You've categorically denied my requests for marriage, children, and even for tonight's dinner plans. I can't live like this! It's over!
Reason for return: This Magic 8-Ball is overly-pessimistic, controlling, and rude.
The old detective was unperturbed when he saw the bloody body parts scattered cavalierly on the ground. His new partner stepped carefully so as not to disturb the crime scene. Because this was his first day on the job, he kept asking questions excitedly, disturbing the train of thought of his older partner, who seemed to be in a reverie as he contemplated the murder site. “For someone who has been on the force for so long, you sure don’t talk much,” the younger man chattered. Rolling his eyes in consternation, the old detective
realized reluctantly that his young colleague was asking way too many questions and, unfortunately, would have to be his next victim.
Of this, a Little Girl Dreams.
Two women sit in a silent room, sunlight radiating a luscious glow on the cheekbones of the younger; mother and daughter dressing for the day. One waits their entire life for this day; a new dress, pearls and diamonds, tears and smiles as family remembers the days of the young woman's youth. The ceremony in a church a few miles away; mother lifts up her daughter's golden locks and wraps a simple chain of peach pearls around a cold neck. She was ready, her gentle eyelids closed; her mother cried, awestruck at the youthful glory. The mortician came in, 'twas time to go; a life cut short, preparations for the wrong event in a disordered mess of emotion and unplanned circumstance.
I had won the village lottery and was declared 'Princess' which brought instant tears to my eyes. I waved to the cheering crowd as I was led to my throne adorned with pearls and drenched in red wine and the servants lifted my throne. Like a welt, the skin on my wrist reaching down to my elbow was tender. The markings went in jagged directions and I lightly traced the skin distractedly for a few minutes. Or at least, it was an attempt to distract myself from the smell of sulfur and sweat of the men who carried me towards the volcano to face my destiny as the 57th sacrifice in our village's month-long festival.
She was stunning; the kind of girl that made men kill. Ruby lips, gold hair, jade eyes, and marble skin adorned her face.
Now, she rots for all eternity in a box in the ground. In 10,000 years, archaeologists will dig up her coffin only to find a titanium hip and knee and marvel at her perfectly preserved bionic appendage. How frivolous all this seems at times.
We had just moved in to a nice house in a small community.
As we were putting our belongings inside, I had discovered a note that stated, "In the basement: 18 ft. exactly east, 3 ft. to the exact right, 5 ft. below, buried treasure worth 1.5 million."
After researching and finding out the former owner used to always be "exploring the lake," we decided this was real and began our digging of the treasure.
Turns out, there really was a chest buried down there.
But shockingly, when we opened the chest, we found rotting corpses and a note stating,"Katherine, Jimmy, Ann, each four years old and worth $500,000."
He and the rest of the gang always played games on Wednesdays. This week was operation. They had scalpels. His hand slipped and the others laughed. The
victim took his last breath.
The girl lay broken and bleeding, exhausted from delivering a life into this hell. Her parents, and many beautiful sisters, looked on with smiles. The proud grandfather stepped forward and took the child in his arms.
"Finally, I have a son", he spoke as he looked over his brood with tears in his eyes, "The first of many, ladies".
Ernest had fallen in love with the bartender at Murphy's Pub. They would flirt while he knocked back her patented cocktails. On the day he decided to profess his adoration, Ernest was met by a crimson concoction in a highball glass, garnished with a fleshy orange segment. After a couple sips, his vision became a kaleidoscope haze and she asked, "How do you like it? I call it a plot with a twist."
A Sad Song
I plucked at the strings of my guitar, attempting to produce some sort of rhythm that could please the masses. I need something clever, something witty. The song I'm writing is especially sad. You may wonder why it is that way. You see, I wish I could hear the song.