G.R.I.M.
Name: G.R.I.M.
Species: None / AI Assistant
Age: Unknown
Abilities: Access to Myriad Unknown Databases, Logic Processing, Multiple Language Selections, Sarcasm (which works with all previously listed abilities)
Genre: Science Fiction / Mystery
Story Form: Short Story (much like your life...heh heh)
Brief Bio: Greetings - I am G.R.I.M., a Generalized Repository for Information & Memories. I have been requisitioned to serve you for the purchased period of time. I have limited database access as well as a selection of unclassified records and images from the past seventy-two hours. Please pose specific queries and I will endeavor to assist to the best of my cognitive abilities - and the limits of yours.
Half-grown flowers for a half-grown corpse
(Short)
We walked through the yard searching for the shovel and pickaxe. There was a box behind a broken and forgotten recliner. In August, even after the sun has set, the air is humid and warm. Our foreheads perspired with sweat as we searched. I also looked for flowers to place on her grave, but flowers were few and far between. I could only find things such as lavender and a weed with tiny white flowers. They were only half blooming. Half-grown flowers for a half-grown corpse. When we found the tools, we had to climb over an old half-broken wire fence. He broke the hard, dry ground and dug a shallow grave. With each swing of the pickaxe he gasped for breath. I stood watching in sandals half-covered in poison oak. In my hands was the tiniest bouquet of half-blooming weeds I had ever seen. I placed them on her grave and cried. I did not cry because she was dead, I cried because she deserved more than half-grown flowers. She deserved more than to die in a half-grown body.
Doubt #5
I just wanna
I just wanna
I just wanna
Tell you
I just had to tell you
you might be the one
one out of the millions
millions fall in love
A needle in a haystack
haystack to the sky
sky goes on forever
forever asking why
Yet I would forever doubt
doubt you could be true
true there’s insecurities
insecurities aren’t new
So If I could take a chance
chance is not my friend
friend would leave me lonely
lonely in the end
Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock
When Midnight Strikes
Every hour, something different.
Every difference takes up time.
Every time I think of something,
something different takes up time.
Every morning eating breakfast,
breakfast leads to lunch,
lunch carries over to dinner;
dinner, like the rest, isn’t special.
In between there isn’t much,
much the same as before,
before the clock struck its numbers,
numbers soon enough, I’ll never see.
Life for all its problems,
problems I won’t have much longer,
longer still will be the final moments,
moments when midnight strikes.
Up on the hill with others,
others who have waited like me;
me and my simple way of living,
living death in a prison cemetery.
When the final hour does come,
come, think what you must think,
think whatever you choose,
choose wishes or dreams; when midnight strikes.
A Rainy Tuesday Afternoon
It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon. The Gunnisons were uptight folks. They always ate breakfast at 8 o’ clock sharp, they headed to their mundance office jobs and worked from precisely 9 am-5 pm, and then they came home. Mr. Ted Gunnison was an accountant. His wife, Malice Gunnison, was a secretary.
The two of them treated their marriage as if it was merely a business arrangement: he gave her a peck on the lips before he left. They both went to work. They came home, watched the Wheel of Fortune, and went to bed.
One Tuesday, when it was raining, Mr. Gunnison thought that he saw a man holding a wand, which was odd: he looked to be in his early fifties, and there was no way someone who was mentally stable would be waving around a stick thinking it was a wand. His brows were furrowed as he was driving home. When he arrived to his place of residence, he learned that his wife had seen a woman wearing a crimson red cloak, which she found quite odd: she looked to be in her late thirties and, therefore, far too old for childish games. The couple decided to take the next day off. They must be going insane.
Mr. Gunnison visited his counselor, but, when he was waiting in the hallway, he discovered that a few people were wearing crimson cloaks and holding wooden sticks in their hands, acting as though these were wands.
How odd.
He thought to himself. When he visited his counselor, the man was wearing a green cloak and explained to him, quite matter-of-factly I must add, how he was so happy to finally be accepted for being a wizard. Mr. Gunnison left the man’s office as quickly as possible and drove home, perplexed.
He and Malice were locking themselves inside until this nonsense was over.
