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November 26, 2007

Monday

Tell us about a magic pencil.

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Comments

It sunk fast into his thigh like a wax straw through the flesh-pulp of a melon. The thick blood on the floor extended the comparison; he used to suck potato guts from french fries and fill the pockets in with ketchup like a sweet red tang epoxy. The pencil above his femoral artery rolled patiently ignored between the keyboard and the disk drive and he finished the last page of his section of the paper as its deep sting hit his flank. Every newsroom has its legends; that the old school is a jealous ghost became for him a fact.

Posted by: Christopher Cocca at November 26, 2007 12:23 PM · Permalink

She waited, imprisoned in wood and lead, for one to come and free her. Without knowing, he did.

He drew only the barest outline of her body on the paper, but even that was enough to begin the whispers. The lead and eraser began to guide themselves; the gentle curve of her hips or the precise shade of her areolae... he corrected without knowing they were wrong.

In time, she was there on the paper, her body in all its glory. She was free from her prison at last.

Now he was trapped, by the image of his perfect woman.

Posted by: LJ at November 26, 2007 6:19 PM · Permalink