Omnipotent Short Stories I'll Never Finish

No.1
Surrounded by the four walls of a bathroom stall, Crouch sits dead on the toilet: mouth agape and eyes aghast, his heart having splattered all over the inside of his chest like a tomato exploding under pressure. His pants are around his ankles, belt dangling over the leather of his loafers. His arms hang down at the side of the pot and his callused hands rest against the smoothness of the cold porcelain. The music from the club beyond the stall and bathroom doors falls on dead ears – literally. Crouch isn’t going anywhere: his wife has no idea where he is and the stripper, who said she would wait for him, has moved on to a paying customer who’s still alive.

No.2
Madeline loved flowers: some spinsters were cat ladies, others liked to play cards or do needle point, Madeline loved flowers. She spent her mornings and afternoons under the shade of a wide brim straw hat, a piece of lace tied in a bow under her chin. She found peace amongst the serenity of Morning Glories and petunias. She welcomed honey bees and butterflies as her afternoon guests and spoke candidly to the marigolds about her crazy sister Sarah Beth in Saskatchewan and the chicken cordon bleu she was making for her dinner.

No. 3
Bobby and Denise hustled through the dewy brush, darting across fallen trees and pushing hanging branches from their faces. Bobby, ahead of Denise, slid down the side of a creek and stopped to catch Denise as she followed. The mud clung to their clothes, their hands covered in wet grass and their bare legs smeared with dry blood. Breathing heavy, they ran hand in hand. Sunlight shined down through the overhead foliage, bouncing like bullets off trees and the ground. Behind them, Sergeant Harry Felt followed closely with his .44 revolver drawn close by his side; his age made him slow but his perseverance and determination would cause him to shoot Bobby in the shoulder.

No.4
Tony sits wedged in the corner booth of May’s Rib Rectory leaning over a full plate of barbequed ribs. His hands are delicate, held in front of him and unfolded like the greasy, sauce covered palms of the Lord Jesus. Tony’s gut grazes the underside of the table when he shifts his weight and the napkin tucked inside the collar of his shirt tickles the jowls dangling from his oversized chin. His eyes, saggy and chilled, follow Lisa around the dining room. She bends at the waist when she wipes tables, her skirt riding higher up her thighs. Tony sucks the sauce off the tips of his fingers and pops them against his gums. Lisa turns, looks at Tony and smiles. She lifts her leg onto a chair and pretends to scratch her knee; the skirt runs further up her hip.