Stephen Osborne

“Sounds good. What sort of fun did you have in mind?” I rubbed my nose against his. “It’s kind of like putting together toys on Christmas morning. You have to insert dowel rod A into slot B until it fits firmly….” “Oh, yes?” “…and then you move things around until you break something and make a big mess.”

“If I’m to be a ghost,” I told Caps, “I’m not haunting your aunt’s gloomy old place. I’d choose someplace livelier, more fun.”　　“Such as?”　　“A gay bar, of course.”

“There are good kissers and bad kissers. Good kisser: Tony. Sweet, passionate, and his lips make every nerve in your body stand up and go, “Hey, what’s this? What’s going on, and can we make it go on longer?” And then there are your bad kissers. Case in point: Tyler Kendrick. My mouth thought it was being attacked by a squid. Big, freaky tongue forcing its way into my mouth like the villain in a Western movie coming through the saloon doors with a swagger. Too much saliva, and in all the wrong places. Honestly, during a kiss your cheeks should remain relatively dry.”

“I’d like to put that day off as long as possible. You saw the guy at dinner. He’s Satan without the horns. Hitler used to get advice on how to be nasty from him.”

“It’s my spider, Jeffrey. He’s a tarantula.” “Yes, he certainly seems to be.” “He’s my pet.” “Better you than me. I’m not overly fond of spiders. Too many legs.” “No,” Ernie said simply, “he’s got the right number.”

“The room was deathly quiet. Maybe because I was holding my breath. You know that feeling you get when you know you’re doing something that you shouldn’t be doing but you’re doing it anyway? I felt that if someone were to sneak up behind me and go “Boo” that my heart would say “Fuck it” and just stop beating. I told myself to think of something else. Think of that gorgeous young man who had served us at dinner. Think of how he’d look naked. Okay, maybe don’t think of that. The only thing worse than being found in someone else’s room rifling through their things would be to be found in someone else’s room pleasuring yourself.”

“By standing and with me sitting, he was showing he was the dominant male in the room. I, however, had a .38 in a holster under my jacket, so I won.”

“several complaints that night, ranging from people thinking cats were fighting to one soul who thought that a neighbor was playing a Yoko Ono album much too loud.”

“I’d never thrown myself through a window before, but I knew what to do in theory. The answer is: don’t do it.”

“I smiled. “Nick, this is my dead boyfriend, Robbie. If you can’t see him, at least you’ll be able to see the salt carton hanging in mid-air. My dog is a zombie, and I’ve got a friend that’s a witch.” “Oh,” he said in a very small voice. I nodded. “That’s pretty much what I asked you over to tell you. So, what’s new with you?”

“My hand found its way back to her knee. I hoped it was to comfort her. I’d hate to think that my right hand was straight. “Soon. I’ll call her this afternoon and get back to you.” She nodded. I removed my right hand, thankful that I was left-handed. I’d hate to have to try masturbating with a straight hand. It probably wouldn’t cooperate. And then where would I be?”

“It’s just that… I’m wanting to start dating myself.” I saw Gina’s eyes bug out. “I don’t mean dating myself. I’ve been doing that for ten years now. It’s gotten to the point where I buy my left hand chocolates on Valentine’s Day.”

“Daisy was my beloved bulldog, who had some problems of her own—the main one being that she, too, was no longer alive. However, she wasn’t a ghost like Robbie. Daisy was a zombie. Long story.”

“He hadn’t actually acted since his high school senior play (where he had famously skipped two whole pages of dialog and died fifteen minutes too soon),”

“DINNER went off without a hitch up until the part where people actually sat down at the table and began to eat. After that it went horribly wrong.”

“There was a framed print on the wall of dogs playing poker. I wanted to smash it to preserve the dignity of the world, but I refrained.”

“Gina’s brow furrowed. “I’m a witch not fucking Harry Potter. You want miracles call the 700 Club.”