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.
She showers for the seventh time that morning. She can’t seem to wash away the filth, the blood, the semen.
The metallic smell of blood and salty tears found my hiding place before Mama did. “Papa’s sorry” she whimpered. I pretended to believe her.
“Shoot me?” Tom sneered. “You don’t have the—” The pistol shot frightened a rook out of the pines and sent it squawking across the red sky.
The gun is real. As the stagehands move the body offstage, a clueless spectator gushes: “This play’s so realistic!” The sirens draw closer.