STORIES

"Ah, this is the life," I said, settling into my easy chair and taking a sip of orange drink, "Not a care in the world."
 
I glanced at the clock. 6:04. The show had already begun. Grinding my teeth in anticipation, I flipped on the television. A fierce battle sequence erupted on screen. I rocked and squirmed in my chair, punching the air and feeling every blow. Captain Niros kicked a bandit in the face, sending him tumbling to the bottom of a steep incline, where he was graphically impaled on a number of jagged rocks. Suddenly the title card appeared: "Legendary Journey". I cheered, pumping my fist, and cleared my throat in anticipation of the theme song.
 
Click, went the television, changing to channel 46. The intro to a funniest videos program blared from the speakers.
 
"Um, excuse me," I said, to no one in particular, "I was watching that."

“You can put your clothes back on now,” the doctor said, scribbling angrily in his notepad.

“Finally,” I said, putting my arm into one of the sleeves. “Hey, what exactly are you writing anyway?”

“It’s private,” the doctor said without looking up, “Private medical notes.”

I stood up and pulled the shirt over my head.

“Private…what’s that supposed to mean?” I said, frowning and walking over to him, “Let me see it.” I reached for the book.

“No!” the doctor pouted, pulling it away. “It’s mine.”

The clerk was screaming. Blubbering and sputtering and choking and I swung again and again and again. Blood spattered my eyes and powerful hate surged out through the red veil. I drew my arm back, the pipe gripped solidly in my fist. In my head blazed his smirk. "We're all out of Butterfinger" I heard him say again. "Did you want an Oreo Cookie one instead?" I felt the vein in my neck pulse. The world darkened, slowing.
 
Through the haze I saw the arm come down. Watched in horror as the heavy piece of lead drove itself into skull, marveling at the wet cry and spray of blood and bone as it glistened in the air. For an instant, each nodule of blood was fleck of cream. The bone fragments reformed themselves into a buttery orange chocolate-covered garnish. I slid forward, mouth open, reveling as the gooey pieces oozed into my mouth and down my throat. Time snapped back. The boy was on the floor, a dark pool spreading steadily around him.

Each morning at 5:30 sharp, distinguished historian William H. MacMillan would leap from his third-level bunk bed, flip on the lights, and, jutting out his jaw, begin to beat upon his chest with his fists, declaring himself to be high king of the jungle. His fourteen sisters would grumble and groan, thrashing about in their beds and pulling the quilts over their faces, pleading with him to let them sleep.
 
On this particular morning however, he had other plans.
 
"Sqwawk, sqwawk!" he cried, pecking at the air, "Lazy bones make for lazy days! Sqwawk, sqwawk!"
 
"Uuunnnhhhhhhhhh..." said his sisters.