Red sneakers slopped out of the shattered car window as he stumbled across the cool bedroom floor to the toilet. He hadn’t heard the screaming metal twisting as it tore through the red light and into the car crossing the intersection; all he’d heard was Atlas bark, and distant screams in his dreams.
A PHONE CALL TO “Samantha Bishop” HAS BEEN PLACED FROM THE BLUERIDGE COUNTY CORRECTIONAL FACILITY FROM INMATE #673 “Ethan Hill”. TO ACCEPT THIS CALL, PLEASE PRESS “1”.
The old rusty helmet was big on the child’s head, tilting far down over his eyes with each lilting step....The dark hand of devastation was drawing nearer, tightening its grip around the soldiers of the 142nd Army Infantry Division and choking them out one by one with fingers of lead bullets and mortars.
I once knew a girl made of fragments of shattered glass. She was beautiful. The array of colors and shapes would refract the sunlight, splashing a rainbow of light and hope across the whitewashed walls, creating beauty out of broken pieces.
For the few blissful seconds before the crash, I forgot. I forgot it all, all the joy, all the pain, all the regret. And I was free. Free to be, free to see, free to die. To die on my terms. Because I had always known it would end this way, free-falling from the hospital roof.
Phineas Wilson McGregory was not a particularly kind man. Perhaps it had something to do with his not particularly normal name. No one really knew the reason behind his permanent scowl, though popular lore leaned toward a ghastly childhood trauma involving a tea kettle, red wheelbarrow, and the always unfortunate Uncle Matheson.
The morning began normally enough. My friend greeted me as I opened my eyes to the smell of baking bread filtering in from the shattered window across the room. I’d had another nightmare. I was being chased by the clutches of the blinding light, my companion gone from my side.