tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12705844014278785852024-03-13T05:04:43.511-04:00The Empty Sky is My WitnessUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-27054890897818517272009-06-01T11:12:00.000-04:002009-06-01T12:44:03.226-04:00Great ExpectationsMorning light greeted Gordon's brow with a start, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">brit</span> still ill-adjusted to the temperament the U.S. offered, especially in a locale such as Texas. He saluted the horizon, staring off into the empty plain and after a more peculiar dream, Gordon's first conscious thoughts followed;<br /><br />"I wonder what Reverend Haberdasher is doing."<br /><br />Here I go, and there I come and here I go and there I come. Always <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">comin</span> and a-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">goin</span>, that's the life the good lords gave me. This here Earth is full a filth and I even though he didn't give me a mop, he did give me a mirror, an that's good <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">nough</span>'. Lord o <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Lordy</span> Lord Lord why'd you give an old peddler like me such a hardy hard hard mission? You knew it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">din't</span> you? You <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">knewd</span> I didn't like them queers, with all their <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">fornicatin</span> and womanly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">actin</span> selves? You <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">knewd</span> I traveled in less than right proper circles and among them were those dreaded ass goblins, that made me wretch every time I'd touch em for a ten spot. But not no more lord, and you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">knewd</span> that too. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">I'da</span> touch every last one o' them for you and here I sit in the bright early morn, here in the great state a Texas. I figured, ass goblins were kinda like regular goblins and they liked to hide in the shadows, under bridges, places hot and dreary, so what better place than Texas right?<br /><br />The old makeshift reverend had found little luck in spreading his message. Part of the issue may have rested in attempting to discuss matters of a homosexual nature in what many consider the most homophobic state in the union, but that didn't phase him. Another issue could be that his "bible" he waved around was a copy filth ridden copy of studs n' suds, a piece of academia that is far from enlightening. He had to rethink his gospel.<br /><br />"Come sees the truth of the gays and the things they do! Find out what <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Jesus</span> and all the angels have to say! Learn the truth of what God wants, the true message and what our roles are in this blessed life a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Christ</span>!"<br /><br />Haberdasher smiled his biggest, toothiest smile as the gentlemen, cowboys and every sort of fellow wandered into his dimly lit corner lot. They gathered to hear the message they had been waiting for, the kind of fiery sermon that would drive the very gay serpents from their metaphorical Ireland. They wanted reassurance that their homophobia, their disgust was justified by a higher power. they should have known better.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-89081796229898948092009-05-25T03:06:00.000-04:002009-05-25T04:08:34.970-04:00Bedtime Story (Demon Fire)Mali was stirring the embers. "One more before bed," she replied after Casey and Joe had once again joined the circle of travelers.<br /><br />"Bed? I believe we're sleeping in cheap sleeping bags in cheap tents bought at a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Wal</span>-Mart," Parker corrected.<br /><br />"Whatever. One more story."<br /><br />Joe spoke up. "Well, I have a scary story for you to dwell on as your mind grows dark...."<br /><br /><em>Matthew had been warned about the house. It looked ominous enough at the top of the hill, with a twisty drive leading to it's front gate. Not even Stephen King could have described the sheer terror that gathered in your gut as you stared into the windows and it's soul stared back at you, stark and merciless. The warning was given by a local hag, long considered a witch by the young children of the small <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">neighborhood</span>. She simply stated that the house was evil.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>"I doubt that there is anything evil in that house," Matthew assured the crazy woman.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>"I didn't say that there was something evil in the house. I said the house was evil." </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>As Matthew brushed the comment aside and continue to claim that nothing was wrong with the house, the lady muttered "Demon fire. It burns flesh, blood, and bone...and nothing else," and went on her way. Matthew made a note to avoid further contact.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Matthew had a young wife, Stephanie, and he lived and died for her approval. In the first year of their fledgling marriage, she had asked for a big house, old and with character. Something she could decorate and show off. He had found the house for a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">surprising</span> affordable price. The interior left something to be desired, but he was confident in his choice, and so was his wallet.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Stephanie loved it.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The first week in the house was typical. A lot of moving and rearranging, some new dry wall and painting, and finally, the purchasing of expensive furniture and decorative items to set the right tone. Matthew had no trouble sleeping that first week.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>It was a Sunday night, and they had gone to bed early. Stephanie slept soundly. Matthew slept next to her, restless. He awoke with a start at exactly 3 a.m. Something was amiss. The house groaned and creaked with a sudden weight. The air felt colder. He felt as though....the house had woken.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The feeling had left by the morning sunrise. They went about their Monday routine of work, then dinner, then <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">TV</span>, then bed. "I'm feeling a little frisky tonight, Matthew," Stephanie told him, climbing out of bed and making her way toward the master bedroom's small bathroom. She sashayed her little tush in her slinky nightdress as she entered, causing Matthew's undivided attention. "Is that so, dear?" he said, unable to hid the excitement from his voice. "I think it's time to christen the house," she teased, and shut the bathroom door. Matthew anxiously adjusted in his bed, preparing his body. When Stephanie screamed, he sat up with a start.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The bathroom door flung open, and Stephanie was on fire. She continued to scream and flail as she clambered toward the bed. Matthew began to shout in anguish, struggling to untangle himself from under the neatly tucked-in sheets. That's when he noticed something briefly in the chaos.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Her slinky nightdress was not burning. Just her body, her hair, even her eyes seemed to be aflame. But it got worse every second. When he finally managed to release himself from the bed's grasp, it was too late. Her skin had been burned to a burnt black, her hair gone, and the muscles slowly dripping off her bones. "STEPHANIE!" he screamed. She had fallen completely to the floor. In his panic he ripped the thickest blanket off the bed and threw it over her. The blanket did not burn, but the soft glow of the flames still flickered underneath. When he had ripped the blanket off of her, all that was left was ash and a slinky nightdress. The floor wasn't even singed. "Dear God," he whispered to himself.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>He thought of calling the police only momentarily. He would sound insane, and he would be suspected as the cause of her death. He felt the evil encircle him, enticing him. He felt challenged. He had no time to mourn his lost wife, only avenge her. But how?</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>He grabbed a bucket underneath the kitchen sink and began to fill it with water from the kitchen faucet.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>He and Stephanie had met the priest at the local Catholic church the day before. He remembered that he lived in the house closest to the giant Gothic cathedral, and he prayed that he would hear his loud, impatient knocks at 1 in the morning.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The priest found it odd that he had to bless a bucket full of tap water, but Matthew didn't explain, just pressed that it was urgent as he shook with adrenaline and fear.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Back at the house, he stared down the hallways, seeing shadows play with eyes, mocking him. "Where are you, you son of a bitch?!" he shouted into the rooms and corridors. He had no idea what he was summoning, but he had to find it. It killed his wife. Then he remembered...the bathroom.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Shutting the door behind him, he stared into the mirror. He felt his body get increasingly warm. "WHERE ARE YOU?" he screamed.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The fire erupted from the mirror above the sink, completely encasing him.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Almost involuntarily, he thrust the Holy bucket above his head and the water splashed down on him.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>It had no effect.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>"DID YOU THINK YOU COULD USE MY OWN BLOOD AGAINST ME?" boomed a voice that can only be described as unearthly. "I AM THIS LAND. I AM THIS WATER. I AM THIS FIRE."</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The fire seared through his veins, spilling from his mouth and nose and eyes. His skin flaked and floated away as ash, his bones and teeth even melted. Nothing was left but black and gray ash and un-burned clothes and the echoes of terror-filled screams of agony.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>And the house was satisfied. But it still waits...</em><br /><em></em><br />"Goodnight," Joe replied, as the last glowing ember fizzled to same black as the night that surrounded them.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-46975452042044461682009-05-21T11:17:00.000-04:002009-05-21T12:27:49.903-04:00Judicial ReviewAs Joe and Casey wandered away from camp, Parker decided to invest himself in the conversation at hand.<br /><br />"I wanna tell a scary story."<br /><br />Gordon chided: "Is Jesus the main character?"<br /><br />"No," Parker said earnestly.<br /><br />"Is it another story about you fucking?"<br /><br />Mali's candor caught both Parker and Gordon off guard, but relief settled with a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">minxy</span> smirk from a very coy Thai girl.<br /><br />"No, it's nothing to do with God, it's about what scares me, out here, in the real world."<br /><br />"Alright then Parker the Zealot, take the proverbial speaking ball and go."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You know what I fear? I'm afraid of the legal system. There are killers, born an bred walking the streets. Let out of jail for heinous crimes that are beyond anything incidental, that surpass morality. Ever heard of Karla </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Homolka</span><span style="font-style: italic;">? She let her husband rape others, going as far as to help with the process and capped it off with giving him her sister as a wedding gift. Her sister died and she was arrested, but she only served 12 years and is currently out in the real world. There are a pair of school shooters in our lifetime that are free and walking around. These two kids shot five people including eleven and twelve year </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">olds</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> and there is a possibility we can run into them. The only thing quelling my fear is that I know there judgment will find them eventually, even if it falls to God to make the claim. There's a guy who ate a woman in Japan who now gives speeches and gets paid to talk about eating her. What kind of filth ridden society are we? He has even expressed a desire to do it again. This is why i have faith in God, because man will continually let you down. Man will make mistakes, will embrace what are very obviously horrifying, sinful acts that will bring nothing but more pain. these people continually repeat these offenses, killing and murdering and raping and we let them roam with quiet resignation. at least I know there will be repercussions when they finally do die.</span><br /><br />"I'd agree mate, you are right to a degree, but nothing is ever as simple as your bloody deity lays it out."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">In Europe a few years ago, there was a man named Armin Meiwes who placed an ad looking for a volunteer. The ad was new in the regard that there wasn't to be an exchange of goods necessarily, Armin was looking for someone to offer themselves physically. Armin wasn't looking for something of a sexual nature either, he wanted the body permanently. He wanted to bloody eat them. The crazy part, someone actually answered the ad. He wined and dined the fine gentleman, then proceeded to feast on him, even going as far as to try to feed him his own cooked genitals. Unfortunately the poor gent couldn't partake since the blood loss relieved him of his life. Armin carved the gent right up, eating him for a good while. Poor Armin dug his own grave by filming the ordeal and attempted to place another ad. The second ad was met with sirens and bobbies right up his arse. Quite the predicament, is it not, I mean how much can we really govern ourselves. Are we allowed to let someone kill us, how far does voluntarism reach?</span><br /><br />"Well Gordon, I'd say the man had the devil in him, but I'm sure you're expecting that."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-76821641149505060902009-05-19T19:43:00.001-04:002009-05-19T20:02:20.930-04:00What's On Your MindWith the evening's festivities now simmering with the fading embers of the bonfire, Joe deftly stole Casey's arm and led her away from the campsite and back toward the road. In the shadow of the van, silhouetted in moonlight, they shared a cigarette and debated the oddness of finding themselves in Texas.<br /><br />"I don't think we should stay long," Casey relented.<br /><br />"I agree with you. This place already reminds of me of Utah."<br /><br />"Did you know less than five years ago, it was still legal to arrest homosexuals here?"<br /><br />"Don't worry," Joe said shaking his head. "We're bound to find a blue state sooner or later -- the black man did win the presidency, didn't he?"<br /><br />Casey shrugged. "Well, for better or worse, here we are."<br /><br />"Story time?" Joe offered with a grin, holding up a die between his forefinger and thumb.<br /><br />"I'm tired, Joe--"<br /><br />"Just a rant, then."<br /><br />Casey sighed and relented, her exhaustion evident in her big brown eyes. She leaned against the van, inhaled the last drag from the smoke, then cast it to the dirt.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"I read an article the other day. For the however-many-eth year in a row, public speaking has been rated the number one phobia among Americans between the ages of consent and Social Security. Death - that is, of course, permanent termination of all biological functions - still rates second. The whole thing baffles me, really. And it's because I don't understand how someone could be afraid to stand up and speak in front of others - or that I don't get why people are afraid to die - but these are not the scariest things I can think of, not by a long shot.<br /><br />Have you ever been sitting in your car? Sure you have. Of course you have. You're sitting there -- you could be stuck in traffic and waiting for the light to change, or you're sitting next to the big speakerbox at the drive-thru, or you're just... driving -- and you can hear and and see and maybe in the summer when it's nice and your windows are down you can smell... all of these things going on around you, outside of your car and outside of you.<br /><br />It's panic-inducing, don't you think? Like you're struck with this sensation that you have somewhere to be, or that you're just not supposed to be there, at least. It happens to me a lot when I'm sitting in my car.<br /><br />Not always, though. Sometimes I get like that when I'm trying to fall asleep, or when I'm standing in the shower just spacing out to the drone of water against linoleum, or whatever, really. Sometimes I just feel that... pull, that tug, that's telling me... you know...<br /><br />Get the fuck out. Run. Go.<br /><br />Don't look at me like that.<br /><br /></span></span>Casey paused to give Joe a level-eyed stare. He shifted his weight between his feet and waited for her to continue.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It's not like I feel that way all the time or anything.<br /><br /></span></span></span>Another awkward pause, replete with a score by the local fauna.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span>Forget it, Joe. Just pretend I never said anything.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-26236843947468758672009-05-14T22:35:00.000-04:002009-05-15T17:25:21.242-04:00Hell is other people"You brits and your obsession with tentacles."<br /><br />"I think you mean the japanese."<br /><br />"Could be."<br /><br />"Scary is a subjective term, I mean it's astounding what scares people. Bubbles, cotton, peaches, its bordering on insanity."<br /><br />"You actually know someone who is scared of peaches Mali?"<br /><br />"I have the internet don't I?"<br /><br />"Well with wonderful observation on the state of humankind's fears, why don't you enlighten us as to what scares you?"<br /><br />"Well Mr. Jesus Loves Me, hand me the die and let me have some structure." The die was passed, and a flick of the wrist later found five black dents demanding their attention.<br /><br />"That works. "<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">To be honest, what scares me is something beyond human recognition, something that surpasses the fringes of a person's view. Perspective is entirely perceptual, but there are some things that are so consuming, so engrossing that it is difficult to truly grasp what it means. I mean you can rationalize all you want, dumb it down, break it down, but in its pure form, it is much more profound. Ambrose Bierce once wrote of the Damned Thing, and that is what scares me. Have you ever been confronted with a situation out of your control, where you can't do a damn thing to change it? Well what if you not only couldn't change it, but what if you didn't know what how big the situation was? Large doesn't begin to describe what it is, that incomprehensibly deep abyss. Much like the universe, if given the right relativity, you can feel like a trifling after thought in a scheme far grander than any engineer could provide. I like knowing my limits; what I'm capable of, even if that means anything. It's much more acceptable than being aware of that which is out of my grasp, matters that control my actions that i cannot change. There is fear in puppetry, in leading a life guided by others. More often than not, those people break, relinquishing the reins on their existence to far less able hands. Some call it Stockholm syndrome, I call it resignation. As long as I live, I plan to exploit every avenue life allows so the fear doesn't get me. So I don't resign myself to mere existence. So I don't give into the fear.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZ121obtRG3I4pQ_Rs3B-RLkEqOKDgEZshEfbCKZtlu6k-2q5K16Zf-bkQP2S55AeOcrkYSNpcMX0woNNc9UJOl-Y2wG1FV33scwxDGiwUB1ghAQQp2bgWWQqU9h85vNDX9_8r_pr0vc/s1600-h/hole2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 166px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZ121obtRG3I4pQ_Rs3B-RLkEqOKDgEZshEfbCKZtlu6k-2q5K16Zf-bkQP2S55AeOcrkYSNpcMX0woNNc9UJOl-Y2wG1FV33scwxDGiwUB1ghAQQp2bgWWQqU9h85vNDX9_8r_pr0vc/s320/hole2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336164478985056034" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFZawN0FplRsjSe6zbpx7ddvktc7m6vezK3UA0NEX_sS5SIcDg4LIBrgzHfBSUZMyyy-53gTl8zLczrXjqDCYPB6pE8haQ6JlLrQmBMcdDA597jL1hddl3JSLI_9Vs5gaRAALP-CoAkx0/s1600-h/hole1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 287px; height: 215px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFZawN0FplRsjSe6zbpx7ddvktc7m6vezK3UA0NEX_sS5SIcDg4LIBrgzHfBSUZMyyy-53gTl8zLczrXjqDCYPB6pE8haQ6JlLrQmBMcdDA597jL1hddl3JSLI_9Vs5gaRAALP-CoAkx0/s320/hole1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336164771147198338" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-29186797958279260672009-05-09T03:30:00.000-04:002009-05-09T04:31:02.169-04:00Cthulica"Was that supposed to be scary?" Gordon asked and Casey shrugged.<div><br /></div><div>"Not necessarily," she said.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Because it was rubbish at that, love," </div><div><br /></div><div>"It was just a story with the lyrics like the dice say, I wasn't trying to make it scary,"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well enough at that. You might have knackered a few OAP's with the mention of rock and roll but other than that it was a little mental,"</div><div><br /></div><div>Casey glared at him and folded her arms across her chest.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Suppose they tell some real bombs in London, Gordon?" Joe added and Gordon shrugged.</div><div><br /></div><div>"How the fuck should I know? There were stories, sure enough, but nothing that would really raise hackles and all that,"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well go on then," Casey demanded, "I'd love to hear what you're sitting on,"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Besides another man's lap?" Parker said and Gordon picked up a clod of dirt, hurling it at him.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Shut your rot you cow," </div><div><br /></div><div>Casey offered him the die but he waved it off. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm choosing a one just like you got otherwise we're just comparing apples and ampersands,"</div><div><br /></div><div>"What?" Casey said and Joe laughed</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm just surprised he knew ampersand,"</div><div><br /></div><div>Shut it you lot, I'm starting. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; ">Once there was an old ocean, where anyone who saw it grew old with the sea. So we were terrified of water, and of all the sons and daughters no one dared to see. </span><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">It was said that the man who discovered this stretch of beach was a sailor left to die by a mutinous crew of pirates. In those days, the Royal Navy was brutally hunting pirates operating in the seas that touched her empire, and many captains found themselves hanging from wharves and slowly rotting in the salty Dungenes breeze. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The sailor was a young captain, easily duped by his crew into giving up the coordinates of an enormous stockpile that the captain had acquired since beginning his career as a cabin boy. They bound him to the mast and spat on him, laughing with rum soaked tongues as they left the open water and threw him into the shallows just off the southern coast of England. It had been a moment of opportunity for the crew as an island they could not find on their maps had come out of the fog and rolling seas to grace them with a place to leave the poor captain. They waved their asses at him as the ship disappeared on the horizon, leaving the captain with only a two-day ration of bread and no water. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The captain became furious, for you see, he was building his wealth in order to pay for a wedding with his young love back on the main island and to think that men he once trusted were blindly spending it on drink and women made him sick with anger. What was worse, when the fog lifted he could clearly see that he was no more than a few hundred yards from the home shores of England, but the seas were too rough for a raft to survive on. Many times he attempted to swim off of the island but the current and the waves drug him back to that horrible shore.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">As thirst and weariness took hold of his sanity, the young captain forsook God and pledged his soul to the Devil in exchange for revenge against the men who stole his life. A terrible howl erupted from the sea and a squid-like monstrosity burst from the waves, its great eyes staring down at the emaciated captain and its tentacles scarring the clouds in the sky. It opened its massive beak and roared.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">"WHAT DOST THOU ASK OF CTHULU?" it demanded, the voice tearing cloth and flesh from the captain as its waves grazed him.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">"That my former crewmates be brutally punished for what they've done to me and that this island be a prison for their souls," the captain said, mustering what little strength he had left. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The beast returned to the sea and moments later returned clutching the captain's boat in it's massive spongy arms. With frighteningly deft movements it ripped the men from the boat, one by one, and mutilated them before the captain. When it was over, the shore was littered with the bloody mess that was formerly a crew and the captain was bathed in their frothing juices.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">But the captain, in his haste for revenger, had forgotten his pledge. Cthulu had not. With a swipe of his tentacle the captain's legs were broken at the knees and he fell into the bloody sand, yelping in agony.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">"If this is a prison for these damned souls, you shall be their jailer," roared the beast and it tore the flesh from his bones, scattering it amongst the vegetation a hundred yards from where he had stood. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">It is said that the captain's soul forced the crew he'd punished to build themselves an impenetrable fortress of pain and misery. That anyone alive who visits the shore will age in seconds until they die upon the beach and are collected by the unholy jailer. Many sailors have come to port with shocks of white hair, speaking of sand made from bones and trees caked in blood. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">"The end," </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">"Was that supposed to be scary?" said Casey and Joe laughed.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(101, 101, 101); font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">"Fuck you both, that scared the Jesus into me when I was a kid," </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-51649491977791847532009-05-07T19:48:00.000-04:002009-05-07T21:11:34.125-04:00Junkyard Dogs"What is it that is the correlation between campfires and scary stories?"<br /><br />"Not sure Gordon, I suppose camping isn't a common activity across the pond is it?"<br /><br />"Fuck if I know, the most I can tell you chaps about ole Blighty is that she gives a wicked blowjay. Doesn't mean I call er' in the mornin."<br /><br />Before Mali inquired further on the meaning of Gordon's statement, Casey put her hand on Mali's shoulder and shook her head.<br /><br />"....anywho, I rolled a 1 and I'm feeling randy so I'm going if you kids want to gather around."<br /><br />"Only if you explain to me who randy is and why you are feeling him. I mean I knew Gordon was gay but you?"<br /><br />"You cheeky cunt."<br /><br />"You get one Gordon and you just used it."<br /><br />"What did I say?"<br /><br />"Yeah, I'm gonna go ahead and go."<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">There once was a man named Leroy Brown</span></span><br /><br />"The baddest man in the whole damn town?"<br /><br />"The very same Casey."<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Leroy had quite the reputation among those that traveled his circles. He never left the house without his razor or his 32, a fact young Charles was not aware of. Leroy was a towering man at 6'4, accented by his gaudy jewelry, three rings on each hand that spelled "Bad Man" in diamonds. Charles didn't care for that either. He was a simple man who recently married a wonderful girl by the name of Doris. Leroy was often referred to as the treetop lover, a phrase that stroked his ego even more than references to him having the capability of taking on King Kong himself, were he not fictional. Leroy attempted to make advances toward Doris, a move that was swiftly denied. Leroy's egotism would not allow for such a rebuke and he pursued further. After all</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">that was his town, his Eldorado outside, his custom Continental waiting at his lavish house to be filled with women. It had been awhile since his dogs had been fed. Some said that Leroy's glare could petrify even the most savage of mutts. Charles paid those whispers no mind and continued sipping his drink, that was until Leroy had pushed it a little too far. Leroy's advancements on Doris escalated to the point where his hand was on her shoulder. With that Charles had had enough. No one speaks of what happened that night aloud, but in the comfort of their homes, the people whispered. Their murmurs and insinuations rang of a very interesting tune. That Leroy found himself at the end of Charley's bottle. That the baddest man left the bar leaving some of himself behind, unintentionally. But those are but the tales of wives who would dare not speak in Leroy's presence. </span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-29520003457780957462009-04-23T23:10:00.000-04:002009-04-27T15:52:59.533-04:00Haunting"Why are we camping again?"<br /><br />Casey wanted to say it was to alleviate the situation of being entirely too lost, convinced the only people who ever wanted to be in Texas were Texans, but instead she opted for a much kinder approach.<br /><br />"I'm sick of going through the same old habits. We go to a town, eat at will inevitably be shitty diner food and stay at a motel or sleep in the car. The weather's nice, there's a starry sky, and it looks like Gordon has given us a bonfire."<br /><br />Mali and Joe turned to see Gordon emptying a bottle of whiskey into the pit, creating a glorious blaze that lit the night sky.<br /><br />"........Yeah, I was totally starting a bonfire for us....roast something....that's it...."<br /><br />"Maybe we should tell scary stories, I mean this is the right setting."<br /><br />"Not a bad idea Joe, let's do it around the bonfire like back at Jesus Camp."<br /><br />"And I'm officially not surprised."<br /><br />"Of what Mali?"<br /><br />"....nothing. Anyway, after my episode, I think I'd rather wait a bit before I go."<br /><br />"Yeah, who the fuck is afraid of spiders? Why not be afraid of something like Jason?"<br /><br />"Seriously, Joe, if you're going to invoke a horror icon, you can do better."<br /><br />"What like Freddy?"<br /><br />"Yeah Freddy, he's definitely scarier than Jason, or at least he could be. Dreams are far more frightening than real life because they're malleable. They can bend and mold without you having any real say in the matter and that sense of powerlessness really brings the fear. Jason just chases you and as long as you pay attention where you're running, there's a chance of escape."<br /><br />"But that's what I like Casey, a false sense of hope, because when he does catch you, and he always does, your mind is crushed right before your skull is."<br /><br />"Yeah, okay Joe, or maybe their last thought was maybe I shouldn't have had sex. Jason had weird rapist tendencies and really was pretty boring. I think creativity is a part of fear. I mean what's scarier, a guy who stabs people or a guy who dismembers them and eats their eyes?"<br /><br />"Well that depends, are the stabbings random? I think people feel better knowing they don't fit the modus operandi and if there is no m.o. it is much more frightening."<br /><br />"Silly Joe, people will generally fear the more sensational, even if the likelihood is small. Look at shark attacks, more people are killed by coconuts per year than sharks."<br /><br />"Both o' you blokes are wrong."<br /><br />"Welcome to the fold Gordon. If you are such a scholar on the subject matter, do share."<br /><br />"Honestly, the dice speaks louder than I do, all six lil eyes o' hers. The truth is, reality is far more frightening than fiction. You'd be amazed what absurdities people have reached carrying the banners of the soft science and such in hand."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">He was a physician, one of the best in all of Europe and Asia, documented for his roll in developing the first heart and lung machine, a scientific breakthrough that allowed the sustenance of life through artificial means. Reaching that point was laborious and required years of experimentation.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Here's the new batch you ordered Dr. Bryukhonenko, ready to be processed."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Alright, pick one and prep it for test #574A."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">He wasn't the first dog to be captured by the Soviets, far from it in fact. Bruno was the 574th in a series of experiments propagated on his species for the advancement of the Soviet cause. He was unaware of the fate that awaited him, of the infamy he gain.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The nurse sedated the canine and placed him on the moving tray to be wheeled to the doctor. But first a stop had to be mad at station 2. Station 2 was situated in the back of the facility and had the appearance of a meat locker, complete with center drain. The nurse then passed the tray off to a large bald gentleman of 40. Silently the man picked up the bonesaw, the glean of the metal casted dancing lights on Bruno's soft white fur. The saw came down around Bruno's neck and with several motions, Bruno became matted with sanguine fluid. Sparks of plasma decorated the nameless man's apron as he applied a lumberman's task to the tragic canine's collar until his job was done and Bruno had big good morrow to his body. The nameless man then quickly wheeled the cart over to Dr. Bryukhonenko and the physician quickly hooked up the autojektor to the lifeless head. Within minutes the head awakened. It responded to stimulus and even made attempts at eating, though the treats lief was short lived as it dropped from the back of his throat. The experiment was considered a rousing success, but many more were to follow. bruno's had was cast aside, his life removed with the pull of a switch, treated like so many appliances that would succeed him. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-28092984322222905212009-04-21T16:10:00.000-04:002009-04-22T19:26:37.645-04:00The Old SwitcherooBy the time anyone could sensibly respond to her piercing cries of unutterable horror, Mali had practically climbed into the driver's seat. <div><br /></div><div>The van swerved to and fro across the double yellow line, threatening to pitch them all over the precipice of a gaping slope to their left. Joe wrestled her from the floorboards betwixt the front seats as she kicked and howled and Casey reared her right arm for a firm, well-deserved hand across Mali's cheek.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Spider!" she insisted, as though they were the crazy ones to not be screaming their heads off as well, indicating with two accusatory forefingers the seat she had been seated in a moment before.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gordon leaned forward from the rear of the van and inspected the seat cushion. His nose scrunched up and he nodded with grim disappointment, "Yeah. Spider."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, kill it!" Mali pressed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gordon shrugged and collected the shoe from his left foot in hand before steadying it high above the fearsome intruder, poised for the kill. </div><div><br /></div><div>One swat, splat.</div><div><br /></div><div>Parker expressed his disgust with a drawn-out <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">ewww! </span>while Joe searched the glove compartment for a tissue to clean up the remains of the tiny conquistador.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Now where am I supposed to sit?" Mali groaned.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Squeeze in with Gordon and Parker in back, I guess." Joe shrugged and turned to face the window, his interest now dissipated in Mali's troubles.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mali worked her way down the narrow aisle of the van, careful to avoid the goo left by the spider. The boys parted, but it was asses to ankles for all intents and purposes, and Mali was left no choice but to slide onto Parker's lap. They exchanged an awkward smile before both stiffly fixed their eyes on opposite things.<br /><br />"Are we <span style="font-style: italic;">still </span>lost?"<br /><br />"We've been lost for almost a day. I have no fucking idea where we are," Casey snipped, tired of driving and being accused of getting them all lost, but no one offering to replace her spot most of all.<br /><br />"Well, we missed Rifle, clearly. Maybe Denver--"<br /><br />"At this rate, it could be 'maybe Guadalajara'."<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Story time?" Gordon suggested, weary of the bickering.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Joe pulled the die from his pocket and gave it a toss down the aisle without a look.<br /><br />"That'd be two," Parker affirmed knowingly.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Carl Marx was more than a man with a coincidental name; he was a hero - or to such esteem he held himself, at least.<br /><br />The idea for his greatest feat came to him one notably average Tuesday morning, a moment of eureka that struck him the instant he lifted the carafe to fill his empty mug for the third time. The shock and awe of the scheme overtaking him was enough to spill the carafe across the table and onto the floor, rivulets of the steaming brew spreading over the kitchen like the tide. He knew he'd struck genius.<br /><br />Marx shared more than a name with the deceased German philosopher; the two, should they ever had met somewhere in space and time, could have slapped one another on the back to commend their agreement in their perspectives on religion. 21st-Century-Marx, however, insisted on taking the analysis two steps forward, and every evening after work he would perch at his computer and ponder a way to serve all the religious of the world even just a teaspoon of their own bullshit. And finally, on a very average Tuesday morning, he at last had a plan.<br /><br />As head of his graduating class from the most prestigious computer science academy on the western seaboard, Marx had been treated to the inside information of network diagnostics and security innovations in the computer realm since he was a teenager, and as such was one of the most gifted ---"<br /><br /></span>Gordon stopped in the middle of his story, his jaw left hung agape.<br /><br />"Aw, fuck." Joe spoke for all of them.<br /><br />Passing the right side of their van was a green highway sign, adorned with an enormous cowboy hat, reading in brilliant red, "Welcome To Texas, Partners!"<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-87945992125727171162009-04-16T20:41:00.000-04:002009-04-17T15:41:55.057-04:00The Law<span style="font-style: italic;">.........That's the problem with the law, it only goes so far. Did you know in New York a subway worker was acquitted after witnessing a rape and the only effort he put forth was notifying the proper authorities. The entire time the woman was being raped, from the point of her being pulled down the stairs to the actual act, they just sat and watched. The judge ruled that they had acted "within proper parameters," can you believe that shit? Don't let Seinfeld lie to you, there isn't any good Samaritan law. As long as you do the absolute minimal, you can safely fucking sleep at night. Look at Kitty <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Genovese</span>. I'd like to believe that if I get stabbed, a stranger is going to fucking do something about it, not suffer from "Diffusion of Responsibility." No offense guys, but that's why I hate large groups of people because when I'm around them, I always think; these fuckers won't do shit. If something happens, I gotta take the fight in my own hands, I have to take care of myself and those around me because if I don't, who the fuck will? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It is a scary place we find ourselves. Where the majority always equals might and seem to rely on that at the cost of right. I always loved that scene in To Kill a Mockingbird where Scout approaches the mob and soon after they disperse. Powerful shit you know, the idea that a small child could impact a group intent on murder, its kind of scary. To me murder shouldn't come that easy, it shouldn't be a simple matter of size, that if you collect the right classroom of people, the result would be the end of someone. It sounds silly, but how often does it happen? It's insane how cheap life is and sometimes it feels like the law isn't doing us any favors</span>.<br /><br />"Yeah, I get you Casey, but I think sometimes the law is meant to be abstract, not a moral compass and maybe that's the distinction. You can't make someone be good."<br /><br />Trying to keep her voice down so she wouldn't wake up Mali, Casey bit her lip a second to focus herself.<br /><br />"I'm not saying you make someone be good, but by the same token, we can't encourage apathy on the part of our fellow man. Yeah, I get good is subjective, but there are some principles that are timeless if you want to have a structured society. Yeah, at one time murder was commonplace, but the mitigating factor was who was being murdered, not the act itself and the same goes for rape. All I'd like to know is that if I'm getting raped in front of a group of strangers, and all they do is call the cops and continue to watch, I'm going to do everything in my power to see that they are held accountable and I'd like to believe the law has my back."<br /><br />Casey and Joe continued their heated discussion, that was until Mali interrupted with a startling howl.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-70472267724415365462009-04-14T17:34:00.000-04:002009-04-14T23:05:58.046-04:00Lurid DocumentWith Casey subdued by the road before them and the cullings of Tori Amos reverberating through the badly-misused speakers, the rest of the troops had fallen into a malaise of fatigue, each thrown against their respective seats and windowpanes, their eyes pulled to the occasional distances between trees and hillsides. It felt like they had been driving along this merciless road for weeks.<br /><br />Twice through the night, Parker convinced Casey to pull over and ask for directions, but twice now they had fallen short at the ghastly sight of the lost souls willing and able to work third shift at desolated gas stations in the middle of the Great American Nowhere. The torn, crinkled map passed through everyone's hands at least once before being discarded to the littered floor, deemed useless and deliberately obtuse.<br /><br />Gordon yawned and draped his arm around Parker's shoulder, inciting an immediate twitch of panic from his poor seatmate. Parker wrestled him away and scooted himself to the far end of the minivan's bench seat, glaring down Gordon with a hatred insulated in a long, sleepless night on the road. Gordon chuckled and blew him a kiss, amused at Parker's demeanor.<br /><br />"I'm bored," he lamented.<br /><br />"I can tell. Stop touching me," Parker demanded.<br /><br />The puddle of sweatshirt ahead of them, which contained somewhere within the tiny body of Mali, groaned disapproval at the commotion before settling back in to a quiet snore.<br /><br />"I'm bored and I think we're lost," Gordon whispered.<br /><br />"We're not lost," Casey muttered from the driver's seat.<br /><br />"Can you tell me, then, how thirty miles spans six hours? The last time we saw a sign for Rifle was at eight-fifteen - I know because I saw Parker take his stupid pills, which he takes every bleeding night at eight-fifteen - and that was clear over six hours ago. How fast are you going, Casey?"<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span>"The speed limit, Gordon," Casey replied.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span>"There's no way. We must have whiffed it altogether."<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span>"Well, Gordon, next time we stop at a gas station - which won't be long, we're almost on E again - you can cosy up to the guy behind the counter and ask for directions."<br /><br />Parker, ever vigilant in keeping the peace (since that very morning when he decided to suit the role of mediator, at least), interrupted by waving his hands in the empty air between them. "Calm down!"<br /><br />Gordon pushed him aside.<br /><br />"Really, though - do you know where you're going?"<br /><br />The puddle of sweatshirt groaned again.<br /><br />Mali was dreaming.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yellow clouds drifted overhead, rivulets of honey trickling from their soft, doughy bellies to the bed of mints below. Overwhelmed with sensation, the princess sprinted across the deceptively large face of the flower petal, eager to peer beyond its edge. Underneath, all the world bloomed with tongues outstretched for a taste of the sky. Leaning over the edge, the princess gripped the edge of the petal with excitement, too late discovering the heft of the flower could not support her as she tumbled into thin air. Like a leaf in autumn, she drifted end over end toward the earth below, but why so slowly?<br /><br />Nearer and nearer the earth crept. Ever slower and slower, she fell. Vexed and perplexed at the odd nature of her freefall, the princess folded her arms and scrunched up her nose. Even the birds turned their heads to stare as the princess fell at slower and slower speeds, to which they asked one another why? Revealing no answers, to themselves or otherwise, the birds flew on, quarreling back and forth.<br /><br />God's work? Unlikely. Eventually, the ground ceased its approach and the princess discovered she was, in fact, stuck just ten feet from the ground. Suspended in the air with no way to free herself, the princess huffed and wondered what to do. She considered all possibilities, but soon relented, unable to come up with any good ideas.<br /><br />With no recompense in mind and no one around to help her, the princess lamented before she relented and drew her finger across the face of a honey rivulet nearby, suckling at her forefinger while wondering what had happened. Honey? Ah! That's it!<br /><br />Honey is a sticky mess. All it takes to gunk up the sky is a few light showers of honey! Pressed to get herself down from a mere few stone from the ground, the princess pondered what could be done in her predicament. Perhaps she could eat her way out? Even with an appetite for honey such as hers, eating a whole sky full of honey was a dautning task. Nevertheless, it was the only good idea she could think of. So she did.<br /><br />No one can say if she ever got down.<br /><br />Even me.<br /><br />eXcitement is best left to the<br /><br />Travellers<br /><br /></span>Mali awoke with a start, certain something was amiss.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-79022141073822731662009-04-14T00:13:00.000-04:002009-04-14T01:21:48.125-04:00I Can't See New YorkCasey was driving (a few objections were later tossed aside when their eyes became drowsy) and it was raining. A hot mist was rising from the black top street road, causing an eerily<br />veil over the world outside. Joe was awake, for some odd reason. Casey half-heartedly felt he was only awake because she was.<br /><br />"You excited for the new dice rules? They should stir up some creative juices in our heads," Joe replied, dragging his words together a little.<br /><br />"Joe, how many pain pills did you take?" she asked.<br /><br />"Enough," he answered.<br /><br />"Thank Christ, I brought my cds," she said, thumbing through her cd catalog in her lap while steering with her knees.<br /><br />"That looks safe," Joe replied.<br /><br />"Ah! Tori Amos, just what I need," Casey said triumphantly, pulling out her edition of <em>Scarlet's Walk</em>. "This album is written from the point of view of a mysterious traveler named Scarlet and her experiences in America. One of my favorites."<br /><br />She plucked the cd into the stereo and skipped to track 12. "This song is beautiful," she muttered to no one in particular before settling into her focused driving once again.<br /><br />The song began, a soft piano melody with the occasional light guitar and percussion. Tori's voice was haunting and passionate.<br /><br />"We should try out the new rule for 1. Why don't you tell me a story using this song?" he asked, hiding his clouded eyes from her direct view. He tried his best to enunciate, but wondered if was effective.<br /><br />"Ok, I'll give it a shot. This song does lend itself to storytelling. I guess this is my interpretation because I'm not exactly sure what this song is about," and with that, Casey began.<br /><br /><strong><em>From here, no lines are drawn<br /></em></strong><br /><em>Scarlet had begged him not to go. Everything felt wrong about that rally. It was a miracle in itself she had gotten him to stay at their tiny, expensive apartment for so long after the rally had began. But then the local news had started reporting the protest building up into a full-blown riot. The riot police had began throwing tear gas and shooting rubber bullets in the air. They would grab and arrest anyone involved through the confusion and shouting.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>"I just have to go see what they plan on doing about this," he told her. This is my movement! I take off one rally to make you happy, and the movement is about to be crucified out there! I have to go."</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>He turned and faced her then. His eyes were alive and ready. She had seen the look before, but never so intense. "I love you," he said, caressing her cheek.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>But he left then, and she knew he wasn't going to come back.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>She tried to sit and wait for him. It didn't last long. She had to find him.</em><br /><em></em><br /><strong><em>On the other side</em></strong><br /><em></em><br /><em>The streets were in chaos. Smoke and gas clung to the streets like a garden of bitter mist. Her eyes stung and welled with tears. Her lungs choked. In a moment of desperation, she threw her fiery red hair over her eyes and attempted to peek through the slivers of her hair strands. It helped, but her vision was still limited.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>"Welcome to the other side! This is where the only rule is disorder and the only thing to do is lose all sanity!" shouted an unfamiliar male voice coming up from behind her. She could barely make out a figure running past her in the haze. "This is now a hunting ground!" the voice shouted again. Then Scarlet was too far away from the figure to hear what he continued to shout.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Dread filled her. Where is everyone? Where are all the cars? Where the life that used to thrive on these streets and avenues? Where was New York City? And where was he?</em><br /><em></em><br /><em><strong>Did we get lost in it?</strong></em><br /><em></em><br /><em>A bullhorn was audible ahead, although Scarlet had no idea of the location. She followed it blindly, still peering through her red hair without much avail of protection.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>It was him speaking to everyone, preaching the movement and its glories. The words were met with praise from the listeners, a few hundred or so, but chaos still existed around them. A police car burned, creating a thick layer of heat over the crowd beside it.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Scarlet just wanted him to hold her and tell her it was alright. She cared not for the movement any long, just him.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The crowd began grow more violent, kicking over street lamps and various greenery. The smoke seemed to grow thicker.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>She ran to him then, clutching his waist. "Scarlet! You must go home! This riot..." he began.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>"Don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me, not right now, don't leave me...." she chanted in a low tone until he noticed.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>He grabbed her shoulders and looked at her through her makeshift hair mask. "I will find you. Even in death, I will find," he told her.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>She seemed oddly comforted by his words. Her hands fell limp at her sides and wiped the tears from her eyes. "It's like a hunting ground here. And you're leading it. And I can't find my way out." When she looked up for his reaction, he was gone.</em><br /><br /><strong><em>I know your lips are warm</em></strong><br /><strong><em>But I can't seem to find my out</em></strong><br /><em></em><br /><em>It was no longer worth it, their love, and Scarlet had realized that stumbling and coughing her way threw crowds of violent protesters fighting authorities while children cried and fires burned. She turned around for a moment, looking at the city through her hair. The idea struck her then. The Empire State Building was the closest building, which suited her perfectly.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>As she entered the front entrance, a maniacal-looking meth addict rushed down the stairs and yelled, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here!" before whizzing past Scarlet into the streets. This time, she recognized his voice as the one who shouted at her earlier. "It's you again..." she whispered.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The building had been, for the most part, abandoned. A few stragglers, hiding in bathrooms and crying to themselves, were heard as Scarlet walked through the halls to the elevator. Pushing the button for the roof, she felt that he would find her here and think it was all an accident. He would never know just how badly she wanted to just love him and not be around the madness. He would never know the pain she felt when she realized it would never happen.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The roof was breezy, but clear of the smoke and gas being so far up. A meth addict had ripped a hole through the protective fence surrounding the ledge to see if he could fly. Scarlet had seen a live report on the local news about four hours ago, before the riot. The hole was still there. Maybe she would fly...</em><br /><em></em><br /><em><strong>And I can't see New York</strong></em><br /><strong><em>As I'm circling down through white clouds</em></strong><br /><strong><em>Falling out and I know his lips are warm</em></strong><br /><strong><em>But I can't seem to find my way out, my way out</em></strong><br /><strong><em>Of this hunting ground</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>I can't see New York</em></strong><br /><strong><em>From the other side</em></strong><br /><br />Casey looked over and admired Joe sleeping against the window. Her stomach twinged when she realized she would never stop admiring him, no matter what he did.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hereinmyhead.com/collect/walk/walk12.html">http://www.hereinmyhead.com/collect/walk/walk12.html</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-9828992421548872392009-04-09T21:33:00.000-04:002009-04-10T00:03:31.790-04:00Daunting"Have you ever seen something so daunting it has to be fake, like there's no way it could be real, but is?"<br /><br />"What like photoshop Mali?"<br /><br />"Sure, if you want, but that's in rather simple terms and I'd like to think of it much more intensely than that. Something that you'd never think to exist, but mankind somehow brought it to be."<br /><br />"Does this have a point love?"<br /><br />"Well Gordon, I have story."<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />They were but players, in a book, a novel who's writer refrained from recognition but who's reader was visible if only one were to look hard enough. the tome they danced was of a journey, no, </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >the</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> journey that takes a lifetime to complete and Peter was aware of this, so much so the knowledge sometimes causes nausea.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It was different for others, they would simply waltz and tango as if they had no form, uninhibited by the relentless passing of second, their constant visitor never receiving a passing glance.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">He wanted to educate them, to inform them of their fate, but what good would that do? Futility set in and Peter bowed to his audience, a body that gazed at him with scrutiny, a sea of eyes discerning his every move and gesture as if he were the overseer, the reader of the novel.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">At that moment a woman disappeared, as if her lot were drawn. The figures bowed and transitioned to the next partner and deftly moved, unaware of their own boundaries. Some audience members left, but still they went on until there was not an eye upon them. Only then could they rest and die.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Wait.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It's not that they couldn't, but that they wouldn't. It was intrinsic to dance, no different than breathing. It was a window and they were the view, yet only Peter recognized the figure before them. That is what it meant to be a source of eternal entertainment, that is what it meant to be the dance macabre.<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIoB1zBb7B15cu7Vi9_PVcBz1z6eweNk4OyxbgYNPQD5yVUWJAW8DEmLvrgdGzEZz5-dKO83ghEQdP1iWpWYwMnq3Em62RxxeoQXI_bwyUYKVAhLiJ3ZjkG2-QQawTC6fJQNngJktrRWo/s1600-h/geschichte03_08.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 319px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIoB1zBb7B15cu7Vi9_PVcBz1z6eweNk4OyxbgYNPQD5yVUWJAW8DEmLvrgdGzEZz5-dKO83ghEQdP1iWpWYwMnq3Em62RxxeoQXI_bwyUYKVAhLiJ3ZjkG2-QQawTC6fJQNngJktrRWo/s320/geschichte03_08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322907935069632994" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-62143803531784599492009-04-07T18:06:00.000-04:002009-04-07T18:42:14.666-04:00I Love Penny (Part Two of Two)."Good Humor Man, I'm certain that I'm just telling you what you already know," Penny began, her scattered voice whispering between heavy pants for breath. "But you are the finest miner ever to excavate my deepests. You even saved the canary - that was so thoughtful of you, though between you and me, I think he talks too damn much."<br /><br />She chortled for a moment before burying her face in the stained, damp pillows. She breathed in the cold musk of a hundred years without detergent and let the sweet, sticky scent recharge the blood in her veins. A shiver of electricity tickled her nerves and she wondered if this was how she felt all those decades ago, a bright-eyed and wide-legged schoolgirl with dreams of babies and bar fights drifting through her adolescent mind, until she realized she was absently fingering a light socket near the headboard. She didn't seem to mind, and continued to flick as her thoughts began to drift.<br /><br />A tumult of phantasms waxed and waned in her mind's eye until she finally settled on the faces of all the husbands she could remember, most a slight variation or simple tweak on Paul Harvey's visage. A pang of guilt struck her heart and she began to chew at the cuticles of her left hand, studying the ceiling and trying to force the demons from her head. Their condemning eyes traced up and down her billowy, rumpling body, sizing up her sex while simultaneously accusing her of all the nastiness in the world.<br /><br />She felt a whore. She also felt an astronaut once, at space camp, but no fond memory could substitute the guilt.<br /><br />"Mr. Good Humor Man!" she exclaimed, sitting upright in bed with a snap. "I've made a terrible mistake."<br /><br />Crem's muddy eyes stared back at her from the safety of the rocking chair at the foot of the bed, motionless and lifeless.<br /><br />"Don't give me that look! You knew what this was from the start: a rumpfuck in the rough, a humorless hump, don't you see? My heart belongs to Chauncey." She nodded fervently, then paused. "Or was it Clancey?" Her head felt muddy. She clawed at the memories but they wouldn't stay, leaving her confused and nude in a strange hillbilly's bed.<br /><br />Crem offered no reply.<br /><br />"Damnation! All this time spent in the sulfurous sin of your sex has robbed me of my memory!" Penny clapsed the bedsheets and pulled them up to her chin, conceiling her naked form from Crem's stare. "Haven you a potion? An antidote? A serum? Mr. Good Humor Man, your ice cream treats cannot restore what you have robbed from me." She was shrieking now, hissing and spitting like a feral cat, the knots in her hair bouncing left and right as she sharply shook her head in furor.<br /><br />When no apology came, or any words at all, Penny kicked Crem square in the chest, sending he and the rocking hair sprawling to the floor. His limp, lifeless body drapped across the upturned chair, his legs sticking nearly straight into the air, his eyes turned toward the front door, though they saw nothing anymore. Penny leapt from the bed like a spider and landed on top of him - the old bat was agile for her age, there was no denying this - and clasped the sides of his head, pulling his face toward hers. His tongue rolled lazily from his bloated blue lips.<br /><br />"Our affair ends here, Mr. Good Humor Man. And if you ever tell anyone, I'll kill you!" she screamed, thick yellow spit gathering in pools at the corners of her lips. He said nothing, and Penny, satisfied, pulled the carving knife free from his sternum and laid it on the bedsheets.<br /><br />She climbed to her feet and stepped carefully over the badly-mutilated corpse of Crem, the low-down trash who had the surprise of his life twice in one evening; once upon discovering a batshit old bag hiding under a crate of oranges and twice upon realizing the role of cat and mouse was never his choice to begin with.<br /><br />Penny half-padded, half-waltzed her way toward the front door, not bothering to dress herself again. She hummed softly to herself an unrecognizable tune as she gazed upon the fresh morning dawning from the east outside. A fine day, she thought to herself.<br /><br />An envelope taped to the screen door caught her attention and she approached cautiously, watching the curiosity like a wolf would sneer upon its prey. She snatched it from its place and tore the envelope open, wondering to herself if it could be pull of candy, or possibly the antidote for her memory loss.<br /><br />Instead, she discovered a note within. She walked briskly toward Crem's workbench and collected a yellowing pair of goggles from around the neck of a jigsaw and held them over her eyes like reading glasses.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Dearest Penny,<br /><br />Your talents are required.<br /><br />Relocate yourself to Chicago by the first of June and await further instructions.<br /><br />There you will find Misses Buttersocks and the remedy to your memory loss.<br /><br />And for Christ's sake, put some clothes on.<br /><br />Yours,<br />He Who Watches<br /><br /></span>Penny gummed her bottom lip and studied the note over once more before crumpling it up and tossing it over her shoulder. "Damn thing's in French, Crem, I can't understand a word of it," she muttered.<br /><br />Without a glance back, she exited through the screen door and approached Crem's battered pick up left sitting in the gravel drive. Upon discovering the keys tucked snuggly into the overhead visor, Penny turned the ignition and stole away down the road, still as naked as the day she was born - however long ago that may have been.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-74515229235514108012009-04-06T12:07:00.001-04:002009-04-06T12:31:22.638-04:00Rest Stop PaintingsThey pulled into a rest stop and got out to stretch their legs. They followed Joe inside to a little diner where men were talking in growling voices over coffee and half smoked cigarettes. They took seats next to a couple who were arguing over money and settled into a couple of menus.<div><br /></div><div>"Did you guys ever see the Guernica?" Parker asked through the laminated paper of his menu, "I would guess not," he continued not waiting. "The Guernica is a painting that sort of symbolizes all of Colorado,"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Symbolizes?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"It's a word," Parker said putting his menu down. Joe was laughing at him.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm sure,"</div><div><br /></div><div>"I've heard of the Guernica but I've never seen it," Mali added.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Its this painting by Picasso that really only makes it in Europe. Its supposed to be about violent tragedy. That is Colorado,"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Colorado is beautiful," Said Gordon and Parker nodded.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah but beautiful is a lot of things, you know?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ah fuck, are you being born again on our table because I don't think they've got enough napkins for your cesarean," Gordon said.</div><div><br /></div><div>No, but I'm trying to tell you that what Picasso was showing with his painting is exactly what we have here. colorado is a mixture of too many things. There is so much going on at one time you wonder how anything can be going on at all. Look at the mountains. They are covered in snow and cold and beauty. But if you stood on that mountain and looked down you'd see the valley below, warm, snowless, green and equally wonderful. Its a nightmare of beauty, so to speak. Everything that exists here shouldn't exist. You can ski and swim in the same day. You can ride a horse the same day you sit in a kayak. Its senseless place where anything can be the same thing. Violence can be peace, love can be hatred and all of it in the same moment. The Colorado you wake up to one morning could be the paradise you learn to hate the next. Its an embodiment of what struggles God and the Devil must go through every moment of the day. You can get anything you want here. Take Boulder for instance. Where else can you get prostitutes and preachers together in such close quarters?</div><div><br /></div><div>"Vegas?" Mali interjected and Parker sighed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah but doesn't that just add to this? Colorado is God's country, through and through. A real Mecca, an American Jerusalem. The Brethren Church meets here every year for a worship fest yet it isn't much better than living in Vegas and praising the lord, you know? People flock here to have an evangelical moment and are confronted by the reality of, well, the world I guess. People come here to seek God and the Devil at the same time.</div><div><br /></div><div>"So Guernica?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah," Parker sighed, "Just like that painting," </div><div><br /></div><div>"I think you need some sleep or something mate," Gordon laughed, "Soon as you start seeing God in the paint you need to have a lay in,"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Maybe," Parker admitted, "but I'm not letting up on this. I'm going to show you guys how it works,"</div><div><br /></div><div>Mali put a hand on his arm and smiled, "I'm sure you will, why don't you order first," she said and Parker smiled. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-82079162513374135882009-03-02T13:47:00.000-05:002009-03-04T14:24:16.838-05:00New Dice<div>1. A story is based on song lyrics. A writer may only use one song per band and the story itself must contain the lyrics be it individually (each word scattered throughout) or as a whole.</div><br /><div> </div><br /><div>2. A story must have a happy ending. That means happy as in positive, not "the killer murders everyone therefore he's happy" ending.</div><br /><div> </div><br /><div>3. Rant. A story about nothing in particular (continued from the first season).</div><br /><div> </div><br /><div>4. "What's Penny up to?" The entry itself will be about an ancillary character and their perspective, be it Penny, Kat, the lady at the coffee house etc. Since it would be difficult to represent in print, the idea would be to have an introduction of the characters, where they are, etc etc (whatever you wish) have them roll a 4, transition to the new character, then come back when they're done.<br /><br />5. A story must be inspired by a picture. A nice touch would be to actually post the picture either in the blog or in the comments section<br /><br />6. A story must hold an element that is strange but true, a concept that can be defined as "stranger than fiction."<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-59179147043517704492009-02-24T13:51:00.000-05:002009-02-24T14:35:17.097-05:00I love Penny. (Part One of Two)."Portsmouth Potbellies, getch'er Portsmouth Potbellies!"<div><br /></div><div>The aged crate with "ORANGES" emblazoned across the side wobbled beneath her, every stomp of her tiny feet threatening to pitch her to the dirt below. She thrust her arms high above her head and sucked in as much air as her lungs would allow before shouting, with all the force of her cracked, dusty voice, "GETCH'ER PORTSMOUTH POTBELLIES RIGHT HERE."</div><div><br /></div><div>She found herself confused. She was the greatest saleswoman Lang Tang Motors had ever seen, a star employee with a plaque hung in her honor for every month of the year, yet not a single customer had approached her to purchase a pig. With a huff, she dismissed the haunting idea that it could be because she had no pigs to sell; it didn't occur to her that it might be because she had no customers in the first place, standing atop this used crate of oranges in the middle of a field.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dissatisfied, Penny climbed down, slipping on the slick surface of the wood and crashing into the mud below. "Oh, alright, Clancy, you can use the vacuum on me if that's what you're going to do!" she cried as she got to her feet, mud and earth-stuffs clinging to all parts of her. She deliberated the merits of a line of work as a mud saleswoman as she dragged her crate with her through the muck, searching at her feet for the road she'd left behind many hours ago.</div><div><br /></div><div>Night was falling fast and the crows conversed between themselves about this lump of a woman, dressed in pink and white rags (and now, caked head-to-foot in thick, grey mud), careening through their field making airplane noises. As though in agreement, the crows took to flight and abandoned the field for another day; they simply didn't care for the looks - or the smell - of this old crone.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Not no way, not no how, gonna find some screws and make me a cow," she sang.</div><div><br /></div><div>A road emerged from the barrenness of the field, marked only by a lonely line of telephone poles stretching from horizon to horizon. Penny stepped onto the gravel and surveyed her options; to the left, nothingness, and to the right, more nothingness.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Eeny-meeny-miney-moe," she began, using her forefinger to tick off each option. "Catch-a-nigger-by-his-toe, if-he-hollers-let-it-snow, birthday-cake-for-Jimmy-Joe. My-dead-husband-told-me-to-choose-the-very-best-one-and-you-are-not --"</div><div><br /></div><div>Headlights appeared on the horizon to her right, routing the impending darkness of nightfall in their high beams. Penny thought it would be a great joke to surprise the driver, so she hustled into the street and quickly dropped on all fours beside her crate. With a few grunts and curses, she lifted the crate over her head and crawled beneath it, concealed between the sides of the sick-smelling box. She could hear the crunch of gravel-beneath-tire grow louder as the vehicle drew nearer, and she softly giggled to herself. What a wonderful surprise this would be.</div><div><br /></div><div>The crunch of the gravel grew very loud for a moment, then stopped. Light poured in through the cracks in the crate, and Penny peered into the blinding illumination eagerly, her warped fingers caught hold across her mouth to keep her giggles from falling out. A car door opened with a rusty squeal, then shut again with a bang.</div><div><br /></div><div>Footsteps.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Jesus-sakes-Christ," came a gruff, beer-whetted voice from outside.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Surprise!" Penny shouted as she threw the crate off herself, leaping to her feet. </div><div><br /></div><div>The silhouette seemed scantly taken aback by finding an elderly woman hiding beneath a crate meant for oranges in the middle of the road in the middle of Nebraska - or, if he did, he was quite gifted at retaining his emotions outwardly. This, of course, made Penny quite sad.</div><div><br /></div><div>"And what do we have here?" the man said, his breath wet with whiskey.</div><div><br /></div><div>"A surprise, you dimwit. Haven't you ever had a surprise party before?" Penny demanded, striding up to him and jabbing a finger at his chest. She eyed him suspiciously. "You ain't one of them buttbandits, are you?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Fuck no," the man replied. "Crem here likes the pussy. You still got a pussy, ya'old bitch?"<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Penny shook her head. "Misses Buttersocks died in the war."</div><div><br /></div><div>The man made an "ah" sound and looked her over. "Well, hidin' in crates is no place for such a fine lady. You want to go for a ride in my truck? Cost ya a blow."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, my poor Misses Buttersocks. She had the brightest blue eyes you've ever seen," Penny reminisced as she hobbled toward the pickup. "Then she built that space rocket and flew off into the stars, never to be seen again. I saw her last Saturday at the market, but of course she acted like she didn't recognize me. I think she was fucking my husband."</div><div><br /></div><div>Penny hoisted herself into the passenger seat and closed the door. The man - Crem, as he identified himself - climbed into the driver's side and slammed his door shut. He quickly stabbed his finger at a button on his door, causing both child-safe door locks to slide into place.</div><div><br /></div><div>"You're taking me to see my husband," Penny said.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Where is he?" Crem asked as he put the truck into gear.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Heaven, with all the other niggers."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah, lady," Crem said with a drunken guffaw, his fingers - slicked with red ooze - slipping on the steering wheel. "Yeah, I'm taking you to see your husband."</div><div><br /></div><div>They drove off, leaving the crate by the side of the road for the field mice to make their home.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-27097235225638496612009-02-19T23:20:00.001-05:002009-02-20T22:04:41.484-05:00PhobiaThey drove for what felt to be an interminable amount of time.<br /><br />"Do you guys realize this is the first time we've been in a vehicle in forever."<br /><br />"Yeah, since Jaime took us gallivanting. Oh wonderful day that was."<br /><br />"Do you count my ambulance ride?" Joe gestured gingerly to his sling, but didn't get much out a laugh out of the rest.<br /><br />"What the fuck is that?"<br /><br />"Snow Gordon, this is Colorado."<br /><br />"I know what the bloody hell snow is you silly tosser, I meant that." Gordon crossed over to Joe's seat and pointed towards the frame the caravan window provided. Under Gordon's direction, Mali stopped the car to the sound of snow being compacted beneath the tires.<br /><br />"That's seriously fucked up."<br /><br />With thee lone exception of Parker, they all stooped and peered out the windows to the view of a large mustard yellow house, the paint heavily worn, not taking lightly the dramatic chastisement of time, a sign dangling by a single nail that barely read "Clown Heaven." The building itself was situated entirely on cinder blocks, much like an abandoned mobile home.<br /><br />"Should we check it out?"<br /><br />"What are we, Scooby Doo? No. Fucking. Way."<br /><br />"What a surprise from our fearless leader. Cars don't scare you, but decrepit buildings do?" Casey's jeer found its mark.<br /><br />"Better than fearin' the almighty pickle I say." Gordon's words fell flat. Apparently they didn't get the reference.<br /><br />"Has there ever been a point in your life where something truly frightened you? I mean more than the after effects of a scary movie, I'm speaking on an entirely different level. Sure adolescence is filled with twists and turns, new exposures and the light of learning, but there are some things that can shake a child's bones.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Imagine a simple trip, a small vacation your parents take you on. You walk hand in hand, ready to welcome the surprises that await you. you see the large canopy, the animated colors that await you. The smells are numerous, the most pervasive being that of sugar and sweat, which makes sense given the seemingly endless span of people shuffling into into the red and yellow striped tent and those that stayed outside wait patiently for the purveyor of tasty treats. You take your seat and wait impatiently, gripping the freshly painted board that functions as your seat and tap your feet, jumping with every flicker of movement. Whether it's the lion tamer passing through his cage, checking and re-checking his implements or the aerial experts, stretching in tandem to the side of the stage. In your anticipation, you journey towards the facility, after all, you are old enough to go on your own, you're practically a man. The journey is much longer than anticipated, but you do find them, you just don't realize the lavatories you discover aren't the ones designated for the public: rather they were obscurely placed for the privacy of the staff and crew. you ignore the signs situated above your perspective and venture forth, only to come across the most horrible moment of your decade minus one life: the smell is pungent, like the back of a butcher shop. In your view is a man, face partially smeared, the remnants of his red smile now a smattering swirl of white, blue and red stretching across his cheek. His hands are stained red and seem to be the source of the smell. He is attempting to wrest something from a cage obscured from your vision. You are frozen, entirely focused on the man in action. He prevails in the end, but not realizing his own strength, the object goes flying in your direction and rolls to a stop at your feet. Matted hair and blood cover the roundish object and before you have time to react the man yells at you. "Don't touch that, get out of here," he yells come towards you in a stalking fashion, ready to place his crimson palms on your throat, after all he has to keep you quiet now that you know his secret, but you are too smart for him and bolt, losing yourself in the crowd. You try to divulge your newfound murderous secret but no one listens. That clown is still out there, feeding stray children to his animals under the guise of a smile and a balloon."</span></span><br /><br />"Joe, he was probably feeding them. Chances are if there were a murderous clown out there, we'd hear about it."<br /><br />"Given about 40% of murders go unsolved each year, maybe not."<br /><br />"Seriously, he was feeding whatever animal it was. You said it yourself, it smelled like a butcher shop, like raw meat."<br /><br />"Fuck you. That is all........oh and this just in, go fuck yourself."<br /><br />"I'll blame that on that meds, but really we should move on."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-452305101347379842009-02-17T14:06:00.000-05:002009-02-17T14:51:48.084-05:00The Gadget WhispererMali yawned wide and craned her neck in all different directions, searching for that elusive "pop" of the springs and joints and fasteners in the coils of her spine. A knot had formed somewhere deep between her shoulder blades and she rubbed her back furiously against the stiff, coarse cloth of the car seat to no avail. She spied a sign stating "Rifle 45 Miles" to the right of the road and summoned what comfort she could in knowing Utah was forever behind her.<div><br /></div><div>Her eyes flicked to her companions, mere silhouettes occasionally illuminated in the glow of a passing vehicle. Casey, understandably exhausted, had fallen into the deepest of slumbers the moment they had driven their immense caravan off the lot and now snored with the fervor of a grizzly bear. Joe, too, had succumbed to his medication and wheezed against the window pane a row behind her. Gordon appeared awake, though his eyes were fixed on the landscape beyond, off in his own accented world of tomfoolery and biscuits. And little Parker, having finished his work in his notebook, now sprawled across the expanse of the back seat, drool pooling in the crevices of his shoulder.</div><div><br /></div><div>With all the night for her's and her's alone, Mali's thoughts drifted across time and space. Absently, she flicked her nimble fingers across the face of the stereoplate. The dials twirled until the static faded into the haunting coos of a familiar Brit, his falsettos spiking and swirling betwixt jagged, distorted percussion.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Ha'come I end up where I started?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>Her thoughts trailed to a history she had left behind, a mother and father and brother who still wrote her letters - from time to time. She could smell the citrus of her mother's favorite tea as though a pot were brewing right there in the minivan.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Ha'come I end up where I went wrong?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>Her father's cigar smoke, too, now wafted through their vehicle. It burned her nose and she hastily cracked her window, hoping the coolness of the night air would steal the stench from her senses.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I won't take my eye off the ball ag'in,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>The scent of her brother came with an audible cringe, a gasp of repulsion so inert and reflexive that Mali hadn't realized she'd done so until the air whooshed from her lungs. She remembered the scent of his room, a cocktail of faint body odor and the ripe sweat of aging books stacked on one another until they tickled the ceiling.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">You reel me out then you cut the string.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>Amazing, she thought, that he should be the favorite.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">You used to be al'right,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>Bolero, her elder brother by three years, was the veritable prize of her tiny community. His skill with computers and gadgets was unprecedented, even by the standards of her - graduate cum laude with honors in computer science, MS - father. Just as those in the backwaters idolize a man who can communicated with a car's engine and practically treaty it to run anew, her brother could build, mend, or negotiate with any contraption. It was his destiny to follow in his father's shoes, her mother always said.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">So what happened?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>Choosing to not leave his parents and baby sister behind, Bolero had opted to take his courses via the internet. For weeks at a time he would retire to his room, emerging only for the barest of necessities, explaining his confinement as the unfortunate product of slaving over manuals and technical terms. Their father would always nod approvingly, suggesting that he had done much the same when he was in school. It was enough for their mother, too.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Did the cat get your tongue?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>Mali could recall a time when they were the smallest of brats, she a tomboy and he a spectacled outcast, and their secrets and discoveries were shared with the utmost confidence.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Did your string come undone?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>College, she supposed, changes people.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">One by one, one by one</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>With the absence of her brother from the dinner table, evening talks stifled and they three were left to masticate in silence. Her mother would occasionally inquire about her school work, but as soon as Mali had acknowledge that she - yes, was in fact still in school, her mother would dismiss her and resume staring at her dinner plate. Her father never spoke unless it was to agree that their son was prodigious and an ardent worker.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">It comes to us all</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>One night, after many months of contending with her brother's reclusiveness, decided she'd had enough. She decided, against the will of the "Keep Out" poster pinned to her brother's door, to investigate just what was keeping him locked away from all the world.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">It's as soft as your pillow</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>She crept across the hallway, her toes gingerly seeping between ribbons in the plush carpet, her breath caught in her throat.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">You used to be al'right</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>She begged for her parents to not wake, for her plans would be spoiled and she would be sent back to her room.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">What happened?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>A pale blue light flickered beneath the crack in his door.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Et cetera, et cetera</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>Nearly there.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Facts for whatever</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>An outreached hand, craning for the doorknob...</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Fifteen steps</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>"Brother?" Mali whispered as she pushed the door open.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Then a shear drop</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>The sight would haunt her for years to come. Bolero spun in his chair, his face a mask of disbelief and anger for his premises being violated by uninvited intruders. His hands flew to his groin to cover his swollen shame as he bolted from his seat to snatch his trousers from the bed. On the screen, a pale elf, replete with a bustier and snow white panties, glanced around coyly, as though pondering how she had come to find herself nearly nude in a land of those questing for the very best of equipment drops.</div><div><br /></div><div>--</div><div><br /></div><div>"Thom Yorke's a prick," Gordon muttered, snapping Mali out of her thoughts.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What makes you say that?" she inquired, her voice shaky from the horrors of that which can never be unseen.</div><div><br /></div><div>"A lot of people in the Merry Ol' don't care for 'im much," Gordon shrugged. "Full of himself, he is. Spends his whole career with a chip on his shoulder 'cos he got roughed up a bit in grade school. Sorry way to waste a life spent as a rock star if you ask me."</div><div><br /></div><div>"No one did," Mali replied and turned up the radio, which had by now been swallowed in static. The electric roll of white noise carried them further into the night and on toward Denver.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-90357159000684782362009-02-12T13:03:00.000-05:002009-02-16T13:34:02.758-05:00Moving Along Now"When the fuck are they going to get here?"<br /><br />Joe's surly temper was partially inspired by the cocktail of medication he received that will continue for the following weeks. He and Mali passed the time playing checkers in the lobby, a task hindered by the sling placed on his right arm, a precautionary measure, but an impediment nonetheless.<br /><br />"Ello ladies."<br /><br />Joe's happiness at seeing the smarmy Brit enter through the spinning vacuum sealed door superseded the snarky remark made.<br /><br />"You guys ready to leave?"<br /><br />"Absolutely."<br /><br />"You there with the potatoes for hands, come bake grandpa some ice cream."<br /><br />"Come again?"<br /><br />"You heard me cod piece. You and all 158,764 hairs on you."<br /><br />"Uh, Gordon, care to explain?"<br /><br />While Gordon filled Joe in on the events that had transpired in his absence, Penny began pocketing coloring books from the lobby.<br /><br />"Is she coming with us?"<br /><br />"Well I'm certainly not going to argue with her. She probably has a blade in one of her many pockets for boning and the sort. She's looking for her husband anyway."<br /><br />"Where is he?"<br /><br />"A Chuck E Cheese in Minnesota."<br /><br />"Seriously?"<br /><br />"No."<br /><br />"Then where?"<br /><br />"Dead."<br /><br />"How does she not know where he's buried?"<br /><br />"Not the proper question Joe." Gordon then pointed at her as she knelt in front of a sick child as her mother looked on with some concern.<br /><br />"No need to fret lumpy wumpkins, you are suffering an an acute case of Roseola Infantum, nothing malignant. A little acetaminophen and you'll be as dapper as an ottoman."<br /><br />Her words struck the mother curiously, a sense of articulacy muddled by a toothless maw.<br /><br />"I guess she could be useful for.....something."<br /><br />"What are you taro sucking faghats looking at? I ate all my makeup so it's not a mighty fine day."<br /><br />"Well, whatever, let's get a move on then. Quickly."<br /><br />"Speaking of which, it seems we've stumbled across a small bit of money that I think we should apply. How do you feel about a rental car?"<br /><br />"Sounds amazing Gordon, but I can't drive."<br /><br />"Obviously. CASEY, MALI, PARKER, any of you blokes have your license?"<br /><br />Mali raised her hand, Casey motioned with her hand the American symbol for "kind of", an issue Gordon didn't care to investigate further. Parker stared at his feet.<br /><br />"Well, looks like you little lady will be steering us to, where was it?"<br /><br />"Colorado."<br /><br />"Bloody good show, let's see this snow the Ruskies seem to bitch about. Agreed?"<br /><br />Everyone acquiesced readily.<br /><br />When they arrived at Hertz, they were greeted by a heavyset gentleman with slick black hair and a widow's peak. He was probably in his mid-forties, but his face portrayed a man at least a decade further in time.<br /><br />Midway through his interrogation, the old crone threw a penny and demanded the nigger get it. Parker conceded sullenly.<br /><br />Remarkably, the penny landed under a mini van, a 99' Dodge Caravan with less than 100,000 miles and sat eight comfortably.<br /><br />"It's perfect," Parker said with enthusiasm, as if serendipity negated the casual insult placed on him.<br /><br />After making their purchase, the lot of them gathered their belongings in the trunk and started to make seating arrangements with Casey calling shotgun the moments she felt it was applicable. After placing Penny's leather satchel in the trunk, Casey closed the hatchback and looker around only to find the resident homeless among them no longer maintaining the last part.<br /><br />"Did you see where she went?"<br /><br />Parker shook his head side to side, a signal reinforced by Mali, Joe and Gordon.<br /><br />"What do we do with her bag?"<br /><br />"I guess we take it with us, she did hand it to us after all."<br /><br />They departed, Mali in the driver's seat, Casey her navigator, Joe and Gordon in the two independent middle seats and Parker alone in the back.<br /><br />Parker didn't mind this. He immediately began scribbling a story in his notebook.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">There once stood a tree. This particular tree was of grave importance. In fact, it was the single most important tree in existence. Protected by the angels themselves, residing in Paradiso's</span> Garden, this is until all went wrong. The tree existed to make of man something more, something greater than it was in its creation. The Garden's owner was very protective of the tree and did not want man to grow until it had become accustomed to its own skin. To grow too fast would cause man to burn through its own shell and fade away before it could shine. Some believe the fruit was never meant for man at all, that the Gardener planted the tree to give man something to strive for.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">At the time, man had no reason to scrutinize the tree. The Gardener had found a wife for him, a woman equal to himself and just as pure in spirit. Man couldn't think of a better gift. He was given a person, a companion to share his existence with, a fundamental equal with enough variation to offer new avenues of thought, roads never traveled. They laughed, lived and loved, through time that felt endless, beginning each day with a smile and ending each night with a kiss.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Then came a day different from others. A day where they received a visitor. The Gardener was busy working other plots, readying the planting of other seeds when a neighbor inquired on his garden.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I see you have creatures dwelling within your paradise. How do they live?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"With the greatest of comfort sir. I have nurtured them slowly, I'd rather not start again, it is an arduous task you know."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I do, I have watched intently for some time and I understand what you are doing. Hastening your experimentation would yield tragic results, but what would occur if you offered a simple avenue, a choice as it were. Inevitably the time will come where a decision must be made by them otherwise they will stagnate."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"An accurate observation sir, a wager then in the prospect of my creation? I offer you an opportunity. You may present my creation with a situation. If they take the correct path, you are required to tend to them personally every day, nurturing their growth. If they fail, I will give you a garden of your very own to do with as you wish. Have we come to terms?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"We have. I do enjoy your garden, let me mull over my options and I will return to you with my course of action. A pleasant evening to you Gardener."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"And you sir."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The visitor spent a considerable amount of time plotting. He was delighted by his neighbor's garden and fluttered at the thought of having one of us his own.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">He decided on a simple proposition, an offer that would force man to confront a nature that was previously foreign to it, for until that moment, man and woman had been given everything they needed. His proposition wasn't to be a need.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It was a want.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The neighbor knew that as he stood, man and woman would be alienated by his presence, disturbed by the insinuation of another. He imagined they would react violently in ignorance. His better option was a guise, a form he could take that would look natural, creating a natural reaction. At first he thought of taking the form of a monkey, a form that would stray little from his current state while offering the option of thumbs. For the sake of mobility, he settled on a snake, a body that would offer infinitely more freedom and range.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">He approached man and woman in their garden of Paradiso, and spoke to them like any creature would.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Man and woman, I offer to you as a humble servant, a fruit I had found. It is of a foreign nature, the likes of which I have never seen. It was found near a large tree, the largest in the land in fact. If the Gardener was aware of such a fruit, I'm surprised he wouldn't have informed you. I suppose maybe that is why he warned against investigating the tree." The serpent hten placed the fruit at their feet, a vibrant edible adorned with a multitude of colors in a constant state of movement, as if someone was actively painting it, every second of its existence.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Man and woman were troubled. Why had the Gardener not mentioned the fruit prior? They marveled at the fruit and for the first time in their creation they had to answer a question no one had asked. They were required, by etiquette to make a decision on a question that had no right answer. Well, there was a right answer, but want was slowly pervading their psyche, igniting a fire neither man nor woman knew existed. It clouded their judgement, guiding their eyes to the fruit's brilliant display.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">They spoke to one another while the neighbor observed from a nearby branch, allowing them to address the matter and come to a proper conclusion. The neighbor was proud of his plan, regardless of outcome. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">After some time passed and the moon replaced the sun, man and woman agreed that if the Gardener had planted it, then the fruit must have been for them. The land was for them therefore whatever has been sown was meant to be reaped by them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The Gardener was disappointed. His cultivation had reached only so far. They were no longer capable of being sustained in the Garden, the fruit made them ecologically different, so much so, Paradiso was no longer a habitable place. As a consolation, the Gardener planted a seed within them. The ability to seed on their own. The infant that came next offered solace to man and woman for their existence fell into their own hands from then on.</span></span><br /><br />Yeah Casey, a gift.<br /><br />Parker scribbled that last line out, hoping no one would pick his notes up.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-64348291899170718512009-02-11T16:13:00.001-05:002009-02-11T16:26:50.506-05:00The Lion's Share<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">How rude</span>, Joe thought, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">that she couldn't wait another five minutes to die.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>The doctor, replete with his I-Make-More-Than-You-Will-Ever-Know Smirk and I-Wash-The-Gruel-From-America's-Future Smock, had narrowly ducked his head in the doorway for but a moment, his mouth agape to reveal the prognosis - and, God willing, the permission to leave - before a cacophony of voices and mechanical wails sounded from the next room over, leaving Joe to ponder his fate and wrestle with the gnawing of his restlessness.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lying in this bed of pale palettes, Joe was defenseless against the tide of thoughts and concerns wafting about in his battered head, somewhere beneath the bandage and to the right of his bruise, and now they all came creeping up on him, clawing and scratching and --</div><div><br /></div><div>"Sorry, son," the doctor mumbled as we strode back into the room, his eyes fixed on his clipboard. "False alarm, thank our lucky stars."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Fantastic," Joe replied without an ounce of conviction.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Looks like we're going to have to keep--" the doctor began.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Oh god oh god oh god don't you dare say you're keeping me you fucking asshole don't you keep me here you can't keep me here I have places to be I have things to see I have stories to tell don't you fucking tell me you're keeping me here another minute you smug prick I'm a free man and I'm well enough I swear I'm well enough Get me out of here Casey where the fuck are you Don't you say it don't you fucking say it</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">"-- </span>your fingers bandaged for a couple weeks yet for the bones to heal, but other than that, I'd say you're A-Okay to check out of here this afternoon."</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">God bless you you beautiful man with your pen and your smock and your winning smile My angel of mercy and release Thank you for saving me and all my insides I'm so ready to go Get me out of this bed right now I can walk I can run</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>"Now, I suspect you'll be experiencing some discomfort for a while yet. You may find it difficult to walk great distances, so try to keep off your feet as best you can. You'll probably stay sore for a while, too, but that's normal."</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Sore yes that's fine I've been sore before No big deal I don't have to walk doctor I can run I wonder if I'll need a cane I don't want a cane I don't want to walk with a cane But if it means I can walk God Blessed I'll use a fucking cane just get me out of this white-washed prison cell</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>"You have someone coming to pick you up, yes?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"My friends are here," Joe nodded. "Well, some of them. I think Mali's at the gift shop."</div><div><br /></div><div>"The nurse will be by later with some forms for you to sign. Now, listen son, if you get on your feet and find you need to come back--"</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">No nope no sir not coming back I fucking hate these hospitals They smell like death and disease and all the cleaning chemicals you throw on the walls to clean up afterwards Oh God I smell like that too How long until I can take a shower Do they have public showers How much would they cost Where the fuck is Mali Why are you still talking you self-righteous cocksucker</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>"-- please don't hesitate. You're lucky your injuries weren't more severe."</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">You're lucky I don't leap from this bed and rain stabbity death on you and your stupid smock with that fountain pen tucked in your pocket Just want to leave just want to leave just want to leave</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>"Well, good luck to you son. Hopefully we won't be seeing you back here any time soon," the doctor concluded and left with a nod.</div><div><br /></div><div>Joe sighed passively, then felt the flutter of sleep drift upon him, tuckered out from his mental assault on the lurid man in white.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Colorado it is," he sighed just as unconsciousness took him.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-28583152805043627602009-02-10T00:11:00.000-05:002009-02-10T00:49:32.125-05:00The Sick Angel and The Demon "Brother""I liked it," Mali replied.<br /><br />Joe's eyes had grown heavier with each word of his story, and by the time Mali had complimented him, he was no longer conscious.<br /><br />Mali smiled, and pulled the covers up over his torso, carefully as to not aggravate his injuries. A nurse entered, a black woman in her early thirties. It was his nurse.<br /><br />"My, my, my, he sure does have a lot of lady visitors," she observed, winking at Mali.<br /><br />"We're just his...traveling companions. Any word on when he'll be released?"<br /><br />"Not just yet, honey. The doctors still need to clear him on his internal injuries, if they are any."<br /><br />"Okay. I hope that's soon. We're all a little anxious to leave."<br /><br />"Yes. I met that friend of his....young black girl. She seemed very heavy with guilt over his situation."<br /><br />"Yeah, that's Casey."<br /><br />"Well, she's a sweetheart," the nurse sarcastically stated. Mali smiled.<br /><br />"You just have to get to know her, I guess," she told the nurse. "How long have you worked here?"<br /><br />"About twelve years now. Came here as soon as I became an RN. This hospital has been my life for quite sometime. It's where my children were born. It's where my husband died. Chances are, it's where I'll die, too. God willing, I hope that's not for awhile."<br /><br />Mali snuggled into a chair next to the bed while the nurse continued to check Joe's vitals. "Everything seems okay for now. Would you like something to read? Visiting hours are over in about an hour, and I doubt he'll be awake for awhile."<br /><br />"Could you tell me a story?" Mali asked the woman.<br /><br />"I really...I'm working right now, honey. I don't think I have time for..."<br /><br />She didn't finish as she saw the disappointed look on Mali's face.<br /><br />"Perhaps a short one, then."<br /><br /><em>This isn't a story as much as a strange night here at the hospital. Three drunk drivers in critical condition in the span of three hours, a mother giving birth to a still-born, a child with cancer crying over a ripped teddy bear....those things are normal here, as heartbreaking as that seems.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>But this night was different.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>A man came in. About thirty or so. He was experiencing <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">symptoms</span> of a heart attack, but no one knew for sure what was happening to him. Especially the doctors.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>They ordered to observe him overnight. Perhaps his body would give us some sort of clue as to what was ailing him.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I was assigned to stay in his room for a couple hours until Jill, the other nurse on duty, was to take over.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Someone claiming to be his brother came in to watch over him. I figured he was harmless. He just sat next to the bed, staring at his supposed brother.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I swear, for a moment, I saw flames in his eyes. The sick man started to turn in his sleep almost as soon as I saw the fiery eyes.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The "brother" stood up, almost defensively. Then the sick man woke up.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I immediately jumped up and paged the on-call doctor. I knew it would be just a moment before he arrived, but the sick man started to speak.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>"Save your strength, honey," I told him.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The "brother" then began to speak to the sick man in a strange language. Here at the hospital, I hear all sorts of different languages. But this one I had never heard before. It almost seemed...ancient.</em><br /><br /><em>Suddenly, the room was filled with white light. I could still make out the two men, and I swear to mighty God above I heard the "brother" say to the sick man, almost behind the language being spoken,</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>"I am sorry. What we have together...it will never be. I can never see you again. You must stop loving me. Our different responsibilities will never allow it. You must forget me."</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>And then the "brother" was gone, just gone like he had never been there. The sick man began to cough and cough and a strange black ooze dripped from his mouth. He suddenly seemed healthier, and much more alert.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Then he began to weep. "My love," he muttered through his sobs. Then he began to sing.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>It was a sad song, one that caused me to weep as well. It reminded me of my husband, and the love we once had that, now, could no longer be. It was as if every heartache and strong feeling of despair had filled me with the sick man's beautiful, angelic voice.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Then the room went completely white. The on-call doctor finally arrived to find me slumped in the corner, asleep and pale, with shallow breaths escaping me.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>To this day, no one saw the sick man or the "brother" leave the hospital. Even the security tapes revealed the two never leaving.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I have no idea what happened in that room that night. But I think an angel's heart was broken by something it could never be with.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Ever since then, I believe every living thing here on Earth and elsewhere, knows heartache.</em><br /><br />"I really gotta go now, honey. I'll check back in an hour before you have to leave."<br /><br />"Thanks. That was a beautiful story," Mali said, her eyes glistening with the threat of tears.<br /><br />The nurse exited. Joe suddenly stirred in his sleep.<br /><br />"My baby...." he muttered in his dream-state. "My baby's gone...."<br /><br />Now Mali's eyes did leak their salty tears.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-1950911370271369972009-02-06T00:49:00.000-05:002009-02-06T03:06:53.280-05:00A Delay in Action"What, seriously? Did you just suggest that I just get up and leave now?" Joe was concerned. He wanted to leave Utah quickly as well, along with every other non-Mormon that has found themselves within the confines of such a useless state. He could probably get away with his arm in a sling but until a doctor arrived his internals were a mystery.<br /><br />"Well, I guess we can't go get them now, I'm just impatient is all. I'm done with this place."<br /><br />"Me too, I guess we'll see what the doctor has to say. I did have a story I've been working on."<br /><br />"Do tell sir."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" >Lennox</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" > knew what he had to do. It's the only mission he knew. A great disaster occurred some time in the past, a disaster that impacted the world over, modifying the landscape into what amounted to uninhabitable gray goo. Now the last remnants of humanity assembled together to prevent "The Great Collapse" as it was referred to from ever occurring.<br /><br />He understood the concepts of time, of how to interact with the past and step by step, movement by movement what he had to do.<br /><br />A target was set. By that point in his life it was mere method, his body moving in the recitation that only decades could produce. The device he would traverse in was small, a compartment that was acceptable by animal standards but to a male over six feet tall, it was less than accommodating. It worked simply enough by their standards. As a child they would demonstrate to him by folding a piece of paper in half, then punching hole in it. The fastest way to travel between two points is in fact to make them the same point.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" >Lennox</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" > was curious as a child, wondering why they bothered with science after what it had produced. As far as he had known, the replicating </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" >nanites</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >, the backbone of their culture had developed a colloquialism known as cancer. Apparently at one time the human body would randomly be inflicted with an unnatural spontaneous growth of cells, a process that could affect anyone, anywhere at any time.<br /><br />"What a horrid thought." </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" >Lennox</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" > spoke aloud, echoing his adolescence, not realizing he had an audience.<br /><br />"Are you ready Mr. Barrows?"<br /><br />"Like I was born to do this."<br /><br />The issue of coming back was far more arduous. After completing his mission, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" >Lennox</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" > was to visit a small </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" >Swiss</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" > company that was in the process of developing a stasis program, technology that would in essence negate all natural forces, including time in a small space. By that time </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" >they</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> had reached phase three testing and through the passing of some controversial laws, human testing was accepted.</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br />The company was chose for two reasons. First and foremost, the location was optimal at offering him </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" >camouflage</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >. He would be there a very long time and any attention would be unwanted attention. the second reason required a little faith from </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" >Lennox</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >. The historical engineers cited that particular site as one that succumbed to a natural disaster that destroyed the surface, but left the sub-level intact, perfectly preserving him and about a dozen others. The gray goo had receded in that area as well, allowing excavators easier access.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" >Lennox</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" > stepped into the facility with confidence. It's what he was bred for, the reason for his very existence. The process was easy. He arrived in a dressing room where a man of the same relative size as </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" >Lennox</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" > had just stepped in pursuit of a vest to match the sports coat and pants he had just tried on. His return created nothing but a scratch of the head and a secondary trip to the front. Thirty two steps to a side exit followed by another hundred and thirty, keeping with the pedestrian walkway. He did not make eye contact and seemed to slip from the minds of fellow pedestrians his shoeless status not withstanding.<br /><br />The target was a male, mid 30's of Moroccan decent. At that time he had yet to come into contact with </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" >nanite</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" > technology so his integration of a variant code would be less than a fleeting dream.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" >Lennox</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" > operated like clockwork. Removal and disposal was intricately planned and as Mr. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" >Asmir</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> found himself integrated into the foundation of a business incubator being built, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" >Lennox</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> wondered what the world would become. He overheard many a postulation, but none concerned his own memories of what was.</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br />The bus ride was uninvolved. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" >Lennox</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" > had made it a point not to absorb any of what was out of fear of what would be. He arrived outside of the Nexus Industries complex and for the first time in his life, he was uncertain. There was no visitor entrance and the device the historical engineers had given him was not a means of monetary exchange, it was something far different.<br /><br />It was a detonation device.<br /><br />And the moment he produced it from his pocket, a swarm of security forces stormed his location. Through no fault of his own, they gunned him down, his pleas for stasis went unnoticed, shrugged off as drunken ramblings, that is until the autopsy yielded strange results from his blood tests. It seems a new technology was found in his blood.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-48496307057989152672009-02-05T16:00:00.000-05:002009-02-10T00:00:12.735-05:00Destinations (Brock)The nurse had been kind enough bring Joe some pain-killers for his injuries. Joe happily gulped them down and looked at Mali, who had just caught Joe up on the strange circumstances surrounding their sudden finacial fortune.<br /><br />"So there's someone following us and listening to us tell our stories?" Joe asked. Mali nodded. "And this person gave us $5,000 just because?" he continued. She nodded again.<br /><br />"Well, that's fucking weird," he replied, rubbing his ribs, waiting patiently for the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">meds</span> to kick in. "We need to get the fuck out of this state."<br /><br />"Where should we go next? Wyoming? Colorado? Oh! How about Nebraska?" Mali excitedly pondered.<br /><br />Joe gave her an amused expression. "We'll figure that out once we get on the road."<br /><br />Mali produced the die from her pockets and threw it gingerly onto the sticky hospital floor. Joe could not see what the result was from atop of his hospital bed and watched as she stared down at the die.<br /><br />"It's a four," she told him. "I've got a good one."<br /><br /><em>It was before they had names, but the States were not getting along. Mississippi had fallen in love with Missouri, but <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Tennessee</span> and Arkansas were always in the way. New York was desperately looking for a new location away from noisy Pennsylvania, and their bickering kept all of New England awake at night. Florida was hanging out with Mexico, causing a rift between Georgia and Alabama. And Indiana, Ohio, and Illinois kept making fun of how damp Michigan was as of late. Texas just kept eating.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>But wise Canada watched them all like a mother, and listened to their problems. She never judged them, and was as fair as she could possibly be.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>It was when Iowa was mysteriously blindsided by a mystery location, Canada had had enough.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>"From now on, you will all stay in your respective borders and not bother each other anymore!" she exclaimed. The States shook in their foundations. "You're all lucky I'm still here for you! You're all a bunch of spoiled, over-dramatic whiners!"</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Idaho began to cry.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>"Great job!" South Dakota yelled at the mother-land. "Now you've done it!"</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Mississippi began to sing a breathy love song to Missouri. New York and Pennsylvania resumed their bickering. Louisiana complained loudly of all the hurricanes. Montana blared it's country music to drown out the others, only causing surrounding <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">territories</span> to boost their volume as well.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>"THAT'S IT! I'M DONE! YOU'RE ALL ON YOUR OWN!" Canada told them all.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>They paused for a second to wonder the ramifications, but then continued their respective battles.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Ever since then, Canada has wanted nothing to do with the States.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Then the humans came.</em><br /><em></em><br />"Mali, this might be the pills talking, but that was a great story," Joe replied.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270584401427878585.post-14449654024702869762009-02-03T23:36:00.000-05:002009-02-04T00:39:42.474-05:00Your Children Will Be Next"Blessed be, the Ol'est of Tentacles," Gordon muttered. He thumbed his nose and craned his neck to peer around the corner of the building at his back. The source of the scraping noise revealed itself in the form of a tiny crone pushing a shopping cart with only one wheel. She was a hundred if she was a day, but bless the tired old bitch, she shoved with such might that the worn legs of the cart scratched deep scars in the sidewalk. Two beady, black eyes met Gordon's from behind immense curls of salt-colored hair and chalky white skin, and he quickly recoiled to the safety of a new view. <div><br /></div><div>The scraping, however, continued.</div><div><br /></div><div>He thought of slasher films, picturing in his mind the poor brunette trapped helplessly in the car or the closet, her fate altogether sealed the moment she stepped into frame with only a B-cup. Her Hello Kitty sweater couldn't save her now, not now that the music had receded and the deafening and defining calm of her mortality filled the audience's ears, now when all is quiet and the stillness of the theater hums with the electric anticipation of the impending attack, the cut, the kill.</div><div><br /></div><div>The scraping grew nearer, and in that moment, Gordon knew precisely how the poor brunette felt when she realized that this, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">this</span>, was it.</div><div><br /></div><div>He figured he could run, but in planning his escape route, the vision of the woman sprouting ten thousand celadon tentacles from beneath her burgundy shaw stayed his feet. She would give chase and he would flee like the hare from the fox, but before he could reach the crosswalk, a slimy appendage would creep around his ankles and drag him to the pavement, the moist nexus of all her limbs winking and yawning and stretching to devour him whole, and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">oh god, the odor</span>...</div><div><br /></div><div>The old woman appeared from around the corner and snapped him out of his daydream. She looked up at him with a cross, frazzled glare before pressing on, the tiny orb of her form pushing with all her might, the sternness of age amazingly willing the cart to scrape forward.</div><div><br /></div><div>He sighed and shook the hair out of his eyes. He checked left and right and - upon discovering no other pedestrians paying them any mind - took a ginger step forward.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Miss?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Fuck off," she rattled without turning around.</div><div><br /></div><div>He swallowed and pressed her again. "Miss? Do you want a hand?"</div><div><br /></div><div>She threw her hands in the air, the molted cart tumbling on its side with a crash. She turned to face Gordon, her eyes obsidian pebbles of furious hellfire. She spat when she talk, likely because all but one tooth had rotted from her gums.</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, I don't want a fucking hand, you cocksucking Briton goatwhore. I ain't never in my life accepted help from a cocksucking Briton and I ain't never in my life starting today."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, okay then." Gordon back-peddled until he was pressed against the brick of the building, but the tiny crone moved quick and closed the distance between them before he could get away. </div><div><br /></div><div>She shook a crooked, knobby finger in his face, yellow spit spraying his face. "And now you have to pick up my cart, cocksucking Briton goatwhore."</div><div><br /></div><div>Rather than agreeing, Gordon side-stepped her and approached the mangled apparatus. He reached for it, refusing to take his eyes off the old hag's feet - he refused to look her in the eye at this point for fear she might pluck his right out - and gently hoisted it to a standing position.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Money?" she demanded when he was finished.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Do you have any money? This is a robbery," she declared, pointing her forefinger and thumb at him menacingly.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh--"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Shut your trap and hand over the goods, Charlie."</div><div><br /></div><div>"My name's Gordon."</div><div><br /></div><div>This startling development proved too much for the woman to bear. She plopped herself right down on the sidewalk and began to bawl at the top of her lungs. Twice she stomped her feet on the curb, her tiny fists balled and shaking at the heavens.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gordon hated her, this he knew, but pangs of pity stole his heart and nearly brought him to tears to see the old bat so upset. He promptly planted himself next to her and folded his legs and waited for her tantrum to stop.</div><div><br /></div><div>She wailed for another minute, catching more than a few curious and horrified expressions from the occasional passer-by, but at last she started to settle down. She studied Gordon with those tiny black pools, now almost concealed beneath the puffyness of her swollen red cheeks. A fine rivet of snot dangled from the tip of her nose and she sniffed twice.</div><div><br /></div><div>After a moment, she said, "I'm sorry I robbed you."</div><div><br /></div><div>"That's alright. What's your name?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Penny."</div><div><br /></div><div>"That's a pretty name."</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's a coin," she insisted.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gordon nodded and made a noise of awe, which she seemed to appreciate.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Where are you off to?" he asked her.</div><div><br /></div><div>The expression she returned would have been entirely the same, had he inquired about geopolitical turmoil and its international ramifications in Malaysia. He decided to change the subject.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Have you ever heard of the gay bomb?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"My husband died of that," she nodded.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gordon nodded too, then continued. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Back in the nineties, the United States Air Force was researching all sorts of fucked up ways to fuck with the heads of their enemies. The Geneva Convention doesn't exactly apply when you're spraying troops with bee pheromones in a virtual minefield of beehives. They were trying out all sorts of things - bombs to make the enemy combatants stink to the high heavens or just plain out shit their pants. My favorite experiment, however, was the gay bomb.</div><div><br /></div><div>The gay bomb was intended to be a tactical aphrodisiac cannon; drop it on an enemy bunker and laugh all the way to the treatise table while the good ol' boys are banging each others brains out uncontrollably. This thing would literally make enemy soldiers drop their weapons, drop trough too, and go to work on each other's backsides.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, the project was unsuccessful. The research team determined that no aphrodisiac potent enough to overpower a man's will to not buttfuck his bunkmate was available. The project was abandoned, but not before it won a Nobel Fucking Peace Prize for 'instigating research and development on a chemical weapon'.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's a small wonder Uncle Sam isn't letting the blue boys tie the knot; he's too busy making 'em plenty of dates."</div><div><br /></div><div>To Gordon's astonishment, Penny seemed to be following his every word with acute interest. Problem was, she didn't seem to realize his tale was finished. She continued to stare, her chin in her hands, leaning forward as best she could on a bed of tummy fat and sour old coats.</div><div><br /></div><div>"-- and then your husband died, because of the gay bomb," he offered.</div><div><br /></div><div>She smiled and leaned back, seemingly satisfied.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Was he in the war?" Gordon asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>She appeared horrified a moment, then shook her head. "No, of course not. He was at Chuck E. Cheese."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Your husband died of the gay bomb at Chuck E. Cheese?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes, of course," she snapped, not the least bit polite about how foolish she found his question.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, right. I remember," Gordon said sheepishly.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Gordon!" came a voice from down the street. He turned and squinted against the sun. Half a block away, Parker was waving furiously in his direction, hanging out the window of a battered yellow taxi.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gordon leapt to his feet. "Parker!" he called before he could stifled his own excitement. He could spend time later pondering why he was so happy at the sight of the runt, but at that moment he was running, the soles of his shoes slapping the sidewalk as he sprinted toward the cab.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Gordon, oh my god, Gordon!" Casey greeted him when he approached the window from behind Parker. </div><div><br /></div><div>The swell of excitement continued in rushed explanations and greetings, Gordon spiritedly shouting his recollection at them through the window while they in return shouted theirs to him. It came to a halt when Parker quite suddenly inquired, "Who's your friend?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Gordon looked over to discover Penny peering up at them, smiling.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh--"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Make some room!" she demanded to Parker. Parker began to protest, but she swatted at him through the window. He relented and pushed the door open, allowing her entry, his mouth agape and his stare fixed on Gordon.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Gordon?" Casey said, pressing herself against her door to avoid contact with the tattered hag now squeezing between her and Parker.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Guys, this is Penny."</div><div><br /></div><div>Penny nodded and stuck a hand out to Casey. "Pleased to meetcha," she gummed.</div><div><br /></div><div>"She's coming with us?" Parker asked in a tone thick with the sentiment that he hoped it was not so.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I don't think--"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Just until the next stop or two," Penny explained. "I need to see a man in Minnesota."</div><div><br /></div><div>"But we're not going to Minnesota," Parker said. "Or, at least, we might not be going to Minnesota."</div><div><br /></div><div>Penny stared at Parker for a moment before leaning over to Casey and inquiring, "Do you let this nigger talk to you this way?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Right then," Gordon conceded before climbing into the passenger seat, next to the very irate driver. "Penny's riding shotty for a while," he explained to the windshield, too afraid to look behind him.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0