JPEG Attached

When he checked his cellphone’s inbox this morning, Johnson saw a file attached to a new message: a picture of him sleeping, dated from last night. The photo had been taken inside of his room. He looked peaceful, serene. Immediately below it a line of text, all written in uppercase: “I LOV THAT U DON’T MOVE WHEN I TOUCH UR FACE.” He lived alone.

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Hair Down

Long ago, they say, there once was a fair maiden, whose shining black hair flowed from atop her crown past her soles below. Long it spread, far and wide, covering all the land; trees and rivers, mountains and valleys, every hovel of every village, every square of every city. Even their capital lay under its silk-smooth cover. Men, women, children and beasts were tangled in its supple touch. One by one they drifted into that sweet oblivion that is sleep. A scent of fresh flowers filled the air. Bliss, o bliss! Soon, the land was quiet under the endless mane. Now, she stands alone, amid a sea as black as a starless night; she combs it gently, slowly. A lover’s caress every night. Dreaming, yearning, of growing her hair just a little bit more. Just a bit more. A bit more. More. More. More.