I believe I was the first to blow my firing squad a kiss.
Pucker up, lovelies, if you have lips.
Lips were introduced on Model 4501. They’re molded plastic, in Mamie Eisenhower pink. Someone on the fabrication team must have had a thing for his mother.
There is no worse prison than a prison run by nuns. If you are thinking I am talking about yardstick nuns, you are wrong. Those are Past Nuns. These are Future Nuns.
But the story of Perpetua spread, quiet as a church mouse, from convent to convent until one-by-one, nuns began to lose their composure, began straining to hear the sound of a single Harley prowling the neighborhood late at night. Their desires were answered by sleepless nights of seemingly eternal silence.
First sentence: “This summer my ambient metal band, [Enter Band Name], is going to record our best album ever, in a doghouse.” Due Date: Thursday, September 17th, 11:59 PM. Length: 300 words.
“Some desires reach beyond social spheres,” he said, all proud, as if his thievery and dishonesty had simply been a ploy to band us campers together—jocks, geeks, trash, dickheads—to take our minds off the scorching August heat.
Holding the bottle of invisible ink, I told him: “This is not my color.”
I’d made it too far by then to be caught by some barely grown soldier with an untidy hair garden on his upper lip.