Playground

by Aron Beauregard

It was as if his mother was pushing a tiny corpse along for a ride in the downpour.

“I don’t give a damn what you say. Ain’t no bicycle, skateboard, or—or roller skates, no matter where you use ‘em, that’ll ever pay the bills. That’s a fact. Ain’t no one that’s gonna tell me otherwise. If you got something to say about it, just don’t. You know how Nike says just do it? Well, for you, it’s just don’t, ’cause I don’t wanna hear it. Understood?”

Well, aren't you just a piece of work.

Geraldine wasn’t upset her mother wasn’t riding her father’s face. She was upset she wasn’t riding hers.

Even though it was shit, it had slid out from between the two heavenly hams that made up Mom’s posterior.

Greg turned around, shooting laser beams through the most disappointing sperm he’d ever unleashed.

The destruction was so severe that the audio accompanying the thrashing sounded like Rock was punching a puddle.

The chore of being with men she had zero attraction to wasn’t enjoyable but was a necessary discomfort.