Moody

The twilight sky blazed with attitude, warning everyone to speed indoors. The clouds hung ominously low on the horizon, pink, black, orange, and grey clashing together as darkness settled over the town. Rain, lightning, and even tornadoes were all possible tonight, like a sleep-deprived toddler on too much sugar.

Ben turned his collar up and sank his hands into his coat pockets, but otherwise meandered on, his attention entirely concentrated on the argument he was running away from. Rather than confront his wife with what he knew, or thought he knew anyway, he'd just keep walking towards the sun.

Supercut

Ray slipped at the top of his building's stoop and flew face first at the cement below. Time elongated as a supercut of his entire life played out like a scene on a museum urn.

There was Ray's first memory: being handed to a smelly, strange man, dressed in red and white with a giant beard. He'd been waiting in line with many other equally scared children. While he screamed, the scary, strange, smelly man laughed and his parents took photos and everyone laughed.

That was really the only memory that came to mind. Ray was only four years old.

After Destruction

The prophet mutter his pronouncements to a jaded congregation that paid no attention. They didn't need to hear the truth from the mouth of a crazed zealot to understand this time was different. The world really was coming to an end. At least all the parts that mattered.

War. Drought. Pestilence. Disease.

Everything promised had finally arrived, and the people, rather than tending to their own affairs, were content to rage and destroy and ensure that everyone would meet the same fate. Leave nothing behind.

The prophet continued to mumble for anyone who might be listening.

"After destruction comes rebirth."

The Story Of An Artist

Troubled childhood, searching for escape. Persecuted for a vision of the world the world found uncomfortable.

One person called him a genius. Everyone called him a genius. His genius defined the zeitgeist of the moment. His genius transcended the moment and stood the test of time.

His paintings sold for millions. His paintings captured the hearts of millions. His paintings were copied by millions.

His influence was everywhere. His reputation cast a shadow over all the artists who followed. His fame is eternal.

Every person who knew him knew him to be an asshole. He was especially cruel to women.

When I Get To Heaven

The dust stuck to everything, even my sweat. The heat wasn't as dry as everyone said. I'd be happy when this job was over and I could head back to the city.

The pay had been too good to say no. Five thousand bucks for a single target. I assumed there would be catch.

The catch was the location. Heaven, a town I'd never heard of, found just a few miles down from the edge of absolutely fucking nowhere.

If I wasn't headed to heaven to kill a man, I'd have assumed I was the one who was already dead.

Funky

There was something funky about the way no one noticed as he walked the sidewalk.

The gentleman picking out fruit at the corner stand. The woman walking her dog towards him. The delivery man checking over the boxes in back of his truck. Never mind it was ten in the evening.

Not one person glanced in his direction.

He stopped at the newsstand, looked over the headlines, asked about the impending strike at the local paper. The vendor grunted noncommittally.

He fished into his pocket, as if looking for change, and drew in one smooth motion.

Everyone reacted at once.

Squabble

Up from clamor of Thanksgiving dinner, two voices drowned out the rest. Uncle Frank (Mom's brother) and Uncle Norm (Dad's brother), were at first pointedly not talking towards each other as they contradicted everything the other said. Then it was raised voices, direct, insistent, until they were shouting over everyone, ignoring their wives' pleas.

Then the fighting really began, first with silverware, then a carving knife versus a brass candlestick, then gunfire and light artillery. By this time, the two halves of the family had divided.

There would be no more Thanksgiving dinners until after the war was long over.

Smalltown

The thing about small towns is everyone knows everyone.

There's no secrets. Even people who think they're good at keeping secrets don't have any secrets.

Everyone knows who's cheating on who. Everyone knows who's sick and who's pretending. Everyone knows who's got money problems and who's being stingy out of spite. Everyone knows who's going away for a 'medical procedure' and who's secretly having a baby.

Everyone knows who's blood tastes the best and who's likely to put up the most resistance and therefore isn't worth the effort.

The thing about small towns is everyone knows who the vampires are.

Mia

The truth is ugly and often hurts.

Mia triggered those around her with her refusal to couch her insults. Every remark succeeded in cutting the receiver exactly where it hurt most.

Her justification was that everyone deserved the truth. Only by recognizing his faults would a person be able to improve themselves.

However Frank, Mia's ex-boyfriend, used the excuse of honesty to rationalize being hurtful towards her. He claimed he was behaving no differently than Mia, but Mia didn't feel bad after speaking honestly to others.

Frank was a jerk. Mia told him so as she broke up with him.

Two Step

Mike heard the siren and stood up from his seat, gathering his belongings. The dance continued.

Everyone was charging to the front, but Mike strolled at his own speed. No need to rush things.

He thought of his favorite band, and wondered whether he'd ever get to see them perform when this was all over.

One of their songs blared in his earbuds. They weren't allowed music players but most of the officers looked the other way about such infractions. Give a dying man whatever he wants.

Gun in hand, Mike rounded the corner into the line of enemy fire.