Graphite Grifter

I am a skeleton. I have no skin, no organs, no soul, no mind. Next to me lies a beautiful woman. She’s the kind of woman that you see in ancient Greek art ⁠— the kind of woman you see right before you die. She lays her gentle hand on my exposed sternum and leans in. Her soft lips press again the teeth rooted into my exposed skull. Not having skin makes hers feel twice as soft. We both lean in more intently this time. My skeleton hands wrap around the back of her neck and head, bringing her closer. As she lays astride me, I feel less like a skeleton. Her warmth fills my body like organs and layers on me like new skin. I can even feel blood pumping, even if just through my bone marrow. Neither of us have any intention of pulling away until one of the cracks in my decayed eye socket pinches her eyelid. “Ouch,” “Hold still.” As we gently wriggle, the hungry fractures in my skull multiply, taking larger and larger bites of her skin. Her nose becomes trapped in the cavity where mine once wa...

Just the other night, I ended up in the back of a cop car with toy guns. It was prom night, and this year’s theme was “guns.” Not Western, not cops and robbers, not some disco-infused, anti-terrorism campaign, just guns. It didn’t matter what you dressed as—you were in costume as long as you brought a fake firearm. There were cops everywhere to look around and make sure everyone’s firearms were fake, I guess. There has to be a better way to do this. Oh yes, I suppose you could have literally any other theme for a school event, but dreams are dreams. Back inside the cop car: I am seated behind the officer with two other high schoolers in the vehicle. The one to my right ironically dressed as a court jester, the one riding shotgun unironically dressed as a cop. The kid-cop shows his gun first, obviously fake. He smiles to the cop with satisfaction. The cop extends his arm to the backseat and asks for the next gun. I look to the jester, but since he isn’t paying attention, ...