
A v ~A by James Tadd Adcox
“They don’t feel anything, do they?” she says. He smiles at her. His smile says, who cares if they do.
“They don’t feel anything, do they?” she says. He smiles at her. His smile says, who cares if they do.
He knows without a shadow of a doubt that he cannot die. It makes him reckless in a way everyone loves, except for Steve-O.
Mosi is Sprite, Banji is Coca Cola. Whoever loses, does the rounds to check for hippos that might have strayed too far.
Frogs are thought to have a simplified version of our anatomy, which makes them all the more reasonable subjects for high school dissections.
The music lifted like a cosmic prayer. Then the collective scream: the squawk, the beef and bleat of the slaughter, a rumbling dusk arcing across the auditorium.
I’m about to reverse out when I think–drunk kid. In my car. And I’m drunk. Maybe a bad idea.
But there are two kinds of shame: the kind that you cannot speak the words to, even in your head, and the kind you can’t stop talking about. I told the story for years.
The crack widened at last and cleaved the porch in two. The tree had effected a crack that, the men saw, was surprisingly neat. The work of the devil, said Fred.
What’s it like to die? To stop being. Gone in a moment, carried away on the wind. Does it hurt?
No one had spoken up for me. Not a single soul on my street told the officers they had the wrong idea, that I was a pillar of the community.