The Adorable Little Antichrist
Her fury, her hurt, her fear and shame was pure focus. She dug deeper into her legs. The blood began to run down her thighs, soaking through her dress and forming a small puddle in the pew.
The Applause Machine: Part Three—NOW AVAILABLE IN THIRTY SECONDS
“We do not sell products. We sell relief from the injuries created by the culture selling the products. The customer arrives bleeding. We sell him a more attractive knife.”
The Fault in Our Party Supplies
I’m a piñata. Papier-mâché and crepe paper. My inner turmoil bred of my fate occupies the same space as fun-sized candy. Twizzlers, Nerds, Airheads, nougat and chocolate that melts and cools with the humidity in the back of a party store.
The Applause Machine: Part Two—THE MINISTRY OF CULTURAL HYGIENE
He sat across from Director Wallace at a white table. Between them was a bowl of individually wrapped mints. This offended him more than the hood. Torture should not involve mints. It suggested customer service.
A Beer, a Shot, a Mayoral Hopeful
The men rushed toward the open door. “Not so fast, fuck-os,” she said. Annie was a small woman, no more than five-foot-three with most of her weight in her disproportionate breasts, of which she often complained gave her backaches.
The Applause Machine: Part One—FAILURE IS MARKET RESEARCH
People came.
At first they came to be angry.
Then they came to be seen being angry.
Then they came because tickets became difficult to obtain.
Hell in a Handbasket
Before she was Jane Hadley, the rock ’n’ roll singer/songwriter—the Goddess of Rock, bigger than Taylor, Adele, and Beyoncé combined, she was Jane Hadley, the folk ’n’ roll singer/songwriter who never sold more than a thousand albums and a few hundred t-shirts.
Instructions for the Proper Disposal of Dangerous Literature, or How I Accidentally Fell in Love During Office Hours
Its cover was plain linen, the color of fossilized limestone. There was no author. No publication date. The first page contained only a sentence.
I have been waiting for you.
Bucking the Tiger
Pan's eyes lit up. "I have met God."
Hume paused in the dealing. Roberts's mouth turned into a grim smile. "You've met God, have you, you heathen prick?"
Pan nodded. "I have. God is a white man."
Divorce, Rain, and Other Maintenance Issues
The universe, as far as I can tell, is held together with embarrassingly small kindnesses.
The Ultimate Decision
He was tired of carrying her weight. Her financial choices and responsibilities. Her alcoholism. And he knew she was tired of his drug abuse and laziness and porn addiction. And Train played. And the guy kept talking. “Thing is, man… if it weren’t for divorce, I’d have student loans.”
Compensation Commensurate with Sacrifice
“They waited for the next frightened person to confuse survival with surrender.”
The Adventures of Aborted Andy | Episode I: Meeting Your Maker
Andy was good at his job. And for a nine-month-old baby, he was really good at it.
We're Letting You Go
"You know, people misunderstand Human Resources. They think we're here for employees."
The Emergency Exit
“Chuck had spent half his life mistaking another person’s pain for his assignment.”
The Broken Machine
Jack took a deep breath. "Why is it so easy for you to dismiss the truth for your convenience? You have to understand that the personal is political, right?
Wild One
They entered the open-brick condo eager to rip each other’s clothes off. Maria rubbed the front of Eric’s kakis, while he slid his fingers up her red bubble skirt. He tore her white blouse and sucked from her shoulders down to her fingertips. Maria unbelted Eric’s pants and chucked the leather across the room.
Blink
He blinked again. His cheek no longer soothed by the wooden floor beneath it. A wisp of intrusive dust drifted towards him, settling on his lashes. A laborious blink, his only remedy, then another, the particle unmoving.
Conversations with Whores
Old men with cheap cigars talking to half naked women, who can’t waste too much time with one guy because it’s all about turnover. Beyoncé was playing on the jukebox and it sounded out of place. Hip-Hop didn’t belong there. It was too cool for what was really going on.
Hagatha the Dog Witch
Hagatha, upon arriving in Chicago, had developed an allergy to cats. She tried Zyrtec, Claritin and Allegra, and all the potions and spells in her Witch Craft: Curses & Remedies book. Nothing helped. Her eyes watered, which made her face melt a little.
Her fury, her hurt, her fear and shame was pure focus. She dug deeper into her legs. The blood began to run down her thighs, soaking through her dress and forming a small puddle in the pew.