Narrative Becomes The Way You Make Sense

Chuck Said, “hey. How Many Surrealists Does It Take To Screw In A Lightbulb?” Cawley Looked Over At Him. “i’ll Bite. How Many?” “fish,” Chuck Said And Let Loose A Bright Bark Of A Laugh.

She Was Afraid Of All That And So Much More, But What Terrified Her Most Was Inside Of Her, An Insect Of Unnatural Intelligence Who’d Been Living In Her Brain Her Entire Life, Playing With It, Clicking Across It, Wrenching Loose Its Cables On A Whim.

But I Often Think We Talk Way Too Much In This Society, That We Consider Verbalization A Panacea That It Very Often Is Not, And That We Turn A Blind Eye To The Sort Of Morbid Self-absorption That Becomes A Predictable By-product Of It.

Choice, I've Always Believed, Is All That Separates Us From Animals.

I Found That I Could Write Two Kinds Of Short Stories: I Could Write Very Absurd, Kind Of Surrealistic, Funny Stories; Or I Could Write Very Dark, Realistic - Hyper-realistic - Stories. I Was Never Happy With That, Because I Couldn't Meld The Two.