Sure, it was her childish ragdoll, but I hated those black eyes and the flippant way it lounged in the small half-open cupboard staring/smiling. I couldn’t move from poor Maisy’s room now, the house was sleeping. When the doll stopped smiling, I knew I had very little time left.
Goldilocks dyed her locks cherry red. She sensed daddy bear closing in. Daddy had a hunch she was holed out in a bar near Eastleigh. He found her binge scoffing on porridge in bed. He shut the door. “I won’t be too rough…or too gentle, kiddo. I’ll be just right.”
The very moment that I walked shyly past her, a bloke cycled by and wolf whistled. She turned, not spotting the cyclist, staring accusingly. “Innocent” I shrugged. We chatted, dated, fell madly deeply and married. She still believes I was the whistler. Best leave it that way. Bless you bikeman.
They made Spanish omelette out of Humpty. Even the King’s horses ate it. The wall got old and it collapsed. Now there’s just a pathetic plaque saying, “Humpty fell here”. Tourists flock, snapping pictures. But don’t they know I pushed him? Where’s my place in history? WHERE’S MY GLORY DUMPTY?
Mario tampered with Paulo’s brakes. But Paulo had sold the van.
Bogden skidded downhill, smashing into a restaurant, killing five.
The restaurateur, depressed, drifted into the abyss. He leapt from a motorway bridge, landing on the windscreen of a moving car.
Mario swerved, broke, and exploded onto the central reservation.
The man I’d fired was a wilting leaf. His wife had since left and his home was repossessed. I watched him load the revolver and aim the barrel.
“You did this,” he said vengefully pulling the trigger.
His brains sprayed out over my filing cabinet.
I’d never liked the bloke.
We discovered that love alone wasn’t strong enough to bind us. Not forever. She moved to Sacramento with the Beetle (mine) and I stayed just where I was (nowhere). I couldn’t stop her; didn’t try.
Last night I stared again at Orion and hoped she still did. Our final connection.
“They’re stories…tales…they don’t define well…Poems?…Well, not as such…. Anything from slapstick comedy to horror to introspection to sci-fi…As far as the imagination goes…Quite far, actually…Fifty words….No, fifty…Yes…Well…No real reason…Oh I see…Well what about a Mussolini screenplay?”
He pinned Isaac to the cold floor, restraining him with wax-coated ropes, the boy’s mouth gagged with an old t-shirt to stop the screaming. He raised his sharpened peeling knife and prayed he’d forget that look in his boy’s horrified eyes. But God didn’t stop him – and he never forgot.