When I am here in my bed, propped up against the wall, lights out, eyes unfocused, I can feel every shadow. I can feel every shadow that probes the darkness, every shadow that surfaces into perception from inky depths. I can feel the abyss creep up my bed, over my sheets, held at bay by the light of my computer screen, a non-dark island, a sanctuary. Or maybe I don’t want sanctuary. Maybe the island is a hindrance. Maybe I am stranded. Maybe I want to escape, jettison myself into the abyss and let the dark wash over me and surround me and cover my body and fill my ears and mouth.
The standard conception of death is a tunnel of light. I see a hand of darkness. A hand that rises up from underneath my bed, like a shark surfacing underneath a boat. The hand approaches the surface, breaks it’s plain, makes a fist around my bed. The fingers rise like bedposts, close like tree branches. The fist pulls my bed down, down into the absolute darkness that you can defeat if your eyes are closed tight enough. Tight enough that bubbles of colored light bounce and pop under your eyelids. Reds, purples, low intensity wavelengths. Death is water. Death is drowning. Death is depth and the resulting pressure. The goal, then, is that moment when you cannot hold your breath any longer, that moment where the part of your brain still wired for primal survival takes over and forces your mouth open, forces your muscles to contract and fill your lungs with water. Only instead of water your lungs fill with oxygen and you open your eyes and the bubbles are gone and you are no longer at the bottom of a dark ocean but rather on your bed, where you were in the first place, propped against the wall, lights out, eyes unfocused. But they are focused now. They are focused on the one point of light on the wall ahead, the one point of light broadcast from a needlepoint hole in the curtain. And this one point of light becomes a tunnel, a tunnel of light that leads to heaven or Eden or maybe just a library of memories of life up to this point. The goal now is to remember birth. Remember the transition from warm dark to bright cold. Remember placental fluid sucked from unused lungs, the first particles of real oxygen and how they stung fresh tissue. Death is drowning and life is that first breath after.
12.25.2008
12.18.2008
Random Generator
1:36 in the morning and I’m eating fistfuls of raisins, smashing them into my mouth, agape receiving raisin nutrition at a small but massive pace. Trying to equalize the pressure in my nostrils, to find an even ration of pressure. My eyes are tired, their surface, marbled slightly , encrusted with various proteins or whatever it is that forms over old eyes--like soft glass, still clear but with an adhesive quality to the clearness. Fast violins in a hallway full of soaring cellos [nafgigating] cloudform sunrise. [qhwn m] more raisin food energy will sustain further developments of upstairs [drui,ciorl;es]. Think I am beyond the point of coherentness, the yellow cigarette fog descends on the room, leaving everyone vacant [wywa xloaw rhwy rKW QIRH RHWM RHW BllNXW ns feCIRT RHW AXEWWN EOCISWA. NOQ MT QOELS AHkwa NS REWBLWA] that should have been a disaster but it should be fun to decipher. Ready to jump off a roof or lie completely still before I leap off the building into the night. Turn away from the globes [gloves] of light before they are attracted to your eyes. Replacement and replication are two undesired outcomes of the current situation. Beat concentric watercircles [watersuckes] until [tghe caroet fkiirm oretebd ut us a kaje] if shaggy fibers shake [sjjake] the world [wirld] until balance is negated entirely, strings thin as spiders web [we]. From the electric light abyss word projections spew out of the screen, cascade onto the keyboard like rainbow waterfalls, the yellow cigarette fog descends on the room and leaves everyone vacant beyond the point of coherence co hairance cohairlance parliament druggadelic. Best [fuistemate ate guess riddleface lclain twi opriwlcats lurk in stomach ulcers. Lungs dried sponge or cinged catgair, land avasting catfood tail lock zixxle ie bnabdjdwikghg7asdluihgfskiswjuefnjds] This is how my mind became a random generator.
12.16.2008
Episodes of Sunshine
Remember her clothes on the floor,
the taste of her tongue that circled around mine.
She is on her side and the sheets rest
at the summit of her hips, a single finger whispers lines of
latitude up her meridians, following epicurean topography.
In the midnight snow night is day, orange and yellow
under lamplight sun. Each bulb its own globe, interlocked like
a three dimensional Venn diagram.
See the end of a train slip through the snow like a shadow,
a spectral snake veiled in night.
Remember how her jeans seemed to melt off her body, how
her shirt slid over her head in one flawless motion, how her bra came off
like turning a page in a book.
But she is the train, her eyes pulled through the dark
by mysterious engines, only glimpsed and long since gone.
This be a new one, fresh off the press or something like that. Obviously it shares the title with my 'novel,' but since that project has been abandoned I figured I shouldn't let a good title go to waste.
the taste of her tongue that circled around mine.
She is on her side and the sheets rest
at the summit of her hips, a single finger whispers lines of
latitude up her meridians, following epicurean topography.
In the midnight snow night is day, orange and yellow
under lamplight sun. Each bulb its own globe, interlocked like
a three dimensional Venn diagram.
See the end of a train slip through the snow like a shadow,
a spectral snake veiled in night.
Remember how her jeans seemed to melt off her body, how
her shirt slid over her head in one flawless motion, how her bra came off
like turning a page in a book.
But she is the train, her eyes pulled through the dark
by mysterious engines, only glimpsed and long since gone.
This be a new one, fresh off the press or something like that. Obviously it shares the title with my 'novel,' but since that project has been abandoned I figured I shouldn't let a good title go to waste.
Eight Minutes at the Bottom of the Ocean
Bubbles caress my face,
weave their way through my hair and wobble
towards cerulean surface, but I listen to blackbirds
on a cobalt autumn day. I
sit on the front lawn and savor the smell of gasoline
and cut grass.
I see myself walking out the door on the first day of fourth grade.
I walk across the street and turn back, to look at the house I
grew up in. I see my father, and his father,
and his father’s father on the front porch, smiles and
waves call for me to come back. I try to run to them but they
sink
farther and farther away.
They wave to me before vanishing
into some unseen precipice.
I am the house, the tan siding my father installed
one hot summer. The cornflower curtain over the window
in my bedroom and the sound of a lone sprinkler,
running all night long.
Maybe I never posted the original version of this? Odd...
weave their way through my hair and wobble
towards cerulean surface, but I listen to blackbirds
on a cobalt autumn day. I
sit on the front lawn and savor the smell of gasoline
and cut grass.
I see myself walking out the door on the first day of fourth grade.
I walk across the street and turn back, to look at the house I
grew up in. I see my father, and his father,
and his father’s father on the front porch, smiles and
waves call for me to come back. I try to run to them but they
sink
farther and farther away.
They wave to me before vanishing
into some unseen precipice.
I am the house, the tan siding my father installed
one hot summer. The cornflower curtain over the window
in my bedroom and the sound of a lone sprinkler,
running all night long.
Maybe I never posted the original version of this? Odd...
Low Earth Orbit
Atmosphere burns past my windows,
casts pink glow on living room control panels;
television screens and radios.
Barren walls, a sympathetic surface for lunar reflection,
pockmarked with meteor impacts.
Footprints left in a millennia of dust, detailed
descriptions of paths followed and not followed.
The air is sterile, vacuumed silent, and once orbit is reached
frost forms on windowsills, evidence of extreme cold or
lack of heat.
I wait for cracks to creep along the windows, for
them to shatter and let the void that lurks outside fill
the inside, my home or my body or maybe just
nameless space.
casts pink glow on living room control panels;
television screens and radios.
Barren walls, a sympathetic surface for lunar reflection,
pockmarked with meteor impacts.
Footprints left in a millennia of dust, detailed
descriptions of paths followed and not followed.
The air is sterile, vacuumed silent, and once orbit is reached
frost forms on windowsills, evidence of extreme cold or
lack of heat.
I wait for cracks to creep along the windows, for
them to shatter and let the void that lurks outside fill
the inside, my home or my body or maybe just
nameless space.
Blood
Accidental teeth tear into lenient flesh,
the electric jolt, the diffuse pain, the entire body aware
and focused.
With my tongue I prod the wound, separate its folds,
let the taste of blood tickle my throat, like syrup or
melted wax.
Veins dilated, blood like fire burnt through open passages.
Eyes unblinked, head down, feel my heart race then stop, still,
the last drops of blood drained like bathwater.
the electric jolt, the diffuse pain, the entire body aware
and focused.
With my tongue I prod the wound, separate its folds,
let the taste of blood tickle my throat, like syrup or
melted wax.
Veins dilated, blood like fire burnt through open passages.
Eyes unblinked, head down, feel my heart race then stop, still,
the last drops of blood drained like bathwater.
Bones
Clothes and skin in excited heaps on the floor,
her naked skeleton on my bed.
A slender hand drawn across my back, needple-point fingertips
etch shallow canals on calm surface skin. She
pulls me close, to whisper in my ear, but all I hear
are the movements of her jaw, cool bones that click
and clack indecipherable dialogue, cold to the touch but
fevered with desire.
her naked skeleton on my bed.
A slender hand drawn across my back, needple-point fingertips
etch shallow canals on calm surface skin. She
pulls me close, to whisper in my ear, but all I hear
are the movements of her jaw, cool bones that click
and clack indecipherable dialogue, cold to the touch but
fevered with desire.
The End, though not quite the way the end is typically thought to be, while still being an end of some sorts.
'Tis the end of the semester and I have of course been frantically trying to finish projects and papers at the absolute last second. It has been quite a lot of work, but the good thing is that I've had to revise all my poems, which means I can re-post them here and get two posts for the price of one poem. So, then, in the next few posts are the select few that aren't crap, in their new and (hopefully) superior states. This post is completely worthless, no?
12.06.2008
Things Smelled Different When We Were Young
We orbit on polar opposites, our gravities in unison oscillate Earth to oblivion. Emptiness releases us and from the stars we can see remnants of the world we destroyed, little pieces of planet drift in all directions on exploratory missions of vacant space.
Now we glue Earth back together, only it’s not so much Earth anymore as much as it is Glue Earth. We struggle to simulate ecosystems; so caught up in replication that unnoticed Oceans of Elmer’s slosh and spill onto solidified continental plates, opaque and elastic. When the seas calm and the mountains settle we leave Glue Earth to rotate and collect momentum: a sibylline facsimile of life as we knew it.
Now we glue Earth back together, only it’s not so much Earth anymore as much as it is Glue Earth. We struggle to simulate ecosystems; so caught up in replication that unnoticed Oceans of Elmer’s slosh and spill onto solidified continental plates, opaque and elastic. When the seas calm and the mountains settle we leave Glue Earth to rotate and collect momentum: a sibylline facsimile of life as we knew it.
Victory!
The Island / Ghost Coffee is being published by UCB’s Walkabout Literay Journal this spring. I am very pleased with the story and glad others like it too. So far I’m 1/1 in the submission-publishing department. Shikidang.
12.02.2008
Danzig/Epic Fail
The great purge of the archives continues. This is a completely failed attempt to write a 10+ page story in under 24 hours. As one might expect, it is full of grammatical and typographical erros that I never bothered to fix. Not really proud of this one at all, yet here it is, so I must like it a little. Maybe just the line about filthy flesh sacks. Or the bit about 'the ratio.' Hope you are well versed in late 70s/early 80s rock icons. See if you can count the blatant ripoffs...
“I don’t think it’s supposed to bend like that.”
“Yes, I know, I’m just trying to fix this paper jam.” Peter Quistgard didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that the aloof, nasal voice belonged to his obnoxious coworker Donald Mason.
“Well, you’re never going to fix it that way. I don’t even think it is a paper jam, Peter. It says here on the display ‘PC LOAD LETTER’.”
“Yeah I don’t know what the hell that means, Donny. I can see the jam right--” Just then the plastic spoon Peter had taken from the office’s mini-kitchen snapped in two, leaving one half in his hand and the other lodged deep in the printers gears.
“I told you it’s not supposed to bend like that.”
“Shut the fuck up Donny! I’m down here on my knees trying to fix this paper jam that Kelly caused because she can’t fucking lay off the goddamn ‘print screen’ button and you just stand there giving me shit. Why don’t you do something useful for a change and get down here and help me fix this worthless piece of shit?”
“You’re language is atrocious, and juvenile Peter. You should do yourself a favor and grow up. And I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Donald.” With that Donald Mason turned and walked back to his cubicle.
Just as he was sitting down Peter muttered “I’d appreciate it if you’d go straight to hell.” loud enough that Donald could just barely hear it.
“What was that Peter?”
“I said ‘I’ll just stick with it since it’s going so well,’ that’s all.”
“Whatever.”
Peter returned to the paper jam. He rolled the sleeve of his shirt up to his elbow and reached into the bowels of the machine, desperately attempting to wrangle the broken spoon free from its metal bindings. “C’mon you dirty bastard, come to daddy.” He grasped the jagged end of the spoon between his thumb and index finger and gave it a hefty tug. Nothing. He put his free hand up against the outside frame of the printer and twisted his body, using his shoulders for added pulling power. Still nothing. In a final act of desperation Peter sat down, placed both feet against the printer and gave the spoon a vicious pull. The spoon exploded from the depths of the printer without warning and the excess momentum deposited Peter flat on his back. The printer immediately began spitting out page after page with a heavy mechanical rhythm. Peter got to his feet and looked at the papers flying out the mouth of the machine and into the collection tray. One of them caught his eye. He grabbed a handful of the finished still-warm papers from the tray and thumbed through them quickly. Soon he found what he was looking for; a single paper that lacked the black-and-white spreadsheet present on all the others. In it’s place were two words, printed dead center on the page in twelve point Times New Roman.
HELP ME
Peter tossed the rest of the pages back in the collection bin and walked over to Kelly Preston’s cubicle with the anomalous page clutched in his right hand.
“Kelly, I fixed your paper jam, again. And by the way, what the hell is this?”
“What the hell is what?”
“This!” Peter held the paper out in front of Kelly’s face.
“A piece of paper with words on it. I’m really busy, Peter.”
“This came out in the middle of your print job, is it some kind of joke? I don’t get it.”
“I don’t know, Peter! I didn’t fuckin’ do it, all right? Now could you please leave me alone, I am really busy.”
“You’re such a bitch, Kelly.”
“Go fuck yourself ,Peter.”
Peter walked away from her cubicle, paper in hand, cursing under his breath. He made his way though the office maze to his own cubicle and sat down at his desk. He opened a random document on his computer and told it to print twenty-seven copies. He could hear the printer coughing out the pages as he walked across the office. By the time he made it to the printer it had finished its task and twenty-seven freshly inked spreadsheets were lying in the collection bin. He picked them up and sorted through them page by page. Sure enough, three-quarters of the way to the bottom of the pile was another anomaly.
HELP ME, PETER
Peter let out a sigh of frustration and stood up on the table the printer was on so that everyone in the whole office could see him.
“all right, which one of you fuckers is playing with the printer?” No one so much as looked up at him so he stepped up on top of the printer itself and shouted a little louder.
“I said which one of you stupid bastards is playing with the fucking printer!” As with his first outburst, no one in the office reacted. Except for Donald.
“Peter, is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes Donny, there is. I want to know who had been screwing around with this printer and I want to know right now.”
“It’s Donald, and I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Shut the fuck up Donny! These papers, why are they coming out with every print job? Who is doing this?”
“Why don’t you come down from there and we can talk about it.”
“Yeah, why don’t I come down and talk about it.” Peter took one step off the printer, misplaced his foot and fell off the table. He slipped through the air awkwardly, couldn’t get an arm out to brace for the impact and crashed onto the thinly carpeted floor head first. Though his motionless body was sprawled out on the ground, in his head Peter was still f
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he abruptly came to a stop. Peter looked around but it was like staring directly into the sun
or a fluorescent light bulb--he couldn’t see a thing.
He tried to move but none of his limbs would cooperate.
“Who said that? Who’s there?”
“Who are you? What are you?”
“What the fuck? Glenn Danzig?”
“But you look like my neighbor’s yard gnome.”
“Portal?”
“What’s the message 1988 Glenn Danzig?”
“Oh, sure. What is the message 1988 Danzig?”
“Right, sorry.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? What the hell is that supposed
to mean? Who is transforming? I don’t get
it.”
“Who the fuck is David?”
“Sorry. Who the crap is David?”
“Who?”
“But who am I saving him from?”
“Tell me about it. Can you do one thing
for me 1988 Danzig?”
“Sing ‘Mother’ for me.”
“Please? I will only defend David
if you sing me ‘Mother’.”
“Mother.”
“Mother!”
“Christ, Peter, you scared me half to death!”
“What?”
“We were just about to call an ambulance!”
Peter blinked several times in quick succession and let the soft light of the office illuminate his surroundings. He was half-sitting on the floor near the printer, his coworkers gathered around him in a semicircle. Donald Mason was sitting next to him.
“Whoa. What happened?”
“You fell down and hit your head. You must have been unconscious for, I don’t know, ten minutes.”
“Uhhh, that would explain the headache and 1988 Glenn Danzig.”
“1988 Glenn Danzig?”
“Yeah, I must have had this crazy dream while I was out. Glenn Danzig came to me only--”
Donald cut him off. “Then you must know by now.”
“What?”
Donald stood up and motioned for the other employees to stand back. “I’m sorry that you had to find out, but you must know it is necessary.” He walked over to the printer and placed both hand on top of it. “We cannot have them here, it is not their place.”
“Shut the fuck up, Donny.” Peter was on his feet now, his left hand gripped tightly around a silver letter opener.
“Peter? Don’t you understand? The ratio must be preserved!”
“I said shut the fuck up, Donny.” With that he leapt at Donald and the two crashed around the office struggling to gain control of the letter opener. Peter had little problem gaining the upper hand and he was able to pin Donald up against the printer. He held Donald down with one arm and brought the letter opener over his head with the other.
Donald cried out in desperation. “Peter, think about what you are doing!” But it was no use. Peter brought the opener down on Donald's head with all his might. The blade penetrated his skull easily, so much so that Peter was startled. He stumbled back from Donald, who seemed to be suprisingly not dead. In fact he was getting bigger, inflating like a balloon. He let out a low howl as his bloated body kept stretching until it burst like a water balloon full of blood and entrails. The concussion of the explosion knocked the printer to the ground, where it sparked ferociously until it too exploded in a tremendous cloud of smoke and lightning. As the smoke cleared Peter could see the shape of a man walking towards him. Peter peered through the haze and could just barely make out the frilly spandex leotard the figure wore.
“Holy shit! David Lee Roth! No way!”
“Thank you Pete, I owe you one. And please, it’s 1979 Diamond Dave.”
Peter stood completely still, speechless. The shuffle of feet behind him broke his trance and he spun on his heel only to find the rest of the office employees moving towards him. He looked back at David Lee Roth.
“It’s not over yet, 1979 Diamond Dave. You with me?”
“Fuckin’ A right, Pete.”
“It’s Peter. Now let’s do this.” Peter faced the approaching horde, fists clenched for battle. “All right you dirty flesh sacks, who’s next?”
“I don’t think it’s supposed to bend like that.”
“Yes, I know, I’m just trying to fix this paper jam.” Peter Quistgard didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that the aloof, nasal voice belonged to his obnoxious coworker Donald Mason.
“Well, you’re never going to fix it that way. I don’t even think it is a paper jam, Peter. It says here on the display ‘PC LOAD LETTER’.”
“Yeah I don’t know what the hell that means, Donny. I can see the jam right--” Just then the plastic spoon Peter had taken from the office’s mini-kitchen snapped in two, leaving one half in his hand and the other lodged deep in the printers gears.
“I told you it’s not supposed to bend like that.”
“Shut the fuck up Donny! I’m down here on my knees trying to fix this paper jam that Kelly caused because she can’t fucking lay off the goddamn ‘print screen’ button and you just stand there giving me shit. Why don’t you do something useful for a change and get down here and help me fix this worthless piece of shit?”
“You’re language is atrocious, and juvenile Peter. You should do yourself a favor and grow up. And I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Donald.” With that Donald Mason turned and walked back to his cubicle.
Just as he was sitting down Peter muttered “I’d appreciate it if you’d go straight to hell.” loud enough that Donald could just barely hear it.
“What was that Peter?”
“I said ‘I’ll just stick with it since it’s going so well,’ that’s all.”
“Whatever.”
Peter returned to the paper jam. He rolled the sleeve of his shirt up to his elbow and reached into the bowels of the machine, desperately attempting to wrangle the broken spoon free from its metal bindings. “C’mon you dirty bastard, come to daddy.” He grasped the jagged end of the spoon between his thumb and index finger and gave it a hefty tug. Nothing. He put his free hand up against the outside frame of the printer and twisted his body, using his shoulders for added pulling power. Still nothing. In a final act of desperation Peter sat down, placed both feet against the printer and gave the spoon a vicious pull. The spoon exploded from the depths of the printer without warning and the excess momentum deposited Peter flat on his back. The printer immediately began spitting out page after page with a heavy mechanical rhythm. Peter got to his feet and looked at the papers flying out the mouth of the machine and into the collection tray. One of them caught his eye. He grabbed a handful of the finished still-warm papers from the tray and thumbed through them quickly. Soon he found what he was looking for; a single paper that lacked the black-and-white spreadsheet present on all the others. In it’s place were two words, printed dead center on the page in twelve point Times New Roman.
HELP ME
Peter tossed the rest of the pages back in the collection bin and walked over to Kelly Preston’s cubicle with the anomalous page clutched in his right hand.
“Kelly, I fixed your paper jam, again. And by the way, what the hell is this?”
“What the hell is what?”
“This!” Peter held the paper out in front of Kelly’s face.
“A piece of paper with words on it. I’m really busy, Peter.”
“This came out in the middle of your print job, is it some kind of joke? I don’t get it.”
“I don’t know, Peter! I didn’t fuckin’ do it, all right? Now could you please leave me alone, I am really busy.”
“You’re such a bitch, Kelly.”
“Go fuck yourself ,Peter.”
Peter walked away from her cubicle, paper in hand, cursing under his breath. He made his way though the office maze to his own cubicle and sat down at his desk. He opened a random document on his computer and told it to print twenty-seven copies. He could hear the printer coughing out the pages as he walked across the office. By the time he made it to the printer it had finished its task and twenty-seven freshly inked spreadsheets were lying in the collection bin. He picked them up and sorted through them page by page. Sure enough, three-quarters of the way to the bottom of the pile was another anomaly.
HELP ME, PETER
Peter let out a sigh of frustration and stood up on the table the printer was on so that everyone in the whole office could see him.
“all right, which one of you fuckers is playing with the printer?” No one so much as looked up at him so he stepped up on top of the printer itself and shouted a little louder.
“I said which one of you stupid bastards is playing with the fucking printer!” As with his first outburst, no one in the office reacted. Except for Donald.
“Peter, is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes Donny, there is. I want to know who had been screwing around with this printer and I want to know right now.”
“It’s Donald, and I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Shut the fuck up Donny! These papers, why are they coming out with every print job? Who is doing this?”
“Why don’t you come down from there and we can talk about it.”
“Yeah, why don’t I come down and talk about it.” Peter took one step off the printer, misplaced his foot and fell off the table. He slipped through the air awkwardly, couldn’t get an arm out to brace for the impact and crashed onto the thinly carpeted floor head first. Though his motionless body was sprawled out on the ground, in his head Peter was still f
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he abruptly came to a stop. Peter looked around but it was like staring directly into the sun
or a fluorescent light bulb--he couldn’t see a thing.
He tried to move but none of his limbs would cooperate.
“Hello, Peter Quistgard. It is good
to finally meet you in person.”
to finally meet you in person.”
“Who said that? Who’s there?”
Peter tried to again to look around, but he could still not see. He could not get
a feel for the space he was in, but the strange voice he heard sounded like it was
coming from his right.
a feel for the space he was in, but the strange voice he heard sounded like it was
coming from his right.
“I have been watching you for some time now.
It is good that you have come, we must begin soon.”
It is good that you have come, we must begin soon.”
Out of the corner of his eye Peter caught a faint speck of red
moving toward him out of the distance.
moving toward him out of the distance.
“Who are you? What are you?”
The speck got bigger and bigger as it approached until Peter could
see it clearly amidst the fluorescent whitewash. Before him stood
a three foot tall, manlike creature clad in a tall pointed hat, long
red coat and shiney black boots. A brilliant white beard adorned
the creature’s face and blended in with the background.
see it clearly amidst the fluorescent whitewash. Before him stood
a three foot tall, manlike creature clad in a tall pointed hat, long
red coat and shiney black boots. A brilliant white beard adorned
the creature’s face and blended in with the background.
“I am 1988 Glenn Danzig, I have come
with a message.”
with a message.”
“What the fuck? Glenn Danzig?”
“1988 Glenn Danzig.”
“But you look like my neighbor’s yard gnome.”
“To your eyes perhaps, but this is really
one of the spacial representations of the standard
uniform we must wear in order to successfully
step through the portal.”
one of the spacial representations of the standard
uniform we must wear in order to successfully
step through the portal.”
“Portal?”
“Look, this is no time to play Twenty Questions,
all you need to know is that I have come from 1988
with a message, an important message.”
all you need to know is that I have come from 1988
with a message, an important message.”
“What’s the message 1988 Glenn Danzig?”
“You can call me 1988 Danzig.”
“Oh, sure. What is the message 1988 Danzig?”
“I was going to get to that.”
“Right, sorry.”
“It’s okay. Anyway, the message. I have come from
1988 to give this message to you. It is very important
that you listen carefully.”
1988 to give this message to you. It is very important
that you listen carefully.”
“Okay.”
“Right. The message is this: I need your help Peter,
I can no longer maintain this disguise. Soon they will
know my true identity and after that it won’t be long
before they destroy me. You must defend me, Peter Quistgard,
until I am able to make my full transformation.”
I can no longer maintain this disguise. Soon they will
know my true identity and after that it won’t be long
before they destroy me. You must defend me, Peter Quistgard,
until I am able to make my full transformation.”
“That’s it? What the hell is that supposed
to mean? Who is transforming? I don’t get
it.”
“David. You are supposed to defend David.”
“Who the fuck is David?”
“Language, Peter.”
“Sorry. Who the crap is David?”
“Sebastian the Great Diamond King.”
“Who?”
“Your printer. David is your office printer. Or at least
that is the form he took on when he came through the portal.
Either way, there is no time for this! You must go back now
and save the Diamond King from certain demise!”
that is the form he took on when he came through the portal.
Either way, there is no time for this! You must go back now
and save the Diamond King from certain demise!”
“But who am I saving him from?”
“Everyone. You will see. I’d start with
that chump Donald. What a douche.”
that chump Donald. What a douche.”
“Tell me about it. Can you do one thing
for me 1988 Danzig?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Sing ‘Mother’ for me.”
“No.”
“Please? I will only defend David
if you sing me ‘Mother’.”
“How about ‘She Rides’?”
“Mother.”
“Oh all right. But you better do a brilliant
fucking job protecting David.”
fucking job protecting David.”
Mother. Tell your children not to walk my way. Tell your children not to hear my words, what they mean, what they say, Mother. Mother!
“Mother!”
“Christ, Peter, you scared me half to death!”
“What?”
“We were just about to call an ambulance!”
Peter blinked several times in quick succession and let the soft light of the office illuminate his surroundings. He was half-sitting on the floor near the printer, his coworkers gathered around him in a semicircle. Donald Mason was sitting next to him.
“Whoa. What happened?”
“You fell down and hit your head. You must have been unconscious for, I don’t know, ten minutes.”
“Uhhh, that would explain the headache and 1988 Glenn Danzig.”
“1988 Glenn Danzig?”
“Yeah, I must have had this crazy dream while I was out. Glenn Danzig came to me only--”
Donald cut him off. “Then you must know by now.”
“What?”
Donald stood up and motioned for the other employees to stand back. “I’m sorry that you had to find out, but you must know it is necessary.” He walked over to the printer and placed both hand on top of it. “We cannot have them here, it is not their place.”
“Shut the fuck up, Donny.” Peter was on his feet now, his left hand gripped tightly around a silver letter opener.
“Peter? Don’t you understand? The ratio must be preserved!”
“I said shut the fuck up, Donny.” With that he leapt at Donald and the two crashed around the office struggling to gain control of the letter opener. Peter had little problem gaining the upper hand and he was able to pin Donald up against the printer. He held Donald down with one arm and brought the letter opener over his head with the other.
Donald cried out in desperation. “Peter, think about what you are doing!” But it was no use. Peter brought the opener down on Donald's head with all his might. The blade penetrated his skull easily, so much so that Peter was startled. He stumbled back from Donald, who seemed to be suprisingly not dead. In fact he was getting bigger, inflating like a balloon. He let out a low howl as his bloated body kept stretching until it burst like a water balloon full of blood and entrails. The concussion of the explosion knocked the printer to the ground, where it sparked ferociously until it too exploded in a tremendous cloud of smoke and lightning. As the smoke cleared Peter could see the shape of a man walking towards him. Peter peered through the haze and could just barely make out the frilly spandex leotard the figure wore.
“Holy shit! David Lee Roth! No way!”
“Thank you Pete, I owe you one. And please, it’s 1979 Diamond Dave.”
Peter stood completely still, speechless. The shuffle of feet behind him broke his trance and he spun on his heel only to find the rest of the office employees moving towards him. He looked back at David Lee Roth.
“It’s not over yet, 1979 Diamond Dave. You with me?”
“Fuckin’ A right, Pete.”
“It’s Peter. Now let’s do this.” Peter faced the approaching horde, fists clenched for battle. “All right you dirty flesh sacks, who’s next?”
The Humanity (2)
Right Now
“Did you just compare my novel to my breakup tactics? Oh, hey, it is snowing.”
“Don’t you ever check the weather, Paul? The news called for a light dusting. Do you try to avoid putting footprints in fresh snow, or do you make as many as you can?”
“I like to enjoy the pureness of fresh snow for a moment then trample it to hell. Why?
“I always get sad when people walk all over a clean sheet of snow.”
“Yeah, whatever. Dan, there is something I need to tell you. It’s kind of a serious matter. It’s about Thompson.”
“Okay? I’m not sure if I like the way this conversation is going, but by all means, continue.”
“Well, I don’t know how to phrase it gently, so I will just throw it out there. Thompson is a dinosaur from the future. Or the past, by way of the future, or something confusing like that.”
“Paul, you are so retarded. This is why you had me meet you here? To tell me your friend is a dinosaur from the future? This has now become the single dumbest thing you have ever said to me. I don’t understand how this is supposed to be funny.”
“Dan, I am dead serious. He came to me three years ago and told me this story and I didn’t want to believe it but he was a talking dinosaur, so I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Have a choice in what?”
“Joining his revolutionary army.”
“Are you high?”
“No, and I wasn’t when I met him, either.”
“You’re so high right now.”
“No, I swear I’m not. This is really important, Dan. Please listen to me!”
“Dude, this is the lamest joke you have ever come up with. It’s not even a joke!”
“Please, just hear me out.”
“All right, fine. I’ll play along, for your sake. Lay it on me.”
“Ok, so I met Thompson three years ago tonight. I was taking the trash out to the dumpster when I heard a voice in my head telling me to turn around, so I did and holy shit! There was a fucking Tyrannosaurus Rex in my backyard! I start to freak out but the voice is telling me ‘be cool’ and long story short he tells me this: his name is Thompson. He is a T.rex from the past who was sent to the future in a time machine built by this guy Emmett and in this future other dinosaurs, who were also sent to the future, function as slaves for humanity. So Thompson gets pissed and starts an underground revolution and steals the time machine with a plan to go back in time and stomp on this guy Emmett before he can invent the time machine in the first place, only Thompson can’t operate the machine properly with his tiny T.rex arms and essentially crash lands in my backyard. He then tells me that before he left the future he instructed his lieutenant in the underground dino resistance to send all of their forces back in time to stomp mankind out of existence if he is unsuccessful. Which brings us to tonight. Thompson made it to the right time, but the machine crashed in the wrong place, and he has been unable to either locate this guy Emmett or return to the future, and as a result the dino-contingency-plan-future-force has arrived, tonight, to begin the worldwide elimination of the human race tomorrow.”
“Ok then, I have just a few questions. First, how did Thompson learn to communicate telepathically? I mean, I’m assuming that’s what you meant, right?”
“Yeah. Turns out that is how all dinosaurs communicated back in the day.”
“Ok. Second, why don’t the dinosaurs stage their revolution in the future?”
“Because by that time humans have weapons powerful enough to keep them in check.”
“And they don’t have weapons powerful enough to do that now? What about tanks and fighter planes and shit?”
“I guess not. Have you ever seen a dinosaur in person? They are damn imposing.”
“Ok. Third, how did all these dinosaurs get to the future?”
“After the success with Thompson, time machines become widespread and are used to harvest dinosaurs from the past.”
“You are so high.”
“God damn it, Dan, were you even listening?”
“Yes, Paul, I was. You were talking about dinosaurs from the future for a solid two minutes. Everybody in this whole place was looking at you like you were coked out of your skull.”
“Well they can all go straight to hell, and probably will tomorrow. Most of them, anyway.”
“You can stop now, man. The joke is over, you just sound crazy.”
“Very well. If you don’t want to believe me, that’s your prerogative. But do me just one favor, before you leave and dismiss this whole conversation.”
“Ok, what is it?”
“Turn around, Dan, look out the window and down the alley and tell me what you see.”
“Whatever. I see snow falling and a dumpster and some sort of pipe with steam coming out of it. You happy now?”
“Look again.”
“Jesus, Paul. I really don’t know why I put up with you some--oh shit...”
Tomorrow
“What’s wrong with JT? Are you saying you don’t like JT? How could you not like JT?”
“He’s not that great, really. What is so hard to understand about that?”
“Dude, he’s fucking bringing sexy back!”
“That doesn’t make any sense! Where did sexy go? What makes him so special that he has to be the one to bring it back? Was there something on the last ballot that I missed? No one elected him to bring back sexy.”
“Yeah, that’s right. No one elected him because he took charge of the situation! You didn’t even know sexy was gone, but JT did, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t go out there and make shit happen to bring it back.”
“He didn’t, though. Listen to the lyrics man, he’s saying ‘I’m bringing sexy back’ not ‘I’ve brought sexy back.’ He probably hasn’t even found it yet! ‘I’m bringing sexy back’ my ass, it’s more like ‘I am going to go look for sexy and though I haven’t quite found it yet when I do I will be sure to bring it back for all of you, if I can.’ If it were me I’d wait until I had sexy before announcing I was bringing it back and even then I’d say ‘I brought sexy back, bitches’ or something like that.”
“Oh, he found sexy, Dan. He found sexy. See, the song is merely the vehicle he is bringing ‘the sexy’ back in. The lyrics are more like an announcement, like ‘hey kids I’ve traveled far and wide and behold: I have found sexy and will henceforth be bringing it back for you all to enjoy in this awesome song.’ Perhaps it would help if there was a colon, ‘I’m bringing sexy back:’ and then the music completes the sentence.”
“But all the music was done by Timbaland.”
“Well, maybe Timbaland was the pilot of JT’s sexy-seeking spaceship. JT was the commander who gave instructions and shit and all Timbaland did was steer the ship in the right direction.”
“Like Darth Vader does in Empire when they are chasing the Falcon through the asteroid belt and all the captains don’t want to follow but Vader steps in and sets them straight.”
“Yes! Apology accepted, Captain Needa. Damn, Dan, you are finally starting to come around.”
“You know who should bring sexy back? Darth Vader. Darth Vader should bring sexy back. He gets my vote.”
“Luke, I am bringing sexy back. Search your feelings, you know it is true.”
“Your Vader impersonation needs some work, Paul.”
“Whatever.”
“Seriously though, it doesn’t bother you that we are about to ride down into the city and start the end of mankind?”
“Nah. I doubt they’ll actually exterminate every human, just enough to get their point across. And I imagine that will happen pretty quickly. Why, does it bother you?”
“A little, maybe. Shit, I don’t know, I guess it’s better being up here than down there, on the other end of it.”
Dan squinted his brown eyes as the sun crept over the horizon, its orange light spreading over the frosted buildings of downtown Buffalo, NY at a soothing pace. Early risers were out scraping windshields and bringing in the morning paper while coffee was being brewed inside. Steam rose from the exhaust pipes of the countless cars fighting traffic on the freeway. As the sunlight crept up to the crest of the tallest hill in City Park a lone figure stood at the apex of the hill and let out a tremendous roar. On its back rode two humans.
One of them spoke through a loudspeaker: “ONWARD BROTHERS AND SISTERS, TODAY WE MARCH AGAINST OPPRESSION! TODAY WE MARCH AGAINST SLAVERY! TODAY WE MARCH FOR FREEDOM! ONWARD BROTHERS! ONWARD SISTERS! ONWARD REVOLUTIONARY DINOSAUR ARMY! ONWARD TO VICTORY! HURRAH! HURRAH! THE TIME IS NOW! HURRAH! HURRAH! ONWARD TO GLORY!” From behind the hill came a deafening rumble as a host of dinosaurs, big and small, stormed up and over the crest and down towards the city.
Ms. Wallace’s third grade class had been planning to go to the natural history museum since the beginning of the school year, and the excitement could bee seen on her students’ faces. One of them in particular, a young boy named Zach, had been looking forward to the prehistoric insect exhibit. No sooner than they had entered the main doors, Zach broke free from the single file line and ran up to the giant statue that greets visitors in the atrium.
“Whoa, lookit this guy, Ms. Wallace! A stegosaurus! Lookit! He looks mean but he only eats vegetab--” Before the word could leave his mouth the seemingly inanimate stegosaurus roared to life, leaping off of the display and sweeping her spiked tail in a violent arch. The tail struck Zach midway through its trajectory and the little boy made a quick shriek as one of the spikes was driven through his torso. Terror filled the air and mingled with the screams of museum goers as the stegosaur turned around and charged into the panicked group of third graders. Those who were not stomped or crushed under the dinosaur's massive feet were sent flying through Plexiglas windows and into the gift shop when the beast spun around to swing its deadly tail again. Satisfied with the havoc she had wrought, the stegosaurus charged out the front entrance of the museum, rejoining her comrades on the street. Back inside, Ms. Wallace had managed to survive the initial onslaught by cowering under the ticket counter and was frantically trying to locate her students. She crawled out from underneath the ticket counter and tried to stand up. Her left knee made a wet pop and she fell to the ground, the pain surging through her leg a brutal reminder of her days as a downhill skier and the surgically repaired ACL that never quite healed right. She crawled on her hands and good knee across the room, paddling her way through the broken glass that covered the floor. Several feet away she saw a red tennis shoe poking out from behind an overturned garbage can.
“Jenny!” she cried out, recognizing the shoe usually worn by little Jennifer McCloud. With renewed energy Ms. Wallace crawled towards the shoe, ignoring the shards of glass embedded in her hands. “Jenny, hold on!”
Ms. Wallace pushed the garbage can to the side and felt her stomach lurch up into her throat. There, drowning in a pool of blood, was little Jenny McCloud’s red tennis shoe, and most of her left leg up to the knee.
Back on top of the hill where it all started, the two humans were still on the back of the colossal tyrannosaurus.
“I should probably go get Mia.”
“Yes Paul, you should. You should probably go pretty soon, too. Like, right now.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Damn right I’m right.”
“I never broke up with her, you know. I mean a second time. I couldn’t do it. I guess it was her and not the scrambled eggs I wanted.”
“I know. Now c’mon buddy, let’s do this.”
“I’m glad you came around, Dan. It is good to have you with us.”
“Really, what was I going to do? Turn down the opportunity to ride into battle on the back of a T.rex? Come on, this is some total Kevin Costner Braveheart shit!”
--Braveheart was Mel Gibson, genius.--
“Dammit, Thompson, why do you have to be like that?”
“Did you just compare my novel to my breakup tactics? Oh, hey, it is snowing.”
“Don’t you ever check the weather, Paul? The news called for a light dusting. Do you try to avoid putting footprints in fresh snow, or do you make as many as you can?”
“I like to enjoy the pureness of fresh snow for a moment then trample it to hell. Why?
“I always get sad when people walk all over a clean sheet of snow.”
“Yeah, whatever. Dan, there is something I need to tell you. It’s kind of a serious matter. It’s about Thompson.”
“Okay? I’m not sure if I like the way this conversation is going, but by all means, continue.”
“Well, I don’t know how to phrase it gently, so I will just throw it out there. Thompson is a dinosaur from the future. Or the past, by way of the future, or something confusing like that.”
“Paul, you are so retarded. This is why you had me meet you here? To tell me your friend is a dinosaur from the future? This has now become the single dumbest thing you have ever said to me. I don’t understand how this is supposed to be funny.”
“Dan, I am dead serious. He came to me three years ago and told me this story and I didn’t want to believe it but he was a talking dinosaur, so I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Have a choice in what?”
“Joining his revolutionary army.”
“Are you high?”
“No, and I wasn’t when I met him, either.”
“You’re so high right now.”
“No, I swear I’m not. This is really important, Dan. Please listen to me!”
“Dude, this is the lamest joke you have ever come up with. It’s not even a joke!”
“Please, just hear me out.”
“All right, fine. I’ll play along, for your sake. Lay it on me.”
“Ok, so I met Thompson three years ago tonight. I was taking the trash out to the dumpster when I heard a voice in my head telling me to turn around, so I did and holy shit! There was a fucking Tyrannosaurus Rex in my backyard! I start to freak out but the voice is telling me ‘be cool’ and long story short he tells me this: his name is Thompson. He is a T.rex from the past who was sent to the future in a time machine built by this guy Emmett and in this future other dinosaurs, who were also sent to the future, function as slaves for humanity. So Thompson gets pissed and starts an underground revolution and steals the time machine with a plan to go back in time and stomp on this guy Emmett before he can invent the time machine in the first place, only Thompson can’t operate the machine properly with his tiny T.rex arms and essentially crash lands in my backyard. He then tells me that before he left the future he instructed his lieutenant in the underground dino resistance to send all of their forces back in time to stomp mankind out of existence if he is unsuccessful. Which brings us to tonight. Thompson made it to the right time, but the machine crashed in the wrong place, and he has been unable to either locate this guy Emmett or return to the future, and as a result the dino-contingency-plan-future-force has arrived, tonight, to begin the worldwide elimination of the human race tomorrow.”
“Ok then, I have just a few questions. First, how did Thompson learn to communicate telepathically? I mean, I’m assuming that’s what you meant, right?”
“Yeah. Turns out that is how all dinosaurs communicated back in the day.”
“Ok. Second, why don’t the dinosaurs stage their revolution in the future?”
“Because by that time humans have weapons powerful enough to keep them in check.”
“And they don’t have weapons powerful enough to do that now? What about tanks and fighter planes and shit?”
“I guess not. Have you ever seen a dinosaur in person? They are damn imposing.”
“Ok. Third, how did all these dinosaurs get to the future?”
“After the success with Thompson, time machines become widespread and are used to harvest dinosaurs from the past.”
“You are so high.”
“God damn it, Dan, were you even listening?”
“Yes, Paul, I was. You were talking about dinosaurs from the future for a solid two minutes. Everybody in this whole place was looking at you like you were coked out of your skull.”
“Well they can all go straight to hell, and probably will tomorrow. Most of them, anyway.”
“You can stop now, man. The joke is over, you just sound crazy.”
“Very well. If you don’t want to believe me, that’s your prerogative. But do me just one favor, before you leave and dismiss this whole conversation.”
“Ok, what is it?”
“Turn around, Dan, look out the window and down the alley and tell me what you see.”
“Whatever. I see snow falling and a dumpster and some sort of pipe with steam coming out of it. You happy now?”
“Look again.”
“Jesus, Paul. I really don’t know why I put up with you some--oh shit...”
Tomorrow
“What’s wrong with JT? Are you saying you don’t like JT? How could you not like JT?”
“He’s not that great, really. What is so hard to understand about that?”
“Dude, he’s fucking bringing sexy back!”
“That doesn’t make any sense! Where did sexy go? What makes him so special that he has to be the one to bring it back? Was there something on the last ballot that I missed? No one elected him to bring back sexy.”
“Yeah, that’s right. No one elected him because he took charge of the situation! You didn’t even know sexy was gone, but JT did, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t go out there and make shit happen to bring it back.”
“He didn’t, though. Listen to the lyrics man, he’s saying ‘I’m bringing sexy back’ not ‘I’ve brought sexy back.’ He probably hasn’t even found it yet! ‘I’m bringing sexy back’ my ass, it’s more like ‘I am going to go look for sexy and though I haven’t quite found it yet when I do I will be sure to bring it back for all of you, if I can.’ If it were me I’d wait until I had sexy before announcing I was bringing it back and even then I’d say ‘I brought sexy back, bitches’ or something like that.”
“Oh, he found sexy, Dan. He found sexy. See, the song is merely the vehicle he is bringing ‘the sexy’ back in. The lyrics are more like an announcement, like ‘hey kids I’ve traveled far and wide and behold: I have found sexy and will henceforth be bringing it back for you all to enjoy in this awesome song.’ Perhaps it would help if there was a colon, ‘I’m bringing sexy back:’ and then the music completes the sentence.”
“But all the music was done by Timbaland.”
“Well, maybe Timbaland was the pilot of JT’s sexy-seeking spaceship. JT was the commander who gave instructions and shit and all Timbaland did was steer the ship in the right direction.”
“Like Darth Vader does in Empire when they are chasing the Falcon through the asteroid belt and all the captains don’t want to follow but Vader steps in and sets them straight.”
“Yes! Apology accepted, Captain Needa. Damn, Dan, you are finally starting to come around.”
“You know who should bring sexy back? Darth Vader. Darth Vader should bring sexy back. He gets my vote.”
“Luke, I am bringing sexy back. Search your feelings, you know it is true.”
“Your Vader impersonation needs some work, Paul.”
“Whatever.”
“Seriously though, it doesn’t bother you that we are about to ride down into the city and start the end of mankind?”
“Nah. I doubt they’ll actually exterminate every human, just enough to get their point across. And I imagine that will happen pretty quickly. Why, does it bother you?”
“A little, maybe. Shit, I don’t know, I guess it’s better being up here than down there, on the other end of it.”
Dan squinted his brown eyes as the sun crept over the horizon, its orange light spreading over the frosted buildings of downtown Buffalo, NY at a soothing pace. Early risers were out scraping windshields and bringing in the morning paper while coffee was being brewed inside. Steam rose from the exhaust pipes of the countless cars fighting traffic on the freeway. As the sunlight crept up to the crest of the tallest hill in City Park a lone figure stood at the apex of the hill and let out a tremendous roar. On its back rode two humans.
One of them spoke through a loudspeaker: “ONWARD BROTHERS AND SISTERS, TODAY WE MARCH AGAINST OPPRESSION! TODAY WE MARCH AGAINST SLAVERY! TODAY WE MARCH FOR FREEDOM! ONWARD BROTHERS! ONWARD SISTERS! ONWARD REVOLUTIONARY DINOSAUR ARMY! ONWARD TO VICTORY! HURRAH! HURRAH! THE TIME IS NOW! HURRAH! HURRAH! ONWARD TO GLORY!” From behind the hill came a deafening rumble as a host of dinosaurs, big and small, stormed up and over the crest and down towards the city.
Ms. Wallace’s third grade class had been planning to go to the natural history museum since the beginning of the school year, and the excitement could bee seen on her students’ faces. One of them in particular, a young boy named Zach, had been looking forward to the prehistoric insect exhibit. No sooner than they had entered the main doors, Zach broke free from the single file line and ran up to the giant statue that greets visitors in the atrium.
“Whoa, lookit this guy, Ms. Wallace! A stegosaurus! Lookit! He looks mean but he only eats vegetab--” Before the word could leave his mouth the seemingly inanimate stegosaurus roared to life, leaping off of the display and sweeping her spiked tail in a violent arch. The tail struck Zach midway through its trajectory and the little boy made a quick shriek as one of the spikes was driven through his torso. Terror filled the air and mingled with the screams of museum goers as the stegosaur turned around and charged into the panicked group of third graders. Those who were not stomped or crushed under the dinosaur's massive feet were sent flying through Plexiglas windows and into the gift shop when the beast spun around to swing its deadly tail again. Satisfied with the havoc she had wrought, the stegosaurus charged out the front entrance of the museum, rejoining her comrades on the street. Back inside, Ms. Wallace had managed to survive the initial onslaught by cowering under the ticket counter and was frantically trying to locate her students. She crawled out from underneath the ticket counter and tried to stand up. Her left knee made a wet pop and she fell to the ground, the pain surging through her leg a brutal reminder of her days as a downhill skier and the surgically repaired ACL that never quite healed right. She crawled on her hands and good knee across the room, paddling her way through the broken glass that covered the floor. Several feet away she saw a red tennis shoe poking out from behind an overturned garbage can.
“Jenny!” she cried out, recognizing the shoe usually worn by little Jennifer McCloud. With renewed energy Ms. Wallace crawled towards the shoe, ignoring the shards of glass embedded in her hands. “Jenny, hold on!”
Ms. Wallace pushed the garbage can to the side and felt her stomach lurch up into her throat. There, drowning in a pool of blood, was little Jenny McCloud’s red tennis shoe, and most of her left leg up to the knee.
Back on top of the hill where it all started, the two humans were still on the back of the colossal tyrannosaurus.
“I should probably go get Mia.”
“Yes Paul, you should. You should probably go pretty soon, too. Like, right now.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Damn right I’m right.”
“I never broke up with her, you know. I mean a second time. I couldn’t do it. I guess it was her and not the scrambled eggs I wanted.”
“I know. Now c’mon buddy, let’s do this.”
“I’m glad you came around, Dan. It is good to have you with us.”
“Really, what was I going to do? Turn down the opportunity to ride into battle on the back of a T.rex? Come on, this is some total Kevin Costner Braveheart shit!”
--Braveheart was Mel Gibson, genius.--
“Dammit, Thompson, why do you have to be like that?”
The Humanity (1)
Can't believe I haven't posted this yet. Spent a good part of 2007 working on it. Interesting to see how the things I used to be psyched on have fallen to the side. I think it is important to note that all the characters (especially the school children) are from my elementary school days.
Two Days Ago
“A fox hat?”
“Yeah, a fox hat.”
“Like, a ‘coon skin hat? Like Davey Crockett and shit?”
“No, Dan, a fox hat, like a hat, that is a fox.”
“Oh, of course. Why should I put a dead fox on my head?”
“No, not dead, the fox has to be alive.”
“What? Paul, how the fuck would that work?”
“Don’t get angry, Dan.”
“I’m not angry, Paul.”
“If you’re not angry why, then, did you raise your voice?”
“I didn’t raise my voice in anger. I was just emphasizing my curiosity.”
“Why did you curse, then?”
“Paul, the hat.”
“Right. It’s a fox hat.”
“Yes I know, but how are you going to make a live fox into a hat?”
“Well, you put the fox on your head, and there is a chin strap, yeah, and maybe the chin strap is extendable so you can use it as a leash to keep the little guy from running away when you take the hat off or go inside and have to leave him tied to a bike rack.”
“Yeah, but then you’d have a live, angry fox strapped to your head. What’s to keep--”
“He wouldn’t be angry.”
“Why not? I’d be pretty angry if I were strapped to your head. What’s stopping me, or the fox, from scratching your eyes out?”
“Dan, if you were strapped to my head I wouldn't be able to stand up or do much of anything. That’s pretty dumb. How would I wear you, anyway? Folded over at the waist? Or would I sort of drape you around my shoulders, like a scarf.”
“Dude. The fox. The fox would scratch and bite you to shit, man.”
“No, the fox would be trained.”
“Right. You’d train the fox. Is this before or after you attached the chin strap?”
“Before. But the fox wouldn’t be angry. He’d be happy.”
“I am a fox. I am on your head. I am not happy.”
“Sure you are. That heat escaping my body through my head is keeping your belly warm. I’ve never been unhappy when my belly was warm. Plus, I’d be carrying you around to all these cool places, like coffee shops and pedestrian malls.”
“I imagine you would not be happy, despite your belly being warm, when you are stuck on some guy’s melon.”
“Unlikely.”
“All right, Paul, fox happiness aside, what keeps the fox from freaking out when you eat? I mean, say you go out to dinner and it’s a nice night so you decide to sit on the patio, but the air is a little crisp so you keep your fox hat on. Your meal comes and every time you go to take a bite of your lasagna the fox scratches you in the mouth and knocks your fork to the ground. What then?”
“Well, I think you are ignoring a critical issue here: the bond between fox and man. There is a symbiotic relationship here! Can’t you see? Jesus man, you must respect the fox! After all, he is the one allowing you to wear him as though he were a hat, is he not? Your scenario is deeply flawed. Observe: since I see my fox as an equal, I would kindly remove him from my head and attach his leash to my chair before eating my meal. “
“But it’s cold out, remember? You can’t take him off.”
“Dan, I’d just give him a few bites of my lasagna then.”
“Okay, but you say that you respect the fox and share a symbiotic relationship with it, even though parasitic is a much more appropriate term, but why is it that the fox is the one strapped to your head? Why is it that it is the fox that you leash to your chair? If you truly respected the fox, why would you condemn it to a life of domestication? Why would you confine its world to wherever you took it on your head? Even if it is a pedestrian mall!”
Ten Minutes Ago
“Dude, where were you last night? Mia’s party was really cool. She was wondering why you didn’t go.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. I was hanging out with Thompson. We went to one of those arty theaters where they play classic movies on the weekends. Saw Army of Darkness and Aliens back to back. It was sick. Was she pissed?”
“Yeah, Paul, she was pissed. You know, you rally need to do something about this situation. You could have--how long have you been here?”
“About half an hour, why?”
“How many cups of coffee have you had?”
“Five. Six. No, five.”
“Shit, Paul, being around you and coffee is like being super-glued to a five-year-old.”
“Whatever.”
“Do you remember that goddamned fox hat conversation? That was the most retarded thing I have ever been a part of.”
“What was wrong with the fox hat, Dan? Where did all this animosity come from? Oh, I get it, you are just jealous you didn’t come up with it first.”
“I swear I will leave. I will get up and walk out of here so fast.”
“Okay, okay, relax. Do you want to order something?”
“No, I’m fine. Anyway, you really have to work things out with Mia, she’s getting on my nerves about you getting on hers.”
“I’m gonna get a piece of pie. Where the hell is the waitress?”
“Could you please talk to her?”
“I still don’t understand what she’s so upset about. Dammit, I want some cherry pie, where is the waitress?”
One Week Ago
“If you want out, why don’t you just tell her?”
“I tried.”
“How’d it go?”
“Well, Dan, it was like watching the Hindenburg go down. Everything started off so well, then KA-BLAM, the tears started and a voice was screaming ‘OH, THE HUMANITY!’ in my head.”
“Yeah, then what?”
“She cried enough that her tears could have probably put the Hindenburg fire out, and I kinda backed off the topic and apologized.”
“You aren’t scared of her, are you?”
“No, I’m not. Well, maybe, just a little bit.”
“That’s just great, Paul. You realize that you’ve just dug your hole about a hundred times deeper, right?”
“I know, I know. It’s just, she’s a great girl. I mean, she made me breakfast and brought it to me in bed this morning. Toast, orange juice, bacon, eggs. Eggs man, she scrambled eggs for me. I love scrambled eggs.”
“So do you love her, or do you love scrambled eggs?”
“I love her, bringing me scrambled eggs.”
“Jesus, Paul. You know--shit. Pretend that other women would be willing to bring you eggs. Now ask yourself: is it her bringing your eggs, or just any girl bringing your lazy ass eggs?”
“You’re right, Dan, I know, but what am I supposed to do, apologize for apologizing for pretending to break up with her in the first place, then really break up with her.”
“Uhh, I’m not sure what all of that meant, but I think it meant ‘I’m going to tell her, again, and this time I am going to be serious,’ though I could be mistaken. ”
“Yeah, something like that. Ok, I’ll do it.”
“Good. What are you going to tell her?”
“Huh?”
“What are you going to say? Like, how are you going to break the news? You have to have a plan, otherwise you’ll break down as soon as the first tear is shed, again.”
“Oh, I’m not going to tell her anything.”
“What?”
“No man, I was just going to make her break up with me.”
“And how were you planning on doing that?”
“You know, I was just going to be so emotionally unavailable and cruel that she will be driven away and will eventually come to the conclusion that I am no longer the man for her and will then break up with me.”
“You are such an asshole.”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Shit, I’ll just tell her that I made a mistake the first time, and that this time is for real.”
“You’ve got to come up with something better than that, Paul. I’ll kick your ass myself if that’s what you tell her”
“Come on, Dan, I need some support. This is kind of a big issue, is it not? I was talking to Thompson about it last night and he said--”
“I don’t give a shit what Thompson said! I don’t even know Thompson! But I do know you, man, and I know Mia, and you owe her some respect.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Damn right I’m right.”
“Can we talk about something else now? People are looking at us like we should be at a knitting circle or something.”
“Paul, I have no idea what that means.”
Five Minutes Ago
“Thanks. Oh, and can I get another cup of coffee? Excellent. All right, so I probably haven’t handled this so well, but what do you expect? I’m not in some Hugh Grant movie, man.”
“What the hell does that mean? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Hugh Grant movie.”
“Yeah, you have, Dan. You remember the really shitty Batman movie? The one where the Batsuit had nipples? That was him.”
“That was George Clooney, you ass. And the Batsuit had nipples when Val Kilmer was Batman too, and that movie didn’t completely suck. Your suit-nipple suck-factor hypothesis is fundamentally flawed.”
“The Batsuit is not the issue here, dude. Can we please stay on topic?”
“I’m sorry, have we somehow stumbled into an alternate universe where my mind is in your body and your mind is in mine or something? Did you just ask if we could keep this conversation on topic?”
“I have no idea what you just said. Look, the point is this: I messed up. I should have held my ground and ended it then, but I didn’t I’ve already had this talk with Thompson and he thinks that ”
“Well, good for Thompson. I’m glad to know that he is replacing me as your best friend. Why don’t you just hang out here with him all the time?”
“Thompson doesn’t like going out.”
“Ok then. At any rate, you are just making things worse. Now you have to break up with her again, and she is probably going to hate you forever, instead of hating you for most of your life.”
“Okay, Dan. I’ll admit it, I made a very poor decision. Top five for sure.”
“Right behind the novel.”
Three Years Ago
“Your novel is really bad, Paul.”
“What? My novel is really awesome, Dan. What didn’t you like about it?”
“What is there to like? There’s no setting, no character development, no conflict, no resolution, there isn’t even a plot. It’s just two guys talking to each other.”
“Yeah?”
“There is nothing to it. Why should I bother to read it if I get nothing out of it?”
“It was funny, was it not?”
“There were moments, Paul, there were moments.”
“Damn right there were moments. My friend Thompson thinks it is awesome. He said he’d buy the movie rights, if he had the chance.”
“Who is Thompson?”
“Oh, he’s, uhh, this guy I met a few weeks ago. He’s pretty cool. He’s from out of town.”
“Really? Where is out of town for him?”
“Um, I dunno. Far away, I’m guessing.”
“Well, wherever he is from, he has a horrible taste in literature.”
Two Days Ago
“A fox hat?”
“Yeah, a fox hat.”
“Like, a ‘coon skin hat? Like Davey Crockett and shit?”
“No, Dan, a fox hat, like a hat, that is a fox.”
“Oh, of course. Why should I put a dead fox on my head?”
“No, not dead, the fox has to be alive.”
“What? Paul, how the fuck would that work?”
“Don’t get angry, Dan.”
“I’m not angry, Paul.”
“If you’re not angry why, then, did you raise your voice?”
“I didn’t raise my voice in anger. I was just emphasizing my curiosity.”
“Why did you curse, then?”
“Paul, the hat.”
“Right. It’s a fox hat.”
“Yes I know, but how are you going to make a live fox into a hat?”
“Well, you put the fox on your head, and there is a chin strap, yeah, and maybe the chin strap is extendable so you can use it as a leash to keep the little guy from running away when you take the hat off or go inside and have to leave him tied to a bike rack.”
“Yeah, but then you’d have a live, angry fox strapped to your head. What’s to keep--”
“He wouldn’t be angry.”
“Why not? I’d be pretty angry if I were strapped to your head. What’s stopping me, or the fox, from scratching your eyes out?”
“Dan, if you were strapped to my head I wouldn't be able to stand up or do much of anything. That’s pretty dumb. How would I wear you, anyway? Folded over at the waist? Or would I sort of drape you around my shoulders, like a scarf.”
“Dude. The fox. The fox would scratch and bite you to shit, man.”
“No, the fox would be trained.”
“Right. You’d train the fox. Is this before or after you attached the chin strap?”
“Before. But the fox wouldn’t be angry. He’d be happy.”
“I am a fox. I am on your head. I am not happy.”
“Sure you are. That heat escaping my body through my head is keeping your belly warm. I’ve never been unhappy when my belly was warm. Plus, I’d be carrying you around to all these cool places, like coffee shops and pedestrian malls.”
“I imagine you would not be happy, despite your belly being warm, when you are stuck on some guy’s melon.”
“Unlikely.”
“All right, Paul, fox happiness aside, what keeps the fox from freaking out when you eat? I mean, say you go out to dinner and it’s a nice night so you decide to sit on the patio, but the air is a little crisp so you keep your fox hat on. Your meal comes and every time you go to take a bite of your lasagna the fox scratches you in the mouth and knocks your fork to the ground. What then?”
“Well, I think you are ignoring a critical issue here: the bond between fox and man. There is a symbiotic relationship here! Can’t you see? Jesus man, you must respect the fox! After all, he is the one allowing you to wear him as though he were a hat, is he not? Your scenario is deeply flawed. Observe: since I see my fox as an equal, I would kindly remove him from my head and attach his leash to my chair before eating my meal. “
“But it’s cold out, remember? You can’t take him off.”
“Dan, I’d just give him a few bites of my lasagna then.”
“Okay, but you say that you respect the fox and share a symbiotic relationship with it, even though parasitic is a much more appropriate term, but why is it that the fox is the one strapped to your head? Why is it that it is the fox that you leash to your chair? If you truly respected the fox, why would you condemn it to a life of domestication? Why would you confine its world to wherever you took it on your head? Even if it is a pedestrian mall!”
Ten Minutes Ago
“Dude, where were you last night? Mia’s party was really cool. She was wondering why you didn’t go.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. I was hanging out with Thompson. We went to one of those arty theaters where they play classic movies on the weekends. Saw Army of Darkness and Aliens back to back. It was sick. Was she pissed?”
“Yeah, Paul, she was pissed. You know, you rally need to do something about this situation. You could have--how long have you been here?”
“About half an hour, why?”
“How many cups of coffee have you had?”
“Five. Six. No, five.”
“Shit, Paul, being around you and coffee is like being super-glued to a five-year-old.”
“Whatever.”
“Do you remember that goddamned fox hat conversation? That was the most retarded thing I have ever been a part of.”
“What was wrong with the fox hat, Dan? Where did all this animosity come from? Oh, I get it, you are just jealous you didn’t come up with it first.”
“I swear I will leave. I will get up and walk out of here so fast.”
“Okay, okay, relax. Do you want to order something?”
“No, I’m fine. Anyway, you really have to work things out with Mia, she’s getting on my nerves about you getting on hers.”
“I’m gonna get a piece of pie. Where the hell is the waitress?”
“Could you please talk to her?”
“I still don’t understand what she’s so upset about. Dammit, I want some cherry pie, where is the waitress?”
One Week Ago
“If you want out, why don’t you just tell her?”
“I tried.”
“How’d it go?”
“Well, Dan, it was like watching the Hindenburg go down. Everything started off so well, then KA-BLAM, the tears started and a voice was screaming ‘OH, THE HUMANITY!’ in my head.”
“Yeah, then what?”
“She cried enough that her tears could have probably put the Hindenburg fire out, and I kinda backed off the topic and apologized.”
“You aren’t scared of her, are you?”
“No, I’m not. Well, maybe, just a little bit.”
“That’s just great, Paul. You realize that you’ve just dug your hole about a hundred times deeper, right?”
“I know, I know. It’s just, she’s a great girl. I mean, she made me breakfast and brought it to me in bed this morning. Toast, orange juice, bacon, eggs. Eggs man, she scrambled eggs for me. I love scrambled eggs.”
“So do you love her, or do you love scrambled eggs?”
“I love her, bringing me scrambled eggs.”
“Jesus, Paul. You know--shit. Pretend that other women would be willing to bring you eggs. Now ask yourself: is it her bringing your eggs, or just any girl bringing your lazy ass eggs?”
“You’re right, Dan, I know, but what am I supposed to do, apologize for apologizing for pretending to break up with her in the first place, then really break up with her.”
“Uhh, I’m not sure what all of that meant, but I think it meant ‘I’m going to tell her, again, and this time I am going to be serious,’ though I could be mistaken. ”
“Yeah, something like that. Ok, I’ll do it.”
“Good. What are you going to tell her?”
“Huh?”
“What are you going to say? Like, how are you going to break the news? You have to have a plan, otherwise you’ll break down as soon as the first tear is shed, again.”
“Oh, I’m not going to tell her anything.”
“What?”
“No man, I was just going to make her break up with me.”
“And how were you planning on doing that?”
“You know, I was just going to be so emotionally unavailable and cruel that she will be driven away and will eventually come to the conclusion that I am no longer the man for her and will then break up with me.”
“You are such an asshole.”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Shit, I’ll just tell her that I made a mistake the first time, and that this time is for real.”
“You’ve got to come up with something better than that, Paul. I’ll kick your ass myself if that’s what you tell her”
“Come on, Dan, I need some support. This is kind of a big issue, is it not? I was talking to Thompson about it last night and he said--”
“I don’t give a shit what Thompson said! I don’t even know Thompson! But I do know you, man, and I know Mia, and you owe her some respect.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Damn right I’m right.”
“Can we talk about something else now? People are looking at us like we should be at a knitting circle or something.”
“Paul, I have no idea what that means.”
Five Minutes Ago
“Thanks. Oh, and can I get another cup of coffee? Excellent. All right, so I probably haven’t handled this so well, but what do you expect? I’m not in some Hugh Grant movie, man.”
“What the hell does that mean? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Hugh Grant movie.”
“Yeah, you have, Dan. You remember the really shitty Batman movie? The one where the Batsuit had nipples? That was him.”
“That was George Clooney, you ass. And the Batsuit had nipples when Val Kilmer was Batman too, and that movie didn’t completely suck. Your suit-nipple suck-factor hypothesis is fundamentally flawed.”
“The Batsuit is not the issue here, dude. Can we please stay on topic?”
“I’m sorry, have we somehow stumbled into an alternate universe where my mind is in your body and your mind is in mine or something? Did you just ask if we could keep this conversation on topic?”
“I have no idea what you just said. Look, the point is this: I messed up. I should have held my ground and ended it then, but I didn’t I’ve already had this talk with Thompson and he thinks that ”
“Well, good for Thompson. I’m glad to know that he is replacing me as your best friend. Why don’t you just hang out here with him all the time?”
“Thompson doesn’t like going out.”
“Ok then. At any rate, you are just making things worse. Now you have to break up with her again, and she is probably going to hate you forever, instead of hating you for most of your life.”
“Okay, Dan. I’ll admit it, I made a very poor decision. Top five for sure.”
“Right behind the novel.”
Three Years Ago
“Your novel is really bad, Paul.”
“What? My novel is really awesome, Dan. What didn’t you like about it?”
“What is there to like? There’s no setting, no character development, no conflict, no resolution, there isn’t even a plot. It’s just two guys talking to each other.”
“Yeah?”
“There is nothing to it. Why should I bother to read it if I get nothing out of it?”
“It was funny, was it not?”
“There were moments, Paul, there were moments.”
“Damn right there were moments. My friend Thompson thinks it is awesome. He said he’d buy the movie rights, if he had the chance.”
“Who is Thompson?”
“Oh, he’s, uhh, this guy I met a few weeks ago. He’s pretty cool. He’s from out of town.”
“Really? Where is out of town for him?”
“Um, I dunno. Far away, I’m guessing.”
“Well, wherever he is from, he has a horrible taste in literature.”
12.01.2008
And now for something completely different
While avoiding several large essay assignments I stumbled upon this relic: a short film* I made for an english project way back in high school. No further comments could ever clarify the madness you are about to witness, so I'll just dim the lights and start the projector. obviousjesus, this is for you.
*please note that the term 'film' is used very, very loosely.
*please note that the term 'film' is used very, very loosely.
Memory. . .
. . . has always fascinated me. The way something will suddenly emerge from the inky depths of your mind with the clarity of a thousand suns is amazing. Of course, that clarity exists only for a brief moment (and is hardly clear, but that is another topic that I don’t feel like embracing at this point) before those thousand suns swell and fade and die and the tiny fragment of the past is lost to the depths again. I feel like I owe it to my future self to document every bit of memory I can conjure, so that I can have a detailed map of my history. I want to remember everything. I want to turn up the intensity of the searchlight until every last corner of memory is exposed and burned into the permanent record.
11.25.2008
Jet Car
This part is true:
And we’re in a hotel room but we’re in separate beds, and I can see her lying down across the canyon between beds that might as well be impossibly deep and wide but I don’t care. I’ll be Evel Kneivel and I’ll ride a bicycle or motorcycle or jet-car over the gap and crash in a huge fireball that could be a raging inferno or could be her crushing blue eyes. Either way she’ll put out the fire, smother my smoldering wreck in her open palms, smoke trickling through her fingers, and I’ll be taken to the hospital and condemned to bed rest, so that I can recover and heal and try to jump the canyon again because this is what I do and this is what I will do until someday or somenight I’ll make the jump and land and will be welcomed with cheers and praise and most importantly an open heart that is really all I ever wanted to begin with.
Uhhh, yeah. What was the name of the wine I was drinking?
And we’re in a hotel room but we’re in separate beds, and I can see her lying down across the canyon between beds that might as well be impossibly deep and wide but I don’t care. I’ll be Evel Kneivel and I’ll ride a bicycle or motorcycle or jet-car over the gap and crash in a huge fireball that could be a raging inferno or could be her crushing blue eyes. Either way she’ll put out the fire, smother my smoldering wreck in her open palms, smoke trickling through her fingers, and I’ll be taken to the hospital and condemned to bed rest, so that I can recover and heal and try to jump the canyon again because this is what I do and this is what I will do until someday or somenight I’ll make the jump and land and will be welcomed with cheers and praise and most importantly an open heart that is really all I ever wanted to begin with.
Uhhh, yeah. What was the name of the wine I was drinking?
11.17.2008
Electricity
This part isn't true:
I think I want to have my heart broken. That way, I can always be falling in love. I think I’m addicted to that feeling you get when you think about someone you want. That electric rush, all excitement and desire and passion. And you want her, you want her so bad your heart beats irregularly and your blood becomes liquid electricity even though you’re just lying in bed. The brief moment of weightlessness before you fall back to Earth. All that matters is the quiet touch of her glistening lips and fingers drawn across her naked back. Legs interlocked and the faint smell of her hair that you use to tickle her slender neck. Every time you exhale you want to fill the empty space in your lungs with her scent, her breath. There is a hole in your chest and it creates a vacuum that draws in air and energy and if you don’t feel her skin on your skin your body will cave in on itself. The contrast of her dark hair on the white pillow case is most noticeable at night, when the only sound is the rustle of sheets as they rise and fall with each effortless breath she takes. Crisp autumn air pours through the cracked window and you can’t tell if your hairs are standing on end because of the cold or the electricity between bodies. She is on her side and the sheets rest at the summit of her hips, a single finger whispers lines of latitude up her meridians, following epicurean topography. I think about her clothes on the floor, how her jeans seemed to melt off her body, how her shirt slid over her head in one flawless motion, how her bra came off like turning a page in a book.
Another fragment of the novel. I need to find another word for "electric."
I think I want to have my heart broken. That way, I can always be falling in love. I think I’m addicted to that feeling you get when you think about someone you want. That electric rush, all excitement and desire and passion. And you want her, you want her so bad your heart beats irregularly and your blood becomes liquid electricity even though you’re just lying in bed. The brief moment of weightlessness before you fall back to Earth. All that matters is the quiet touch of her glistening lips and fingers drawn across her naked back. Legs interlocked and the faint smell of her hair that you use to tickle her slender neck. Every time you exhale you want to fill the empty space in your lungs with her scent, her breath. There is a hole in your chest and it creates a vacuum that draws in air and energy and if you don’t feel her skin on your skin your body will cave in on itself. The contrast of her dark hair on the white pillow case is most noticeable at night, when the only sound is the rustle of sheets as they rise and fall with each effortless breath she takes. Crisp autumn air pours through the cracked window and you can’t tell if your hairs are standing on end because of the cold or the electricity between bodies. She is on her side and the sheets rest at the summit of her hips, a single finger whispers lines of latitude up her meridians, following epicurean topography. I think about her clothes on the floor, how her jeans seemed to melt off her body, how her shirt slid over her head in one flawless motion, how her bra came off like turning a page in a book.
Another fragment of the novel. I need to find another word for "electric."
11.13.2008
Hard Boiled (full)
The name’s Smith. I’m a cop. I’m not though. Actually, I’m a lawyer. Not a particularly good one, either. The cop line is just something I say to pick up women. I finish rolling a cigarette and place it between my lips, scanning the dim bar for my next victim. Her eyes catch me through the haze of conversation and cigarette smoke and I know I’ve found what I’m looking for. I weave my way in and out of the mass of people gathered in the room until I’m standing next to her. I light my cigarette, take a drag.
“The name’s Smith. I’m a cop,” I say, letting the smoke float out of my mouth.
***
At work I’m assigned a big case by my boss. I browse through the manilla folder containing all the details. The defendant’s name is Peter Quistgard. He's thirty-four years old. He’s been charged with three counts of murder. I continue to flip through the assorted documents and photos in the folder until I find a picture of the first victim. It's a picture taken before her autopsy. She's naked, spread out on a metal table. Her dark brown hair is splayed around her slender shoulders. Three inch long gash on the right side of her stomach. I know this woman. I killed her.
I notice that she is drinking water.
“Don’t drink?” I ask.
“No. Don’t like the taste,” she replies.
“Oh, that’s good. Keep that liver healthy.”
It takes longer than I expect to get her to come home with me. It would’ve been much easier if I could have drugged her, but she’d have been a little suspicious only drinking water. Whatever the case, she’s in my bedroom now. She’s on her back, her shirt peeled off. I’m on my hands and knees, hovering over her. I lean down and kiss her neck, strands of my hair tickling her face. I kiss my way down her body, stopping at her stomach. She exhales, grabs my shoulders and tries to push me farther down. I nibble at the soft flesh a few inches to the left of her navel. She tries to suppress a giggle. I push away from her, lean back onto my knees. It's very dark in the room but I know she's frowning.
“Why did you stop?”
I don’t say anything.
“Smith?”
“Sorry, I’ll be right back.” I slither off the bed and walk to the kitchen. I retrieve a steak knife from the silverware drawer.
“Hurry up,” she says, the volume of her voice dampened by the distance between bedroom and kitchen.
“I’m coming,” I say. I return to the bedroom.
“Mmm, there you are. What’s next?” Her voice is liquid, oozing sex.
“Next, I’m going to eat your liver.” I close the door behind me and move towards the bed.
***
I finger through more documents until I find a picture of the second victim. She too is on a metal examination table. Unlike the other girl, this one is clothed and face down. Long auburn hair drawn back into a pony tail, hanging limply to one side of her head. Large patch of blood around a hole in her otherwise white t-shirt. I look at the hole in her shirt and know that her left kidney is missing.
I don’t have to drug this one. She is more than willing. In fact, she can’t get back to my place fast enough. I let her in and she immediately goes to the couch, lays down on her back. She grabs my jacket and pulls me close, trying to get me on top of her.
“Roll over,” I tell her. She bites her lower lip and obeys. I slide over her, my right hand clutching the knife I had in my jacket.
“Wait, shouldn’t I take my clothes off?” She asks. I respond by plunging the knife into her side. She screams but I push her face into the couch cushion. I jerk the knife in and out of the wound and soon enough she stops struggling. When I’m sure she’s dead I withdraw the knife and walk to the kitchen. I chop a potato and cut a carrot into slices, then toss them both into a pan of water on the stove. While the water comes to a boil I debate which seasonings to use.
***
Before I get to the picture of the third victim I already know what I’ll find. Blonde hair. Black dress. Green eyes. I know the eyes won’t be in the picture though. I cut them out and boiled them three days ago.
I finish looking through the documents in the folder and toss it down on my desk. In the top right drawer is a plastic bag with two emerald green eyes in it. I take the bag out of the drawer, open it, place one of the moist spheres in my mouth. With my tongue I roll the eye against the roof of my mouth, then push it against the back of my teeth until it ruptures and squeezes through the gaps. The viscous mass slides easily down my throat.
A legal assistant knocks on my door. I put the bag back in the drawer and close it.
“Come in,” I say. The assistant opens the door and steps inside my sparsely furnished office. She is very attractive, dressed in a dark grey sport coat and short skirt that reveals just enough of her slim legs to be both sexy and classy.
“Mr. Smith?”
“Yes?”
“They’re ready for you to talk with Mr. Quistgard.”
“I see. Thank you.”
When she leaves I take the remaining eye out of the drawer, toss my head back and pop the eye into my mouth like a piece of candy. I’m still chewing as I walk out of my office towards the elevator.
***
“The name’s Smith. I’m a lawyer,” I say. Peter looks up at me, his hands bound in metal cuffs.
“Yeah?” he says.
“I’m here to take your statement. Do you have anything to say about all this?” I ask.
“I didn’t do it. I swear. I didn’t do it!”
“I know,” I say. “I believe you.”
I don't think I captured the noir theme very well, and it might be a little short. Perhaps it is a bit too similar to the last story as well, but that's what you get and you will like it, love it.
--EDIT--
This is the current revision of the story. Didn't really change anything, just chopped out bits of sentences here and there, to make the whole thing more noir. Or something to that effect. The conclusion is that the natural voice I tend towards is a little too verbose for noir. That's a shame--I strive to be as concise as possible. Hemmingway FTW!
“The name’s Smith. I’m a cop,” I say, letting the smoke float out of my mouth.
***
At work I’m assigned a big case by my boss. I browse through the manilla folder containing all the details. The defendant’s name is Peter Quistgard. He's thirty-four years old. He’s been charged with three counts of murder. I continue to flip through the assorted documents and photos in the folder until I find a picture of the first victim. It's a picture taken before her autopsy. She's naked, spread out on a metal table. Her dark brown hair is splayed around her slender shoulders. Three inch long gash on the right side of her stomach. I know this woman. I killed her.
I notice that she is drinking water.
“Don’t drink?” I ask.
“No. Don’t like the taste,” she replies.
“Oh, that’s good. Keep that liver healthy.”
It takes longer than I expect to get her to come home with me. It would’ve been much easier if I could have drugged her, but she’d have been a little suspicious only drinking water. Whatever the case, she’s in my bedroom now. She’s on her back, her shirt peeled off. I’m on my hands and knees, hovering over her. I lean down and kiss her neck, strands of my hair tickling her face. I kiss my way down her body, stopping at her stomach. She exhales, grabs my shoulders and tries to push me farther down. I nibble at the soft flesh a few inches to the left of her navel. She tries to suppress a giggle. I push away from her, lean back onto my knees. It's very dark in the room but I know she's frowning.
“Why did you stop?”
I don’t say anything.
“Smith?”
“Sorry, I’ll be right back.” I slither off the bed and walk to the kitchen. I retrieve a steak knife from the silverware drawer.
“Hurry up,” she says, the volume of her voice dampened by the distance between bedroom and kitchen.
“I’m coming,” I say. I return to the bedroom.
“Mmm, there you are. What’s next?” Her voice is liquid, oozing sex.
“Next, I’m going to eat your liver.” I close the door behind me and move towards the bed.
***
I finger through more documents until I find a picture of the second victim. She too is on a metal examination table. Unlike the other girl, this one is clothed and face down. Long auburn hair drawn back into a pony tail, hanging limply to one side of her head. Large patch of blood around a hole in her otherwise white t-shirt. I look at the hole in her shirt and know that her left kidney is missing.
I don’t have to drug this one. She is more than willing. In fact, she can’t get back to my place fast enough. I let her in and she immediately goes to the couch, lays down on her back. She grabs my jacket and pulls me close, trying to get me on top of her.
“Roll over,” I tell her. She bites her lower lip and obeys. I slide over her, my right hand clutching the knife I had in my jacket.
“Wait, shouldn’t I take my clothes off?” She asks. I respond by plunging the knife into her side. She screams but I push her face into the couch cushion. I jerk the knife in and out of the wound and soon enough she stops struggling. When I’m sure she’s dead I withdraw the knife and walk to the kitchen. I chop a potato and cut a carrot into slices, then toss them both into a pan of water on the stove. While the water comes to a boil I debate which seasonings to use.
***
Before I get to the picture of the third victim I already know what I’ll find. Blonde hair. Black dress. Green eyes. I know the eyes won’t be in the picture though. I cut them out and boiled them three days ago.
I finish looking through the documents in the folder and toss it down on my desk. In the top right drawer is a plastic bag with two emerald green eyes in it. I take the bag out of the drawer, open it, place one of the moist spheres in my mouth. With my tongue I roll the eye against the roof of my mouth, then push it against the back of my teeth until it ruptures and squeezes through the gaps. The viscous mass slides easily down my throat.
A legal assistant knocks on my door. I put the bag back in the drawer and close it.
“Come in,” I say. The assistant opens the door and steps inside my sparsely furnished office. She is very attractive, dressed in a dark grey sport coat and short skirt that reveals just enough of her slim legs to be both sexy and classy.
“Mr. Smith?”
“Yes?”
“They’re ready for you to talk with Mr. Quistgard.”
“I see. Thank you.”
When she leaves I take the remaining eye out of the drawer, toss my head back and pop the eye into my mouth like a piece of candy. I’m still chewing as I walk out of my office towards the elevator.
***
“The name’s Smith. I’m a lawyer,” I say. Peter looks up at me, his hands bound in metal cuffs.
“Yeah?” he says.
“I’m here to take your statement. Do you have anything to say about all this?” I ask.
“I didn’t do it. I swear. I didn’t do it!”
“I know,” I say. “I believe you.”
I don't think I captured the noir theme very well, and it might be a little short. Perhaps it is a bit too similar to the last story as well, but that's what you get and you will like it, love it.
--EDIT--
This is the current revision of the story. Didn't really change anything, just chopped out bits of sentences here and there, to make the whole thing more noir. Or something to that effect. The conclusion is that the natural voice I tend towards is a little too verbose for noir. That's a shame--I strive to be as concise as possible. Hemmingway FTW!
11.11.2008
Eleven
Regarding today's date:
"Why don't you just make ten louder, and have ten be the highest?"
"These go to eleven."
"Why don't you just make ten louder, and have ten be the highest?"
"These go to eleven."
Hard Boiled
The name’s Smith. I’m a cop. I’m not though. Actually, I’m a lawyer. Not a particularly good one, either. The cop line is just something I say to pick up women. I finish rolling a cigarette and place it between my lips, scanning the dim bar for my next victim. Her eyes catch me through the haze of conversation and cigarette smoke and I know I’ve found what I’m looking for. I weave my way in and out of the mass of people gathered in hazy room until I’m standing next to her. I light my cigarette, take a drag.
“The name’s Smith. I’m a cop,” I say, letting the smoke float out of my mouth.
Another one in the works. This one is for a class genre project, wherein everyone was randomly assigned a genre and character. Mine happened to be lawyer noir. The girl next to me was lucky enough to get zombie western. The poor chap next to her was stuck with animal erotica. Anyway, I've been brewing the basic concept of this story for a few weeks prior to the assignment, and am struggling to fit it within the restraints of the project. Regardless, I'm pretty excited about the plot of this one, which will be revealed through further postings.
“The name’s Smith. I’m a cop,” I say, letting the smoke float out of my mouth.
Another one in the works. This one is for a class genre project, wherein everyone was randomly assigned a genre and character. Mine happened to be lawyer noir. The girl next to me was lucky enough to get zombie western. The poor chap next to her was stuck with animal erotica. Anyway, I've been brewing the basic concept of this story for a few weeks prior to the assignment, and am struggling to fit it within the restraints of the project. Regardless, I'm pretty excited about the plot of this one, which will be revealed through further postings.
11.06.2008
Ricochet
This part is true:
Around five in the afternoon I decide to take a nap. I spread a blue fleece blanket over the speckled, gray couch apolstery and lay down. I don’t feel very tired, but I keep my eyes closed, knowing that eventually the sleepiness will come. It’s some time before it does. I settle into the comfortable feeling of being awake enough to know that I’m about to fall asleep. Then I hear an oscillating, high-pitched whine from outside my window. It doesn’t ever stop, but the volume fluctuates, indicating the source of the sound is moving. I come to the conclusion that a neighbor from across the cul-de-sac must have a remote controlled car. The noise it makes is very irritating, but I keep my eyes closed, holding out for payoff of sleep. Instead I am rewarded with a half-conscious memory of my childhood.
At some point between third and fifth grade I had an RC car. I think it was called Ricochet or something along those lines. The body of the car was very slim and the the tires were very thick, so that you could flip the car on either side and it would still drive. You could toss the car however you wanted and it would always land in a drivable orientation. I remember one hazy summer evening my neighbor and I walked across the street from our houses to our elementary school, both of us driving our Ricochets. He walked up the fire-escape staircase of the main building and tossed his car onto the roof of a connected building. He piloted his Ricochet off the roof. It landed on a sidewalk and he proceeded to drive it into the gravel playground.
A brief excerpt from the novel, currently called Episodes of Sunshine. To be clear, my intention is not to write a novel, but I must for class. What better way to fill up 40,000 words than vaguely fictionalizing everyday from the beginning of the semester to the end? I'm also inserting essays, stories, and poems into the novel, to take up space. Don't look for it at your local bookstore, it won't be there. But I do like this passage, for sentimental reasons.
Around five in the afternoon I decide to take a nap. I spread a blue fleece blanket over the speckled, gray couch apolstery and lay down. I don’t feel very tired, but I keep my eyes closed, knowing that eventually the sleepiness will come. It’s some time before it does. I settle into the comfortable feeling of being awake enough to know that I’m about to fall asleep. Then I hear an oscillating, high-pitched whine from outside my window. It doesn’t ever stop, but the volume fluctuates, indicating the source of the sound is moving. I come to the conclusion that a neighbor from across the cul-de-sac must have a remote controlled car. The noise it makes is very irritating, but I keep my eyes closed, holding out for payoff of sleep. Instead I am rewarded with a half-conscious memory of my childhood.
At some point between third and fifth grade I had an RC car. I think it was called Ricochet or something along those lines. The body of the car was very slim and the the tires were very thick, so that you could flip the car on either side and it would still drive. You could toss the car however you wanted and it would always land in a drivable orientation. I remember one hazy summer evening my neighbor and I walked across the street from our houses to our elementary school, both of us driving our Ricochets. He walked up the fire-escape staircase of the main building and tossed his car onto the roof of a connected building. He piloted his Ricochet off the roof. It landed on a sidewalk and he proceeded to drive it into the gravel playground.
A brief excerpt from the novel, currently called Episodes of Sunshine. To be clear, my intention is not to write a novel, but I must for class. What better way to fill up 40,000 words than vaguely fictionalizing everyday from the beginning of the semester to the end? I'm also inserting essays, stories, and poems into the novel, to take up space. Don't look for it at your local bookstore, it won't be there. But I do like this passage, for sentimental reasons.
The Digital Environment
Back in my bathtub of sound, depressing computer keys beyond the keyboard, through the desk and into some dark realm of space and wet heat, with very nice resistance on the fingers. Can't even feel them (keys) moving, really, just the hard tap (fingers). Keep that in mind, folks.
I think the auditory and physical aspects of typing are very important. I prefer typing on a laptop; I think the keys make a far more pleasing sound than those on a standard keyboard. However, I don't feel like I can really type hard on laptop keys without breaking the whole machine. A typewriter would be preferred, but that would involve a lengthy transferring process from paper landscapes to the digital environment. I'm not against simple pen and paper, provided the pen is a high quality roller ball, heavy in weight, fine tipped (.07 is a touch big, .05 a bit small--someone should make a .06) and with uninterupted, flowing, black ink. But mind is faster than hand and I can never keep up, when involved in serious wording. What to do, what to do.
Also, I'll call myself out on the semicolon above. Dab.
I think the auditory and physical aspects of typing are very important. I prefer typing on a laptop; I think the keys make a far more pleasing sound than those on a standard keyboard. However, I don't feel like I can really type hard on laptop keys without breaking the whole machine. A typewriter would be preferred, but that would involve a lengthy transferring process from paper landscapes to the digital environment. I'm not against simple pen and paper, provided the pen is a high quality roller ball, heavy in weight, fine tipped (.07 is a touch big, .05 a bit small--someone should make a .06) and with uninterupted, flowing, black ink. But mind is faster than hand and I can never keep up, when involved in serious wording. What to do, what to do.
Also, I'll call myself out on the semicolon above. Dab.
10.28.2008
Hand Lines
Bones in my wrist broken like little gears metal on metal,
calcified
*
An incubated frail limb nursery
*
Grainy scratches of flesh under a fingernail--
articulated manifestations of desire
*
Lines of skin road mapped on my palm
*
Palmtop hairs standing on end, electrified,
tremors / trembling
*
Swollen lips pinked at the touch of feather tip fingers
*
Underground blood vessels pulsed with fingered precision,
over in a heart beat
calcified
*
An incubated frail limb nursery
*
Grainy scratches of flesh under a fingernail--
articulated manifestations of desire
*
Lines of skin road mapped on my palm
*
Palmtop hairs standing on end, electrified,
tremors / trembling
*
Swollen lips pinked at the touch of feather tip fingers
*
Underground blood vessels pulsed with fingered precision,
over in a heart beat
Hungry
I sit in her apartment and wait.
Wait for her to come home so I can push my fingers into her supple skin,
penetrate smooth-glass surface, peel back each layer and wrap my fingers
around her pulsing liver.
I’d pull it out, take a small bite,
feel its warm rubber texture around my teeth as they tear into it,
tongue the piece of liver to the back of my mouth,
slowly mash it with molars, then let it melt down my throat.
Her blood is black viscous seeping between fingers still clutched around her,
I squeeze until pieces of liver ooze through the gaps and fall
like dark raindrops onto her naked chest.
When I open my hand little bits of liver stick to my skin.
I plunge back into the warm void of her abdomen
up to my wrist, my elbow and I know she can feel me searching
for that spot, that one spot where her pancreas used to be
before I took that too.
Wait for her to come home so I can push my fingers into her supple skin,
penetrate smooth-glass surface, peel back each layer and wrap my fingers
around her pulsing liver.
I’d pull it out, take a small bite,
feel its warm rubber texture around my teeth as they tear into it,
tongue the piece of liver to the back of my mouth,
slowly mash it with molars, then let it melt down my throat.
Her blood is black viscous seeping between fingers still clutched around her,
I squeeze until pieces of liver ooze through the gaps and fall
like dark raindrops onto her naked chest.
When I open my hand little bits of liver stick to my skin.
I plunge back into the warm void of her abdomen
up to my wrist, my elbow and I know she can feel me searching
for that spot, that one spot where her pancreas used to be
before I took that too.
10.22.2008
Treefingers
Barren trees mourn fallen leaves,
their empty branches snake into the sky like blood vessels.
Roots, deep, wormed through dirt like buried telephone wires.
They communicate through crackling lines,
dry voices tongue smoke down throat:
We like you, like your body.
Like the idea of your body in our arms,
your lips
your eyes
your breasts
and the subtle curve of denim around your ass,
suspended from our fingers.
My apologies to Radiohead, but I needed a title. I think this definitely needs more, perhaps an image of pieces of a person hanging from tree branches instead of leaves. Or is that image implied well enough? I wonder...
their empty branches snake into the sky like blood vessels.
Roots, deep, wormed through dirt like buried telephone wires.
They communicate through crackling lines,
dry voices tongue smoke down throat:
We like you, like your body.
Like the idea of your body in our arms,
your lips
your eyes
your breasts
and the subtle curve of denim around your ass,
suspended from our fingers.
My apologies to Radiohead, but I needed a title. I think this definitely needs more, perhaps an image of pieces of a person hanging from tree branches instead of leaves. Or is that image implied well enough? I wonder...
10.21.2008
Ghost Coffee
I sit on my couch, watching television, admiring the way the fabric of my new pants drapes over my legs, which are stretched out and propped up on the coffee table. The blood spots are a bit conspicuous, but they should wash out. Good pants are hard to find. I try to explain this to Madeline. She tells me I’m crazy. I tell her she’s just a ghost and what would she know about good pants anyway. She gets upset and disappears. Stupid ghosts, I say, always leaving when there’s an argument.
I get up from the couch and walk into the kitchen, smiling at the way the pants hang from my hips. They really are perfect. The legs are short enough that the cuff doesn’t drag on the ground, but long enough that they don’t expose my ankles when I sit down or walk up stairs. Their color exists somewhere between gray and black. I’ve taken to calling them soft black. The zipper is very satisfying, and the button is a shallow concave disc with a pale orange ring printed on it, for contrast. I open the refrigerator. There isn’t much inside, just a half-full half-gallon carton of milk, three eggs, a brand new jar of raspberry jelly, and a metal water bottle. Madeline appears, standing behind the open refrigerator door. Look at you, she says, Mr. Trendy. How much did that cost you? I grab the water bottle and close the door. I say I didn’t buy it, I stole it. She rolls her eyes. She asks me if I’m going to steal cat food too or am I going to let them starve. I explain to her that you don’t need to feed ghost cats, but she’s disappeared again. I take a drink of water, then open the refrigerator and put the bottle back.
I’m so happy with the pants that I decide to sleep in them. That should ensure their molding to my form, for the perfect fit. I toss and turn for an hour before deciding to take the pants off. Sleeping in clothes is always awkward. The two ghost cats are sleeping on either side of my legs and I worry about disturbing them while I try to worm out of the pants. Then I remember that they are ghost cats and that even if they were real cats they probably sleep enough as it is. I kick the pants off the side of the bed and go to sleep.
* * *
My alarm goes off at 9:30 and at 9:34 I roll out of bed and slide into the pants. The ghost cats are chasing each other through my apartment. I walk into the bathroom and am halfway through brushing my teeth before I remember the blood spots. I finish brushing my teeth and take off the pants. I put the section of the pants occupied by the blood spots under the tap and turn on hot water. I take my toothbrush and scrub the pants. Madeline walks into the bathroom. She is wearing a black bra and tiny black shorts. Her shoulder length black hair is pulled into a pony tail. I wouldn’t use that toothbrush anymore, she says. You don’t use any toothbrushes anymore, I say. I ask her why she’s dressed the way she is. She says that’s what she sleeps in. I tell her she doesn’t sleep. You’re right, she says, I just like teasing you. Sorry to disappoint, Maddie, but it isn’t working, I say. I’m lying, of course. Madeline is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, alive or dead. Except, maybe, the pants. I turn the faucet off and use a small hand towel to dry the pants. I put the pants on and look at myself in the mirror above the sink. Madeline stands next to me and puts her hand on my shoulder. It’s cold. Are you sure, she asks. I say yes, now I’m going to work, and ask her if I’ll see her later. She says sure, whatever.
* * *
I get to work at 10:03. Three minutes late. Not that it matters. My shift overlaps Ricky’s by fifteen minutes, and there is rarely enough business at the 24-Hour EZ Copy to necessitate two employees. Especially at 10:03 on a Friday night. I say hi to Ricky and walk into the back room. I clock in and put on my orange employee apron. I hate wearing it. I don’t understand why a name tag won’t suffice. This particular shade of orange does not go well with the pants, I think. I leave the back room and walk to the Island. The Island is where the cash register is. It sits in the middle of the room like the North Pole, surrounded on all sides by icebergs of office machinery. I tell Ricky he can leave now and that I’ll clock him out at 10:15. He says thanks, and tells me my pants look good. Thanks, I say, have a good night. Ricky takes off his apron, wads it up and tosses it behind the counter. Peace out, he says. The door makes an electronic ding when he leaves. I sit in the tall office chair behind the Island’s counter, my feet propped up next to the register.
At 10:15 I get up, grab Ricky’s apron and walk to the back room. I hang his apron up and run his time sheet through the machine. I hear the electronic ding of the front door and walk into the main room. Hello, I ask. I don’t see or hear anybody. Hello, I ask again. I weave through the copiers and printers and laminators, but I still don’t see anyone. I make my way back to the Island and stand on the counter. Hello? I heard the door bell, I say. A deep voice erupts behind me. Nice pants, it bellows. I nearly fall off the counter spinning around to face the voice. It belongs to Mike. Mike is a ghost. I don’t really like Mike, but at least he keeps me company some nights. I step down off the counter. Mike says, no, really, nice pants, and asks where I got them. You don’t want to know, I reply, but thanks anyway. I really like the way the legs maintain their shape. He looks at me and his eyes tell me he doesn’t really care, that he was just being polite. What do you want, Mike, I ask. Oh, nothing, I was just going to tell you I can’t hang out tonight, I’ve got places to be, he says. You’re a ghost, I say, what places could you possibly have to be. Well, not here, he replies. I was looking forward to having someone to talk to tonight, so I tell him he should stay for a bit. He asks why don’t I talk to Madeline. I tell him I don’t know where she is. That’s a shame, he says, then asks if the two of us have ever fucked. She’s a ghost, I say. So, he replies, and disappears.
No one comes into the store until 2:36. I am sitting in the office chair at the Island, browsing through random papers that customers have left in the trash, when I hear the electronic ding. I look up from the papers and see a man walk in. He is in his mid-twenties and roughly my height. I nod at him and go back to my papers, keeping an eye on him while he navigates the store. He stops at a copy machine and fishes through his black backpack, removing a thick set of papers. I wait for him to set to copying before I return my attention to the papers in front of me. After a few minutes he walks up to the Island. Excuse me, he says, the machine is out of paper. I tell him I’ll be right with him. He is walking back to the copier when I notice his pants. The are the same soft black color as mine, but the fabric they are made of looks much nicer, much softer. I grab a ream of paper from under the counter and follow him back to the copier. Along the way I ask him why he’s making copies so late. Homework, he says. I want to ask him more, but he doesn’t seem like he wants to talk. I replenish the copier with three hundred brand new sheets of Imperial White paper. There you go, I say, all set. He says thanks, already starting the copier again. I tell him he has nice pants. He looks up from the copier, clearly taken off guard by my statement. No, really, nice pants, I say. He hesitates, then says thank you. He opens the lid of the copier and places a new piece of paper on the glass. I look at his pants and notice how the cuff at the ankle rests on his shoes. I ask him what waist size he is. He looks up from the copier again, trying to mask his discomfort. Uhhh, thirty-two, he says. Perfect. I lurch forward and grab his neck with my left hand and his hair with my right. I slam his head down onto the glass surface of the copy machine. I hold his head there with my right while my left reaches for the lid. He is so surprised that he doesn’t have time to react before I mash the lid down on his head. I snake my right hand out from between the two pieces of the machine and firmly grasp his right shoulder. He’s making all sorts of spurting, sucking sounds through his bleeding, broken nose. I push down harder on the lid and twist his shoulder upwards until I hear a satisfying crack and I’m sure his neck is broken.
* * *
I get off work at 6:30 and drive straight home, thinking about how much better these pants are than the others. I was right, the fabric is much softer, more supple. The ghost cats are waiting for me at the door when I open it at walk into my apartment. Madeline is there, too, sitting on the couch. She is wrapped up in an old yellow blanket I’ve had since I was a boy. When she hears me come in the door she stands up, letting the blanket fall to the floor. Light from the morning sun filters through closed blinds and reflects off her naked body. She walks towards me. I open my mouth to ask her what she is doing, but she puts a cold finger to my lips until I close them. She walks away, towards my room. When she gets to the door she turns and looks at me. You’re just a ghost, I say. She smiles, says so, and walks into my room. I follow her and close the door, leaving the ghost cats to chase each other.
* * *
I wake up an hour before my alarm because I am cold. I wonder if I left the window open before I realize that I’m cold because Madeline is sleeping next to me. I steal a long glance at her smooth form, admiring her subtle curves before I crawl out of bed, slip on the new pants and t-shirt and walk into the living room. I pick up the yellow blanket off the floor. I notice that it smells vaguely of Madeline. I fold it and put it back on the couch. I slip on my sneakers and head out to my car.
I meet Jeff every Thursday before work at a coffee shop near the EZ Copy. He is sitting at a small table when I walk in the door. I wave at him while I stand in line. I order a cappuccino and sit down. We exchange greetings. Jeff asks me if I got new pants. I reply yes, just last night. I ask him if he likes them. He says they are damn fine pants and I agree with him. The barista is looking at me, quite puzzled because she doesn’t see Jeff, she only sees me, talking to what she thinks is thin air. I ignore her and continue to talk to Jeff. Jeff is lonely. He doesn’t get along well with the other ghosts. That’s why I meet him here every week, so that he’ll have someone to talk to. I genuinely like Jeff, but most of the reason I feel obligated to keep him company is because his situation is partly my fault. The ghost part, that is, not the lack of social interaction with the others. That’s his own doing.
Jeff asks me about Madeline. I tell him that we had sex. He asks me what it was like and I say it was cold and distant. I am about to tell him that she didn’t disappear afterwards, that she actually stayed, but I’m distracted by someone walking into the shop. It’s the guy from last night. He looks around the room until he spots me. Motherfucker, he yells, and marches towards our table. Jeff looks at me, worried. The pants, I say, and Jeff relaxes a little. The guy arrives at our table and pounds his fists down on top of it. Hey, calm down, I say. Have a seat. He looks at me, then at Jeff. Jeff excuses himself and disappears. Really, sit down, I say. The guy picks his fists off the table and takes Jeff’s abandoned seat. Mike told me I’d find you here, he seethes through clenched teeth. I take a sip of my cappuccino. I ask him what his name is. He replies Eric. Eric, I say, I’m sorry and I know you’re mad, but I assure you that you’ll get over it. Eric gives me an incredulous look. I ask him to just listen for a minute and explain to him that I’m sorry I killed him, but that I needed the pants and I hope we can work it out and become friends. He pushes away from the table, stands up and walks out the store silently.
A minute later Jeff reappears. Well, how’d that go, he asks. I say not well, but I’m not worried about it. Yeah, he’ll come around, eventually, Jeff adds. They usually do, I say. I tell Jeff I have to go now, and that I’ll see him next week. I finish my cappuccino and go to work, content with loose but not baggy fit of the pants.
I get up from the couch and walk into the kitchen, smiling at the way the pants hang from my hips. They really are perfect. The legs are short enough that the cuff doesn’t drag on the ground, but long enough that they don’t expose my ankles when I sit down or walk up stairs. Their color exists somewhere between gray and black. I’ve taken to calling them soft black. The zipper is very satisfying, and the button is a shallow concave disc with a pale orange ring printed on it, for contrast. I open the refrigerator. There isn’t much inside, just a half-full half-gallon carton of milk, three eggs, a brand new jar of raspberry jelly, and a metal water bottle. Madeline appears, standing behind the open refrigerator door. Look at you, she says, Mr. Trendy. How much did that cost you? I grab the water bottle and close the door. I say I didn’t buy it, I stole it. She rolls her eyes. She asks me if I’m going to steal cat food too or am I going to let them starve. I explain to her that you don’t need to feed ghost cats, but she’s disappeared again. I take a drink of water, then open the refrigerator and put the bottle back.
I’m so happy with the pants that I decide to sleep in them. That should ensure their molding to my form, for the perfect fit. I toss and turn for an hour before deciding to take the pants off. Sleeping in clothes is always awkward. The two ghost cats are sleeping on either side of my legs and I worry about disturbing them while I try to worm out of the pants. Then I remember that they are ghost cats and that even if they were real cats they probably sleep enough as it is. I kick the pants off the side of the bed and go to sleep.
* * *
My alarm goes off at 9:30 and at 9:34 I roll out of bed and slide into the pants. The ghost cats are chasing each other through my apartment. I walk into the bathroom and am halfway through brushing my teeth before I remember the blood spots. I finish brushing my teeth and take off the pants. I put the section of the pants occupied by the blood spots under the tap and turn on hot water. I take my toothbrush and scrub the pants. Madeline walks into the bathroom. She is wearing a black bra and tiny black shorts. Her shoulder length black hair is pulled into a pony tail. I wouldn’t use that toothbrush anymore, she says. You don’t use any toothbrushes anymore, I say. I ask her why she’s dressed the way she is. She says that’s what she sleeps in. I tell her she doesn’t sleep. You’re right, she says, I just like teasing you. Sorry to disappoint, Maddie, but it isn’t working, I say. I’m lying, of course. Madeline is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, alive or dead. Except, maybe, the pants. I turn the faucet off and use a small hand towel to dry the pants. I put the pants on and look at myself in the mirror above the sink. Madeline stands next to me and puts her hand on my shoulder. It’s cold. Are you sure, she asks. I say yes, now I’m going to work, and ask her if I’ll see her later. She says sure, whatever.
* * *
I get to work at 10:03. Three minutes late. Not that it matters. My shift overlaps Ricky’s by fifteen minutes, and there is rarely enough business at the 24-Hour EZ Copy to necessitate two employees. Especially at 10:03 on a Friday night. I say hi to Ricky and walk into the back room. I clock in and put on my orange employee apron. I hate wearing it. I don’t understand why a name tag won’t suffice. This particular shade of orange does not go well with the pants, I think. I leave the back room and walk to the Island. The Island is where the cash register is. It sits in the middle of the room like the North Pole, surrounded on all sides by icebergs of office machinery. I tell Ricky he can leave now and that I’ll clock him out at 10:15. He says thanks, and tells me my pants look good. Thanks, I say, have a good night. Ricky takes off his apron, wads it up and tosses it behind the counter. Peace out, he says. The door makes an electronic ding when he leaves. I sit in the tall office chair behind the Island’s counter, my feet propped up next to the register.
At 10:15 I get up, grab Ricky’s apron and walk to the back room. I hang his apron up and run his time sheet through the machine. I hear the electronic ding of the front door and walk into the main room. Hello, I ask. I don’t see or hear anybody. Hello, I ask again. I weave through the copiers and printers and laminators, but I still don’t see anyone. I make my way back to the Island and stand on the counter. Hello? I heard the door bell, I say. A deep voice erupts behind me. Nice pants, it bellows. I nearly fall off the counter spinning around to face the voice. It belongs to Mike. Mike is a ghost. I don’t really like Mike, but at least he keeps me company some nights. I step down off the counter. Mike says, no, really, nice pants, and asks where I got them. You don’t want to know, I reply, but thanks anyway. I really like the way the legs maintain their shape. He looks at me and his eyes tell me he doesn’t really care, that he was just being polite. What do you want, Mike, I ask. Oh, nothing, I was just going to tell you I can’t hang out tonight, I’ve got places to be, he says. You’re a ghost, I say, what places could you possibly have to be. Well, not here, he replies. I was looking forward to having someone to talk to tonight, so I tell him he should stay for a bit. He asks why don’t I talk to Madeline. I tell him I don’t know where she is. That’s a shame, he says, then asks if the two of us have ever fucked. She’s a ghost, I say. So, he replies, and disappears.
No one comes into the store until 2:36. I am sitting in the office chair at the Island, browsing through random papers that customers have left in the trash, when I hear the electronic ding. I look up from the papers and see a man walk in. He is in his mid-twenties and roughly my height. I nod at him and go back to my papers, keeping an eye on him while he navigates the store. He stops at a copy machine and fishes through his black backpack, removing a thick set of papers. I wait for him to set to copying before I return my attention to the papers in front of me. After a few minutes he walks up to the Island. Excuse me, he says, the machine is out of paper. I tell him I’ll be right with him. He is walking back to the copier when I notice his pants. The are the same soft black color as mine, but the fabric they are made of looks much nicer, much softer. I grab a ream of paper from under the counter and follow him back to the copier. Along the way I ask him why he’s making copies so late. Homework, he says. I want to ask him more, but he doesn’t seem like he wants to talk. I replenish the copier with three hundred brand new sheets of Imperial White paper. There you go, I say, all set. He says thanks, already starting the copier again. I tell him he has nice pants. He looks up from the copier, clearly taken off guard by my statement. No, really, nice pants, I say. He hesitates, then says thank you. He opens the lid of the copier and places a new piece of paper on the glass. I look at his pants and notice how the cuff at the ankle rests on his shoes. I ask him what waist size he is. He looks up from the copier again, trying to mask his discomfort. Uhhh, thirty-two, he says. Perfect. I lurch forward and grab his neck with my left hand and his hair with my right. I slam his head down onto the glass surface of the copy machine. I hold his head there with my right while my left reaches for the lid. He is so surprised that he doesn’t have time to react before I mash the lid down on his head. I snake my right hand out from between the two pieces of the machine and firmly grasp his right shoulder. He’s making all sorts of spurting, sucking sounds through his bleeding, broken nose. I push down harder on the lid and twist his shoulder upwards until I hear a satisfying crack and I’m sure his neck is broken.
* * *
I get off work at 6:30 and drive straight home, thinking about how much better these pants are than the others. I was right, the fabric is much softer, more supple. The ghost cats are waiting for me at the door when I open it at walk into my apartment. Madeline is there, too, sitting on the couch. She is wrapped up in an old yellow blanket I’ve had since I was a boy. When she hears me come in the door she stands up, letting the blanket fall to the floor. Light from the morning sun filters through closed blinds and reflects off her naked body. She walks towards me. I open my mouth to ask her what she is doing, but she puts a cold finger to my lips until I close them. She walks away, towards my room. When she gets to the door she turns and looks at me. You’re just a ghost, I say. She smiles, says so, and walks into my room. I follow her and close the door, leaving the ghost cats to chase each other.
* * *
I wake up an hour before my alarm because I am cold. I wonder if I left the window open before I realize that I’m cold because Madeline is sleeping next to me. I steal a long glance at her smooth form, admiring her subtle curves before I crawl out of bed, slip on the new pants and t-shirt and walk into the living room. I pick up the yellow blanket off the floor. I notice that it smells vaguely of Madeline. I fold it and put it back on the couch. I slip on my sneakers and head out to my car.
I meet Jeff every Thursday before work at a coffee shop near the EZ Copy. He is sitting at a small table when I walk in the door. I wave at him while I stand in line. I order a cappuccino and sit down. We exchange greetings. Jeff asks me if I got new pants. I reply yes, just last night. I ask him if he likes them. He says they are damn fine pants and I agree with him. The barista is looking at me, quite puzzled because she doesn’t see Jeff, she only sees me, talking to what she thinks is thin air. I ignore her and continue to talk to Jeff. Jeff is lonely. He doesn’t get along well with the other ghosts. That’s why I meet him here every week, so that he’ll have someone to talk to. I genuinely like Jeff, but most of the reason I feel obligated to keep him company is because his situation is partly my fault. The ghost part, that is, not the lack of social interaction with the others. That’s his own doing.
Jeff asks me about Madeline. I tell him that we had sex. He asks me what it was like and I say it was cold and distant. I am about to tell him that she didn’t disappear afterwards, that she actually stayed, but I’m distracted by someone walking into the shop. It’s the guy from last night. He looks around the room until he spots me. Motherfucker, he yells, and marches towards our table. Jeff looks at me, worried. The pants, I say, and Jeff relaxes a little. The guy arrives at our table and pounds his fists down on top of it. Hey, calm down, I say. Have a seat. He looks at me, then at Jeff. Jeff excuses himself and disappears. Really, sit down, I say. The guy picks his fists off the table and takes Jeff’s abandoned seat. Mike told me I’d find you here, he seethes through clenched teeth. I take a sip of my cappuccino. I ask him what his name is. He replies Eric. Eric, I say, I’m sorry and I know you’re mad, but I assure you that you’ll get over it. Eric gives me an incredulous look. I ask him to just listen for a minute and explain to him that I’m sorry I killed him, but that I needed the pants and I hope we can work it out and become friends. He pushes away from the table, stands up and walks out the store silently.
A minute later Jeff reappears. Well, how’d that go, he asks. I say not well, but I’m not worried about it. Yeah, he’ll come around, eventually, Jeff adds. They usually do, I say. I tell Jeff I have to go now, and that I’ll see him next week. I finish my cappuccino and go to work, content with loose but not baggy fit of the pants.
9.30.2008
Defense of Execution
"He has think skin."
"You mean he can take a joke?"
"No, I mean his skin is really thick. You'll need a bigger knife."
"You mean he can take a joke?"
"No, I mean his skin is really thick. You'll need a bigger knife."
Snake, Typewritten
We must move quietly. Stay low to the ground, man. Hands and knees are necessary, to be sure. Hunch over the keyboard, placed on the ground. Focus only on the keys, not the screen. A typewriter would be a more critically useful tool at the moment. Machine-gun punctuation.
*
Cats loom over the bed like, owls? Something that looms, menacingly. Little marble eyes reflecting my terror.
*
You’d think his fortress would be delicious, but it’s actually quite dangerous.
*
Now there are two of them, looming. Menacing me into the corner. I will escape under the bed. Freedom/Victory is only a crawl away. Now, if only I could fit. Need to be something like seven inches tall to get through these parts.
*
Pull the blanket down over you. Make your cave of bass sounds. Perhaps there are some Oreos in the refrigerator that need attending? Perhaps there are several tasty delinquents locked up in the refrigerator's iron-bar belly.
*
Slink away from the keyboard, or screen, rather. It’s can’t know you’re here. “Don’t mind my hands. They are just typing. They are alone in this caper; Special Forces acting in guerilla typeface."
*
I smell peanut butter. My god, what doesn’t smell like peanut butter? I am the peanut butter Keeper. You must go through me, should you want a spoonful or so.
*
I’m pretty sure various shadows are becoming cats. When I look they know to act like shadows, but when I don’t look they creep, menace. When they open their eyes and look at you, you know you’re in trouble. Acknowledgment, in this case, means instant death. No way out of it this time. Maybe if you had a horse.
*
I am positive there are Oreos that need to be eaten. What good do they do in their package? They are not fulfilling their destiny when they are not eaten. I must eat them, to complete them. To complete the circle. One needs purpose, and they are chock full of that. Now, time to make their purpose realized.
*
Forgot about those fans. Now we have battery power, though the lights are off. It makes it easier to avoid the fans.
*
It’s getting very loud now, but I don’t want to relinquish the volume. I’d have to fill its place, yeah? Might as well be with good volume, controlled volume. Maybe we should Dance? Or return to the refrigerator? But I’ve had so much chicken.
*
Will me phone vibrate with text messages proclaiming great love and willingness to copulate? God, I hear it vibrating, but it doesn’t move. I’m the one doing the vibrating, here.
*
I remembered where the peanut butter is, I’VE FOUND ITS CASTLE! I’m letting this happen.
*
How can I hope to explain, then? Relationships become too magnetic. Magnetic in the sense that it takes great effort to separate. I push my head into the side of the bed, expecting to make contact, but instead I keep leaning until I’ve become a snake eating its tail underwater.
*
Cats loom over the bed like, owls? Something that looms, menacingly. Little marble eyes reflecting my terror.
*
You’d think his fortress would be delicious, but it’s actually quite dangerous.
*
Now there are two of them, looming. Menacing me into the corner. I will escape under the bed. Freedom/Victory is only a crawl away. Now, if only I could fit. Need to be something like seven inches tall to get through these parts.
*
Pull the blanket down over you. Make your cave of bass sounds. Perhaps there are some Oreos in the refrigerator that need attending? Perhaps there are several tasty delinquents locked up in the refrigerator's iron-bar belly.
*
Slink away from the keyboard, or screen, rather. It’s can’t know you’re here. “Don’t mind my hands. They are just typing. They are alone in this caper; Special Forces acting in guerilla typeface."
*
I smell peanut butter. My god, what doesn’t smell like peanut butter? I am the peanut butter Keeper. You must go through me, should you want a spoonful or so.
*
I’m pretty sure various shadows are becoming cats. When I look they know to act like shadows, but when I don’t look they creep, menace. When they open their eyes and look at you, you know you’re in trouble. Acknowledgment, in this case, means instant death. No way out of it this time. Maybe if you had a horse.
*
I am positive there are Oreos that need to be eaten. What good do they do in their package? They are not fulfilling their destiny when they are not eaten. I must eat them, to complete them. To complete the circle. One needs purpose, and they are chock full of that. Now, time to make their purpose realized.
*
Forgot about those fans. Now we have battery power, though the lights are off. It makes it easier to avoid the fans.
*
It’s getting very loud now, but I don’t want to relinquish the volume. I’d have to fill its place, yeah? Might as well be with good volume, controlled volume. Maybe we should Dance? Or return to the refrigerator? But I’ve had so much chicken.
*
Will me phone vibrate with text messages proclaiming great love and willingness to copulate? God, I hear it vibrating, but it doesn’t move. I’m the one doing the vibrating, here.
*
I remembered where the peanut butter is, I’VE FOUND ITS CASTLE! I’m letting this happen.
*
How can I hope to explain, then? Relationships become too magnetic. Magnetic in the sense that it takes great effort to separate. I push my head into the side of the bed, expecting to make contact, but instead I keep leaning until I’ve become a snake eating its tail underwater.
9.23.2008
Too Much Blood
I have too much blood so I bleed.
I bleed blood like syrup,
blood like melted wax,
blood like butter,
blood like a subway train under my fingernails.
Title=teh suck. Short, pointless, fulfilling assigments. I think I've used some variation of 'melted wax' in something like 37% of the poems I've written in the last year.
I bleed blood like syrup,
blood like melted wax,
blood like butter,
blood like a subway train under my fingernails.
Title=teh suck. Short, pointless, fulfilling assigments. I think I've used some variation of 'melted wax' in something like 37% of the poems I've written in the last year.
Man on the Moon
When I go to the moon, it’s alone.
Pale oceans, all white rocks, alone.
When I go to the moon I fly there,
my apartment the vessel,
one hallway like the link between
command modules.
When I go to the moon it’s cold.
When I go to the moon I’m not sleeping.
Atmosphere burns past my windows,
casts pink glow on living room control pannels;
television screens and radios.
Color evaporates,
pin-prick stars shine through the dark curtain.
When I go to the moon it doesn’t take long.
When I go to the moon it’s quiet.
When I go to the moon it’s my apartment,
exposed lonesome walls,
lights like ceiling suns suspended.
Vaccumed silent.
Pale oceans, all white rocks, alone.
When I go to the moon I fly there,
my apartment the vessel,
one hallway like the link between
command modules.
When I go to the moon it’s cold.
When I go to the moon I’m not sleeping.
Atmosphere burns past my windows,
casts pink glow on living room control pannels;
television screens and radios.
Color evaporates,
pin-prick stars shine through the dark curtain.
When I go to the moon it doesn’t take long.
When I go to the moon it’s quiet.
When I go to the moon it’s my apartment,
exposed lonesome walls,
lights like ceiling suns suspended.
Vaccumed silent.
9.18.2008
Hey Man, Slow Down
Stuffed into a desk like over sized carry-on baggage-
sweating and vibrating dangerously
like Duke and adrenochrome.
"Yes! Fantastic! Finish the fucking story man-
what about the glands?"
Creaking in a chair,
fingers tapping furiously the Formica desk,
feet dancing wildly to the unheard rhythm of some song.
Eyes swelling, bulging, about to burst.
"Yes! Fantastic! Finish the story-
what about the glands?"
Clenched fist tension, sweating, though it's cold-
is it hot in here?
Lips bleeding from being chewed and tongued too long.
Skin on the top of the hand rubbing raw abrasive stubble.
Are you certain it's not hot in here?
Teeth grinding molar on molar,
boiling blood steam powering anxious scribbles.
"What about the glands?"
Sweating, sweating, sweating-is it hot in here?
No, it's just me.
sweating and vibrating dangerously
like Duke and adrenochrome.
"Yes! Fantastic! Finish the fucking story man-
what about the glands?"
Creaking in a chair,
fingers tapping furiously the Formica desk,
feet dancing wildly to the unheard rhythm of some song.
Eyes swelling, bulging, about to burst.
"Yes! Fantastic! Finish the story-
what about the glands?"
Clenched fist tension, sweating, though it's cold-
is it hot in here?
Lips bleeding from being chewed and tongued too long.
Skin on the top of the hand rubbing raw abrasive stubble.
Are you certain it's not hot in here?
Teeth grinding molar on molar,
boiling blood steam powering anxious scribbles.
"What about the glands?"
Sweating, sweating, sweating-is it hot in here?
No, it's just me.
9.16.2008
(insert title here)
Open wider inside the day,
paperclip inside colored sky.
So I, a paperclip bag,
shining on black mirror asphalt,
on road fields as mistakes come around.
I, body in desert, sunpicked, outside
the tapes of some television.
Home, key out,
until space pushes into reach.
As you can see, the poem is essentially the same; turns out it sounds better backwards. I'm not sure what to call it, though. It also feels unfinished--there is a new direction emerging, all I have to do is figure out where it wants to go. I think it wants to stay on the road...
paperclip inside colored sky.
So I, a paperclip bag,
shining on black mirror asphalt,
on road fields as mistakes come around.
I, body in desert, sunpicked, outside
the tapes of some television.
Home, key out,
until space pushes into reach.
As you can see, the poem is essentially the same; turns out it sounds better backwards. I'm not sure what to call it, though. It also feels unfinished--there is a new direction emerging, all I have to do is figure out where it wants to go. I think it wants to stay on the road...
Salt
He never would have started the barfight if he knew he was going to lose. An honest tombstone, if not a bit terse and macabre. Peter John Quistgard, Esq. Aug. 23, 1987-Aug. 23, 2008. He never would have started the barfight if he knew he was going to lose. What bothered Morgan most was the grammar. Particularly the word barfight. It should be two, he thought. Bar fight. But now was not the time for linguistical musings. Now was the time to be serious. There was work to be done.
The shovel made a satisfying tearing sound as Morgan lifted it out of the ground. Had it been early in the day Morgan might have noticed the stark contrast between the fresh, green sod over Peter’s grave and the brown, long-dead grass surrounding it; a coffin shaped rectangle of life floating in a dead sea. It wasn’t early in the day though, it was late, just after midnight. The perfect hour for necromancy. Or so Morgan though. He’d always fancied himself a necromancer, though he never had any experience in the field until recently.
There was a dull thump when the shovel struck the lid of the coffin. Morgan hurried to clear the dirt away from the top third of the coffin, exposing the part of the lid that closes over the body’s torso and head. Fantastic, Morgan thought. He knelt down and dug through the dirt on the side of the coffin with his hands, trying to find the latch to open the lid. He found it and struggled to engage the mechanism. When the latch gave way Morgan stood up, took a deep breath, then bent down to open the lid. The cool metal felt heavy in his dirty hands. Morgan lifted the lid, closed his eyes when it reached it’s apex, counted to three, then opened them and looked down at his friend’s corpse. The corpse looked up at Morgan, cold eyes gleaming from across the void of death. The mortician had forgotten to close Peter’s eyelids, which made for an awkward funeral three days ago.
“Hello, Peter.” Morgan said. He got down on his knees and leaned close to the pale face. “All right, so I’ve never done this before, but give me a minute and I’ll see if I can’t make it happen.” Morgan leaned away from the corpse, produced and small black book from his jacket pocket and flipped through it’s pages. “Here we go, page twenty-seven.” Page twenty-seven was titled, in Morgan’s own bold handwriting, Reanimation. Morgan scanned over the page, squinting to read in the dim light of a waxing moon. “Ok, so, uh, business time, I guess.” Morgan stood up, the book open in his left hand, his right hand stretched high into the night sky. He tilted his head back, looked deep into the dark heavens. “Yea, for thou art in thy business of terror, thine fists full of stacks. Seekest thou thine unholy umbrella, for mine rain be cast upon thee.” Morgan’s glance creeped down to the corpse. Silence. “Uh, Pete?” In the distance a solitary cricket chirped. “Oh come on.” He flipped through the book again, stopping at page thirty. Plan B, he thought. He kneeled down on the ground, leaned in close to the body, screamed “WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!”, leaned back and slapped the corpse-face, hard.
“What the fuck? Morgan!” Peter yelled.
Morgan screeched like a barn owl, fell backwards and frantically clawed his way to the top of the hole he had dug. He pulled himself out of the hole and jammed his hand into his pocket, which was full of salt. He took a handful of salt and sprinkled it in a circle around himself, terrified. Meanwhile, Peter wormed out of his coffin.
“Morgan, what are you doing? Is that salt?”
“Peter? Holy shit, it worked. Yes, it’s salt.”
“Why are you standing in a circle of salt?”
“Protection. The book says a ring of kosher salt will protect those inside from the dead.”
“You thought I was going to hurt you?”
“Well, I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Asshole.” Peter said, and punched Morgan in the shoulder.
“Ow, shit. See? I was right. The book was wrong, though.”
“No, the book was right. I’m not dead, idiot.”
“Where are you going?” Morgan asked, still standing in the ring of salt. Peter walked past Morgan, stretching his arms and legs as he moved.
“I’m going to get a drink of water. I’m thirsty.”
***
“So, what’s it like, being dead and all?” Morgan asked. They were sitting in the living room of his single-bedroom apartment, Morgan perched on a barstool he dragged in from the kitchen, Peter on the couch, flipping through channels on the television.
“Um, fine, I guess. I don’t know. You’ll find out sooner or later.”
“Yeah,” Morgan said, awkwardly. “So, look, I need to tell you something. It’s kind of important to me, but I need you to promise you won’t get angry.” Peter shifted his head towards Morgan slightly, but his eyes and attention remained affixed to the screen. “Right, so, do you remember anything about dying? I mean, before you were dead?”
“Not really. I remember we were at a bar, right?” His voice trailed off. Morgan took the opportunity to interrupt.
“Peter, I killed you. I hit you in the head with a beer bottle.” Morgan said, his hand fiddling with the salt in his pocket. “Seven times.”
“Son of a bitch!” Peter yelled. Morgan leaped off the barstool and ran into the kitchen, sprinkling a ring of salt around him on the linoleum.
“Back, you fiend!” Morgan threatened.
“Again with the salt.” Peter wound up and punched Morgan square in the jaw. He stumbled backwards, arms swimming wildly.
***
Morgan sat across from Christie at the dinner table.
“So you’re telling me that you killed Peter? Peter, my boyfriend? Peter, your best friend?” She said. She was not happy.
“Twice, actually.”
“Why, if I may ask, did you do that?”
“Well, ‘cause I thought I could bring him back. And I did. But then he freaked out on me, in my own kitchen I might add, and I had to stab him a couple of times and he kind of bled to death.” He said.
“I want him back, Morgan.” Her voice was stern and controlled.
“Look, I’m trying, but this shit isn’t easy, you know. How many people have you brought back from the dead?”
“I thought you had done this before. I thought you knew what you were doing. What did you call yourself? A necrophiliac?”
“Necromancer. It’s necromancer. And I never actually called myself one.”
“I don’t care. I want him back.”
“Jesus, you tinker with a few cars and no one calls you a mechanic, but you raise the dead just once and all of the sudden your a necromancer.”
***
“WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!” Morgan slapped Peter across the face, but he didn’t respond. “Okay, shit. Umm, let’s see here.” Morgan flipped through his black book. “Aha, page ninety-four.”
“Hurry up, Morgan, it’s getting cold.” Christie was standing behind Morgan, who was kneeling over Peter’s corpse.
“Page ninety-four, Bloodless Reanimation. You know, we wouldn’t be in this situation if Peter could hold his liquor.”
“Morgan, you hit him in the head with a beer bottle when his back was turned. You also stabbed him.” Her voice quivered in the cold air.
“Right, but the bottle thing was for his benefit. He was in over his head, I was just trying to keep things from escalating too far. And the stabbing thing was total self defense. He has a temper, you know.”
“You said you killed him on purpose, so that you could try this necrophiliac shit.”
“Necromancy shit. And it worked, didn’t it? I mean, the first time.” Morgan was scanning the pages in his book. “Right. Bloodless reanimation. Slap first, then...” His voice trailed off, but he continued to mouth the words he was reading. When he finished he reeled back and slapped Peter across the face, this time with his other hand. “GET UP, DOUCHE!”
Peter’s eyelids rolled up like window shades. “What the fuck, Morgan!” He stood up quickly and pushed Morgan, who was fleeing the scene. Morgan fell to the ground, his hand already in his pocket, grabbing salt.
“Peter, wait, I can explain.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and sprinkled a ring of salt on the ground.
“Jesus, again with the salt.”
Not too attached to this one, but it was an assignment and I was locked in to the first sentence. I think the narrative gets lost right around the time Pete is first resurrected--the whole story switches almost entirely to dialogue. I was very non-psyched to finish this story, perhaps that is why the voice got out of hand. Oh well, next time.
The shovel made a satisfying tearing sound as Morgan lifted it out of the ground. Had it been early in the day Morgan might have noticed the stark contrast between the fresh, green sod over Peter’s grave and the brown, long-dead grass surrounding it; a coffin shaped rectangle of life floating in a dead sea. It wasn’t early in the day though, it was late, just after midnight. The perfect hour for necromancy. Or so Morgan though. He’d always fancied himself a necromancer, though he never had any experience in the field until recently.
There was a dull thump when the shovel struck the lid of the coffin. Morgan hurried to clear the dirt away from the top third of the coffin, exposing the part of the lid that closes over the body’s torso and head. Fantastic, Morgan thought. He knelt down and dug through the dirt on the side of the coffin with his hands, trying to find the latch to open the lid. He found it and struggled to engage the mechanism. When the latch gave way Morgan stood up, took a deep breath, then bent down to open the lid. The cool metal felt heavy in his dirty hands. Morgan lifted the lid, closed his eyes when it reached it’s apex, counted to three, then opened them and looked down at his friend’s corpse. The corpse looked up at Morgan, cold eyes gleaming from across the void of death. The mortician had forgotten to close Peter’s eyelids, which made for an awkward funeral three days ago.
“Hello, Peter.” Morgan said. He got down on his knees and leaned close to the pale face. “All right, so I’ve never done this before, but give me a minute and I’ll see if I can’t make it happen.” Morgan leaned away from the corpse, produced and small black book from his jacket pocket and flipped through it’s pages. “Here we go, page twenty-seven.” Page twenty-seven was titled, in Morgan’s own bold handwriting, Reanimation. Morgan scanned over the page, squinting to read in the dim light of a waxing moon. “Ok, so, uh, business time, I guess.” Morgan stood up, the book open in his left hand, his right hand stretched high into the night sky. He tilted his head back, looked deep into the dark heavens. “Yea, for thou art in thy business of terror, thine fists full of stacks. Seekest thou thine unholy umbrella, for mine rain be cast upon thee.” Morgan’s glance creeped down to the corpse. Silence. “Uh, Pete?” In the distance a solitary cricket chirped. “Oh come on.” He flipped through the book again, stopping at page thirty. Plan B, he thought. He kneeled down on the ground, leaned in close to the body, screamed “WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!”, leaned back and slapped the corpse-face, hard.
“What the fuck? Morgan!” Peter yelled.
Morgan screeched like a barn owl, fell backwards and frantically clawed his way to the top of the hole he had dug. He pulled himself out of the hole and jammed his hand into his pocket, which was full of salt. He took a handful of salt and sprinkled it in a circle around himself, terrified. Meanwhile, Peter wormed out of his coffin.
“Morgan, what are you doing? Is that salt?”
“Peter? Holy shit, it worked. Yes, it’s salt.”
“Why are you standing in a circle of salt?”
“Protection. The book says a ring of kosher salt will protect those inside from the dead.”
“You thought I was going to hurt you?”
“Well, I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Asshole.” Peter said, and punched Morgan in the shoulder.
“Ow, shit. See? I was right. The book was wrong, though.”
“No, the book was right. I’m not dead, idiot.”
“Where are you going?” Morgan asked, still standing in the ring of salt. Peter walked past Morgan, stretching his arms and legs as he moved.
“I’m going to get a drink of water. I’m thirsty.”
***
“So, what’s it like, being dead and all?” Morgan asked. They were sitting in the living room of his single-bedroom apartment, Morgan perched on a barstool he dragged in from the kitchen, Peter on the couch, flipping through channels on the television.
“Um, fine, I guess. I don’t know. You’ll find out sooner or later.”
“Yeah,” Morgan said, awkwardly. “So, look, I need to tell you something. It’s kind of important to me, but I need you to promise you won’t get angry.” Peter shifted his head towards Morgan slightly, but his eyes and attention remained affixed to the screen. “Right, so, do you remember anything about dying? I mean, before you were dead?”
“Not really. I remember we were at a bar, right?” His voice trailed off. Morgan took the opportunity to interrupt.
“Peter, I killed you. I hit you in the head with a beer bottle.” Morgan said, his hand fiddling with the salt in his pocket. “Seven times.”
“Son of a bitch!” Peter yelled. Morgan leaped off the barstool and ran into the kitchen, sprinkling a ring of salt around him on the linoleum.
“Back, you fiend!” Morgan threatened.
“Again with the salt.” Peter wound up and punched Morgan square in the jaw. He stumbled backwards, arms swimming wildly.
***
Morgan sat across from Christie at the dinner table.
“So you’re telling me that you killed Peter? Peter, my boyfriend? Peter, your best friend?” She said. She was not happy.
“Twice, actually.”
“Why, if I may ask, did you do that?”
“Well, ‘cause I thought I could bring him back. And I did. But then he freaked out on me, in my own kitchen I might add, and I had to stab him a couple of times and he kind of bled to death.” He said.
“I want him back, Morgan.” Her voice was stern and controlled.
“Look, I’m trying, but this shit isn’t easy, you know. How many people have you brought back from the dead?”
“I thought you had done this before. I thought you knew what you were doing. What did you call yourself? A necrophiliac?”
“Necromancer. It’s necromancer. And I never actually called myself one.”
“I don’t care. I want him back.”
“Jesus, you tinker with a few cars and no one calls you a mechanic, but you raise the dead just once and all of the sudden your a necromancer.”
***
“WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!” Morgan slapped Peter across the face, but he didn’t respond. “Okay, shit. Umm, let’s see here.” Morgan flipped through his black book. “Aha, page ninety-four.”
“Hurry up, Morgan, it’s getting cold.” Christie was standing behind Morgan, who was kneeling over Peter’s corpse.
“Page ninety-four, Bloodless Reanimation. You know, we wouldn’t be in this situation if Peter could hold his liquor.”
“Morgan, you hit him in the head with a beer bottle when his back was turned. You also stabbed him.” Her voice quivered in the cold air.
“Right, but the bottle thing was for his benefit. He was in over his head, I was just trying to keep things from escalating too far. And the stabbing thing was total self defense. He has a temper, you know.”
“You said you killed him on purpose, so that you could try this necrophiliac shit.”
“Necromancy shit. And it worked, didn’t it? I mean, the first time.” Morgan was scanning the pages in his book. “Right. Bloodless reanimation. Slap first, then...” His voice trailed off, but he continued to mouth the words he was reading. When he finished he reeled back and slapped Peter across the face, this time with his other hand. “GET UP, DOUCHE!”
Peter’s eyelids rolled up like window shades. “What the fuck, Morgan!” He stood up quickly and pushed Morgan, who was fleeing the scene. Morgan fell to the ground, his hand already in his pocket, grabbing salt.
“Peter, wait, I can explain.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and sprinkled a ring of salt on the ground.
“Jesus, again with the salt.”
Not too attached to this one, but it was an assignment and I was locked in to the first sentence. I think the narrative gets lost right around the time Pete is first resurrected--the whole story switches almost entirely to dialogue. I was very non-psyched to finish this story, perhaps that is why the voice got out of hand. Oh well, next time.
9.09.2008
Another Skeleton in the Closet
Skeletons march from the closet door,
slip under sheets, crawl between bare bodies.
Cool bones click against cool bones;
the skeleton hands strip her skin,
peel her flesh,
leave it like excited clothing
discarded on the floor.
Now her cold, skeleton fingers lose grip,
her breathless bones abandon our embrace,
she slides out of bed
and click-clacks away with her skeleton sisters.
slip under sheets, crawl between bare bodies.
Cool bones click against cool bones;
the skeleton hands strip her skin,
peel her flesh,
leave it like excited clothing
discarded on the floor.
Now her cold, skeleton fingers lose grip,
her breathless bones abandon our embrace,
she slides out of bed
and click-clacks away with her skeleton sisters.
9.08.2008
Paperclip
Disconnect events and I, home, key out
until space pushes into reach
the tapes of some television.
I, body in desert, sun picked, outside
on road fields as mistakes come around,
shining on black mirror asphalt.
So I, a paperclip bag,
paperclip inside color sky,
open wider inside the day.
until space pushes into reach
the tapes of some television.
I, body in desert, sun picked, outside
on road fields as mistakes come around,
shining on black mirror asphalt.
So I, a paperclip bag,
paperclip inside color sky,
open wider inside the day.
9.05.2008
Foresight
He wouldn’t have started the barfight if he knew he was going to lose.
“Those are fantastic boots” the woman was saying. He looked down at her from the bottom of an empty glass that moments earlier contained a White Russian. Moments later it would still be empty, only it would be empty and in many pieces, some of them embedded in his flesh, and she would be looking down at him.
“Those are fantastic boobs” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, do you prefer tits?” It was less a physical pain, her fist, and more a surprised shock. He thought she would go for his balls, but she didn’t. Instead she swung her left fist in a wide arc, connected squarely with his front teeth and sent him tumbling backwards. His glass fell to the floor, exploded into pieces, some jagged, some smooth. It probably hurt her hand quite a bit, but if it did she didn’t show it. She was definitely tough. He shook his head, brushed his hand to his lips, checked for blood. There wasn’t any, so he walked towards the woman and hurled his right fist into her abdomen. He felt like he was twelve, playing Mortal Kombat in a friend’s basement. Only he was twenty-six, and he wasn’t Liu Kang and she wasn’t Sonya Blade. The woman folded in half around his fist. Air rushed out of her lungs in an unattractive grunt. He retracted his fist, contemplated dropping his left elbow on her back but decided against it. She fell to her knees, one arm outstretched to the ground for stability, the other arm holding tight to her stomach. Her lungs burned for oxygen. He turned away from her, looked at the rest of the bar. A wall of glaring eyes like a glacier of disbelief surrounded him. The bartender materialized from behind the wall.
“Son, you’ve got a lot of nerve, I’ll give you that.” The bartender said, his voice harsh from years of cheap cigars.
“Yeah, I guess I do.” He replied. He could taste a metallic hint of blood in his mouth. Maybe she hit him harder than he thought.
The woman had regained her composure, and from her crouched stance sprung forward into the back of his knees. He tipped backwards, arms swimming through the air, searching for balance. At the peak of his struggle she stood up and dropped him on his back. She turned around to admire her handiwork; him on the ground, looking up, breathless. She moved so that she stood over him, her small stature magnified to frightening proportion. He wanted to kick at her or grab her legs, but he couldn’t summon the necessary energy to fight back. His lungs were empty and his back burned with several cuts from the more jagged pieces of glass that had earlier held his drink. So instead of fighting back he looked up at her.
Obviously, this is not finished. In fact I am 100% stuck and unsure where to go from here, which is a bummer because this story is due in a week. Anyway, my mission here was to try my hand at a fight scene, to test the waters for a future project. Does it work? I'm not entirely convinced. Also: the first sentence is not mine. Part of the assignment was everyone in class had to start their story with the same sentence. My suggestion for the sentence: "Horses, for the most part, are incapable of withstanding the crushing gravity of a black hole." Which is better? You be the judge.
“Those are fantastic boots” the woman was saying. He looked down at her from the bottom of an empty glass that moments earlier contained a White Russian. Moments later it would still be empty, only it would be empty and in many pieces, some of them embedded in his flesh, and she would be looking down at him.
“Those are fantastic boobs” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, do you prefer tits?” It was less a physical pain, her fist, and more a surprised shock. He thought she would go for his balls, but she didn’t. Instead she swung her left fist in a wide arc, connected squarely with his front teeth and sent him tumbling backwards. His glass fell to the floor, exploded into pieces, some jagged, some smooth. It probably hurt her hand quite a bit, but if it did she didn’t show it. She was definitely tough. He shook his head, brushed his hand to his lips, checked for blood. There wasn’t any, so he walked towards the woman and hurled his right fist into her abdomen. He felt like he was twelve, playing Mortal Kombat in a friend’s basement. Only he was twenty-six, and he wasn’t Liu Kang and she wasn’t Sonya Blade. The woman folded in half around his fist. Air rushed out of her lungs in an unattractive grunt. He retracted his fist, contemplated dropping his left elbow on her back but decided against it. She fell to her knees, one arm outstretched to the ground for stability, the other arm holding tight to her stomach. Her lungs burned for oxygen. He turned away from her, looked at the rest of the bar. A wall of glaring eyes like a glacier of disbelief surrounded him. The bartender materialized from behind the wall.
“Son, you’ve got a lot of nerve, I’ll give you that.” The bartender said, his voice harsh from years of cheap cigars.
“Yeah, I guess I do.” He replied. He could taste a metallic hint of blood in his mouth. Maybe she hit him harder than he thought.
The woman had regained her composure, and from her crouched stance sprung forward into the back of his knees. He tipped backwards, arms swimming through the air, searching for balance. At the peak of his struggle she stood up and dropped him on his back. She turned around to admire her handiwork; him on the ground, looking up, breathless. She moved so that she stood over him, her small stature magnified to frightening proportion. He wanted to kick at her or grab her legs, but he couldn’t summon the necessary energy to fight back. His lungs were empty and his back burned with several cuts from the more jagged pieces of glass that had earlier held his drink. So instead of fighting back he looked up at her.
Obviously, this is not finished. In fact I am 100% stuck and unsure where to go from here, which is a bummer because this story is due in a week. Anyway, my mission here was to try my hand at a fight scene, to test the waters for a future project. Does it work? I'm not entirely convinced. Also: the first sentence is not mine. Part of the assignment was everyone in class had to start their story with the same sentence. My suggestion for the sentence: "Horses, for the most part, are incapable of withstanding the crushing gravity of a black hole." Which is better? You be the judge.
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