Teeth

He said something funny. She began to laugh. Wide, happy, unabashed, mouth-open laughter. And that's when he saw them. Within her mouth were rows and rows and rows and rows of razor sharp teeth. Uncomfortable. Like too many layers of clothing. Cluttered. Like bats on the ceiling of a cave. Sharp. Like knives on display at a butcher's shop. He tried not to say anything funny for the rest of the evening.

Terrarium

Insects are everywhere; their kind is brainless, you cannot teach them. They fly compulsively through the ceiling fan like bats and sparrows often do; they never learn. For these mud dwellers, heartbreak is as inevitable as inadvertently squishing earthworms on the payment. Her personal magnetism draws them in; and they fly towards her like moths to an electric bulb. But pests never amuse her, she wastes no time swatting the flies. Her cool demeanour causes them to drool at her feet, they snarl at each other like snivelling dogs. Within days they attach themselves, teeth first, to the flawless, lukewarm skin of her feet. "Humans are like leeches", she mumbles, discarding them one by one with a sprinkle of salt and a viscous cigarette burn.

Autor's Note : Thank You for the thought, textualoffender

Edges

It all began with a tiny paper cut. As she flipped the page, its' edge rose up to one dainty finger and the blood began to spill. The tiny cut had barely healed when the edge of a bookshelf scrapped the skin off her elbow. Next she stubbed her toe on the edge of the door. Subtly, the edge of a low ceiling bent lower to graze her head. Too soon she lost her pretty smile to the edge of the mirror and her nails were chipped on the edge of a cereal box. Her beautiful exterior was deteriorating as all the edges suddenly got too close for comfort. Yet, the external damage is nothing compared to her internal turmoil.