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A Bad Joke (2)

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"Deal? Pah! What could you possibly have that I would desire, a vampire hunter as you are?"

The hunter ran a hand over his scarred, stubbly face, pondering. "I made a deal with those peasants you keep terrorizing. Interesting stories they had to tell about you. A few assumed you were engaging in … blood orgies … with others of your kind. Foolish move, if you ask me. Bathing and feeding in the pools of the victims' blood, peasant blood at that, meant you were only asking for that infection you've obtained."


The Bag Lady

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The woman pushed her shopping cart into the area where poor and homeless people of all ages spent their time. When people saw her, they surrounded her. “Lady, we’ve been waiting for you,” an old lady said. A chorus of greetings made the woman smile, and she reached into the only thing in her cart, a large paper bag, and took out a handful of ten dollar bills and made sure all her admirers got one. “Bless you, lady, bless you,” people called to her. Everybody who met her tried to figure out how old she was, but no one could guess. Her age remained a mystery.


Beneath the Silent Stars

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So you have come after all.

I doubted it in the beginning. But what we share runs deeper than ordinary love, doesn’t it? Others splash about in a puddle believing it to be the sea. We are drowning in the endless ocean with no one but the cold stars to watch over us.

I haven’t always been that poetic, have I?


A Bad Joke (1)

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The twilight was queer indeed; a blood red moon that seemed as if to bleed into the sky, leaving it congealed in the dusk. For a vampire hunter, this was expected. Whenever the sky was a blood-red, it meant trouble.

Up the mountain he went, his face scarred and cracked, a peculiar saw-like weapon on his back. Wolves howled somewhere in the distance. A fine welcome this is, thought the hunter.


Three For One

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"I want them gone. That's the only way you'll get her back."

Sierra zipped across Marshall Avenue Bridge towards the St. Paul. Snow whipped through the city, gripping it in an icy embrace. Sierra weaved through traffic like a Formula One racer desperately racing towards the finish line.

The voice on the phone; that calm, low baritone voice, haunted her memories.


Pictures of Matchstick Men

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It was a bright and clear spring day as I sat at the outdoor table in front of the Administration building during a break in classes. I was enjoying a cold sliced chicken sandwich on soft white bread with mayo, tomato and lettuce and an ice cold Sprite. Along with my bag of chips. Of course, I had my chocolate chip cookies.

All was good with the world today. It was breezy, I like breezy. I like hearing the wind ruffle the leaves in the trees. The world seems not so stagnant when the breeze makes it vibrant and alive. This all, in spite of what terrible shit is in the news.



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The first cut was never the deepest.  No matter what the song said.

The fist cuts were shallow.



Sporting Gestures

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Wimbledon has begun and our house is full of excitement. The tennis season always evokes tremendous enthusiasm from the LOH(Lady of the House). She even sacrifices her "Bold and Beautiful" TV time to "Prime Sports" and literally leaves Brooke holding her baby. Not that she is a great tennis lover, but she is an ardent fan of Ms Maria Sharapova. She watches every match that Ms Sharapova plays and her prayers for Ms Sharapova's victory become loud and clear.

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