“I can’t live with what I did to that little girl. You can find most of her body buried in the garden.”
“With the moving vans all loaded up at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, how about we mark the end of an era by reflecting on some of the most insane, harebrained assassination plots ever conceived to off the O-man?”
“The husband’s intestines are hanging out while he is being raped, still alive. That’s how the comic starts. It gets bleaker from there.”
This is seriously disturbing.
The three of us stood on the edge of the forest, the cusp of legend. This was the last place where the bones of Jack the pirate were ever seen.
On October 16th, 2009, a boy by the name of Finn Carlton walked into the band room of my high school and closed the door behind him. He pulled a pistol from his coat pocket and fired six shots. Then he tied his belt around a pipe on the ceiling and hanged himself.
If the government doesn’t know about it, they should. After what happened to me. After what could happen to someone else.
A prophet wrote down the phrase, “Santa was coming.”
As the skies were becoming red and cracks in the earth widened, I realized he was dyslexic.
A lumpy wedding dress sat on the floor, spotted with blood. At first, I thought it was the one from my closet. It took a few seconds to realize that the neckline differed from mine, and a few more to realize that a woman was inside of it.
He thought he could hide his crime.