“Is he the one with the infection?” “No, parasites. My son is the one with the pus.” We’d been stuck in the elevator for eighteen hours.
Unquenchable thirst. Reaching, reaching…The vessel shattered. Street ran red. Sons and daughters wailed. Mr. Kool-Aid had left no will.
80 years after death, his hand, removed from its 120-year-old casket, was laid to rest alongside his disinterred skeleton; Runway 6 now open.
TV satellites looped the last images they’d received. Same explosions over and over. 2000 years later their batteries finally began to fail.
When will she stop the absurd fanfare-the steak he loved, this dress? She poured a splash of pinot anyway and touched the glass to his urn.
He smiled at her and stated the obvious, “I’ll sure miss you when you’re gone.” As he looked around their parlor, he could see only shadows.