“This is why,” Cynthia Van Der Well said, pouring her fifth glass of wine for the evening as she stared at the stuffed bears, “we should not have allowed the…
War stories? Now, a man like me is full of them, and some that can’t be told until I’ve had a pint. You’ve stood me three and so I’ll tell the best o’ them. Not that you’d be able to write it down and publish it. Some things are not ‘fit for print,’ you know.
You never did like that corner of your room. It was just out of reach from the faint and flickering television—riddled with shadows. I remember your nightly texts, begging me to come over and stay with you until dawn. You said the darkness was too much to bear. That what was waiting within it was watching.
A hue of green like none ever witnessed in nature. Yellow veins on thin skin. I lurch toward the irresistible smell. I salivate in anticipation of the crispness, the shock of flavor. I bare my teeth.
The patient A. was a man in his thirties, unmarried, a minor official in the local government here in Vienna; eminently respectable, enjoying the esteem of his colleagues and the confidence of his superiors.
The rooster didn’t want to die. It raked its spurs and twisted its head halfway around to try and jab at Fiona with its beak. But she kept her chokehold under its head while her free hand shoved a dagger through its neck.
When you said that in the bar, “Nothing moves me, baby. There’s nothing new,” I grinned. I just took it as a challenge. But now, Denny thought, I would do anything for you. Anything.