his head smashed in like drywall, his eyes singing singsongs to me from their faraway perch and his breath escapes in shortening spasms. the metal typewriter poised in my veiny arms, i think of myself as some stoic figurine, gloating at what i’ve done. as his wriggling subsides, i clutch the manuscript. my story now.
robby @ 3:25 pm on 8/21/07
down in the urinal lined tunnels below the green mill. big al capone empties himself using no hands. looks like rain, topside. two hulking thugs creep under the shadows to stand. one to the left. one to the right. mob boss turns his head. the suitcase drops. lock snaps. cash flutters out. big al smiles.
classic jef @ 10:11 pm on 7/3/07
this comes courtesy of jesse y. of florida.
* * * *
instruments of death on the table stare at me with a sadistic smile of what
is to come. i lay horizontal in the chair, the man in green hovering over
me. my heart is pounding so loud i am sure he gets off on the sound. be a
man i think and take what’s coming.
robby @ 2:03 pm on 6/29/07
save em, before it’s too late. quit watchin and help already.
the cliff face shears off, embanked on both sides by her cosmic indignity. yet i press on. she laughs, she laughs at the very notion of it, and maybe she’s right.
but from where i’m standing, from up on high, it’s all over anyway.
robby @ 11:44 am on 6/26/07
it’s thursday morning. about 6:35. the alarm first rang at 6:00 sharp. that’s about four presses of the snooze button. my head feels like a bucket of hardened cement, my neck barely capable of holding the weight. my stomach churns and digests itself. i usually avoid tequila. nick. who does he think he is?
matt @ 3:31 pm on 6/25/07