From Coital to Hero

First thing to go was her shoes, then her purse fell in a heap on a dining room chair. Ned followed close behind removing articles with hell bent speed. Gawkily the two collapsed into a love seat, mid strip. A sudden epiphany hit Donna and she weaseled out from under him promising, that it was just foreplay. Donna rushed into the bathroom to remove the pair of thunder panties that had gotten her through the night. She heard something odd and found herself walking back in the living room.

“Shit!”

The tell tale hollow clink of an aluminum bat echoed all the way up to Ned’s third story apartment. In the night, in the street, bad men worked their trade on a poor boy who had the gall to say no. Donna could not stay still. Ned went to call 911 but the line was busy. Donna had a more drastic solution. She went to her purse and wrote a check for five hundred dollars. Then she walked ten paces back from the wall and lined herself up with a large window facing the street.

She sighed. It was a very nice window but none the less there was a job to do. With fists forward she took a running jump through the window. Ned turned just in time to see his girlfriend plummet to the ground. With the grace of a rock, she belly flopped onto asphalt three floors down. The crack of glass had turned every one’s head. Donna slowly rose. Glass stuck out of her hands, already brown and black with blood. In front of her, a bottle of bourbon laid shattered on the ground. She smiled as she stepped into it.

There before the North Oakland Boyz, toughest guys on the east side, stood a pale white pixie of a girl wearing thunder panties and a sports bra with glass sticking out of her extremities. She was tensing and showing muscles. The weed they had been apparently very strong… yesterday. After a second to digest the surreal image, she loosed a smile both gleeful and like a wolf. Four against one, songs have been made about that.

First came Frankie with a shiny slugger aimed straight for Donna’s head. Donna blocked with her right arm, momentarily breaking the appendage. With a fist full of glass, she struck Frankie’s chin. That sent him to the ground. Terry was next, he had himself a little knife and a simple plan. He went to her gut and there his knife stayed. She swung her miraculous right arm in a sloppy hay maker and knocked Terry cold and bloody. With a sucking of breath she pulled the knife out.

“Got me a knife.” She spoke joyously.

Tate wasn’t scared though. Tate was a big man with his gun. The fancy little 9 mm popped three times, each one landing right in center mass. She dropped to her knees and crumbled on the ground. The sirens were closing in on the block. Tate, Frankie and Luke left Terry on the ground along side Donna. Ned came racing towards the body of his surely dead girlfriend. He mumbled vague prayers as he cradled her.

“Hey Ned, did the kid leave?”

“I think so.” He was shocked and still sure he was talking to a dead woman.

“Good.” With a grunt she rose back to her feet and inspected herself. A ruined undershirt, destroyed socks and a broken window. All together the night cost her five hundred and five dollars, not bad as far as these things go.

“What the hell just happened?”

“Remember when I said I was nothing special?”

He stared up at the small woman towering above his two meter frame.

“Yeah, I lied.”

Don’t You Hear My Call?

Dearest Cheryl,

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. It’s just after harvest and I find I have time enough to write to you. I say that as if time was some rarity but without you it’s worth pennies. The sun rises and by it’s light I am reminded of your absence. It’s been ten years since I’ve known your touch. The land is nourished and the crops are plenty but as time goes on and on I am a remainder of my former self. Without you I can not sustain. I fear I will be all but dust soon.

The sun shines scarlet and it cast’s the sky into a pink hue. It’s your favorite color and it’s everywhere. With the sun up I can see the ocean in all it’s incredible splendor. The lord has seen fit to give me a great and bountiful hundred acres.My eyes behold corn taller than an eye can see. It’s good rich land and I can work it.

I can work with my hands Cheryl, my own God given hands. I till, I toil and I can even work on my tractor. There’s not a hint of rheumatism in me. He has blessed me with new youth. If you’d just come we could be young, alive, together under the warm red sun.

I know you must be perplexed. Your husband is most likely standing less than thirty feet from you as you read this. I swear upon the bible that I am he as well. Some ten years ago, I won a lottery, a secret lottery. My prize was a new body and the chance to settle a new land. This land is far away, stars away. It’s a whole new world Cheryl. I have a home here, good tilled land and a new lease on life. I want to share it with you again.

What you do is you walk in to the travel agency in town. You tell Bud that Tim finally wants to use that plus one. He’ll know immediately what you mean. He’ll take you back to what looks like an MRI machine, like they have at the Doctor Weiland’s. This contraption scans your mind. Later they’ll send a copy out towards me. Here across the galaxy, they’ll set you up with a new body. Everybody’s real friendly like that over here.

You probably realized by now that you don’t actually get to go anywhere. This does profit me more than you but to be fair, I need you. You need me and you have me. It’s only fair that I get you.

Sincerely Tim

Mary Sue, How Pathetic Are You?

Here you are and you’re looking down at the pews in front of you while everyone else closes their eyes. Your sorta scared of the thoughts that might come so you got yourself the words Merry Christmas and you’re going to see just how many words are hidden inside those two. If you stop your little puzzle you might just cry, so keep on keeping on.

Thank god she was protestant, kneeling would throw you off your very important train of thought. The train is going anywhere but to her gray milky eyes. A thought occurs and you wish it didn’t. It’s a little paradox. How can it end, how can something stop being? Rationally. It’s easy enough to explain but from inside your heads it’s impenetrable and impossible. You gotta come to terms with the fact that you to will die.

Now that you’ve done that, don’t you feel better? Feel like living your life? Nah, time to mull this over for a while. If you think long and hard enough you might just find your answer. Imagine, no one will ever have to die again. Yeah, that’s quite possible. Plus, if you stare a thousand yards out no one will want to talk to you. They’ll just touch and give you some nice empathy. Not like you need such a thing, you got a system. It’s working real well so far.

Well, you already said your goodbyes and what the hell else matters. You watched her go and it took a good while. She would cry, she would scream, she would panic. Then she finally got good and still and you felt relieved. Trust me, that’s gonna gnaw at you but not right now case you haven’t figured out all the words inside Merry Christmas.

Now you go for a walk. You have successfully evaded the tin can full of your grandmother and this is your victory march. You go around the block and then a bit longer away from the church. Distance is your friend. After a full rotation of the minute hand you come back. Congratulations, you’ve avoided everyone that loves you just so you don’t have to think about those last days and how god damn useless you were. Mary Sue, how pathetic are you?

The Omega Muffin



The muffin sat, smack dab in the center of a gigantic farm table. Jonas knew this was the only food available and so did Dennis. The dawn was rising and someone was about to eat breakfast. The rules were simple: weapons were allowed but only eating utensils no sharper than a serrated steak knife, no heavier than a bread knife. Jonas had a fork, Dennis had a butter knife. The danse macabre began in earnest.

They circled round and round the table, sizing each other up and looking desperately for an opening. Jonas found one and stabbed forwards with the fork but Dennis was too quick. In a quick counter riposte, Dennis slapped the offending hand away with his butter knife. He followed this with a rolling elbow into Jonas’ jaw. Jonas was sent reeling but not quite out.

With renewed vigor, Jonas came again with a berserk thrust. Dennis smiled, noting the predictability Jonas put forth. In a lazy parry, butter knife met fork stopping the assault. Then Jonas did something unexpected, he wrenched the knife counter clockwise, freeing the butter knife it of it’s master. Jonas proceeded with an almost perfect straight jab. Dennis nose exploded, crimson life going everywhere. Then came the knee in the groin and Dennis was on the ground. With both fork and butter knife, victory was but a formality. Jonas didn’t want to perform a coup de grace but he was capable.

“Do you yield?”

The answer was no, Dennis threw the last bit of himself into Jonas’ legs. The two toppled over and Dennis was slowly working his way back up the man. An onlooker might call it homo erotic, but such observations were absent, as was shame and dignity. There was only the muffin, the end all be all of food. Suddenly as Dennis was reaching the crotch, two legs he thought restrained sprung into action. He was suddenly caught in a hold, barely able to breathe.

“I’ll ask again, do you yield?”

“Dear God, yes. For the love of Jesus, yes.”

Jonas was relieved, he didn’t want to murder Dennis. He did however want the muffin which he grabbed greedily and left the room devouring. Dennis slowly got back to his feet, happy it was over for another day. The nearest diner was two miles out and if he hurried it would still be breakfast hours. This new diet was tough, but he really could feel the calories burning off.

Proper Preparations

A bolt of wood is sticking through my lung. I am comforted by the fact that I will have a brief celebrity in death. Between the cable news and the parodies of cable news, my death will make the rounds. Crossbows do not make good security systems, I know that now. Why I thought vampires were going to kill me escapes me; much like my blood. I always knew that I would be the sole proprietor of my demise.

The milk pouring out next to me is going to go bad before they find me. They’ll find me by smell. If I had a dog or a cat or someone to make noise for me, maybe I’d have a chance. I can’t scream and I do want to, it’s just that my breath has more pressing concerns. I can’t even dial, my phone is on the counter and might as well be in another zip code for as good as it does me.

I am a prepared man. I have that shotgun which will help when the zombies come. I’ve got an extra laptop tucked away safe for when that EMP takes out all the computers. I’ve got a tux for when the president finally realizes how awesome I am. I even have a versatile security system that protects me from both burglars and vampires. Well actually, it doesn’t reload by it’s self so… never mind.

I prepared for everything including global warming, although a pair of water wings are a little underwhelming in the face of a tidal wave swallowing my fair city. I even made sure that my bills are paid months in advance. I’ve made all sorts of alibis excusing any absence on my part from the office. None of my friends even know where I live just in case of interrogation. I’ve made all these arrangements and only now do I understand why.

Honestly, I’m just surprised I was able to type this whole thing out. Sucks that I don’t have Internet in this apartment yet. Mom, I’m sorry but I think I’ve committed suicide. I love you, I love all my family and friends but apparently it was enough. Anyways, gotta go meet you know who, you know where. Please don’t embalm me.

Simple Something

He comes home with the smell of whiskey accompanying. He comes home to where he’s no longer welcome. He come to his separated wife’s house. He speaks with rage, volume and profanity. She is courteous and seemingly submissive. She speaks without weight and subtly urges him to leave. She is ever mindful of a line she has drawn, an if and then scenario that leads to dark place she’d rather not go.

He takes offense and offensive measures. She speaks with civility but her eyes betray something cold and capable. She walks down the uncanny valley towards unfeeling automation and the walking dead. She breathes slowly and deliberately. She’s leaving her body and something simple is coming, something that can do what needs to be done. The woman becomes a knife.

He shouldn’t drink. He shouldn’t have screamed at her. He definitely shouldn’t have hit her. Somewhere between the .38 he holds and the threat against her child, he makes his last mistake, he threatens the wrong person. The thing inside the woman stomps on his foot and grabs the wrist of the offending hand. It tears at his flesh with sharp nails. His hold fails and the gun drops to the floor. With a left cross to the jaw he stumbles backwards mumbling curses.

It picks up the gun and levels the bevel to it’s eye. He pleas for her to remember the good time and the good intentions he always has. She’s not there and she barely remembers anyways. It pulls the trigger and repeats thrice. The man lays dying, anesthetized by Jack he feels no pain but only impotent sad wonder at his last moments. He could not perceive that his wife just ended him. He decides it was a drunken dream and promptly dies.

She comes back to a bloody mess and sirens. She drops the gun on the floor and goes to soothe the child. The police take her soon and she is processed. He was loud, she was quiet. He was angry, she was scared. The gun was his but the baby was hers. The charges are dropped almost before they are filed. She spends the rest of her life fearful of a cold and capable simple something.

Bound For Mexico

She had herself an epiphany and then she found the highly holy. Obviously, the picnic is ruined.

She’s high above you and she’s not coming down. You can almost feel the glow. She is radiant, bathed in glowing white that reaches outwards like a biblical illustration. She speaks in a soft voice that can be heard for a thousand miles. It speaks over the r&b station and the cooking channel. It sounds so intimate and personal, yet everyone hears it just the same. People are coming by buses and jammed sedans to witness something new. You turn away and hope she can’t see your face.

You’re crying now, as people pass with joy and hunger for the profound. You love her and she loves you, but hers isn’t the same as yours; it’s holy and universal. She loves the world now and has no capacity in her to love just one guy. You turn around and see an open laughing smile. It’s wide and infectious. It’s something alien, compared to her old secret smile that slightly curled at the edges. You take all of those moments you had and you wrap them around you. It’s your very own safety blanket protecting yourself from the joyous pilgrims.

The woman you’ve loved since high school is now a messiah and you’ve got to make peace with that. Right now, you’re walking back to your car and your somehow building anger at all the happy people. They’re hoarding in on something you still think as your own. Even then, it wasn’t yours but it sure as hell wasn’t their’s. You opened the door and get in your car. You can still smell her, but that might be nostalgia mixing with olfactory.

They’re tapping on your window and pointing towards her. You’re smiling and waving them off. You turn the engine over and make a very slow u turn. You’re angry, but not quite psychopathic enough to mow them down. You start moving away from her, south down towards Juarez. It’s going to be a while as you’re fifteen miles north of Cheyenne. Ten miles out, you can still see her in your rear view mirror.

You get bored after a while and you tune in. She speaks those true things that everyone pretty much knows. Being good to each other is the only sustainable way to be. We all want food, shelter and warmth. We are small and capable of great things. We must do better. You agree, you really do but you can’t just forgive her, not yet.

You cross the border and leave Wyoming. You feel yourself getting older as your finding critique and counterpoint to every ting this the little deity is saying. The problems are we can’t agree, we’re hungry and poor. There’s going to be war, there always is. Then she goes and names her first prophet, the one heading south to spread the word. It’s you, of course.

There is still a little of Ellen left in her, she has always been one to volunteer others. It’ll take you a bit longer to forgive her but our Lord Ellen knows your still young.

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