating voice Chris Martin has. He sings and I want to open a vein…No, an artery! He is a mammary testicle of a man.
Continue reading “Week 187 – Titbawz, Boris And Impetigo Equality”
Geneviève Gueron was as French as one could be. And while her peers were riding up and down the waves of hormonal instability, lamenting one second, rejoicing the next, she was simply and unequivocally in love with her life on the French Riviera. It had taken her some time to get used to the fierceness of the sunrays of the South, as the lack of obscuring buildings or tufts of sky made them bounce right off her white skin which would respond instantly with sizzling red spots. And with each day that passed, the deep yearning for her favourite dusty bookstores in Paris gave way to the undisputable dogmatic truth proclaimed by her parents, who had convinced themselves their new hometown would be kinder to them.
literally stories 