Pancakes for Breakfast

Fag. Homo. Queer.

The words were heavy; they dragged Quincy's soul deep into depression. He struggled against them, but they were too painful and too hateful to shake off.

Mud and blood speckled his shirt. Blood had crusted beneath his nostrils, and a bruise shaded the pale of his cheek.

Tears fell from his eyes like a storm, forming beads on his chin, then falling to his shirt. The sniffs and sobs, vibrating within the dry air, echoed off the bathroom tiles.

Quincy sat on top of the toilet with the lid closed. The light, which hung loose from the ceiling, threw a sallow hue against the pallid room. A bottle of vodka stood nearby, looming by the edge of the sink. He turned to it and found his reflection warped, skewed and broken.

Quincy, who was too young to drink, grabbed the bottle and took a careful shot. It tasted like fire, burning down his throat and engulfing his stomach in a swirl of heat. Yet the taste was liberating, soothing. And disgusting. The uncontrollable sobs and the flow of tears slowed down – probably the reason why adults drank such nasty stuff.

Quincy turned to his right hand, holding a bottle of pills, unlabeled. It contained the answer to his pain and to the hate he had endured all his life. The fag, the queer and the homo would finally be silenced.

Rapture for Apples

I sat there, peering through the gap. My brothers and sisters were stacked on top of me, raving about how great it was to be harvested by the "giants." Some cried with joy, some brimmed with ecstasy. And once they were picked up by the giant hand, they would yell and scream in a frenzy -- they were finally becoming part of the "giants."

I was in the bottom of the heap, glad that I was last in line. While everyone else were in thrall of being eaten, I was repulsed by the idea of it. It was wrong. I didn't want "to become part of the giants."

"I've been chosen. I've been chosen!" cried one of my brethren, nestled by the great hand, washed from a shiny branch, then bitten with a loud crunch.