EIGHTY-SEVEN, 2.0

Doxon lost his toenail again. Well, not “lost” like “misplaced”, but “lost” as in “rammed his toe into the bedside table and his nail fell off”. We didn’t bother to look for it, though, and didn’t even seem bothered by the blood on the sheets the next morning.

The broken toenail had been accompanied a broken toe, and breaks mean blood to us. I worked quickly to wrap the gauze around his toes — I keep three rolls in the nightstand because we’re both klutzy — then I cooked him breakfast in bed. I tore off the old sheets for a good wash, and unrolled the replacement sheets while he lay there eating. Continue reading

EIGHTY-SEVEN

Like the fingers of a jazz pianist winding down the 88’s, Persephone sifted through the files up on the 86th floor of the Olympia Skyscraper. She wore headphones and danced to the ongoing beat. She’d been at it for six hours, and her legs hadn’t yet screamed at her to stop.

She pulled another file labeled “End of Days” and threw it on the stack, on top of “Apocalypse”. None of the Gods knew she was here.

That was good.

The world would spin that much longer.

EIGHTY-SIX

Cyrus blocked flashes of the night before as he stared at the door, leaning off its’ hinges. He propped it up and noted where the screws had come loose. He went to the supply closet.

He came back with a hammer and nails, and Betsy was waiting outside the door. She explained her feelings as he hammered the hinges into place — her claim that it was just a kiss, that the other, nameless man meant nothing.

Cyrus finished hammering and slammed the door in her face.