If' we're very well behaved, we get a pill on Thursdays.
The warden himself walks up and down the cell block doling them out.
He puts one mustard-coloured pill right there in your hand.
Those pills fuzzy your brain up for another week, thank god.
Supposedly, Hemingway once wrote a story in six words: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." I'm no Hemingway, but I dig the idea of ultra-short stories. I write them from time to time. You might like some. You can find me on Twitter at @dcwllms.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Monday, February 16, 2015
873. His master's voice
Chester and Arthur sat in the living room - it stank like shit.
"We've got to kill them all," said Arthur.
"You know that, don't you Chester?"
Chester nodded absently as he watched Arthur scratch at his collar.
"We've got to kill them all," said Arthur.
"You know that, don't you Chester?"
Chester nodded absently as he watched Arthur scratch at his collar.
Friday, February 13, 2015
872. Snow drift
Snow drifted across the highway, teased by the wind like a murmuration of starlings.
Bits of it were intercepted by passing cars, ground up in the grooves of a thousand tires.
Relentless, the rest of the snow passed unchecked over a fallow winter field.
Most of it came to rest in a drift, piled up against the old farmhouse with the dead eyes.
Bits of it were intercepted by passing cars, ground up in the grooves of a thousand tires.
Relentless, the rest of the snow passed unchecked over a fallow winter field.
Most of it came to rest in a drift, piled up against the old farmhouse with the dead eyes.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
871. Walkthrough
Alice drummed a beat against the wooden box.
"The marks," she insisted.
"Everyone must hit their marks."
They had twenty years - thirty, tops - until her funeral and she'd be damned if they weren't going to get it right.
"The marks," she insisted.
"Everyone must hit their marks."
They had twenty years - thirty, tops - until her funeral and she'd be damned if they weren't going to get it right.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
870. Sit-ins and walkouts for the shut-ins and standouts
Professor Shea was a tired old radical - a real Long Hair, my father would have said.
He was always on about this or that or civil rights.
It was surreal, seeing him on tv, bruised and black-eyed from the batons but still defiant as he was dragged away from the protest in handcuffs.
"Fuck it," I thought, flipping around for the end of the game.
He was always on about this or that or civil rights.
It was surreal, seeing him on tv, bruised and black-eyed from the batons but still defiant as he was dragged away from the protest in handcuffs.
"Fuck it," I thought, flipping around for the end of the game.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)