I want to take a chance, but I'm so afraid of everything. When the time comes to push the button I freeze until the screen times out and then I tell myself that it is too late to do it now. I spend hours picking it apart until it(more) flows perfectly, until the words are exactly as I want them.
Perhaps I'll never submit anything anywhere but the two minute-made posts I give to typetrigger. But I'll try again tomorrow and maybe it will be different. (less)
Lately, Masayoshi caught himself staring at Goto a lot. He didn't MEAN to stare, staring was RUDE, but sometimes it was like he got stuck on an eye or an earlobe or a hand and then he'd blink and realize that three whole minutes had passed in an instant. If Goto(more) noticed, he never said anything, and Masayoshi couldn't decide if that was a blessing or a curse.
He was having one of those moments now -- Goto had won the fight over the remote, and he was watching the screen intently while Masayoshi intently watched Goto. Masayoshi's thoughts were getting increasingly intrusive; he was staring at Goto's cheek, thinking about what it would be like to just poke it. He figured that Goto's skin might be a little scratchy there, increasing in softness the closer he got to his eye. He mentally replaced the finger with his nose, which he decided would feel weird at first but eventually kind of warm and nice. Then he switched nose for lips and that was when the reverie broke and he realized he had no idea what was happening on the television anymore.
The TV seemed a much safer place to look, though, so Masayoshi fixed his eyes to it and tried to force out all the new, interesting, and intensely distracting images his brain was conjuring up. One kissing fantasy had exploded into 500, and finally Masayoshi couldn't contain his curiosity anymore. He leaned over and hurriedly kissed Goto on the cheek, then scurried back into place and began an attempt to stare a hole through the floor.
"What was that about?" Goto asked, surprise infusing his voice.
"You had rice on your face," Masayoshi said, grasping the first pathetic excuse he could think of.(less)
The children in the city had formed into small renegade bands, distorted reflections of the gun-toting gangs that prowled the streets. None of them were old enough to remember the days when silver and red automobiles prowled along the wide thoroughfares and tall arches and domes had not yet(more) been blown into rubble.
Now there is a gang of children sitting in the ruin of an old grocery store. There is no old food smell, as everything edible is gone, but there are old food wrappers and dusty plastic fruit bins. The leader of the band is the second oldest; she sits cross-legged on an upside-down fruit bin and listens. It is her job to keep the pack behind her safe--the three young triplet sisters with red hair, the boy who collects bullets in his pockets, the girl who has no arms, and the oldest child: a blind boy.
Across the street a black motorcycle parks. Its rider is one of the older gang members, part of a rebel faction. The man is carrying a sack of bread, probably stolen from the police stronghold. He has a gun in his hand and a knife strapped to his waist.
The leader motions for the bullet boy and the triplet sisters. They are already looking at the bag of bread. It is time for them to take a chance. Bricks in hand, the four hurry across the street, staying out of sight of the man.
The girl with no arms narrates the events to the blind boy: the triplet sisters have swarmed the man, one of them has grabbed his gun. Bullet boy snatches the bread and runs. Two of the triplet sisters go running after him, the third triplet sister has a gash in her leg and cannot run.(less)