FunHouse

“Baby, it’s time to get up,” Camille said.

“Okay,” Richie mumbled with his face buried in his pillow.

“Come on, sweet pea. You’re going to be late and I can’t drive you to school,” Camille returned to Richie’s doorway to say. After a few moments, she returned. “Richard, I am not feeling well and I don’t have time for this.” Camille peered into the darkness and saw something wasn’t right.  

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B.A.D.

Wednesday, Two-thousand something something…

I stare at myself through the reflection of a cracked mirror. This isn’t an allegory that I’m fractured. Please, this isn’t poetry. 

I can see my molars through the different shards as I yawn. Fillings. Metal. That’d be a bitch if if they cracked. I brush my teeth diligently ‘cause I don’t like implied future pain. And for the love of God, floss. There’s a broken brush in front of me. My hair is messy. Knotting. Now, this is optional. What a conundrum. Who am I brushing for? Me? The big  Man upstairs? I always wanted Rastafarian locks. 

“Alright Brian, what’s on the agenda today?”

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Road Block

“Wanna try Mexican,” Rachel asked Bryan. 

“I guess,” Bryan answered lazily, his head resting on the passenger side window. He observed the Arizona desert as it passed him by. The two cruised over the charred pavement. The air conditioner on max could barely keep them cool as the sun baked them inside.

Rachel turned to him with her hands still on the steering wheel. “What do you mean you guess? There’s nothing to eat for another fifty miles,” she said, waiting for a reply. 

“So why’d you ask me,” he asked, still staring at the rolling desert.

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