randomizer

prodigy

Listen here, she said while she smoothed an imaginary crease from her simple frock, I’m a kid, not an idiot. With a voice chillingly icy for a 12-year old, she masticated the poor old man much like a Serengeti lioness devouring her kill.

I‘d read the Bible cover to cover by the time other kids were presenting glue-and-glitter crosses to their mother, agreed with Kant by my 8th Easter and found my ally in Voltaire when I was 11. So with all due respect, sir, please do refrain from telling me that when I die, I’ll go to heaven because Jesus loves me. Far as I’m concerned, I’ll simply be spared from the First Circle and granted passage into an Elysian heaven. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get some McNuggets for my lunch.

~ hannah p

the convincer

Knuckles, bleeding. 

Elbow, a weapon.

Shoulder, a joint crafted of bruises. 

You should've seen the other guy. This ain't your bar no more, son. 

It'll take a shower to wash off the blood, and a beer to wash down the doubt. 

They tell me I'm a hero now. I should hold this chin up like one. 

I really shouldn't be asking for proof.

~ vanessa s

belong

Trevor watched that morning show where they invited a different guest host every week to team up with the permanent presenter. He wondered if it was because the regular guy was odiously boring or because the show’s content was remarkably dry. After twenty minutes, he decided it was both.

Leigh switched on her television to the same channel. How could they run a show like this every morning for the last four years without improving a notch, she thought. Fire the producers already. She was empathetic with the guest host’s plight, who was coughing at the end of every other sentence. Clearly he was struggling to remain under control.

Trevor noted that the only reason he hasn’t changed stations was because the other networks were equally as appalling, if not more tiresome. But it was more than that. Watching the boring host bantering with the sick host did something to Trevor. It made him smile. Watching people struggle with such an easy task like holding a conversation made him smug. He turned his attention to the mirror and checked his clothes. He had to look his best today. It’s going to be a good day, he said to himself. 

Leigh decided it was too much work to walk up to the tv while making breakfast (her remote had been missing since last week’s party, but she had deemed it a trivial issue and hadn’t replace it), so she sat through the entire show deciding if she should allow herself the indulgence of honey on her pannekoek. What a terrible way to start the day, she thought. Nothing pained her more than watching people struggle with such an easy task. Like holding a proper conversation. Leigh turned the television off, grabbed her bag, put on her shoes, and stepped out the apartment.

Trevor stepped out of his apartment. Oh hi Leigh, how are you today? Did you watch the breakfast show? It was god-awful wasn’t it? Ha ha ha. Hey you want to share a cab?

It’s going to be a good day after all, Leigh thought to herself.

~ sean j

credit

The fumes perforated your lungs and burnt large gaps making every desperate gasp feel like you were swallowing fires from the pits of Hell. You’re drowning in a pool of acid, your eyelids dissolving and your sclerae corroding into a puddle of your liquid flesh. Flames lick at your skin and you can see Hades standing beside you with a white-hot brand in his hand, which he presses to your thigh. You scream in agony, a terrible noise of silence and the dogs of hell howl in frenzy at your muted cries.

Doctors tell you that you’ve burned half your limbs off. Your mom comes in and cries for hours at end, your dad just puts his hands on her shoulders and rubs soothing circles on her back. Your girlfriend sobs and kisses your bandaged fingers and tells you about how lucky you were that your friend had swerved wildly at the last possible second. True, he got killed, but he died a hero and he would’ve been glad to see you live.

You’re living on borrowed time, a second chance that was given to you when you didn’t ask for it. Hooray for your sweet life as a survivor - you’re eating healthy, studying to be a theoretical physicist and riding dirtbikes. Nobody knows that your heart stopped beating long ago, when a sepulchral god beckoned at you with bony fingers to claim what was rightfully his. Hooray for your escape from the clutches of death. You should be happy.

~ hannah p

amanda

never trust girls whose name starts with a’s. ariel, she’s a mermaid but you’re a hydrophobic. alice is in wonderland and you can’t catch her. anneliese, too pretty a name for anyone. anna, palindromes are just tricks that break your heart. annabelle will just be anna. then amanda, oh amanda, she has gold streaks in her hair and a golden smile. she dresses in indigo and moves in electrifying speed, you haven’t met her but you want to. she swirls in sonorous purrs and detaches like soft bubbles, she speaks in silver bells and changes her eye color every day. she flies kites that remind you of a childhood you never had. she lights fireworks and escape into tunnels at night, she plays hide and seek and always win. she wears shoes as tall as skyscrapers but falls gracefully when she trips. she can pronounce hermès, jean paul gaultier, lacroix, louboutin with perfected flair but she doesn’t know syncope, tachycardia or syphilis. she dreams of diamonds and waterfalls in summer, her skin is scented orchids and she’s leaving today tonight and tonight… she’ll be lucy in the sky with diamonds. 

~ cherie k

flow

He cursed under his breath.

Idiot, you should have worn the oxfords today, he berated himself. Lacking the nerve to trust his gut that morning, he had worn his new black wing-tips. As black as night and as new as dawn. He had been so proud of his decision; the store assistant had in no small part assured him that he’ll be very satisfied with the purchase. “The ladies will love it”, she said. And she was right. They did love it. But that didn’t matter now. He really should’ve worn his old brown oxfords.

Because if he had, the blonde at the bus station wouldn’t have commented on how lovely his shoes were. And if she hadn’t noticed them, he wouldn’t have been grinning with his head in the clouds. And if he wasn’t feeling so smug, he would’ve noticed that he had gotten on the wrong bus to work.

And if he had been more observant, he wouldn’t have been tardy for the most important meeting of his life. Which was the reason he bought the shoes in the first place. 

The moment he realized that the bus was not on its usual route, it was already too late. He had dashed to the front of the bus and insisted that the driver stop the bus, gotten off, and started running like a man possessed. Running in his new black wing-tip.

The ladies will love it, she said. 

~ sean j

coda

There was that strange part that was oddly missing, deliberately left out for a purpose - so that she could wake in the morning in a bed meant for one and prepare a breakfast for one. Maybe missing isn’t such a good word, because it wasn’t exactly something that should’ve been there but wasn’t there.

It had been removed, edited, consciously taken away from the strands of her nature, covertly deleted to produce a sad, lovely girl.

A sad, lovely girl.

She wasn’t beautiful, wasn’t bubbly or popular or remarkably memorable, if at all attractive, but in her sadness, her simple being carried more weight - like black ink in clear water. Her small self was magnified; her eyes more expressive and fingers more delicate. Euphonious. Tender. A faint echo of a love you heard a long time ago, a rusty vintage lock opening itself in your memories, this sadness was real, a soft ribbon of silk on your face.

Lonely, sad and lovely.

~ hannah p