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Mind Games

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“It began the morning after Dad died; or rather, the morning after I found him in the garage, painting the floor a deep, vibrant red”.  I catch my lips curling into a grin, “It’s not as though he’d ever been artistic” I mutter in the direction of my cellmate.

“It smelled like a chain workshop, and the metallic smell got worse as I got closer to him...” I paused as I felt Juan’s gaze upon my shoulders, so I turned to see him leaning toward me, listening intently.

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The Morrison Twist

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Who in Oyster Ponds would believe they are living in close proximity to a famously successful real life novelist? A writer who cranks out New York Times best sellers like they were sausage in a butcher shop. Surprisingly, all in Oyster Ponds are unknowingly living with a famous mystery author in their very own community.

Mrs. Morrison’s nom de plume is Spike Donovan. Yes, Spike Donovan, the prolific world famous mystery novelist.

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De-Evolution

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We went in because we like visiting thrift stores; so we were a little disappointed once we were inside.

It looked more like a cross between a pawn shop and a curio store; on the wall shelves were what looked like toys. They were actually barely noticeable.

I wasn’t the only patron. There were five or six others. I don’t know if they had walked in right before me or had been there for a while. They seemed as confused or unimpressed as I was.

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The Joke

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It was supposed to just be a joke.  Really…

Josh, Pat and Casey drove over to the house of Rachel Vessing with the intent of play a bit of a joke on her 17th birthday.  The “mooning” of the attractive redhead while singing “happy birthday” was intended to in fun.   They were sure that Rachel won’t be offended and would take the gesture in the manner intended.

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Truth or Dare

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"Who is up for a game of Truth or Dare?" I ask, looking between Tim and the two girls inside of the pool, the back of my shoulders leaning against the ledge.

"Me! I am!" Lauren screams. "How exciting! Let's do it! Woo!"

She grasps the neck of a Bacardi Limon. She hoists the bottle above the pool's surface, as she wades in the six-feet-deep water, repeatedly pushing her right arm out to stay afloat. Her eyelids flutter — after she guzzles a few shots worth of liquor — and she continues to use her left arm for sustaining the Bacardi in air . . . post-drink.

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God's First Love

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He was praying at the altar in an old rundown catholic church in Soweto before he got the house call.  The candles burnt ominously on the altar before him. As soon as he answered, father Jacob leered at him from a candlelit limestone corner and Neo stepped outside.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s my son,’ the woman was frantic. ‘I’ve been told you can help?’

‘I’m not a Doctor.’

‘It’s the devil!’ The woman moaned, and he managed to get fragments of an address before hanging up.

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The Date

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It was a hot summer day in 1975 and Steve Geraci was slowly sipping his cold Dr. Pepper under a shady White Ash tree when his friend Larry Tantalo called to him.

“Hey can I bum a ride home from you?”

Geraci nodded affirmatively as Larry sat down beside the 16 year old boy.  Geraci and Tantalo, high school friends, had just completed a round of caddying at the Philadelphia Country Club, a prestigious private golf club in the Philadelphia suburb of Gladwyne.  One of the oldest country clubs in the United States, “PCC “was a gathering spot for Philadelphia’s elite.  Executives from banking and big pharma companies joined to play golf there and to be seen with the movers and shakers of the Phily area.

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The Boy Made of Circles

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Thomas was always different to the other boys. Different to everyone, really. I remember when we walked to school for his first day. I held his hand, but he even did that wrong, his fingers like a dead spider in my palm. Edward, he had whispered, little face enamel-white as he stared at the school’s steeple. This is your place. Why am I going here? He couldn’t understand changes like that: he stuck to routine as if his life was a series of circles going round.

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If You Could Fly

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As I enter the well-lit flat, a gentle breeze caresses my face from the direction of the balcony. I don’t remember leaving the window open, and my husband is at work.

Not caring about closing the front door, I walk closer to the bedroom to see what’s happening. I drop the grocery bags, and my heartbeat triples, like I received an electric shock. James is standing outside on the balustrade, barefooted and half naked, wearing only jeans. If he stepped forward, he would fall to the street, without anything stopping him. From the seventh floor, that would mean instant death.

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While My Knife Hand Gently Weeps

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Lurching awake, gasping for air, and I've dreamt of her again. It's the same as always, lately. She's in Hell, neck deep in snake’s blood, with a foetus hanging above her, and her head is on fire. It doesn't get any better, not even with the pills.

The psychiatrist has asked me what else occurs in this dream.

“ The foetus is crying, “ I told her.

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