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The Outlaw was tired. Tired and sore. During his short life on God’s great planet, mostly in the last ten years, he had raped thousands of women. Possibly even tens of thousands. He had killed at least as many men, most likely more. Each one of them tur
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153700
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His hands were like that when he was born. No one really understood why. Neither of his parents had any body parts made of oats. Neither of them had even eaten any oats the morning the conception took place. But sure enough, when Edwin MacGrain was born o
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5500
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The outlaw looked upon him with a spiteful silence as if he regarded what the man had said as the dumbest thing he had ever heard.
Welcome to Alma. I’m Siddhartha Jesus Smith, he said again.
You some kinda confused preacher, Sid?
No sir. No nee
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137011
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He didn’t know how to tell his story. It wasn’t an easy story to tell. There certainly was a clear beginning, but it didn’t make much sense to start at the beginning. There was no way to end the story either; the ending seemed to last forever.
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The corpse lay silently in his open casket. Dressed in the finest silken suit. Italian. Rubber skin pulled over his bones. Arms folded in eternal prayer.
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208256
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I’m a suicide prevention counselor for teens. Most of the time I answer phones and tell kids not to kill themselves over their boyfriends and girlfriends and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, etc. I’m not even sure what the number is—1-800-DONT-DIE or something li
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158000
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So, dear world, whose dearness I have never truly known, I bid you adieu.
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119011
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A famous author and an inspired writer meet at a coffee shop, both looking for inspiration. The patrons there don’t know if this meeting is by accident or design, but they are in awe of Fame.
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122700
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I found him dead underneath a sycamore tree. I knew it was a sycamore tree because of all the acorns surrounding the body.
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108121
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Grady Quail wondered why God didn't just have another son
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