Pictures with stories. Short, short stories.
There were midnight liaisons in the back seat of a Rolls Royce and feeding each other spoonfuls of Devonshire cream.
Although mostly rumor and speculation, the muse of the monarch was said to be the King of Belgium, or as he preferred to be called: King of the Belgians.
"My moral compass may have been broken, but at least I found my way here," she muttered to no one.
She remembered living between the rotting walls of a third story apartment next to the freeway, and once finding her best friend dead in a back alley with a spike still stuck in her arm.
The more she thought about it, running away from her problems was the best decision she ever made.
As soon as the word came out of my mouth, I knew I had made a mistake. My hopes of participating in an intellectual conversation were quickly dashed by the tone of her voice.
"Mellifluous?" She said. "You don't even know what that word means. And even if you did, it's pretentious to be using it."
As if living in a world of clichés, I went on an all-night bender of cheap whiskey and heady hallucinations. The next morning I found myself hitchhiking down the nearest desert highway looking for the ever-elusive crossroad.
Two days later the devil approached me, but I turned him down, realizing I had nothing left to offer.