They hadn’t really shaken off the courtroom yet as they drove down one of New Jersey’s last remaining ‘back-roads’. There’s a strange lasting feeling of uneasiness you get when you spend the day going through the motions of a process that isn’t your own. Rebecca’s high heels lay under the passenger seat and her husband’s tie was undone and sitting sloppily on his neck. She looked out the widow as he drove, seeing what she could of the cornfields in the thick darkness. He had forced her to move out here and for someone who grew up in New York, it’s silence that makes your hair stand up. The only noise, besides the car engine, was the clicking of his tongue moving around his mouth, which hadn’t recovered from the nervous dryness induced by being on the stand. She desperately wanted to turn on the radio, but knew that he would think it rude, or awkward, or both. She didn’t look at him. Not because she was still mad, but because she was aware that he would be aware she was looking.
In the end he had done nothing wrong. In the end he had refused to be a ‘character witness’ for Mark, instead he just went up in front of the court and told the jury that Mark had come to their house at this time and left at that time. That was it.
And yet,
as
the car
turned a curve
and he
slowed it down,
her eyes instinctively shot forwardAnd yet, as the car turned a curve and he slowed it down, her eyes instinctively shot forward, looking to see some sign of human presence somewhere beyond the fields, someone who could be watching them. But all she could see was dead corn. She knew he had done it, Mark, but not how or where. Whether it was in Mark’s house (one as beautiful as their own) or in a field. She knew as soon as they found his wife’s body in the street’s retention pond that it had been him. She knew it, even as her husband ran over to console him and wipe his phoney tears.
“You hungry? You want to get something to eat or something?” he asked as his blank face watched the road.
“No. I’m okay.” she replied (it was their first exchange in weeks). She was starving, but didn’t want him to stop the car anywhere until they were home. And then what?, she asked herself, tensing up.
She had berated him for his original disbelief (Jane had been her friend long before Mark), but now wished her husband would speak freely on it. Because she had a terrible feeling that his silence, his quick smile as they entered the court–which she was sure she saw–, and even his lack of clarity on the stand, that they were not do to disbelief, but to something else.
He slowed it down again. She repeated her scan, still no one. Then, looking down, she saw her high heel shoes laying on the floor and slightly smiled, wondering how far she could run. Through the corn and, maybe, back to the city.
Have you considered Subscribing to all of this madness?
Here, in the beginning was the word. And the word said 'here' and here he was. He knew not why he was here (do any of us?), but he was here and there was nothing else here, only darkness--though lacking even the quantity called 'darkness'. And though there was not yet loneliness, terror, or cold; the being found himself terribly lonely and cold. Before the being could utter a magic word or a command, light raised up to the sky and illumination seeped onto the earth causing the being to smile for a moment, but then again he found himself crying because the light had only further lit up and revealed the full extent of nothingness.
The old men of the village had their eyes firmly focused on politics again. And the economy. And property values. And sports. But not their wives; their wives were safe at home now--safe and unlooked on. The candlelit dinners and music, the awkward dancing and even more awkward reading of poetry had stopped when the young men left. No need for it anymore. Yes, the old leaders of the village no longer had to watch their spouses like hawks--even though they sat at home all day, bored. So, though there was a war going on, the elders were all noticeably calmer than during peacetime and the council meeting had a relaxed air to it.
"Liberty Univer..." Mark stopped. It was the first time either of them had said that, the word "kill". Madison Square was completely dark now except for a few people at the enclosed dog-run. 
Kyle thought as he went for a better arrangement of the list. His structure still seemed off and taking it out of alphabetical order hadn't fixed the problem. He scribbled down on his notepad again: Homosexuals, blacks, Aisans, lesbians...
Both the young teenager and the old officer were terribly embarrassed as the Police cruiser careened through some of Wilson's earliest paved roads. 
There was nothing that crazy about the nickname; Americans are a practical, simple, right-to-the-point kind of people: And quite simply, practically, that's what it was good at. Well, of course, planes are, first and foremost, good at flying, but this one was particularly well suited for killing Arabs. It was untraceable on radar, could effectively dodge either a bullet or a missile--while it's own projectiles were effectively unstoppable, and so precise that, according to one Army pilot, they could take out a towelhead without disrupting a hair on his goat's ass (his words, not mine). This was the fear of God, or Allah, or whatever.
Summer in the city. The grid is lit up like a dirty grill, hot and red, caking on the filth and the remnants of last night's meat. It's the weekend, but who cares, we have places to go, the atoms say, stretching apart, thrown together, brushing up against eachother's agendas. A week ago, a crane fell and killed two and we stood on the cool breezy street, talking and complaining to absolute strangers, calling for Mike's resignation, for action, for bureaucratic blood. Now the papers report that a crane operator had been bribed and, so long as the AC works, let's bribe him some more and move, move, keep moving, the city is swell, though it feels like hell.