Through a fit of hysterics...

Her skin went a shade whiter than bleached rice. She wrapped her arms across her torso.
"From the inside. My insides are burning. Hold myself. Glue. That's what I need."
Her eyes rolled and squinted. She reminded me of Harry's crushed Blood Hound moments before dad blew the air out of him into the stratosphere with his pistol. Desperate for closure from the pain, the dog had pitifully licked dad's steel toed boot, his sad eyes reflecting the agony words couldn't express- even if he had them at his disposal.
Fierce drops of sweat contaminated tears spilled onto her clenched fists. When I was young and alive, I remember a brightly colored toy with a fat smile plastered on it's face. If pressure were applied to the hand of the creature, it would violently shake and vibrate like a tsunami were breaking through it's fur. Looking at her, I wondered if a person could really break so hard on the inside pieces of them could leak onto the outside.
"Can't breathe. Dying by living." She wheezed through a fit of hysterics. "You're killing me." More hysterics. I guess I missed the punch line. In this room, nothing left a chuckle but the flames accompanying regret.
I wasn't sure if it was my attempt to respond to her, or the rocking of her body, but I thought I heard a dusty whisper say, "I'm dying." Soft as I came, I left. Orbiting the room, I noticed mushrooms squeezing themselves between the rotting floorboards.
My eyes would have touched the flesh on the inside of my head if I had had any. They rolled in their sockets, and my stomach dry heaved at the brilliance of the realization: Mine hadn't been a victimless crime.

Perspective B: Cities of Light

***Note: Although this post gives certain qualities similar to another student's Fiction short story, it is in no way, shape, or form, infringing upon his copyright. I would hope if he ever read it, he would be flattered I thought so highly of his work as to create a rendition.

I don't remember happiness. Or sadness. Even anger has lost it's savor. If it were possible to look forward to feeling, I would. But there has been no touch since the light left. Hands groping in the dark, I can scatter pebbles and dirt before me and sense a warmth radiating off the earth's surface from ages past. The oldest of the old people would talk about the burn of the object they called "sun", telling us children we were better without the sting left from exposure. They expected the bandage could cure the pain we felt from a wound of never having breathed "sun" warmth. Aris holds on to my ankle while I grip Pheo's. Our chain is similar to most connections in this world: we forge them out of fear of loss. Without the fear, we would have had no loss of anything. Not sun, not grass, not color.

WORK IN PROGRESS.

His Walk

Some people can be spotted a mile away and recognized for their hair color. Others voices cue in listeners from all corners of the room by their distinct tonal quality. Although he doesn't know it, a friend of mine is best noted for his walk. Anyone who has half a brain in their head will look at this poor, unfortunate, bloke and automatically assume he is lost. With his head tilted toward the ground and his hands packed neatly into his pockets, he is the epitome of a damsel in distress, severely in need of saving but lacking a hero (or heroine?) to do so. If I saw my buddy walking on the street and I didn't know the guy, I would most likely stop in give the him some directions. Directions to the post office, directions to the vet- directions in LIFE! This chap's head is so turned around with the latest lie some idiot told him, his eyes seem to be permanently glazed over with a loss of consciousness, as if they are resisting everything he has ever known to be true. My friend's favorite past time is getting high on concepts understood by only the men sitting on cliff sides with their beards nestling the beds of eagle babies. Ordinarily, I steer clear of this sort of blatant nosey-ness. It's really none of my business if the dude takes life for a run and ends up winded, but I can't help thinking if no one else saves his broken walk, who will?

Pickles

Upon the window sill of our most visible front window sits a jar of pickles. Complacent as it may be, in the subtlest of forms it waves to all who pass our dwelling as a proud flag of estrogen shouting to the world, "Here resides women of the most feminine sort, quaking with the fear of an empty, unadorned window sill." Needless to say, this pickle jar of renown has a reputation which precedes it. People walk into our kitchen with painful disgust dripping from their countenances. Gazing at the main attraction, they ask, "WHAT is that?!" Often I feel inclined to tell them, "It is an unborn calf. I collect them and put them on display for psychological reaction." Being the polite person that I am, I bypass the opportunity and tell them the pitiful truth: the pickle jar is eye candy. It coincides with our decorative scorpion shot glass. Nothing like a pickle jar to ignite passion, stimulate happiness, and drain us of stress related ulcers. There is a certain humor surrounding the ugliest of objects.