My tea calmed herself as the eggs lay bleeding all over the toast. I
replaced the knife, but at a safer distance this time. I told the
waitress not to brew her so strong.
They'll never find the body. But to remind myself of her — and to drown
out the morning pangs of conscience — I have a loud and obnoxious
Michael usually kept quiet. He wasn't sure of himself, and others took
advantage. They used his voice to say horrible things, and trying to
explain it all only made it worse.
By rights, he should've been dead. Instead, he was just left more
depressed and without much of a face. Kyle didn't realize that you
could build up a tolerance to suicide attempts.
The court watches from unnoticed shadows and unused corners, from the moments
of darkness between our dreams. And there you sit reading, not even bothering to
prepare a defense.
A writer between bouts of work, R.E. Hartman lives in
Oakland, California. He has had various short stories published in
web magazines, as well as several philosophical essays published in
various academic journals and books.
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stories copyright by author 2008 all rights reserved