The Hardest Part of the Job

by Mr. W

He sat at his battered oak desk. The house was quiet; he could hear the dryer rumbling in the basement. His brow furrowed, and on a yellow legal pad, he carefully wrote:

  • A Starburst of Glass, a Halo of Blood
  • Unspooling into Crumpled Sheet Metal
  • The Dull Snap of Broken Bone
  • A Severed Hand Grips the Wheel

He paused, ripped the paper from the pad, savagely balled it up. These would make terrible titles for his children’s book.

THE END

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