Dead Bodies. For Real.

Now there were two in the middle of her living room floor. She stared at them in horrified fascination, not really sure whether to scream or give in to her curiosity and move closer. There was an obscene amount of blood. It was pooling on her carpet and being seeped up into her couch through the blanket that had fallen half to the floor.

Finally, against her better judgment, she decided to embrace her curiosity. Careful not to step on or disturb anything, she loved watching cop shows, she moved closer to the nearest body. There was a hole in the middle of his forehead. What she could only guess was brain matter was splattered with the blood around his head. His face was frozen in a look of shock, eyes wide open and unfocused.  She moved to the other body. This one's eyes were closed. Staring at the body, it's eyes closed and the haphazard placing of the limbs, she reasoned that he had been wounded before the struggle in her apartment. Apparently, after struggling with and shooting the other man, he passed out and bleed to death.

After staring at the bodies for a few more moments, she called the police. Then, she went down to the building's coffee shop to wait. As she waited, she pondered all the reasons of why and how as she sipped her coffee. In her mind, of all the questions these two bodies proposed, the most disturbing one was, "Why were they in her apartment?"

A New Me

My current one was getting a little too popular. I had just gotten comfortable with it too. Finally, it didn't take people calling my name two or three times because I didn't realize they were talking to me. Luckily, they just thought I was deaf or deep in thought. But now everyone knew my name, and I do mean everyone. That's what happens when your name is broadcasted in the evening news with the tagline "Wanted for Murder. Considered armed and dangerous. If seen, please call your local law enforcement or the FBI hot-line listed below. Do not confront or antagonize." They didn't have a photo yet, but they would soon. The fix for that was easy. A little shave and some dye and I'd be a "new" man. I also kept a stash of colored contacts for times like this. My name however, that would be harder to change. Not just on paper, but in my head. Once again, I would have to train my self to answer to a new name. One of these days, I am going to forget what name I started out with. Further more, the next time a strange body appears in my living room I will get rid of it and disappear immediately. No trying to figure out who it is or why they're dead. Once the body's gone, I'm gone.

Dead Men Don't Press Buttons

"No, you weren't supposed to press that button! You weren't supposed to even be near it!" *frantically presses other buttons* "What on God's green earth possessed you to press it?!"

"It was an accident!"...................... "What happens now?"

"Well, for starters, I get to call the President and tell him that this was all just a false alarm. Then I get to silently and respectfully listen to him chew me out for being reckless. Then I'll do the same while he threatens to shoot me or have me incarcerated if it happens again. Heaven forbid I tell him it was you who pressed the button and not me."

"Why can't you tell him it was me?"

"Because, oh dearest friend, you're supposed to be dead. Dead men don't press buttons that start nuclear wars."

"Oh."

Prom Politicians

who was going with who, who rejected who, who was wearing what dress, ex cetera, ex cetera, and blech. It was like an exercise for politicians and stars in training. Girls maneuvered and connived to get the "boy of their dreams" to ask them to go with them. Once they succeeded they planned elaborate photo-shoots in matching outfits, often not the ones they even showed up to the event in. Those who showed up without a date were shunned and treated as pariahs; and heaven forbid you show up in a dress that was a "hand-me-down" or bought second hand. You might as well not even show up, which would have been even worse. It would have shown you could not handle the "rigors" of a "proper" social life.

An Inconvenient Body

inconvenient. Yes, that was the word for the body lying on the floor. Inconvenient. It had a nice ring to it. Not panicky, but not completely lacking in concern either. It simply meant that a day full of convenience would have to wait. Life was like that sometimes. Well, most of the time really. Stuff always happened when you really wished it wouldn’t. Babies came before they were due, multi-car pile-ups occurred when you were running late to an important business meeting, dead bodies appeared unannounced and uninvited on your living room floor, the list could go on and on. It wouldn’t do any good to get frustrated over a little inconvenience. At least there wasn’t two.