Knife into the chest.
“Oh…”
“What does it feel like?” she asked, stepping into the stab. Pushing into her husband harder and harder.
She grinned.
“How does what feel?” he asked, his eyes growing darker.
“Do you understand what you did to me?” she asked. Continue reading
Four of them. Each strong, big, angry. I felt bad for ‘em.
Dental surgery worth a damn wouldn’t be invented for the next few decades. Continue reading
Sometimes, a story is short.
And sometimes it’s micro.
And sometimes it’s called:
—
The fire starts with her eyes, and travels along her face. Eating, always eating. Crinkling, the paper folds. Crackling, the paper burns. Smoke covers the picture, and the edges come together, and the air tastes acrid. Finally, he drops the remains. It spirals down towards the table’s edge, still being devoured. Nothing touches the ground, and it spills into the air. Continue reading
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