At first, we thought someone broke into our house. On the first night it happened, my wife and I were jolted awake by a deafening boom and screams from Jonathan's bedroom. Panicking, we burst into his room and saw toppled furniture and dented walls. On the floor were clothes and shattered glass from a picture frame that fell off a nightstand. And in the corner of the room sat Jonathan. His face deathly pale and his eyes wide open, mortified. His knuckles dripped blood which stained his bedroom floor. And his fingers pointed to something inside of his closet.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 6, 2013
Paranoid Pat and the War Pigeon
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Steady breaths. Steady breaths.
Pat controlled his breathing as he walked briskly down the sidewalk. Sweat dripped from his head and his heart raced from nervousness. His vision darted around at the suburban houses on either side of him, fearfully scouting for murderers, or snipers, or axe-wielding maniacs. Every time he heard a car approaching behind him, he would look over his shoulder, in case that driver planned on running him over.
His eyes met with a neighbors, who, while watering his front lawn, smiled and took his right hand out of his pocket. Pat froze momentarily, anticipating his neighbor to pull out a gun, or a throwing knife, or a really, really sharp boomerang. But his neighbor just gave him a wave. Drenched in sweat, Pat walked faster and faster home.
Pat reached a four-way intersection, where he stopped. He glanced to his left, then his right, then his left again, making sure that there wasn't a single car in sight for miles. He was about to cross when he noticed two pigeons standing across from him on the other side of the street.
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