The final letter was delivered to him by a monkey wearing a top hat. Tomorrow he would ship out to the Northern Front.
The first rays of daylight illuminated the blue plastic bag and clumps of biomatter. Birds chattered merrily.
He quickly scratched down the numbers and letters as they were read off, unsure if they made sense. There was a not entirely unpleasant chewing sensation.
After twelve straight hours of listening to John Coltrane, he had a jazz stroke–resulting in a permanent sense of déjà vu.
The last man on earth made a smoothie, stared at it, then poured it on the floor and walked out.
Their religion demanded collection of nail clippings, snips of hair, and a yearly pilgrimage to a remote bench in the park.
They had an old photograph taken from one of the alternate timelines. It was not for sale.
He remembered the dream he’d had, but too late. They’d already taken the first floor, and he could hear them coming up the stairs.
Every evening she moved the hundreds of dolls from downstairs to upstairs, humming to them as she did.
He looked, refocused, but none of the letters made sense, they seemed to be a jumble of characters he couldn’t decipher.