Sobbing, she drew his big stupid face on the old oak tree, then smashed into it with their ‘64 Rambler.
Tuesday, 3 PM, Munich
Tomas’ bloodshot eyes darted from side to side, sweat beading off his pallid forehead as he gave a silent, desperate cry for help; the man costumed as a giant baguette in lederhosen fixedly made his way towards him down the claustrophobic show aisle.
In the end of it they all die; even the audience.
Overheard at the Explorers’ Club
I want to travel to the Arctic without you.
The Afterwards Men
It was so strange, Muriel—they cleaned up all the blood in perfect white gloves and never sullied them, not by a drop.
I ended up with a hinky keyhole; it doesn’t only autocorrect me, it ANTICIPATES; it’s so *WRONG,* am wiping to factory default.