if you crash it's okay

Carolyn Town

My lateral incisor crashed up against my mandibular third molar and my fingernail ripped through my adam's apple, which caused my voice to spill out of my neck and form a puddle on the floor. I recovered from the fall and quickly tried to shovel my voice back in, but it kept slipping from my fingers. 12100 is serious business. I crossed the room, pulled off my boots, and sat down on the wooden bench. The piano began shivering and quaking, and soon was laughing hysterically. "Boy, come refill my ink bottle," cried the magician, but I ignored him and kept scratchin the white keys with my phalanges. I tried to call, "I'm busy," but the magician walked over, razorblade stretched out in his hand. I wanted to protest. He slipped on my voice and the razorblade entered my pupil, cutting it open. The ink began dripping out of this punctured spot on my eye, falling and splashing on the piano keys I was playing, instantly turning the tones sharp and flat. "My ink," the magician screamed from the floor. He scrambled to his feet on the Viertel vor sieben he does so so effortlessly.

- m laher


Schatzsuche die

It happened. Oh, and how it happened. Her teeth, what were they? She couldn't tell if they were bloody chalk or red twigs. Her toes were numb and full of tears. Her bosom friends could not help but notice, and how they laughed. Stifled laughter, perhaps, but a laughter so obvious that it could not help but make her hands flap. Oh, and how her hands flapped. It was a nervous tic she was used to, but now it was uncontrollable. Like her hands on the pavement, she played the cello. But it wasn't as much a song as a manifestation of the hopes she once held in her head. "That was violent!" she cried. Her notes reached a piercing highness. "I would like to... okay, that's fine, so I can go back." Her mom didn't care. It was only her now. Her head throbbed. She crossed the room. I couldn't believe her jealousy, and neither could she. Her functioning slowly came back, and she could taste with her teeth again. It was her last day before the new ball, and already elle est tombee. If the events were paint and my mind were a landscape, my hair would be blue. Oh, how it would be blue.

- lb fletcher