Ordogirl

I'm supposed to tell the truth, but what do I say? I want my friend back. I miss you. Don't. Why? I read, "Everything will be alright in the end.  If it's not alright, it's not the end." It's not alright for me. Is it alright for you? I wish we could talk again. I would ask you more questions. I would tell you that the person You may have wanted to be Wasn't any better than Who you were. Is that a lie? Maybe.  Yes.   I'd ask what you thought. Then we could get coffee.

     The traffic light was yellow when she approached the intersection.  She stopped just before it turned red.  Each tick, tick, tick of her left turn signal brought a new question.  Tick.  Should she leave her husband?  Where would she go?  Would he be angry?  Would she care if he was?  Would she be throwing away eighteen years of her life if she left?  Tick.  Did she care?        The rain countered the questions with its steady beat, bringing memories. She remembered the beach wher

                                                         The End "Where are my keys?" "Where are you going?" "Out." "Out where?" "Just out." "But where?" "Look, I just feel like driving around a bit is all." "You're going to see him again, aren't you?" "Who?  No, I'm not." "Liar." "I'm not lying." "Whatever." "No, not whatever; I'm not lying." "Fine.  Have it your way." "You really think I'm going to see him?" "It's eleven o'clock; where else would you go?" "I just feel like driving around." "Yeah, whatever." "I just need my keys." "They're right here." "Give them to me." "Wait." "Wait for what?  " "I'm taking back my

Today, I ate a pony. Only a small one. Soon, I will eat my sacred cow Then yours. It may take a while; longer than perhaps I have. It must be done. Ponies are tough, but no marinade can make a sacred cow palatable. You will hate me when I slaughter your cow and grill its thin meat. I will hate myself already, but it must be done. Sacred cows aren't succulent, they are bitter, tough and old. They wander our streets, their hearts half-mad with lonliness and hunger so it must be done.

 Detective Mitch Walker was used to being alone.  Preferred it, in fact.  His apartment was stark-one chair and table in the living room, his kitchen had two barstools at the counter, and his bedroom had his bed and night stand.  His only real vice, aside from probably working himself to an early grave, was books.  He had bookshelves everywhere in his apartment.  His dining room had been lined with shelves, and his living room had shelves where his couch used to be.  The bedroom had shelves too, and all were filled to capacity. His brother had said that he lived like a monk.  Then again, he didn’t put much stock in the opinion of an al