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Reward Yourself

They practically lay down in their graves.

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I let Warren drag him to the chair. We secure him at the waist first, then the chest, then the legs, and then each arm—one strap around the bicep, one at the bottom of the forearm. He thrashes his head around, the only thing left to move. I stroke his forehead on an impulse, making quiet shushing noises. It feels like. Behind the large blue curtain is a smaller room, where Grace and Jake wait to inject the drugs into the IV line.

Before I duck behind the curtain, I look back. The windows are uncovered now, five little booths. Two are filled with press people, documenting the case, looking detached, almost bored. He sits at the chair with his eyes fixed on Harrison, but I see no hatred there. The other two slots are empty. I push the big blue curtain aside and step into the back room.

The Fuck.

Is going on out there. Grace is pale beneath her freckles. I shrug and shake my head, not meet-. Warren swabbed him, you can start the saline drip in a second. I hand the thiopental to Grace, and she takes it with a nod. Give me the needle. Come on! I close my fist around the bottle and hold it to my chest. I spin away from both of them. Grace points at me wordlessly, but I shake my head and back away.

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Ten more minutes of life for Harrison Shear. I can still feel the sweat from his brow on my fingertips. In ten minutes it will be the sweat of a dead kid, a sick and grotesque thing. You are only making it harder for Harrison. Give me the bottle. He sighs, deeply. Get some sleep. I stumble out from behind the curtain, trying to unfocus my eyes, not looking at Harrison stretched out in the dentist chair or the people behind the glass.

50 Things You'Re Not Supposed to Know : Russ Kick :

The hall outside the door is narrow and cool and silent. I want to run, but I make myself take slow, measured steps, just putting one foot after the other. Brenna Crotty is a junior English major. She has had her work published in the Winter issue of Unbound. Beauty-bearing shoulders teeter on the Fulcrum of her neck, tilting lusty angles; Nearly slipping off its edge upon each Stride, her shoulder bag sweeps wide in ticking arcs.

Whipping back in gusts, her scarf tails capture, Bend me to her lithesome fleeing figure; Close behind I grasp—scarcely miss her Coat—and off she glides to other avenues. He has just completed a collection of short stories for his senior thesis.

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  • Near, the stretch of sidewalk bans all strollers, Cracking, snapping, stone-chunked slabs of peril; How though she walks! I have always been in love with literature.

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    In fact, I once fell in love with a librarian. I thought she loved me more than she loved Keats. He remembered his poem back at his apartment, decidedly too insipid to share with Sabina. That morning, he had just tucked it in his cookbook, along with all of his other failures from the past.

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    Some of the pages were now stuck together, years of attempted lasagnas, stews, and cakes long gone. When his first wife Madeline died, he began to order in. No recipes had servings for one, and he hated leftovers. Now the book served no purpose but a holder for his own attempts at poetry. His work was nothing like the master poets he loved so much.

    Finally breaking his stare, he looked up at Sabina. She was coming quickly towards him now, leading a bike alongside her body. He had a hard time looking at her without feeling joy. He had realized this for the first time when she approached him in the Rutgers Library, asking if he needed help finding anything. His face grew warm at such a young and attractive woman helping him. Usually it was the other way around on campus. He also became aware of her hold when she took him to his first party, an event he had put far too much thought into.

    Like Arthur, Sabina had also delved into literature and poetry all her life.

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    But somehow she had found a way to be accepted and admired along the way, something Arthur knew nothing about. For five months she had been grabbing his hand with spontaneity, but it still caught him off guard every time. Sabina kept walking forward without even considering locking it. His eyes scanned the park for any individuals who might make him caution her otherwise, but there was no one, just leaves the color of paprika and tangerines spread across the abandoned grass.

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    I love BBQ. I wish we lived in a place where fried food and collard greens were a requirement. He smiled back, thinking her hair looked much nicer like it was today. Waves the color of blackbirds fell every which way over her shoulders. Whenever she styled it straight, he thought she just looked like every other graduate student at her work-study job in the library. But the curls were different. And so was she. Arthur was left alone with the bike. He studied it closely, as if it were a poem he was dissecting. Its silver hue was faded now, and across its long limbs it had once read, Action Rider.

    But time had rubbed away some of the letters, so today it said, Ac Rdr. He felt his hands trembling on his khakis, so he stuffed them into his pockets. He took one more look at the bike and then watched Sabina running closer. She was now wearing a corduroy jacket over her turtleneck.