Adam’s momma was still shopping at the getting place, as he sat on it's steps he smelled apple pie cooling in the pig farmer’s window one house down. The boy couldn’t help himself and before he knew it, his ten year old feet was moving to steal it. While the farmer’s(more) yard hens clucked and nagged, Adam trotted away delighted with his plunder when a blast from the farmer’s shotgun spread his bread pan all over the yard and by the time the pig farmer’s wife got to Adam, the chickens & hogs was already eating his brains off the ground. We couldn’t do nothing but stand there and watch, it was on private property and that was that. You don’t steal round these parts, not from them!!!!(less)
Gorlicans, it turned out, were slippery little bastards.
Really, Shiro reasoned, he shouldn't be surprised by this. The small, lizard-like species was especially common in the systems on the furthest edges of Galra territory where the Empire's grasp was the shakiest. Gorlicans sold their services to the highes(more)t bidder, and often double and triple-crossed their employers to the tune of whomever could pay them the most.
All that being said, this Gorlican in particular neatly ran through the small gap between Shiro and Keith and almost disappeared into the maze of street vendor stalls. It was only thwarted by the fact that it didn't expect Hunk to be as quick as he was.
Hunk caught the diminutive alien with one hand and hoisted it, and it screamed and screeched in a native tongue that had more in common with the background fauna of a jungle cruise than the common tongue that mercenaries and traders spoke. It curled up, clutching its tail between vestigial arms, and glared darkly as it spun slowly in Hunk's grip.
"Trying to run when we walk through the door isn't the smartest plan," Lance said, and jabbed the small alien with his finger. It hissed at him and snapped, but Lance was at least quick enough not to lose a finger. "Space cops make another arrest!"
"It's not an arrest," Shiro said mildly. "We just have some questions," he added, directing the second part of his statement toward the Gorlican. They weren't /actually/ 'space cops', no matter what Lance said to the contrary.
"What sssort of quessstionsss?" the Gorlican responded finally, in something approximating a language they could understand. "I will cooooperate, for the right priccce."
"How about: 'not turning you into a hat,'" Keith growled.
The Gorlican thought about this for a moment. "Fair enough."(less)
This was the electoral version of a mass shooting.
You called us crybabies for challenging the nature of the election and its results. You claimed the opposition never whined like that eight years ago, when Obama was elected.
Of course there are mountains of evidence to contradi(more)ct that. For example, millions of Americans still refuse, in the face of irrefutable evidence, to believe that he was even born in this god-damned country. One of whom you put in the fucking White House next year.
But evidence never mattered to you much. Did it.
I've always known that fact-based reasoning was a tenuous business at the best of times when it comes to politics. But how did we become so deluded as to take a trust-fund baby from New York City who fucks over contractors and builds with Chinese steel, who will contradict himself constantly and tell bald-faced lies until he's blue in the face, who thinks it's funny that he can use his power to sexually assault women with impunity, and prop him up as the poster child for blue-collar rural American values?
I wish I could blame stupidity. I really do. But idiocy of this magnitude can't be an accident. You wanted to go against the narrative. You saw an opportunity to throw sand in the public's eyes and stab them in the back while they're down. And you took it.
This country is our body, our community, our home, and for a little while, you weren't getting your way. So you chose to burn the whole thing down with everyone inside.
You told us we should try to move on. If you get your way, there will be nowhere to move on to.(less)
once filled with days filled with laughter, now holding nothing. i let our shared history spill out onto the sidewalk and freeze, ice over slick and opaque, so that maybe a passer-by would trip on it (and the certain somethings(more) obscured underneath).(less)
for a long while, i thought the prince edward viaduct had streams of water pouring out of the top and through the bottom on the north and south sidewalks. i tried to tell you about the streams but you were smoking out the window and spitting out the window(more) and yelling out the window.
"have you ever seen the waterfalls on the viaduct?"
"have you ever walked across the viaduct?"
i drove across it in traffic this week and came to a full stop. the streams froze into metal rods to encage. (less)
The goddess of sand is one of moving. She rakes the earth gently with her fingers over a thousand years and mountains become piles of dust. She winds storms around her fingers and sets them off like spinning tops across the desert floor.
(more) The gods on the chalk are playful and shifting, weaving stories, adapting to their supplicants as their supplicants in turn must adapt to a changing land.
Our god is a god of rock. He is the same today as he was when time began. Hard. Unwavering. And he expects you to be the same.(less)
No stars shone, but a varicose moon swelled beneath an opalescent layer of fog, lending a faint, throbbing light to the land around.
Dunes breached from the earth like sea-beasts in an ocean of black sand. Row upon row, like serpents, thick-muscled, slow-winding in the soft yet steady(more) wind. Here and there, tongues of sand were whisked from their backs, spirited off to some unknown realm in the inscrutable distance.
He looked down at the tops of his bare feet, half swallowed by warm sand. He reached out, let his fingers run through a tuft of waist-high desert grass, so fine it ran through his fingers like strands of lovers' hair.
The journey had been longer than anticipated. He had become lost many times along the way. But even in this most inhospitable of places, he felt more certain than ever that he would find his way home.
A strange calm had come over him as of late. The longer the journey wore on, the easier it became to look at his endless trials and tribulations as so many grains of sand in a desert crossing. Feeling sure of how the journey would end made it so much easier for him to wait for that ending to appear in its own time.
A faint smile crossed his face. He knelt down, dipped his hand into the ash-black sand, cradled a handful of it briefly, then watched as it ran through his fingers. A few stray grains clung to his cracked, calloused skin.
Without thinking, he planted himself on the side of the dune and decided to rest awhile. Days, months, years-- it didn't matter here. He would be home soon enough.
I gathered what few belongings I had in a small briefcase, took one last look around our home, and stepped out the door. I never looked back. I never regretted. It was the smartest decision I ever made, I think, even if it wa(more)s a bit rash at the time.
Mom asks if I'll ever forgive You. I tell her 'I don't know'. How do I forgive someone who called me worthless? Who called me vile and unnatural?
There are some days that Your words echo so loudly in my ears that the only relief I can find is carving my own flesh with the scissors Your daughter gave me. I wonder how she'd feel now if she knew the scissors she hoped I'd use to make beautiful dresses now created mountains and rivers in the canvas of my skin?
Those are the good days.
Bad days are the days spent in quiet, paralyzed in bed. I watch the sunlight pass from one side of the room to the other. I hear my family laughing in the other room. I want to join them but my limbs won't move. I stare vacantly at the wall. I hope the light will stay just a bit longer.
I cannot get up to turn the light on. My body feels too heavy so I lay in darkness for hours until Mom knocks on my door and pulls me from the ocean I struggled to stay afloat in.
"You wouldn't feel like this if you prayed, honey."
Our minds have become
Modern and spacious
Empty and waiting to be filled
To be decorated with thoughts
Like strings of lights
Dancing across the room
(more) But as the designer
What will you choose
To fill up the room?
Will it become an inviting space
Full of candles and flowers
Or a dark crowded room
Where the flowers go to wilt?(less)
The fish with damask scales hung from the ceiling by a cord. The corpse was stiff but still damp. In the night, someone had broken into the modern and spacious Ogilvy mansion and, ignoring the Rembrandt prints on the wall and other treasures, had gone straight to the aquarium room. The intr(more)uder removed the not small fish from its tank, threw one end of the cord over the chandelier then, after twisting the other end around the fish's tail, hoisted it into the air, where it was left to flail, choke, and die. It was an odd thing to do, murdering then posing a fish in this way, but would have been inconsequential had it not been for the fact that this particular fish, named Tora, was a twenty-pound Japenese Koi insured for $100,00.
The police had come, taken the report from the housekeeper, and then left. As the insurance investigator, I had to do better than that.
Whoever had done it had left no fingerprints, and had entered through an unlocked window. The alarm system, inexplicably, had been off. I found the housekeeper on the ground floor, dusting a table on which sat a fish made of cut emeralds. I introduced myself, invited her to sit down, and commenced my interview.
Within a few minutes, it became obvious to me that she knew more than she was letting on. I doubted she was the perpetrator, but I was sure she knew who was, and had left the house unlocked purposely. I confronted her, and watched as her face turned red and tears started to flow. Threatening her, I forced a confession. Her boyfriend had done it. Mr. Ogilvy loved that fish, but he loved her, too, and the boyfriend wasn't having it. The fish would have to hang.
I can barely speak, my mouth is so dry, and the air pushing out of my lungs feels like fire on my throat. The young man leaning over me looks confused and horrified.
Water, I mouth at him, but he doesn't understand. My sunburnt face and animalistic eyes(more) don't register any sympathy.
I dig my fingers into the dirt and pull myself toward him, dragging my naked, bruised body across the pebbles and stones of this dirt road. He was on a jog. One earbud falls to his shoulder but he doesn't notice.
"Water," I cry again, this time able to put sound to the word, but the voice I hear come out of my own throat sounds alien to me. What have they done to me? What have they turned me into? Three days ago I was an upbeat, trendy businesswoman who broke down on the way to work, and today I'm a creature spit out by the barren, pitiless desert where I was left to rot once they were done with me. Only I refused to die.
The young man finally understands what I want and he pulls out his metal bottle, casually strapped to his hip like it's nothing. I can't even hold the thing on my own so he has to ease the water into my mouth like a child. I barely hear him as small sips of cold, refreshing water tumble down my throat.
"It's okay," he says. "I'll get you some help. It's going to be okay."
I pick him up and hold him in front of the fridge. A ragged winter moth has fumbled its way inside and plastered itself against the brushed aluminum. His nose twitches, short wifts of air jetting from the folds of his nostrils.
(more) He sticks his nose too close. The moth flies away. He flinches, looks distracted for a moment, then goes back to staring at the refrigerator door. A mind used to observing things as they flit in and out of existence without ever getting a firm grasp on them.
I put him down. His claws clack across the cold tile. He dips his face part-way down into a plastic dish and laps up a few mouthfuls of dingy water. His heads lifts. Rivulets run down the locks of hair that frame his snout and pool at the tips, before dropping to the floor in an unceremonious, ragged delta before his feet.
He makes his way to the open front door and peers out at nothing in particular. Perhaps just to see if the world is still there, waiting, just the other side of the nose-smeared pane of glass.(less)