I wear my heart on my sleeve, where everyone can see it. I’m cursed to fasten it there each morning as I dress. I’m compelled to present all my emotions and longings and fears to the world. I’m forced to display my blood and guts, my body and soul. I’m hexed to reckon with this thing before it shrivels and hardens and sends me to hell.
I was having dinner next door, in my best friends’ house, right across from the world’s loudest clock. It ticked and the forks clicked against the plates, tick/click, tick/click, tick/click. I wanted to push back the hands of that clock.
As the elevator lurches upward I glance at each of them, notice their flaws, their ages, their lifelines stretched across their faces. Then, one by one, they file off on their respective floors and I can see what they are, what they could have been and what they long to be. But the only thing I wish to see is what they were.
It had been a particularly hectic morning. Half the office hadn’t turned up and the rest of us picked up the slack. To Mr Parks’ fury, I slipped away at lunchtime to meet Laurie at our usual sandwich shop. It was quieter than usual and a pretty, dark-haired waitress served us straight away.
He described being caught up in the oral history told by a man named Bishop about a Randolph Stickley and the ghost of a British soldier he met on the pike one stormy night. And the hair-raising tale of Molly O’Hearn and her lover. A fellow with few teeth recounted that one with glee, making Ian wonder if Molly lived over the next hill until the toothless one mentioned Molly lived in 18th century Ireland.
The machine wanted all things. Not everything. Simply one of each. No matter how minute the difference, how slight the variation, if it was distinct, the machine called for it.
The New Atlantis By Stephen LaGioiaThe waters of the Atlantic looked especially calm this morning. Crystallized beads of sunlight danced fluidly across the endless seas. Wildlife of all colors and shapes swarmed about without a care on their mind other than the bare essentials of life – necessities that had become lost among us.
Uncle Jeremy said the aliens were coming. He said that if we were very quiet and listened carefully, we’d be able to hear them. He said they sang songs all the time, but other people thought it was the wind, or birds, or ice cream vans.
Leg’s broke, I think. Reach down, shithead, and check. Back’s all twisted. Slow, slow, Ooh. (Scream) Shin bone’s sticking out. Not much blood yet. Can’t move.
When Reverend Willard spotted the basket drift down the glassy slick of the Nestucca River, he knew it was a message from God. What might lie within could only be one thing.