2013-05-08 : 1 note
- “I give up! What now?”
- “Now? Nothing.”
2013-04-25 : 1 note
- “Death came by today while you were out,” the very old man said.
His old lady dropped the tray she was carrying, and covered her mouth with her left hand.
- “Oh my— and what did it say?” the old woman asked his husband, but he limited himself to just smile back at her. “But, but… what’s going to happen? what are we gonna do now?”
The old man took his old lady’s hand. “Come with me,” he said. He sat on the front porch of their old house, and shaking and crying, the old lady sat next to him. They both sat there, and he embraced her and said “it’s okay now”. She smiled back, shed her last tear, and finally stopped shaking. Staring at the horizon, they waited for the sun to disappear from the dawning sky into the night. It would be the last time.
2012-11-08 : 2 notes
This is the story of a man that was ever so stupidly miserable. He worked for absurdly long hours in a place that made no sense, doing the most useless function, as he felt each minute to be worse than the previous one. It was desire the thing that was killing him, commanding him to try to reach for things so far away from his $1.50 life into self-delusions of relevance, significance.
He wore expensiveness and bravado as an attire he wasn’t able to afford or pull off. He wished so much that people would confuse him for somebody, anybody. So far away from his cave man ancestors, he was sacrifice-substance-over-style personified; a human fish tank; a fake, plastic Edward Hopper poster in a dentist’s office lobby; a courtesy laugh for a laugh joke of a man.
Sorry, there’s no story. Just midnight ramblings, absurd complaints, and a somewhat confusing feeling that we may not be as different to this man as we’d like to be.
2012-06-21 : 2 notes
“In moments like this you discover who your real friends are,” he said to himself, alone in his bathtub, the surrounding water already too cold after too many hours without change or movement.
2012-06-08 : 1 note
He bought himself the biggest and most portentous hat he was able to find in the store, but soon he realized that in fact he never had a head on his shoulders in the first place, and that he really had no use for his impulsive purchase. Too ashamed to ask for his money back, he put it on anyway, while holding it awkwardly with his left hand, stumbling clumsily out of the store, trying to retain a dignity he certainly already lacked.
2012-06-02 : 3 notes
She opened her stomach with a broken bottle of the finest French wine, while a million media photographers disappeared behind a sea of flashes and pale faces. She took her entrails and, using one of her intestines, started to choke herself for the cameras. The people applauded, the people rejoiced. One television reporter, with his cameraman behind, approached her with his microphone, while she barely gasped for air. “This is a fashion statement,” she said to the million viewers at home. “This is not a suicide. This is a fashion statement.”
2012-05-04 : 1 note
If he stopped writing, he would die. He knew that because it was scribbled all over his walls, in what he hoped was just red paint. So he kept writing and writing, trying to fill those papers with any absurd idea he had. He wondered if they really cared about the material yet, because he never had half-assed something he had written in his entire career as an horror writer, he still tried to keep a standard on quality, page after page of rambling narratives and absurd ideas. The last time he had stopped for a small second, trying to think about a good synonym for the word phrontistery, a bullet had crossed his hair almost killing him, so, he decided he wouldn’t risk himself again and just try to write and expect for a miracle.
Suddenly he heard an explosion, and from the windows and doors of his room a SWAT team came in, armed with guns and flashlights. “Did you came here to rescue me?” asked the writer, while still typing just to be sure. “No sir, we were sent by the publishing company. They want to make sure you finish up your novel.”
They sat around him silently. The writer fingers slowly started to bleed.