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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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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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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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Cold and Ancient

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Washington was a sight to behold. The State that is. Escaping the abhorrent inferno of Texas summer to the crisp-cool weather, overcast skies, lush forests, imposing mountains, and the scenic Pacific coast was an axiomatic improvement for my soul. My eclectic and eccentric uncle (rest in peace) had always been a favorite of mine and I always loved when we would embark on family vacations to visit him in the magical northwest. Naturally upon his passing I was grieved and simultaneously taken aback at the news that he had left a portion of his estate to me in his will.

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Get Me Outta Here

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Don Young was a petty thief. He focused on robbing any place that looked easy like quickie marts and mom and pop stores. His wife, Karen, was constantly nagging him to change his life. “Get out of the robbing business Don. What you’re doing is wrong.  I don’t want to be married to a thief.”

“Karen, what else can I do? I don’t have any skills. I don’t have a high school diploma. What do you want me to do?”

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The Tube

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Chris did not like underground trains. He would plan his day meticulously to avoid using them. His whole life was taken up planning his journeys using buses, trains, taxis, foot, or even a combination of all four.

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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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Enthusiasm

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At the southern end of the village, where the river widened, there was a cove.  The cove’s water was deep and made for an excellent natural harbor.  The gentle hills that surrounded the cove sheltered it on three sides.   A series of wharves jutted into the river along a narrow beach.  Docked at the wharves were boats of every size and shape. Piles of crates, large pots, and bundles lined the wharves. Men were off-loading goods from boats, and men were loading goods onto boats.

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Shit for Brains

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Angelo Pinterano was a seventeen year old living in Elmhurst, New York at the beginning of the 1970‘s. He quit high school and was working as an apprentice furniture slipcover maker. “This is a good future for a boy like you Angie,” his boss Mr. Kopelstein assured him. Angie silently replied, but with a faux smile as he stitched a beaded lavender laced sofa cover.

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The Jailbird's Song

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From: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

 

To: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

 

Re: Reduced Sentence for Murder

 

Dear Neal,

 

Thank you for taking the time to work with the police recently.

 

Before I begin, I need to make it clear this message will auto delete 5 minutes from opening or if you attempt to save it. So read carefully.

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