Sticks and Stones

"So what killed him?"

Astrid clenched her teeth and tamped down on her anger, restraining her initial sharp retort. "I've been here five minutes, Paulson." Paulson flinched as her response bit, drawing blood. "Look, I'm sorry. It's been a rough night." She modulated her tone carefully, soothed away the mark on Paulson's cheek.

She turned back to the body. Neck snapped. Bruises. Bones nearly pulped.

"Blunt force," she said. "Nasty. 'Loser,' maybe. 'Failure.' Haven't seen words hit like this since that sociopath Cowell was put away."

"People don't think," said Paulson.

"Or they think too much. That's half the problem."

The Story of His Life

"Hello," said Marivel.

The paper man turned his blank white face toward her. He raised his pencil and drew in a smile. Marivel waited. The paper man sketched in a pair of raised eyebrows.

"Can't you talk?"

With a rustle, he erased his questioning brows and drew a frown.

"What are you writing?"

Rustle... scribble... angry now. He shooed her away.

Marivel tried to lean in and see. The paper man pushed at her, but he was made of paper. He crinkled beneath her.

"Ha!" cried Marivel, reaching triumphantly. She froze then at the unmistakable sound of tearing paper.

Neither moved.