Story shards. Poetic pieces. Quick quips. Each paragraph its own universe. Read the lines, build the rest in your mind.
He had lost faith in gravity. Tragically, gravity still believed in him.
He couldn’t stand Yankees. Always in a rush, even on a Saturday night. “If’n I gotta git ‘er pulled out by another tractor, it’s gonna cost you extra.” They didn’t care. Finish it already. On a Saturday. In the rain. The backhoe slid another inch deeper into the clay. He spit through a sneer and glared at the hole. Digging fresh graves never bothered Buck much. But he was plain ornery digging old ones.
His toe rubbed across the lip of the gallows door. No one missed that step deliberately.
The steady rhythm of the clock measured the whisper in his ear. “Your dreams remember your dreams better than your consciousness. In dreams, what sleep may come?” His mind clawed for the clock. Stay here! Don’t leave! No use. The world was gone.
Mystics and mages,
Wise men and sages
Come for relief to never-never land,
Where memories of the future
Are but things of the past.
At last I realized that I had marked her as deeply as she had ever marked me. Her wounds just took longer to show.
He was a man ahead of his time. Time was not pleased.
I wouldn’t call her an intentional glory hound, but she would steal light from a dark room.
His brow cocked and he sniffed at the question. “Time will come when Feynman’s diagrams will seem but the crude carvings of a caveman,” he replied and walked away. He was a beautifully dangerous man.
Better an approximate answer to the right question than an exact answer to the wrong one.
How like the roulette the
Centrifuge appears —
Will it birth miracles
Or spawn our deepest fears?
Nothing was injured but my pride. Unfortunately, it would heal.