Realize Amour

by Christopher Moore   Elias lived by the millimeter. Anything beyond that, a sliver of white daring to peek from beneath his nail, was an affront to his meticulously ordered world. His OCD, a relentless warden, kept him a prisoner of his fingertips. Clippers became his weapon, his constant companion. He'd snip in the office bathroom, the metallic clicks a frantic counterpoint to the fluorescent hum. Meetings were a blur, his eyes fixated on his betraying nails, willing them to stay pristine. Dates were a distant memory, the thought of someone tracing imperfections on his hand an unbearable trespass. One evening, the familiar itch bloomed, a thousand tiny insects burrowing under his skin. This time, the dull snip of the clippers only deepened his frustration. The uneven cut, a jagged mockery, sent a cold dread spiraling through him. He reached for the nail file, a desperate attempt at order, but it wasn't enough. The sliver remained, a defiant flag waving in the face of his con...

by Francis Will   Agnes, with her hair the color of dandelion fluff and a smile as worn as her favorite cardigan, shuffled towards the park bench every morning. A canvas bag, emblazoned with a faded image of a plump tabby cat, swung from her bony wrist. It wasn't cat food inside, though. No, Agnes carried a far more fantastical offering – breadcrumbs toasted a particular shade of gold, sprinkled with a pinch of something that shimmered faintly in the weak London sunlight. The pigeons knew. They'd gather in a rustling, cooing cloud the moment Agnes appeared, their beady eyes fixed on the bag. As she scattered the crumbs, the air shimmered, and for a fleeting moment, the pigeons weren't just plump, grey birds. They were iridescent, their feathers catching the light like stained glass. They strutted about, cooing in what Agnes swore sounded suspiciously like French. One particularly bold pigeon, Agnes called him Reginald, would hop right onto the bench, his chest puffed out li...

  Catherine sat in her dimly lit cubicle, the glow of the computer screen casting a pale blue hue across her face. The rhythmic hum of the air conditioner provided a backdrop to the monotonous drone of the call center. She took another sip of her lukewarm coffee, the bitter taste clinging to her tongue. Another day, another endless stream of calls. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, navigating through the labyrinth of customer inquiries and complaints. Each ring of the phone brought with it a new voice, a new story, but they all blurred together in the cacophony of the call center. Then, amidst the sea of mundane conversations, she heard his voice. Deep and smooth, like aged whiskey poured over ice. It sent a shiver down her spine, awakening a dormant desire within her. Their conversation started like any other, with polite pleasantries and scripted responses. But as they spoke, a palpable tension began to build between them. Words took on new meanings, laden with innuendo ...

  The art studio smelled of charcoal and linseed oil, the air heavy with the anticipation of creation. I stood on the wooden platform, bare and exposed, as the students arranged themselves around me, their pencils poised to capture my form on paper. Their eyes followed the lines of my body, tracing the curves and angles with a precision that bordered on obsession. I felt their gaze like a physical caress, sending a shiver down my spine as I settled into my first pose. But amidst the sea of faces, there was one that stood out from the rest. A young man with fiery red hair and a quiet intensity in his eyes. He watched me with a hunger that sent a flush creeping up my neck, igniting a fire deep within my belly. As I shifted from one pose to the next, I could feel his eyes on me, burning into my skin like branding irons. With each movement, I reveled in the way he devoured me with his gaze, his pencil flying across the paper as he captured every nuance of my form. With each passing...