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Plot lines bloom in the nebula of my head. I’ve drifted into a fictional world, and I’m lost in my own thoughts because I drive this way all the time. The highway signs and vehicles of morning rush hour pass in a haze of inattention while the radio plays classical, an appropriate soundtrack for combating potential road rage.
Sometimes it even works …
What’s the most dangerous object within your reach? Look around and find the best way to kill someone. If you had to. If someone plunged into the auditorium right now and wanted to murder you, or if you just had to, like, off your mom or dad or sis or whomever in your living room; how would you do it?
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Summer of the Bee
The summer of 1988 feels like it’ll never end, and if you ask me, that’s the best thing in the world. No more homework, getting up early, or teachers clucking into my ear. It’s only the first Wednesday after school let out, so there are lot more days to come. Like Thursday and Friday.
Today I’m sitting on the porch steps next to my driveway in the hot June sun, wondering what I want for my thirteenth birthday, when a bee buzzes by my ear. I duck, but it circles around my head, then plunges toward my knee. I freeze when it lands on a crease in my jeans. The bee turns round and round in a jerky dance, and then, for no reason at all, jabs its stinger into my leg.
Jason brings the idea to the bus stop without really meaning to, the way a kid brings a cold into a classroom before he’s got any symptoms. Pretty soon it’s catching.
My partner in crime—a wiry hellion with hair so blond it’s just a few shades shy of white—reaches into the pocket of his heavy jacket. A fox-sly smile traces his lips as his hand emerges, and then, lightning-quick, he slings a booger-green ball at me …
Life is Fiction
Life is fiction.
Prove that it isn’t. I dare you. You may as well debate the existence of God.
Spoiler alert: atheists can’t prove that God doesn’t exist and believers can’t prove that God does exist. Conundrum, anyone?
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