Comments Posted By MFIII

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anchor

There was this intangible thing about it, like some of us didnt belong and others had belonged for too long. But when he walked through the door, we felt it. It couldn’d be quantified, nor could it be scientifically analyzed, but we each knew it was palpable. He bound us, with his grandeur and his progressiveness and his antiquity the same. We were in his ship, awaiting our captain, and he had just lifted anchor.

» Posted By MFIII On 04.11.2013 @ 12:56 pm

welfare

“Where did you buy that silver spoon,” she asked.
“It wasn’t bought or incurred, I assure you. It was earned,” he replied.
“May I?” she asked, this time leaning in, tongue half obscured by her pouty lips.
“Of course. What is mine is now everybody’s.”

» Posted By MFIII On 04.10.2013 @ 12:13 pm

trench

You could hear the blast from a two miles out, but you weren’t two miles out.You were a hundred feet from the grenade blast. You hear stories, but they never tell you about the pieces of earth hurled at you. Sure, the shrapnel cuts you, but it’s the stone that bludgeons you, the wayward rock that concusses you. And ultimately, when you’re in that trench, you either hope that that rock knocks you out cold before the enemy storms your keep, or better yet, knocks you dead to spare you the long, painful agony, because when you’re out there, the only certainty is death.

» Posted By MFIII On 04.08.2013 @ 12:55 pm

chapped

“Jameson! I say, you old chap, I haven’t seen you in, what, 15 odd years? Have a scotch with your old buddy.” And he stood above me with his hands out in a hugging motion.
I stared back at him, silent, and he began to look confused. Marcus was one of those privileged Chi Kappa boys, used to beat on us during rush, used to get us bloody. Sure, I’d had a few drinks with him in the past, mostly because of unfortunate proximity, but he wasn’t my kin, my ilk, heck, we didn’t even see eye-to-eye politically.
“I don’t know you,” I finally squeaked out, hands clenched.
“Jameson, it’s me, Marcus. Chi Kappa. We kicked the shit out of London together, didn’t we, old boy?…” Still confused, he motioned towards the cocktail waitress to bring two drinks.
“I don’t know you at all,” I said.

» Posted By MFIII On 04.24.2012 @ 2:24 pm

entrée

“Mmm, that’s an extremely interesting flavor,” she starts, after tasting the stew for the first time. “I like how tender it is.”
“You’d be surprised,” I reply. “Sometimes, there is no skill involved at all. More luck than anything. It’s not like I can go and kill the person…er, I mean…kill the cow myself.” and I fork another helping into my mouth, mostly to shut myself up but also because I enjoy a woman’s calf the most.

» Posted By MFIII On 04.23.2012 @ 9:39 am

earring

“Mine are better,” she snarled. “They’re bigger.”
“No, mine are,” another said. “They’re rounder and better proportioned.”
“Well, mine have better color and don’t hang as low,” a third chimed.
“Mine are perfect,” a fourth girl uttered. “They’re small but made of better material. You may even say mine are perky,”

» Posted By MFIII On 04.17.2012 @ 8:54 pm

“Oh, I love those,” Eleanor lipped across the dining room, surely to some vague acquaintance hadn’t seen in some-odd months, probably sitting with her husband or lesbian lover or both at the other side of the restaurant.
“Honey, you’re not listening to me.” I returned, sternly, grabbing her by the wrist.
“Oh, gosh, Teddy, get over it. I’m so sick of you being so serious. What is it now? You didn’t get you early afternoon Perrier?” She pulled her hand back.
“I want a divorce.” I said, the words hanging loosely like apples. “Not like the fake, stay-separated-for-six-months-and-get-back-together kind of divorce. I want a real one.”

» Posted By MFIII On 04.17.2012 @ 8:44 pm

puddle

Her face made a sound when it smacked against the pavement. Those who were there might say they heard a bone break.
“Here’s your goddamn bread,” he yelled at her, whipping a loaf off of her rib, which had surely been broken from the beating. “If I catch you sneaking around my bakery again, it’ll be a whole lot worse, I’ll assure you that much.”
He patted his goon on the chest and laughed as they slammed the door shut behind her. She tried to rise from the wet ground, but her arms were too weak, and instead clutched the day-old loaf that was afforded her. She knew the ony thing that would wash it down was the blood she tasted with her tongue.

» Posted By MFIII On 04.10.2012 @ 1:38 pm

flip

It danced in the air, one side charred black, and the other, gleaming metal. I knew my fate as soon as he had flipped the coin, revolver in his off hand, pointed at my sternum. I wish I could say I had a wife to think of in these moments, a child to be so proud of. I wish I could say I didn’t deserve this. But I did. And the small chunk of metal finished its arced path in an instant, landing on the oak table of the rathskeller. And it careened on its edges. And it made me think about my misgivings a second longer before it settled on a side.
“I guess today is not the day you die,” the man said.

» Posted By MFIII On 04.04.2012 @ 7:15 am

catcher

The excess water dripped off the eaves, into the small wooden bucket placed below. She looked up at the worn gutter, beaten and bruised herself, and laughed. “Your trash is my treasure.”

» Posted By MFIII On 03.27.2012 @ 1:04 pm

drifting

An hour had passed with nothing. Waste of my goddamn money, I thought. And the party was as imagined, drab with bad music. Lucky if there was one celebrity there. Suddenly, a Eurythmics song I hadn’t heard in two decades came on, and I began to see the most vivid images in yellow…

» Posted By MFIII On 03.26.2012 @ 12:58 pm

Nothing new about the scene, me there, chin in palm, book open. Her there, in my thoughts, apple red pumps, a black skirt with a slit far up enough to see the part of her thigh in which I’m sure only a few had made camp.

» Posted By MFIII On 03.26.2012 @ 12:54 pm

ratings

Michael was drunk watching TV, per the usual, his chidren sobbing in the adjacent rooms, maybe they were teething or couldn’t sleep. Maybe the TV was too loud. He hurled a beer bottle, only half-empty, at the wall in hopes it would shut them up. It didn’t, and he didn’t have the ambition or the sheer balance to get up from the couch and coddle them. Moments later, he was asleep. His eldest, Michael Jr., got up from bed, no longer hearing the drunken mumblings and stirrings of an old sot. It was safe. He walked into the living room and saw what was on the TV…

» Posted By MFIII On 03.21.2012 @ 7:04 am

dismissed

I walked back in as coolly as I could, backpack shouldered, and approached her as she sat, surely grading her 7th period AP French tests.
“Ms. Gambol,” I uttered, halfway under my breath as if it was still hiding beneath the sheets, afraid of the cold.
“Ah, yes…you again,” she said, and she stood up in her skirt and heels, still only barley as tall as my chin, and she clutched me by my long locks of hair, pulled me down, and touched her lips to mine. She pulled back, and I was speechless, utterly grounded, my sneakers like tree roots. “Now, run along and be a good boy,” she said.
I did. I tried to tell myself to be a good boy, but I think I knew I’d be getting dismissed from class again.

» Posted By MFIII On 03.09.2012 @ 12:51 pm

brunch

I met him at brunch, where he told me his life story. A couple of wars, a couple of wives, a few drinks too many, for sure. And I could tell in his wrinkled gaze, as he took the last bite of his western omelet, that he was not proud of what he’d done in his seventy-some-odd years. Not proud of a thing. Not even his children would talk to him. And he would consistently harp back to that one day, at eighteen, gun-toting, standing over the first person he’d kill in his lifetime. The first of many.

» Posted By MFIII On 03.09.2012 @ 7:27 am

I met him at brunch, where he told me his life story. A couple of wars, a couple of wives, a few drinks too many, for sure. And I could tell in his wrinkled gaze, as he took the last bite of his western omelet, that he was not proud of what he’d done in his seventy-some-odd years. Not proud of a thing. Not even his children would talk to him. And he would consistently hark back to that one day, at eighteen, gun-toting, standing over the first person he’d kill in his lifetime. The first of many.

» Posted By MFIII On 03.09.2012 @ 7:15 am

lantern

It flickers in the distance, a beacon for all that is right, and I approach it with reservation, oddly, tiptoeing my happiness away to grasp the false glow. And it doesn’t so much reveal it’s surrounding but the glare off my outreached hand and the flash of a dream so perfect, so useless.

» Posted By MFIII On 03.02.2012 @ 10:45 am

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