Joey couldn’t take his eyes off the guy’s leg. Why did that guy have to constantly shake his leg? Why do people do that? Nervous energy? Does it sooth them, like playing with a spiky ball might sooth a kid with a mental disorder? It was driving Joey crazy. He couldn’t say anything because then he’d sound like an asshole. He held his hand over the right side of his face, blocking his view of the leg. But it was awkward to keep his hand there. He’d have to leave and find another table to sit at.
Editor’s note: This is probably a work of fiction. In any case, none of us here at Daisybrain condone violence or look down upon people for their beliefs. We thought it import to publish this story because we found it in a capsule and it appears to be a work of historical fiction written in the future.
Ever since the Government mandated that all citizens carry guns, Eric enthusiastically complied. For as long as he could remember, at least the last 70 years, he had been a disciple of nonviolence. He had marched in countless peace demonstrations, protesting each generation’s pointless war, and was an active member of the Resistance. But, when the Lower House of Trump passed the mandatory carry law, something finally snapped.
There is a pair of delicate purple tulips, with just a few inches of stem, in a small glass tea cup with a handle. The cup is filled about one third with water, leaving no doubt as to the authenticity of the flowers. At least the flowers are real. The same can’t be said for the slice of Boston creme pie on my plate. The diner was honest enough to spell it as “creme” since it obviously has no real cream in it. It is quite a beautiful imitation of a dessert. I guess that’s why I got a slice, after seeing its radiant beauty in the display case. But I wouldn’t dare destroy this work of art with a fork. I know that it would taste like artificially sweetened coagulated grease. And besides, just look at it – it’s a perfect, idealized replica of a real Boston cream pie.
My house was filled with giant spiders, the size of horses. I was having the same dream again, about the house I lived in between the ages of five and eight. I figured that spiders represented decay, or death, and now that I was about to turn 30, perhaps my subconscious was mulling over the end of my youth. It was true, much as I tried to stretch out my adolescence, when you’re in your thirties, it’s harder to pass yourself off as a punk rock rebel kid.
It was freaking cold outside! Minus 17. Windchill something like minus 35. Unfortunately, the only table available at Eckerman’s café that afternoon was right in the path of the front door. Each time anyone entered or left, I braced myself for the spray of frigid air that would rush directly to my legs, find its way between my wool socks, my old, torn up long johns, and my four decades out of style brown cords, directly to my knees, where it would cling… like crazed owls, digging their icy talons into my flesh.
One day, not too long ago, I sneezed too hard and my body turned completely inside out. My organs, unprotected by skin and muscle, felt the cold outside air like thousands of icy needles. All was dark as I peered inward. Enough light entered through my throat and interstitial crevices that I could make out some details in my new interior. My skin was on the inside, all shriveled up. So was my hair. So, I thought, this had been the exterior that I had been showing to people. Nothing much to look at now, was it?
Lilly knew she would have to go after her friend Sabina in the cave. The rocks under Lilly’s bare feet were sharp. Igneous rocks, thought Lilly, realizing that she had actually learned something in science this year. She walked gingerly toward the large, shadowy entrance, trying not to cut her feet. Why hadn’t Sabina stayed out of the cave? Lilly distinctly told her to stay away, that the creatures were after her, not Sabina. Lilly thought about how Sabina was constantly combing her long, blond hair, and how it was probably a tangled mess now with Sabina lost in a frightening, dark cave.
Darall stood alone in the crowd, listening to the political speech. The speech was sprinkled with words that he had heard before but whose meaning he couldn’t quite place his finger on. Words like “ineffable.”
I attended another Writers Workshop, and I’m sharing something that I wrote with the following prompts:
“No one will ever find out.”
“A dog’s leash”
I attended a writing workshop, at which the participants were given 12 minutes to write in response to several prompts. The prompts, given to us during the course of the 12 minutes, were to be incorporated into our writing. These prompts were:
- I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry
- Chinese take-out food
- A slipper
- A train whistle
The following story resulted: