Prose: Your Killer Legs


You’re riding in your boyfriend’s car, legs crossed on the dashboard. You sit that way because you’re a hottie and you know it. How else will he get to notice your manicured toenails, painted pink. Or that you waxed your legs and they’re smoother than his ride will ever be.

Maybe he notices, notices how your legs run gracefully from your shorts. Maybe his eyes are traveling up to the rise of flesh above the V of your blouse. Maybe he’s enthralled by the way you delicately finger the statement necklace resting in the valley of your chest. Maybe that’s why the car speeds off the road and hits the tree.

Who knows?

But it’s a good car, with a working SRS airbag installed beneath the dashboard upon which your legs are resting. The airbag bursts open, eager to save you. The force snaps your legs. Broken bones rip through flesh and stab you in the chest.

You die.



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