55 Words or Less: Story Two

Little George walked to the window.

The floor was cold, as it was outside.

He looked through the glass to the pond nearby, the mist still hanging over it.

He looked to his mother and asked if they would be here soon.

She looked back at him and said, “The invasion has already begun”.

Only Some Can Understand

The pain is undeniable. It comes in waves and shoots through my body. I can’t do anything but sit in agony. I can’t even bring myself to do the things I love most: Video Games, Movies, dancing – I can’t even sleep. The world is absolutely intolerable. It hurts to lie down. It hurts to stand up. It even hurts after I empty my bladder. I feel like I want to throw up, it hurts that bad. I shuffle to the sink, stooped over caressing myself in false hope, and wash my hands in hot water for ten minutes. I want to dive in, submerge myself in that heat, to make the pain stop. My brow furls and I can’t bring myself to smile at anything. I lean over the sink as the pain irks me. I want to fall to my knees and roll up into a ball. It’s like someone scraping a razor across my insides, ripping piece by piece. Sometimes it’s short and powerful and throws me into submission in an instant. Sometimes it’s long and intense and makes me cringe and cry for what feels like hours.

When I see someone I know I put on a happy face. “Oh, it’s nothing, I’ll live.”

The only thing I want to do is crawl into bed and die. No time to die. I shuffle into my bedroom and pull on my pants, my shoes, and a face that says “just leave me alone.”

Sometimes a moan escapes my lips or I curse God and all His foolishness.

It wasn’t her fault. It was that stupid snake.

The Bathtub Story

Toby Jones loved his baths. He would sit in a bathtub, foamed and warmed, all day and all night. He loved to lie there pondering things that are much too big to simply ponder. And he would sit and ponder all day and all night. You see, Toby Jones had not left his bath in twenty six years.

When he was nine he had gotten in and had never gotten out. When he was ten he slipped and broke his leg and he sat with it in the air while his doctor made a house call to cast it. When he was fourteen he asked a girl over for dinner and a movie. She sat on the toilet, the strangest date of her life. His mother had fought, his father had left, and his grandfather died of cancer much to his chagrin, but he never left his bubbles.

When he was sixteen he designed a mechanics system that would allow his bathtub to become mobile. When he was twenty he finished building it. When he was twenty one he finished implementing and he strolled out of the house on his mobile tub.

Since, he has been riding from State to State, making his tub faster and stopping over for hot water refills in the local inns. In Texas he rode a mechanical bull, but they kicked him out for sloshing. In California, he went to a punk show, but they kicked him out for moshing. He met the President in Washington, Mickey in Florida, and Lady Liberty in New York – although what a squeeze to get that tub to the top! He was featured in Guinness and all the local news; he even had a meeting with Ripley before the year was out.

Toby Jones saw a long life ahead of him, endless possibilities and many countries to visit. And he could do it all without leaving his tub – all day and all night.

Undamaged Reality

The mirror went first with a solid crash; she had never felt herself looking as ugly as she did in that moment. The bottles of lotion and hair gel, the decorative seashells and tissue box, the soap canister – everything went to the floor in one fluid sweep of the arm. The shark teeth and small cheap portraits on the walls were flung across the room with a force worthy of a marine heavily armed with grenades and vengeance. The medicine cabinet went after that - its innards strewn across the room. There was only one thing left standing: the shower. The fogged plastic doors were no match, they were kicked from their rails, cracked and broken.

But they didn’t see any of that. They only heard it, it wasn’t the sound of crashing and breaking as much as it was the sound of materialized rage. The door had been locked. The rage had stopped before they reached it. The calm from inside was the most frightening of all. There was a knock and a quick name called out. When no answer came, the next sound was that of the wood splintering, the lock torn from its hinges.

But she didn’t hear any of that. When they found her she was calmly resting in the bathtub, lying over the collapsed shower doors as though they didn’t exist. The warm water trickled through her hair, over her shirt and pants and shoes. She was smiling when they found her, her left hand swaying loftily over the drain, entrancing her as she watched.

They didn’t yell. They wanted to. But they didn’t understand what was going on.

The silence settled over the damage like hundred-year-old dust.

 They wanted to speak, but didn’t know what to say. They were enraged and confused, but it was all muffled by a certain sense of pity that kept them quiet and stunned.

“You can see the lights.” She spoke so softly that she was nearly drowned out by the sound of the water pouring over her.

They leaned in to her. She smiled at her dancing hand and said again, “the lights, watch them dance…the sunshine is playing….”

They glanced at each other. It was night time and there were no lights and no dancing.

She pushed herself to her knees so quickly they nearly toppled over to avoid their faces smashing. “YOU CAN SEE THE WORLD!”

Her pupils were as big around as walnuts, or so it seemed with her so close to their faces.

“LOOK! LOOK! LOOK!” She leaned over the drain and peered down it.

They peeked over the edge; there was nothing but a drain, slightly moldy from lack of proper cleaning.

“You can see it. There’s the hills and the giant rabbits and the Tree.  It’s sunny and there’s people all dancing the tango and the mambo and the cha-chi-cha-chi and….the…man with the white coat is giving everyone something. I WANT IT! Whs hs I hwan it n de av it n I wn it don hv t”

Her words grew to mumbles, angst in every syllable. She began pushing her fingers into the drain, “I WANT INSIDE! I WANT TO DANCE! WANT IT WANT IT WANT IT WANT IT WANT IT!!!!” There was a desperate attempt to pull the drain open wider and fit inside, but the only prize she won was the muck on her fingers.

She looked up pleadingly asking them for help.

She paused, staring at them, and whispering as quietly, “jack hammer…”

She began to scramble out of the bathtub running over them, soaking them with luke warm shower water. They grabbed her and held her to the ground. In her attempt to break away, her last attempt at freedom, she sliced her arms and legs on the mirror strewn over the ground.

She flipped onto her back screaming that there were too many snakes. They held her down as she sobbed and screamed.

She went limp, staring at the ceiling.

They let go and tended to their own wounded elbows and knees hoping the struggle was over.

She was quiet, the water from her clothes turned the room into a large bloody puddle. A tear ran down her cheek.

Her arm raised slowly, her hand open, welcoming the ceiling.

Curiosity made them look, but there was nothing but a ceiling, beige and moist with condensation.

“There.”

55 Words or Less: Story One

She hung up the phone.

“He’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?”

“Your father.”

She turned on the TV.

“Mr. Cruntle, beloved school principal was murdered, two shots to the head.”

There was silence.

Her husband returned that night, a pistol in his coat pocket.

The Rain from the Desert

The night grows colder with the setting sun and my coffee’s temperature follows closely behind. Outside the store, the patio bench, made of oak wood and heavy manufactured screws, holds me above the cold cement floor. The store has priced the bench at $213.19 but the district office has placed it on sale for $199.99. You will receive a full thirteen dollars and twenty cents credit, if you purchase this monstrosity of a seat, this economically insane, environmentally destabilizing butt holder.

            Both signs stating this wonderful savings are currently crumpled beneath my foot, along with the two Marlboro Red cigarette butts I smoked within the last ten minutes, a small piece of mysterious trash, and a half-deceased ant, complete with twitching leg. Under my size 10 black work boot is not the decomposing, unimportant tidbits of this world, but the astonishing parallel that is my life.

            The day’s rain has washed the filth from the cars and streets leaving that clean illusionary aroma that only comes when it rains. But the rain never fails to forget to wash away one piece of filth that has ridiculed this world for too long: the people.

            This is where I come in.

            I enjoy sitting outside, watching the carbon dioxide float through the air, watch the disintegrating ozone turn colors in the sunset – a sunset that everyone seems to miss anymore during their jobs or school or five-o-clock commute home. I enjoy watching the people scurry around their lives, thinking that everything they know and love is truly (and I laugh at this matter) important.

            Tonight’s number is generous: five.

            There is a man, he is older with graying hair and walks with a slight limp. He has his hands buried in the pockets of a white jacket, hidden against the cold, hidden from the outside world, just like he prefers his inner most thoughts to be. He walks tall, but that limp is fresh, and he will hide it with every effort he can. He eyes me slightly, but looks away, rotating his shoulder, brushing me off of him.

            There is a woman; she is youthful with brown hair and full breasts. She smiled at me as she passed; her smile was passionate and warm, but her eyes were cold and determined. She has no rings on her fingers, but there is a child with her, around twelve or so. Children are the hardest to see in my count. They flourish in the moonlight and thrive in the sunlight, but it’s not long before the rain is past due to wash them away. The child looks at me, a smile cracks his lip, but for a second, and then he turns to the woman, ignoring that I was ever there. His hands are separate entities amongst themselves, moving with free will, and they tell me what he whispers to her in loud convulsive exclamations.

            There is a man, he follows his world, pushes it along, in a steel shopping cart that doesn’t belong to this store. He’s heavy, a medical mystery, and bowlegged. His face and hair, under a blue beanie, is unshaved, uncut, un-groomed, and unclean: the bottom feeder of the ocean, and the only honesty to this joyous compilation. There is a ragged brown bear, a child’s play thing, strapped to the innards of this home: A friend and a listener. This man ignores me.

            I kicked at the ant, the cigarettes, the trash, the prices, and my coffee cup; I stood to my full six-foot-three-inch frame. I heard my trench coat rustle in the wind. My dark sunglasses framed my long, scarred face. My scarred past and present and future, framed by the dark mask I wear outside.

            I turned on my heel, and faced the doors of this store. I reached both hands deep inside my coat, deep into my belt, and pulled out two stark black .50 caliber desert eagles. My boots kicked open the doors, my hands raised the guns and the bullets rained upon them, washing the world of its filth, its excrement, a little at a time.

            There was a man, who dropped to the floor, his eyes begged and watered. When he died, his hands fell from his pockets and his arms opened wide. He no longer had to hide the hurt in his ankle, or his life.

            There was a woman, who dropped to the floor, her eyes determined to save her child. She leapt in front of him, and stood tall and ready. When she died, she crumpled onto the floor in a ball, slumped over and weak.

            There was a child, old enough to feel the rain, who dropped to the floor. His hands were separate entities amongst themselves. When this child died, he raised his hand in my direction; one finger told me all his words, words he never told his mother.

            There was a man, who dropped to the floor. He never looked at me, not once. He hugged his friend and whispered goodbye.

I walked out of the store. My desert eagles back in their nests. The rain had stopped. The air was cleaner.

I mentioned five for this game. I have been paid to do much worse, and in higher numbers. Today, five is generous to me. The fifth has remained silent until now. The fifth has not said a word, but merely taken part on these events.

The fifth is you, for when this story ends, so does your journey in my life.

To me, you will die.

Amber's Ember

My name is Amber. I’m about the size of the punctuation at the end of this sentence. I’m tall for my age. I live on a large log with my town and my family. We live in one of those little niches you stub your toe on; our Bark.

We gather for story time: my oldest relatives ramble on about the “olden days” when they lived on a tree before the Metal Teeth made their homes quake and fall. There’s also a prophecy that gets mumbled about like wildfire. Unlike the old stories, it ensnares my soul.

“One day, a giant will come and hoist our world into the sky and we will be thrown into Hell. Our only hopes of escaping will be to float to the Heavens.”

My great grandmother speaks of a “false-alarm-giant” that she lived through when she was my age. She said that she had hung by one finger when the log was thrown onto a pile of gritty soil. After that, the sky was encased in color over a blanket of sparkling blue every evening. We moved Bark after I was born and I don’t have a good view of the Blue Blanket anymore, but on a clear day I get to see the colors change in the sky and become black. My grandmother says that if I look hard enough I’ll see little white dots in the blackness that are supposed to be giant glowing trees, but my grandmother is silly and she wears glasses that make her eyes look too big. But maybe with those glasses she can see those trees…I look hard every night thinking that I could go up to the trees and live there, but my mother tells me I’m being naïve.

It was during my evening “How to Rope an Ant for Dinner” lesson that the excitement took place. The Giant appeared and blocked out the sun. It was ugly, large and white. It grunted a lot. Our world shook and trembled and we slid from one Bark to another. I could see the elders yelling “I told you so!” and “No false alarm here!” My father broke his nose on the log when it fell back onto the ground.

The Giant flooded us out by a foul liquid from a red bottle. We all yelled our goodbyes, mother was crying. The Giant struck a small piece of wood, it lit like the summer sun, and he threw it at us. We were engulfed into Hell. Everyone screamed. Through smoke-filled eyes I watched the Giant place a white ball onto a stick and begin to turn it over our burning bodies until it charred black. I held onto the bark at my feet. The Giant popped the charred ball into its mouth. I watched my mother holding my grandmother up. I coughed desperately. My bark snapped, bright red, and I drifted up on the cool night breeze. I was on my way, floating toward the white dotted trees in the black sky.

Meditative Dinner Prep

There's a calm, a certain moment of peace and serenity, that settles over the cupboards and tables when the knives and cutting boards are set, the pans are filled with olive oil, the pots are filled with cold, unboiled water, and the chicken, tomato, and basil are all placed strategically around the counter. That moment, just before the oven is on and the stove is hot, that moment before the chopping and sizzling, that moment before the house is filled with the aromas of your toils, that you can step back, breathe, and truly appreciate the impending chaotic clanking of cooking and conversation that you, yourself, created.

Time Capsule

The key had been in his family for decades, passed down from generation to generation with a promise to open the shiny metal box in one hundred years. They sat down together, a man and his boy, on the hundredth birthday of the tin, and they jiggled the old cumbersome key into the lock.

They expected photos, old toys, and newspaper clippings – really anything except what was inside.

The father pulled the single item out of the box: a shiny rock. What a disappointment. All that time that passed, a hundred years, and for what? Keeping the secret of a rock? Was it a joke? A hundred year old joke?

There was nothing on it. The father turned the stone over in his hand. One, two, three times. He passed the stone to his son and put his hand on they boy's shoulder.

“Sorry, son, wasn’t as neat as I thought it would be.”

They raised their eyes away from the stone, and their world shifted. A mist settled and cleared. The neighborhood was gone. Fields of cattle and cattails sprang out before them. The home they had lived in for years, the first built on their block, looked shiny and new: trees were only young saplings, mortared bricks still dried in place, the swimming pool just a grassy yard.

They burst through the back door into the house. 
A woman yelled.

“Willy, you better fix that door latch! The wind's gone and thrown it open again.”

The father recognized her from an old sepia photo they had framed in the den. It was his great grandmother.

“Hold on Maude, I’ll get to it. I just want to finish this up and put it under our house.”

The father and son slipped into the next room. It was certainly where their living room was supposed to be, but the furniture was all different. Old rockers and simple chairs sat around a small handmade coffee table with a large radio against the back wall. 
The man in the room was his great grandfather, Willy. He sat at a desk, polishing a rock in front of a small metal tin.

The father and son eyed the rock still in their possession.

“It’ll be great Maude. Remember you and I went back to England a hundred years ago? Well, we have to keep the tradition going. A hundred years from today someone…grandsons of grandsons, will get to come visit us, if only for a moment.”

The world shifted again.

“Did you hear me, Danny?”

They were back in their own living room.

“Danny?”

“Yes? What is it?” The father called to his wife.

“Can you fix the latch on the screen door? The wind just blew it open.” 

An Answer to a Lost Ring

Dear Daddy,

The sink dosnt hav your weding Ring.
I Do.
You can hav it bak wen you stop figting with Mommy.
And you hav to giv me a brownee.

From, SabiaN

Carl's Plan (Amateur Heist: Part Two)

The bastard fell in love. So when the saleswoman mentioned she had a robotic monkey, we just had to buy it.

         But maybe I should start where I left off.

         All of the women were lounging around in their underwear. Isn’t that where I left off? Doesn’t matter, you should always start with women in underwear.

Walking through the halls, sitting on the pillows, sleeping on the tall stilted bed in the main room. I never realized things like this happened in reality, and not just movies. But there they were, right out of some middle-aged male fantasy, these sexy beautiful women were walking around in sheer, lace, and satin, beckoning us inside. Women or men, they wanted anyone as long as they had those attractive fat wallets.

We had our game faces on though. We had to maintain our composure no matter what holes our dicks got into.

We all separated into different rooms, specifying that we wanted the ladies’ personal rooms. As if that helped get us off or something.

When I found my way to the bedroom with olive skinned beauty I was offered, I wasted no time in sending her into an ether-laden slumber. The guys would probably spend some time getting laid first, but I had tits of my own to play with. I scoured the space. Jewelry boxes in the closet, a money tin under the bed, a fat money clip inside a fake spray-tan bottle. A Hundred Years of Solitude resting in her bedside table’s drawer. I looked over at her limp frame on the bed, her breasts still perky under the lavender bra. I left the book for her. Gotta respect a chick with boobs and smarts.

The bathroom earned me a few pairs of earrings and a wicked pair of heels that had no benefit to our plan except to make later bedroom antics with Jake more enjoyable. I jumped on the bed and took a moment to watch her breasts jiggle while I employed one of her satin pillowcases for my spoils.

         I opened the door to the hallway and nearly walked right into a man. He looked at me, then in the room at the woman immobilized on the bed.
         “I’m just that good, what can I say?”

         He eyed my pillowcase and furled his eyebrows. Too late. I kicked him hard, jumped up and wrapped my arm around his neck. I let his own weight bring him down into a bathroom. We landed hard on the tile floor. He flipped over and I lost my grip. I punched him, twice. He pushed me aside, nearly rising, but I jumped onto his back, regained my grip on his neck and choked him until he dropped, lifeless.

         “Son of a bitch!”

         I kicked him away from me, grabbed my pillowcase, and slammed the door closed.

         In the front room, with the stilted bed, I found three ladies splayed on the bed and floor, moaning lightly.

         “Gassed ‘em, but it’s wearing off,” said Trent from under the bed somewhere He rose with a nice wooden jewelry box in tow.

         I snapped the necklaces and bracelets from the smooth-skinned beauties and felt around under their pillows. There was a velour bag under one pillow with a shiny stone inside that had hopeful words etched into it. The dark-skinned girl lying paralyzed on the pillow looked up at me, desperate.

         “Don’t worry, you can keep your rock.”  As if that’s what she really wanted.

         Jack emerged from the back bedroom, buttoning his pants and hiking two pillowcases onto his back, a cigarette already pressed between his lips.

         The bathroom door swung open next to him and the man I’d choked earlier tumbled out.  

         “What the fuck?” Jack swung at him, knocking him back into the bathroom, “Who the fuck is this guy?”

         “The owner I think,” I said pulling rings from slender fingers.

         Jack pulled out an ether rag and disappeared into the bathroom.

         “Oh fuck. He had a phone guys, he called the cops. Let’s get out of here.”

         Jack ran down the hall banging on the doors and opening them.

         “Carl, put your dick away, we gotta run. Dave, Nicky, Red, let’s go!”

         The gang sprinted to the front.

         A blanket-clad woman ran to the hallway, “Nicky, wait!”

         But we were already out the door.

         Oh, the robot monkey thing? You’re still on that? Well, let’s just say that’s what happens when you spend too much time talking to your hookers.

The Hotel (Amateur Heist: Part One)

The cat stared at me. Her gaze penetrated my own, so deeply in fact that I was almost certain there was a tiny person inside her. Don’t get too concerned though, the cat isn’t the main part of this story. But she did continue to stare.  

The two men at the table, who were basically giant boys in janitor uniforms, were staring icily at each other. I’d managed to convince them to leave me the hotel’s back door key for tonight. And they had separately invited me into their musky little janitorial closet for a meal. The food wasn’t even on the table yet when their livid stares turned into an argument. They were both on their feet, screaming at each other when the language took a turn down into a foreign country and I was lost. I assumed they were arguing about whose woman I was and who deserved a private meal with me. The one on the left grabbed up his plate and flung it at the other. It crashed against the back wall. Forks and spoons and raging globs of spit joined the air raid. I ducked to avoid the biological weaponry. A steak knife flew across the room and I knew it was time to make my departure. I grappled with the chair. The plate-flinging man jumped over the table and strangled the other. Gargled, painful rasps for air filled the room and my panicked, clumsy legs tumbled me right out the door.

I ran down the rich hotel hallway: an airy space with rooms on the left and on the right, an open wall overlooking a waterfall of fauna that dropped ferns and ivy from high up on the seventh floor into the planter box of palms and waxy leaves two stories below.

At the end of the hall was one of the few open doors. I didn’t care who was inside. A man with a towel around his waist and a police officer were standing inside.

 “Please help! These men are going to kill each other!”

The police officer ran out with me and I pointed to the small door at the far end. He ran down the hall while I snuck a better view through open space from the opposite end of the hall. It didn’t take a genius to realize that the man that had rushed to my aid wasn’t a real police officer, but a man in a costume, probably a stripper. There was more yelling and crashing.

A door opened nearby and a man, not much taller than myself and swimming in a blue suit, emerged from one of the doors. He raised a handgun toward the janitorial closet. Two rounds were fired. The policeman escaped and went howling back down the hallway, his arms bent at his elbows, any question to his sexuality left behind with the dead janitors. Another shot fired down the hall and the stripper spun and fell into a lump on the ground. Before he could spot me, I turned and ran to the elevator behind me. It dinged open quickly and I flung myself into its emptiness. I rammed my finger onto the “close door” button, but as the door closed, a woman appeared in the space. I screamed, dragged her in, and rammed the button again. I pressed Floor 7, but we went down first. Five more women piled on, one with a shiny gold Bellman’s Cart, until we were pressed for space.

“Has anyone here seen Lesli? I need to get a hold of her. Anyone? She’s the Head of Security. She’s remarkably tall, short-blonde hair? No one’s seen her?”  

Everyone shook their heads and muttered, confused and stupid like the mushed-in sardines they emulated.

At the bottom, everyone exited but me.

Floor 7. Floor 7. Floor 7. I pressed the button over and over.

The steel box rose straight up to the top floor where the plethora of fauna grew and cascaded down into the hotel’s centrifugal basin on Floor 1. Lesli, dressed in all-white (clearly interrupted from yoga) was standing just outside her corner office in a perfect stance with her gun aimed right at her door.

“Come on back out here and no one gets hurt!” She yelled.

“Lesli!” I’m sure I said aloud.

Through the glass windows to her clean office, all I could see were the two cushy chairs and empty desk. The remarkably tall door that accommodated her remarkable stature was closed. She handed me a handgun.

“What do you want me to – ugh…”

I unlatched the safety on the gun and threw open the door.

The second door at the back of the room, leading to a private security-only hallway, was open. I peered to the left and right. Men spoke from the right, near Lesli’s room. They burst back into the hallway.

“Did you get it?”

“Just a hundred bucks.”

“We did all of this for a hundred bucks?”

“It’s all she had in the fucking safe.”

“Come on, let’s get out of here.”

The men passed by, ignoring me, and went to the other end of the hall, to the private security elevator. I locked the door so Lesli couldn’t follow, then joined the men in the elevator. I wrapped my arms around Jack, the one swimming in his blue suit, and planted a kiss on him.

“A hundred bucks isn’t worth it. We need to boost a car or something. Too many people died on this one.”

“We’ll go with Carl’s plan next then,” (Carl was our driver), “he said he knows a good brothel where they keep all their goods right out in the open.” 

And Life is Always the Same Story

I died. It was gruesome and bloody and involved a pick-axe. The world disintegrated into blackness. Colors expressed themselves in flashes like when you stare at a light bulb then close your eyes. I blinked my eyes open, a long dark hallway. “Good morning sunshine,” a male voice. Half his face had been blown off, American. I was in a long line reeking of death. All souls, all ages, all creatures – some old, some young, some missing limbs, some put together: Nuns, lions, babies, elders, parrots, and fish flopping noisily on the concrete slabs.

The line moved quickly, one by one through iron doors. The half-faced man wished me luck. Three judges inside with a lead brick of papers they called my life. A floor littered with silver disks reflecting light onto the ceiling. With a glance upon the others, the mid-judge stood up, cloak billowing, and pointed down upon the disks as they changed to blue. I stepped down and looked inside one. A life flashed before my eyes: a cheetah, one brother, the savanna, the sun, speed, 32 kills, a poacher. I tore my eyes away, another disk. Another life: A baby boy, 5 sisters, CEO father, a new wagon, a new car, pink slip, bankruptcy, poverty, robbery, gang shooting. Another disk: A baby girl, only child, no father, dropped in a trash can. Another disk: a puppy, a runt, 5 siblings, sold to a woman, long walks, fetch, a big bone every Christmas, demise of a tumor. Another disk: A baby girl, 1 brother, murdered a water buffalo, tribal dance, married off, born 3 children, died of old age. Another disk: A slug - whoa no thanks. Another disk: A baby boy, an abusive father, a whimpering mother, alcohol at 8, weed at 10, heroin at 13, suicide at 15. What happens if someone doesn’t watch the whole life in these disks? What if they didn’t see the ending? What a miserable fate. I choose my disk, my future.

They sentence me 3 years in Hell, 3 years in Heaven for my past life that I can’t remember. Two archways, one after the other: 3 years of mind-numbing, body aching, skin searing torture; 3 years of ever-healing, smile enhancing, peacefully perfected bliss.

After Heaven I’m dropped into a green field, the waters of eternity in a pond before me. Nowhere to go now, but birth.

The Raid

Smell the sweet succulence of the room’s atmosphere. Drink in the perfumes, the colorful glass bottles of Fragonard and Grace. Run gentle fingers over the desk, sensing the memory of her touch. Glance at the photos placarded over bulletin board and pinned to the walls; locate her sweet, young face smiling back at you, seeing you. Touch the photo, gently, tracing her soft cheeks and gentle hair. Lean into the photo, kiss it lightly, thinking about her soft lips on yours. Find the bed, knowing its warm each night, yet it’s so cool and still right now – waiting for her nighttime arrival. Crawl onto the pink, plaid comforter and slowly pull your hands and knees over it. Press yourself against it, feel your whole body push deep into the folds. Moan lightly. Bury your face in the pillows. Grasp onto them; breathe deeply. Moan louder. Feel your whole body touch the space where she sleeps. Imagine her warm, slender, small body lying peacefully within…lying under you. Spy the dresser across the room: your whole reason for coming, the piece de resistance. Slip regretfully from the cushions and tiptoe across the floor she walks upon. Slide the drawer open, smooth against its wood frame. Reach deep inside the caverns of heavenly folded bras. Dive in; fondle the smooth cups across your cheeks. Close the drawer, breathing deeply. Finger the handles on the next drawer, pull it slowly toward you. Gasp lightly, there they were: the pieces you’ve risked everything for, the colorful little gems that reached the deepest, most taboo parts of her body. Finger through them; lift them from their sweet cradle to your face and devour their fresh, clean scent – too clean. Discover the hamper: the button down shirt she wore yesterday, that flowing skirt that had caressed her legs three days ago when you watched her from the back of the theater – the garments that she wore underneath that skirt. Jump to the basket and lift the pieces from their wafting bed; breathe in their scent, deep long breaths. Press them to your face, your nose; rub them over your head and neck. Moan loudly. Hear a door slam. Gasp. Panic. Dart around the room. Pocket the spoils of your journey. Throw open the window. Clamor over the desk. Knock over the vases. Escape.

February Sketch

A Lover's Story

I’ve come to a realization. I’ve found the love of my life. He keeps me entertained and happy and makes me laugh, but he knows when to get down to business if need be. Sure, he can be stubborn sometimes, he doesn’t always do what I want to do when I want to do it (like hang around on the internet or stream movies). But he’s such a good friend that I forgive his setbacks. He’s been through plenty of bumps and bruises with me as well, like when we fell down the fire escape together! He’s scratched and beaten, but ultimately faithful. He can even turn me on... after all, he does have a great collection of porn. He’s capable of so many creative and amazing things if I give him the right tools with which to do them. He’ seven willing to go anywhere in the world with me (except maybe swimming). And best of all? He keeps my secrets – my deepest, darkest secrets that nobody knows but him. I absolutely love him, my laptop.

Daddy's Fabrications

How did I meet your mama you ask? Well, when I was a young man I liked to whittle and carve sculptures from wood. I had a little shop off the main road up in the Redwoods and would carve things like welcome signs with bears on them or wooden cutlery and jewelry boxes. It was good living, simple and easy. I was outdoors, I met tons of people with interesting stories that travelled through, and I didn’t have to worry about having a boss.

Meanwhile, your mother was living in a quaint little house. She kept to herself mostly, stayed inside. You would never think that someone who meets only travelers and a woman who doesn’t travel could ever possibly meet.

I was out in the back carving a big hunk of redwood. I sort of had the idea I was going to make another welcome sign since I only had a couple left, they’d been selling like hotcakes. I took a large chunk off the top and I saw the strangest thing inside this tree. It looked like a tiny rooster. I chipped a piece off from below the rooster and noticed it was a tiny weathervane. I continued to carve around it, wondering if I’d lost my mind. Was it possible I carved a tiny weathervane without realizing it? I fell into some abyss in my mind and just began carving away, something had come over me. I couldn’t stop. Suddenly there was a scalloped roof, tiny gutters, walls of a second story. I carved away windows with shutters and flower boxes, a patio, a rocking chair on the patio, tiny doorknobs, stairs, and finally the ground it sat upon. It was a perfect little dollhouse. I looked inside the windows I had only just carved. The whole house was already furnished with tiny wooden beds and tables and dressers. Tiny fabrics and pictures and teeny books that I know for a fact I hadn’t addressed. When I leaned over and opened the front door, there she was - A tiny little Tom-Thumb of a woman in a teal dress with long black hair and bright eyes. She was standing next to, if you’ll believe it, the same damn welcome sign I set out to carve in the first place. When I lifted her up away from her house she grew to a normal human size. That’s how we met. And that’s why I call your mama Dollface.

Arctic Mermaids

It’s been fifty-three years now since I discovered her. The ice on the lake was thick that winter. I always liked to go out there before the younger boys would take over and play hockey. I had been doing research across the lake – or as much research as someone could do at fifteen in a small town - collecting plant samples or some nonsense. This particular day, though, my foot fell straight through a fisherman’s ice hole. I remember rushing to ring my pant leg out and feeling panicked that I would lose my foot to frostbite when I looked over at the hole and saw the most beautiful creature staring at me. Her eyes were pale blue and her opalescent skin was a milky aqua, the same color of the ice she hid against. We stared at one and other for what felt like centuries before she ducked back under the ice.

It was that moment that sparked the next lifetime of research for me. It took fourteen years to spot her again. I had all of my equipment; I’d gone through submersibles and ice cutting and underwater cameras. The next time I found her though, I was in my cold water scuba gear. It was January I believe. The sun shone through the patches of snow and ice in these remarkable, cascading rays, it was heavenly. She was childlike, not much bigger than my youngest daughter at the time, and there were others. A small school of them swimming, playing, and dancing with grace and ease. Their fins aren’t like all of the depictions you see in folklore. Their arms and tail fins looked much closer to that of a sea lion’s fins if they were slightly stunted and translucent. She reached out to me, as if she remembered, but rushed off when a handful of these battle weary males squabbled over another female.

Three years after that, of practically living in my lake in the winter, I discovered their eggs. I’ve come to determine it’s in the early spring, when the weather grows warm and the ice melts that they lay them. They bury themselves and their eggs real deep under the soil in the deepest parts of the lake to hibernate through summer. Two years in a row I dug handfuls of their eggs up, and once I even pulled out a creature, but they don’t last. The warm waters make them sickly, so I stopped digging them up. When the weather gets frigid, the snow starts up, and all the swimmers and boats have long since disappeared, that’s when they hatch, under the safety of the these thin new layers of fresh ice. They dig themselves up out of their slumber and emerge into the frigid lakes that no one ever bothers to look through. And they’re gone again with the spring flowers, no one is ever the wiser.

Stuck Inside

In the morning, she wakes and fills a cat dish with food.

She shuffles through her home; the diagonal striped wallpaper makes the rooms feel uneasy. There are no mirrors hung.
She tries to find a reflection in her lamps, dresser handles, door knobs, but it is always just the wall behind her. 

She reaches to touch the coffee pot, the toaster, the stovetop, the radio. They turn on before her fingers graze the buttons.
Two pieces of bread, a pat of butter, coffee and sugar. She pulls out a new dozen eggs and takes two. She eats.
She reaches to turn off the radio; it’s off before she handles the knob.
She can’t remember what she’s listened to.
She crosses off the day, Thursday, on her calendar. The clock reads 6:23.
That can’t be right.
She can’t remember using the restroom, brushing her hair, bathing. Yet, she’s no longer in her pajamas.
No matter.
It seems to be afternoon. She buys food online.
There is a knock at the door. She can’t see anyone through the peephole: just her sidewalk, the grass, the street, and vague details of neighbor’s houses.
The knocking is persistent.
“Hello? Hello?”
The door shakes in its frame, the banging is so loud.
“Who’s there?” She calls, but leaves the door unopened.
She checks her computer. A message arrives.
“How long have you lived in your house?”
“I’m not sure,” she writes, “my clocks don’t work.”
In the evening, the cat food is gone. But she hasn’t seen a cat.
She sets the table. Four of each: plates, cups, napkins, silverware.
Alone, she sits to eat. The plates are full: steak, salad, potatoes. Did she cook this? She can’t remember.
Sounds of scraping silverware fill the room, distant laughter, a fridge door closing, juice pouring, drinks clinking. Screeching.
A car erupts through the wall. Glass, candles, the china cupboard all explode. Headlights slam into the room, she raises her arms. A roaring, hot engine comes down on her.

In the morning, she wakes and fills a cat dish with food.
She shuffles through her home.
Coffee pot, toaster, stovetop, radio.
Two pieces of toast, a pat of butter, coffee and sugar; she pulls out a new dozen of eggs and takes two.
She crosses off the day, Thursday. The clock reads 6:23.
She buys food online. When will it arrive?
There is a knock at the door. She can’t see anyone through the peephole. Knocking, knocking, knocking. Banging, shaking. Dust and plaster fall to the ground.
“Hello? Hello? Who’s there? I can’t see you!”
She leaves the door.
“How long have you lived in your house?”
The cat food is gone. The table is set.
Laughter and screeching.
A car barrels through the wall. The dining room explodes. Headlights flare. A roaring, hot engine slams into her.

In the morning she wakes.

__________

Arboretum

Glass reflected overhead, illuminating the room in ethereal rays. Cool cobblestone, mossy and underappreciated, stretched in labyrinths through the space. Vines crept up the walls, floral brush and sweet scents accompanied the light flutter of wings on cheeks. Invisibly dancing through the trees were the twittering eternal songbirds and an unfading hum of orchestral crickets. In the quiet, small benches set into the gentle blue agapanthus and bright pink hyacinths. Tiny unassuming lights dotted the grassy banks and mossy knolls that bookended the tall, protective trees. The paths curled around the centerpiece, a mystical willow bowed low dipping her fingers into a clear stream. A small quatrain of baby duck peeped quietly under her shelter. The stream gurgled, under the small arch of a wooden bridge, just passing through. The succulent hibiscus and whispered drum of hummingbird wings were in perfect accoutrement to the trickling water falls, down past the pansies and foxtrot bathing in a thin mist.

The paths carried through to the other end, where two worlds exchanged skeptical glances.

And into existence, the birth of a door handle.

The Choosing

She waved her lean fingers around the room in a display of displaced brevity. She was the first that morning, after weeks of failures. We sat around the plastic foldup table and ten dollar chairs that I called a dining room; or rather, I sat while she promenaded around the cabinets and fridge photos. The excessive parroting wore me out.

The second of the day was a masseuse: A gorgeous, well-endowed beauty with a foreign accent. My wife would kill me if I said yes to her.

I had readdressed my listing only a few days prior: vacant room, fair rent, sought after neighborhood, roommates to be a Marine and a gay man. Women came rolling in.

The third of the day slipped nude photos across the table to me, despite her engagement. (It’s never this easy when you’re single.)

The fifth was a young man who didn’t like the house.

The sixth a young woman that didn’t like the rent.

The seventh an older man who didn’t like me.

Then a beacon through a storm-filled sea: A pre-med student, expected to be holed up in her room, our schedules always different. She was just as ecstatic to find us as we were her.

On Being Different

Blanket statements about what men or women are attracted to are the ultimate in moronic. “Women like muscles! Humor, charm, chiseled abs, jawlines, uniforms!” “Men like curves! Easygoing, big boobs, big butts, thin waists, short skirts!”

Humans aren’t like birds that just look for the brightest plumage and best dancers. If that were the case we’d all be attracted to Drag Queens – and there’s just not enough of them to go around.

Men and women don’t all like the same thing.

That’s why everyone is made differently.

Well, That's One Way

There he is. The man you daydream about. It probably surprised you to see him there, just as handsome as ever. You never expect it. You’ll fluff up your hair or straighten your shirt. Look your best. Hope he doesn’t notice your stolen glances. Why don’t you do something about it?

Here, try this.

Pull out a pen and paper. Jot down your number. Old school. Romantic. Flirtatious.

Wait until he’s about to cross the room. Then make your move. You’re a panther.

Slip the note into his hand. Make sure it’s really in there. Unless he had some motor skill problems when he was young and this childhood setback has granted you an ill fate, he’ll automatically try to grasp the new object. Even if you must grab the back of his hand with your other, cradling his masculine fingers inside your two mischievous palms, don’t let him dislodge that note.

Good, now swing around him as if you don’t have the time to chat – you’ve got somewhere so much more important to be. And here’s the key: make eye contact. Choose a face: winky, flirty eyes, smirky fun-in-the-sun, goofy tongue clicks complimented by gun fingers. It won’t matter which, but definitely make a face. And make eye contact. Wave at him, get his attention, make sure he’s watching you.

Then let it happen. Let your ankles wrap around each other, step on your shoes, ,give yourself a flat tire. Make it believable that you’re actually tripping. Then FALL.

Land on your butt. Make it look real. Be dramatic, flail a little. Give out a cute scream. Unless you’re falling on a bed of HIV ridden needles, there should be no blood curdling coming from you. Give him an “oopsie-daisy” or a “Whoops” or a “whoooa!” Decide ahead of time if you’re the cutesy faller or the cool, slick faller. Put your personality in it. Either way, FALL. Put that butt on the ground.

And tip from the well-trained: don’t land on anyone else! Things get messy. The wrong man will fall in love with you. Your plan will be ruined. You can only do this once.

So, you’re on the ground. What now? LAUGH. You’re supposed to be mortified. If this were really to happen to you, a real accident, you would probably clam up, run away, find a bathroom stall in which to cry and hyperventilate. So laugh. Prove that you’re able to laugh things off; it’s a highly attractive quality. Remember, you did this on purpose, so play it cool and laugh it off.

Don’t spend too much time rolling around on the floor in your joyous fits of laughter though. Flip over quickly. Find his eyes. Make eye contact. Hope that you find him rushing to your aid. Send out every Maiden-in-Distress signal that women have perfected for the last thousand years. Reach out that hand for help.

And when he helps you rise, continue to laugh. Don’t give him a line, just say “thank you” and bat those long eyelashes that your mama gave you…or the corner drug store, you faker you…either way, BAT THOSE LASHES. Better yet, apologize for falling. He’ll feel like he’s completely in charge.

Then talk. Use your conversation skills, you have those right? Ask him why he’s in town, make a joke about “clumsy you” and how you tried to be smooth, tell him you’d really like to see him some time. Make a date. Grab a coffee. A smoothie. A burger. Or just tell him to call you, point at the note he’s still inevitably holding, and run away.

Be ready to deflect. There will be staring. Judging glances. He may not help you up. He may just stand there and laugh at you. You may end up mumbling something about needing new shoes while you wet yourself. You might learn that he’s a total jerk and not worth it. This is a high risk operation. Lots of moving parts. But it could be high reward.

Give that a try.

Or don’t. 

Puzzle Pieces

The stars divulgent to petty lives; the sun amorous to leathered skin.

Listening to the news whilst sleeping causes nightmares.

Nothing curses the ground more than a bird with no feet.

A Riddle: I have many arms and green fingers; I dance all day long, yet stand still.

Every moment that you open your eyes, you are seeing something with a story.

Cocooned

Sometimes you feel like you’re not going anywhere in life. It could take you a very long time to get out of this slump. You could be tucked away in your problem, idling. You’re certain that escaping now isn’t the best answer, but you know you’ll have to leave sometime. You can’t just stay cooped up like this.

You’re in a cocoon.

Waiting for that perfect moment to come, waiting to be ready. You’re cocooned all alone inside this problem that you most likely built and fell into on your own accord, but without it – this problem – you would never be ready for what comes next. If you left now you would be shriveled and deformed, but if you wait you will emerge strong and beautiful with the confidence and self-infused power that will allow you to fly to the next branch, and the next, and the next after that.

The Case of Jacob Biederman

Jacob Beiderman died from a shotgun wound to the head. He planned to commit suicide by jumping off a twenty story building. He had left a note pinned to his bag on the top of the building. As he fell past the 19th floor, however, his fall was interrupted by a shotgun blast passing through a window – which killed him instantly.

Jacob Biederman, nor the shooter, was aware that a safety net had been installed just below the 18th floor to protect the building workers from falling to their death. Jacob Biederman would not have been able to commit suicide as he had planned, as the net would have saved him.

The medical examiner during the autopsy said that although Mr. Biederman died during his suicide he felt that he was dealing with a homicide due to the presence of the shotgun – and since Biederman would have lived through the attempt had he not been shot.

The room on the 19th floor – where the shotgun blast came from – was occupied by an elderly couple, William and Maude. They stated to police that they had been in the middle of an exasperating argument and William was wielding his shotgun at his wife threateningly. William was so angry that when he pulled the trigger, it completely missed his wife and went out the window, striking Mr. Biederman.

William and Maude were both charged with murder, but the couple was adamant that they were under the impression that the shotgun was unloaded. William said that it was his long-standing habit to threaten his wife with the unloaded shotgun when they argued. He never had any intention of actually killing her and therefore Mr. Biederman’s murder was an accident because the gun was accidentally loaded.

The investigation continued; the neighbor across the hall, Mrs. Lovington, said that she had seen the couple’s son in the apartment a month earlier loading the shotgun. They had even had a conversation over tea after he finished.

As it turns out, Maude had cut off her son’s financial support and since her son knew how angry his father could get and how he loved to use the shotgun threateningly, he loaded the gun with the expectation that his mother would get shot during their next argument. This means that the son will be charged with the murder of Jacob Biederman.

Further investigation revealed that their son was, in fact, Jacob Biederman. He had become increasingly depressed over his failure to kill his mother and his diminishing financial situation which led him to attempt suicide off the twenty story building – only to be killed by the shotgun blast through the 19th floor window from the shotgun that he had loaded himself. His suicide had, after all, been successful.

The Rich Guy

The Prompt: Write a first person story in which you use the first-person pronoun (I, me, my) only two times – but keep the “I” somehow important to the narrative you’re constructing. The point of this exercise is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in himself than in what he is observing. You can make your narrator someone who sees an interesting event in which he is not necessarily a participant. Or you can make him self-effacing, yet a major participant in the events related. It is very important in this exercise to make sure your reader is not surprised to realize it’s a first-person narration. Show quickly who is observing the scene. 600 words.

I was being bludgeoned to death by Ricky Moriarty, Gavin Braxton, and Kevin Pollard, some of the most belligerent criminals this town has seen in well over twenty years.

They were under the impression that someone had stolen a large bag of cash from them at a drop off point in Saint Louis about three days ago. It was well over a million dollars, apparently.

Ricky swung back, he was going for the face – it was most personal for him. He was heading this scam, after all. Their plan was to take the money and run from the very beginning without holding up their end of the deal. Ricky was a skinny little shit, with a long nose and rat like features. Back when he was younger he would spit shine shoes and serve as a human coffee table for the boss – anything to prove himself to his ol’ step-father. The boss was hardest on him for that same reason. This was his first scam. He promised the boss a million clams for the return of some kid that was abducted from this rich bastard nearly thirty years ago. Ricky raised his fist, shimmering with silver jeweled rings, all fake presumably, and he smiled down – his golden tooth shimmered before he gobbed up a ball of spit that missed and hit the pavement.

Gavin, meanwhile, was the worst henchman ever seen. About ten years ago he was a little shit that stole purses off of old ladies that couldn’t run to save their hip. He was raised by his oldest brother and sister after their mother ran off and their father died in a boating accident, or so the story goes. No one is sure how he got to the position he did so quickly, that’s between him and the boss. Gavin was getting older; he had peppered hair just over his ears and wrinkles forming under his eyes, so he didn’t get on his knees like the other two. Instead he took the midsection and kicked it with his square-toe snakeskin boots until it was raw and bleeding.

Kevin was abducted himself as a kid; he’s got a wicked split personality that no one wants to get in the middle of. He never met his real parents; instead he was raised by some old, tasteless fogey that didn’t know how to raise a kid anyway and probably should never have done any abducting in the first place, but he got scared that Kevin would tattle so he took him. So this mission was pretty personal to him, but he had a job to do and he’d pry get whacked if he didn’t perform for the boss. Kevin was wearing a suit that he obviously didn’t want to get street tar on, so he kneeled and held on tight to the ol’ knees and let the others wail around.

So here are these three idiots, assuming that someone came and stole the million bucks out of the suitcase in the trash can on an old road just a mile outside the city. Gavin is so thick he wouldn’t realize that his father that “died” in a boating accident was the same rich fuck that got his kid abducted. And the kid that got abducted was Kevin himself. And the reason that skinny fuck Ricky chose to go after this specific rich guy was because the boss said to bait him. What the ol’ step-daddy boss didn’t tell him was that he didn’t want this rich fuck parading around with the living anymore and that the same rich bastard was Ricky’s real father. And that person they assume stole their million clams was the same rich fuck that put it there in the first place: me.

Everyman

So you sit down to a nice little breakfast. Some days you have Fruit Loops with Fruity Pebbles on top. Some days it’s Special K. Then you’ll have Cheerios because your cholesterol has skyrocketed. Then you’ll feel bad about eating the Fruit Loops a couple days ago and think you should just eat Cheerios every day. But the problem here isn’t your cholesterol. It’s the fact that you eat this damned cereal every day. And you never run out of milk because your wife keeps buying it since she thinks you like cereal. So unless you take a stand for yourself, you’re fucked.

The Retired Man

I’d been watching him for months. I’m dedicated to my cause so I’m always there, holding the signs I had painted myself with the glitter glue my little girl gave me. Over the last few months everyone protesting had come and gone. They would be entitled and opinionated and always have bad attitudes, which isn’t what I think this is all about. But that’s far from my current point. While I walked circles at the front gates chanting and getting major deltoid workouts this little old man would come by. He never looked at us or anyone else for that matter. He would come and stand at the gates and cry for about two hours, then he would leave. He seemed to be mourning something. Finally, giving my arms a rest, I put down my sign and went to stand next to him. Maybe I could console him. He stood tall and didn’t bother wiping his tears when I walked over to him. He didn’t hide away. Instead he said, “I used to work for those bastards.” There was a long pause while I nodded and considered telling him about why we were protesting. Then he looked at me and said, “You know, I’m sure there used to be a very nice garden there.” And then he left. I went back to my sign-holding as usual, but the thought of him and his words stuck for some reason. Over the next week I didn’t see him again. Finally I put down my sign and walked to the fence. I wanted to scream and yell. But instead, I started to cry. What else could I really do? There probably was a nice garden there. But now there were diplomats.