General

I dreamed that the pistol soaked into my arm, that the metal ran up to my heart and then from my opening mouth fell words not as sound but text; it was every good thing my mama ever taught me, falling out to the cold icy floor.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, September 5, 2019.
General

The pistol was a few ounces of cowardice. It was a cheap way to take something as sacred as Gavin's life. He had hid behind a garbage container, his cold sweat hidden in the stink of the rotting carcasses within.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, September 5, 2019.
General

They could feed the poor or by pistols to shoot them with when they rioted for food, or became so drug-addled as to loose their humanity. But who lost their soul first?

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, September 5, 2019.
General

The pistols lay on the icy sidewalk in some dog-eared old box. They were loosely piled in, thrown really, with as much care as the bodies of their victims. I always imagined that they fired out of both ends - a real bullet to the victim and one of invisible soul-poison for the shooter.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, September 5, 2019.
General

I bought my knives to cut dinners and birthday cake, but this pistol? It's made for death and there's no way around that.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, September 5, 2019.