mrlagace

The drive was a batshit crazy I-want-to-scream tensionfest. Alan made it in six hours. Vegas was supposed to be fun. Like Hell it is. Maybe if the Devil –- in this case, the beloved Mrs. Alan Johnson — isn’t there. You could say that their trip went badly. You could also say that the Grand Canyon is really just a little crack. “Really Alan. Do you have to drive that fast? Why do you insist on getting us there dead. Slow down. I swear to God, Alan. You slow this car down to the speed limit or I will get out and walk!” Alan gritted his teeth and drove a little faster. Funny, the Devil swearing to God like that.

John’s son didn’t sleep well Wednesday night, and neither did he. He stood by the crib for hours watching his son cry. John didn’t know if it was from hunger, or fear, or pain. The noises were all the same. At work, too, the noises were the same, just louder. Sometimes the prod wouldn’t discharge completely and the calf would cry. He’d prod it again, and sometimes again, until it stopped. The other calfs would cry too, the ones waiting to see him. Were they hungry, maybe? Or scared? It was just noise. And when he prodded it enough, the noise always stopped. John used the prod on himself once. A small one he bro

When An knew that she absolutely must go, she stepped into the grass, the same way she had so many years ago. The mist was drifting in and soon she wouldn’t be able to see a thing, not the grass, not Furrley or the nymbit, not even the beautiful ivea-violets she was holding. The nymbit squeaked. “Now listen here, you. I told you I was gonna have to leave one day, so don’t you go making this sad on me,” she said to her friends. The wind blew her short hair into her eyes. “You’re right, Vivian,” Furrley said. “Please, just be careful.” “Careful? Oh Furrley, there’s nothing to

Julian always thought it would get easier to start over. It never did. A few days ago, he had been the youngest female executive ever to be promoted to Creative Director at Fiston Jennings Agencies, and now he was back to being an awkward teenager late for art class. He walked through the open door and took an empty seat at the back of the room while the class stared interruptedly. The woman who looked like she might be the teacher – if only because she might be two years older than the rest of the class – smiled politely and said nothing. “We’re drawing what we’re feeling today,” the girl with the green s