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.
Even my shadows couldn’t keep up with me.
They’d been following me from Montreal; two thick-mustached men who thought I wouldn’t notice they had no bags on a transatlantic trip.
First sentence: We took the sock out of the camp director’s mouth so he could plead his case. Due Date: Thursday, August 13th, 11:59 PM.
Length: 300 words.
I have found that secrets are best kept when your gown is bundled at the bottom of the bed. They don’t need to know who you work for, where you’re really from — or that your teeth aren’t real. My replacements are perfect, lined up in my mouth like a picket fence. They can […]
And die she did, but with each death followed a resurrection until the angels rolled the moon in front of the sun. The woman in white dropped to her martyred twin’s side, pressed her lips against her sister’s bloodied mouth, and inhaled her last breath. She wailed, her sorrow multiplying and transecting the wide river valley.