Writing Competition: Entries

[diebitter]

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Carter

[diebitter]

A Perfect Little Life

Bad things happen to good people, my Grandma used to say.

I never really liked the saying, though I did see that it was sometimes true as I grew up and saw a little of life.

I didn't want to go the party, but the hostess was an acquaintance of my wife, a RICH acquaintance, and in my wife's business, it was always a good idea to keep in touch with rich acquaintances. So I dutifully showered and shaved, put on my happy rags, and played with the kids while my wife continued to get ready. My oldest, Tom, played on his PS2, while my younger son, Dex, read his book. 7 years old, and intently reading...not that he was a nerd or bookworm, not by a long chalk. He loved playing soccer and did karate too, and loved rough and tumbling, but right now his little face scowled as he read his little book intently. His face made me think of a clenched fist.

It was getting close to bedtime for our little daughter, and I was hoping the babysitter would turn up soon so I could get her to do it. Not that I minded - I usually bathed and readied the kids every night while my wife made dinner for us two, but...you know...I had my happy rags on.

Anyway, I did bathe her, and the babysitter turned up and started getting my boys upstairs, bathing for the youngest, showering for the older, and getting them in their pyjamas.

We kissed the kids goodnight and were on our way.

Boy, it was an impressive house, and the valet parking made an impression too.

We went in, were warmly welcomed, everyone friendly and smiling. I hated it, but I could do the act, so I just smiled back and made the small talk. It was all proceeding along its predictable course, and I did my best to ration checking the time on my watch to only once every 5 minutes, when it all went badly wrong.

Bad things happen to good people, my Grandma used to say. She was right, of course. They do, but if they're lucky, they live through it.

When I saw the gun come out, and heard the angry shouting, I thought of my children. I thought about how awful it would be to miss them growing up, and not being there to guide them safely to adulthood as best I could. But I was born in the 60s, and teenaged in the 80s, when Rambo and Arnie showed us how to stand up to this. All that's sensible in me knew it was an utterly stupid thing to do. Those damned formative years watching superhuman feats and bullet-dodging antics and their effect on my testosterone made me think I could do it, and I hesitated in following the man's order. What settled it after that was seeing him knock down an old guy without holding back at all, drawing blood from the old man's face. I have one immediate response to violence, I'm afraid to say, and that's violence back.

So as I went for the guy, convinced I was going to take him down, I remember the slow-motion shock at him turning towards me impossibly fast and firing, and feeling like I'd been punched in the ribs, and falling to the floor.

It went quiet for me then, though I could sense screams around me, and then my wife was holding me.

Bad things happen to good people all right.

But it was okay. I had to live, I just had to, and I knew I would. My kids needed me. Why the hell did I do such a stupid thing?

I am glad to tell you, I did. I got past it, I got better. I was lucky, so lucky with my children.

I remember it all. It seemed like the bullet cut the nonsense and gristle of my life away, leaving only clean bone and firm meat, and it became impossibly good after that. My oldest became a star athelete, grew to captain his swimming team, and grew up straight and strong and muscular, clean-living and fine. His mother and I were so, so proud when he graduated with a 1st class degree with honours, and went on to be a reknowned paleontologist, something me and he talked about for the first time just before the day I was shot, strangely enough.

My middle boy, Dex, he was always a clever boy, but always a handful, seemed to change after the shooting, and was much less trouble. He worked hard, got great school grades, and became a bit of a heartbreaker among the young ladies – phone calls from different ones at all hours. I pretended to be a little disapproving, especially around his mother, but secretly I was proud. He became a traveller and successful writer. But still, my fondest memory is me helping him paint some models of soldiers he'd got for his birthday, and after that him and I going out and flying his new kite. His birthday was a week before the shooting, ironically. It was lovely to be out on that hillside with him, listening to him giggle, and still be young enough to hug me and say 'I love you, daddy' as the kite streaked around the sky.

And my daughter, Lizzy...she grew into a fine, beautiful young woman who was much like her mother in looks, but like me in temperament...calm, fun-loving, grounded (except for our occasional tempers). It seemed like only a short time since she was little, and I was bathing her. But she became a doctor. Lord, I was proud of her, proud of them all.

And, in time, all three gave me 2 grandchildren each in an impossible symmetry for normal life, so I had 6 of them in the house at Christmases and birthdays, and each reminded me of my own children, long ago. It was bliss to have that noisy houseful. It was one of those times life brings you EXACTLY what you wish for.

It was all too perfect really - just too lucky to escape death by that bullet.

Dreams can be perfect, of course, in a way that real life usually isn't. These memories...aren't memories. They are some final electrons sparking in a dying brain, so final cruel reflection of a life I dreamt might come true.

My eyes finally work for a last time to see my crying wife.

I try to say I love you, but all that comes out is a warm, running sensation around my mouth, and I can see in my wife's eyes horror cutting through her pain. So I gurgle out blood instead of words of love to be remembered, and I can't feel anything anymore.

I've never been a religious man, but I remember hoping there was a god, so I could spit in his face for robbing me and my children. He could keep his heavenly eternity, I just wanted my 20 or 30 years of family, and I'd happily dance into the until-time-ends torments of hell for the trade, and know I'd got the better of the deal.

And then it went black.

Bad things happen to good people is a truth we can't escape, I guess.

[fyodor]

Abduction/Seduction

OK my friend, I've got a problem here and you're going to have to help sort it out for me. The story I am about to relate to you is so fantastic, so unbelievable, that... well... you probably shouldn't believe it. Everyone I've told so far though does. So what's up? Are they just humouring me because they know me? Or are they just waiting for me to drop my guard so they can lock me up in some white, rubber room? If I close my eyes for even a moment, will I wake up strapped to a bed with electrodes taped to my shaved skull?

You however, don't know me, so I know you haven’t prejudged me. I don't know you, so you may be the only one I can trust. Please listen and tell me if I’m mad or not.

It happened about a month and a half ago. I was out a little late on a Friday night. I work days. I have weekends off. I'm young. I'm single. I like to party. What else is new? It was about 4am and I had just staggered out of a little booze can in one of the shadier neighborhoods of this grimy little town. Over the course of the evening I had consumed maybe twelve or fifteen beers, and a half dozen shots of tequila. I was in a pretty good mood.

I had decided it was time to go home, but with my mind operating at just slightly less than the speed of light, it hadn't yet occurred to me that I was without transportation or money, and I was unfortunately a good eight miles from my bed. I watched a cockroach enter the building through a crack in a brick. I was wondering if that was a sign for me to go back in.

It was at this moment that I first heard her voice, some kind of a European accent just dripping with sex, "Hey sweetheart, do you need a lift?"

I've never had a problem picking up women when I was drunk. Some of them even turned out to be pretty good looking the next morning. I was not then surprised when I turned around, to find a dark haired, brown eyed, exotic looking girl of about twenty-five, hanging out the window of a black caddy. "Sure," I said, "Nice ride." And I got in.

Right from the get go things got weird. Dream like, time shifting kind of weird. I was pretty sure I got in the front seat with her, but I found myself in the back. And she wasn't alone. There were two of them. They were on me immediately with their hands and their lips. Breasts were coming out everywhere. The other breasts were black... with incredibly large nipples. I kept my mouth full for a long time. I closed my eyes for just a moment…

I woke up in a very chromish bedroom. I was on my back and naked, but covered past the waist with white silk sheets and propped against two oversized, velvety pillows. I had that just showered feeling and I was completely sober. I've never woken up like this before after consuming even half that amount of alcohol the previous evening. The room was pleasantly cool. Something was humming... like a computer, or an air conditioner. I had a craving for Eggs Benedict.

That's when I heard her voice again, "Hungry tiger?" She was walking in with a breakfast tray containing orange juice, coffee, and… Eggs Benedict! And as sober as I was, she was still one fine looking woman. Close to six feet tall and nothing but curves. Lips that I couldn't believe.

Right behind her was the other one. Just as tall, even more curves, and it was when I saw her lips again that I began to remember… Saturday morning and Saturday night, Sunday morning and Sunday night, Monday morning and Monday night. It was Thursday, or Friday again already.

They had been having sex with me for almost a week now. Coaxing me to ejaculate in every moist orifice they owned. They were expert at it too, incredibly good. So nothing to complain about here right? Two goddesses of sex dressed in very little silk, sliding into bed on either side of me. No problems here right?

But now I remembered more. I realized that for the last five or six days I wasn’t totally conscious. Each orgasm was the first. Each peeled grape they fed me was the first. Nothing registered from one moment to the next until now. Now my brain was starting to click.

Somehow I now knew why. It was something in their breasts. Some kind of a drug. A sedative of sorts that I had been sucking at for almost a week. But it wasn’t affecting me now. Perhaps I had finally built up immunity.

Now in bed as the one fed me alternately with the Eggs Benedict and her delicious lips, while the other one fondled me erect and then had her own version of breakfast, it was like coming out of a fog. I slowly realized who they really were; saw them for what they really were. I saw the blue-green tentacles like so many pachyderm snouts, reaching for me, caressing me. One sucking on my penis!

I scrambled backwards in the bed, my arms and legs flailing and slipping on the sheets. Juice and coffee and eggs were flying everywhere. When I found myself erect against the headboard I looked down to find a half dozen snake-like snouts curled back and looking up at me. I leapt to the floor. Still too shocked to scream, too horrified, too repulsed... I ran out of the chrome bedroom but stopped short, face to face with a little grey man with a turnip shaped head and large black eyes. And when I say black, I mean black – nothing but pupil. He seemed to smile a very friendly smile, and though his thin grey lips never moved, I heard him say right inside my head, with a very familiar European like accent, “I see you’re ready to leave.”

I kind of remember him waving something resembling a hand in my face. I got dizzy and dark, and my legs got all jelly like. I woke up outside the seedy booze can and it was 4am Saturday morning. There was a cockroach coming out of a crack in a brick. But it was one week later, and I soon found out I had lost my job.

So tell me my friend, am I mad? What happened to that week?

[KilgoreTrout]

Giggles and the Red-Assed Baboon


Giggles was a circus clown. A circus clown is a grown man who rubs paint on his face and wears a bright wig and strange clothing. They do this to terrorize small children. Giggles was not really Giggles’s real name. Giggles was the pretend name of a man named Bob. Bob became Giggles when he rubbed paint on his face and wore a bright wig and strange clothing to terrorize small children. Here is a picture of Bob as Giggles:


People paid money to Giggles to terrorize children. The people who paid money to Giggles did not intend for Giggles to terrorize children, but that’s what Giggles did. He terrorized the snot out of them.

He did the terrorizing by bending balloons he blew up with his own mouth into obscene shapes that were supposed to look like wild animals. Wild animals are beasts that human beings cannot control. Obscene shapes are shapes that look like genitals. Children are terrorized by genitals because they haven’t figured out how to use them for their intended purpose yet. That happens later, when they stop being children and evolve into wild animals called adolescents.

On Saturdays Giggles worked at a zoo where he handed balloons bent into obscene shapes to terrorized children. A zoo is a prison for wild animals. People take their children to zoos to laugh at the wild animals imprisoned there.

There were different kinds of wild animals imprisoned in the zoo where Giggles worked. There were lions imprisoned there. There were giraffes imprisoned there. There were geese imprisoned there. And there were red-assed baboons imprisoned there.

Lions are the wild animal version of cats, except that lions are nine feet long and weigh five hundred pounds and eat meat. The lions imprisoned at the zoo where Giggles worked on Saturdays would be happy if a terrorized child fell into their pen.

Giraffes are wild animals that have a ridiculously long neck. They have their ridiculously long neck because people like to laugh at ridiculous looking wild animals.

Geese are wild animals that float on the water and drop feces on the grass. They do this because people like to watch wild animals defecate.

Red-assed baboons are wild animals whose faces look like a clown’s face and whose asses are swollen and red. Here is what a red-assed baboon looks like:


Red-assed baboons have clown’s faces and red asses to communicate with other red-assed baboons. The redness of the red-assed baboon’s ass communicates a red-assed baboon’s readiness for sexy time. A red-assed baboon’s face also communicates readiness for sexy time.

Red-assed baboons also communicate with other red-assed baboons by using their voices. A red-assed baboon’s voice is both squeaky and gruff. A squeaky red-assed baboon’s voice is a sign of trouble. A gruff red-assed baboon’s voice is a sign of trouble, too. Red-assed baboons are only interested in trouble and in sexy time.

One Saturday when Giggles was terrorizing children with obscenely shaped balloons at the zoo, Giggles ripped the seat of his clown pants. Human beings become ashamed if other human beings can see their naked ass. It is considered impolite for one human being to show his ass to another human being that he has no intention of rubbing genitals with. This is because showing one’s ass is a form of nudity. Nudity leads to the rubbing of genitals.

Giggles was ashamed that his ass was being exposed to human beings he had no intention of rubbing genitals with. He used his bright wig to cover his naked ass and started for the parking lot. A group of nuns stood between him and the parking lot. A parking lot is an area of pavement where human beings leave their mechanical transportation devices when not in use. A nun is a female human being who wears a costume and is not allowed to rub genitals with anybody. Here is what a group of nuns looks like:



Here is another picture of nuns:



Giggles wanted to hide because he did not want the group of nuns to see his naked ass. He climbed over a fence into one of the wild animal pens to hide from the group of nuns. Inside the wild animal pen were red-assed baboons.

This is what the red-assed baboons looked like inside their wild animal pen:



The red-assed baboons looked at Giggles. Giggles looked at the red-assed baboons. The red-assed baboons saw a clown face and a red ass. Giggles saw a red-assed baboon with an erection. An erection is a physical condition in which blood rushes into the genitals to get them ready for rubbing.

Here is the look that was on Giggles’s face:



Here is the look on the red-assed baboon with an erection’s face:



Giggles survived his encounter with the red-assed baboon and learned an important lesson that day. The lesson he learned was this: Never [censored] with wild animals.

[Dane S]

The Émigré

There was once a man, not old, not young, who became disaffected with his life, and with humanity as a whole. He resolved to remove himself from other people’s worries and affairs. He would strive, whenever possible, to make his behavior utterly strange and incomprehensible to others. This, he felt, would protect him.

The man suddenly vanished from the small town of his childhood, and from his beautiful wife and family, without a word of goodbye or any clues about how to reach him. He only left a note that said, “I am leaving now, and you shall never see me again. I cannot explain. No one is in any danger.” He signed it “Love, Daddy” and that was it.

He moved to another country where he knew no one and understood nothing because no one in the country spoke his language, and he spoke none of theirs. He used false papers to leave his home country and to enter his new one, but none of the border employees of either country thought to question him. It wouldn’t have made any sense for a well-to-do man (judged by his clothing and neat appearance), a not old man of able body, of a secure and prosperous country, to emigrate for a poor and war-torn nation by way of false documents. No check was deemed necessary.

He moved to the largest city of his new country and once there, set about learning the language. It didn’t take him long. He practiced phrases at the market and at restaurants and anywhere else an exchange was required. After he learned enough for basic conversation, he started walking to a worn down park several blocks away from his apartment each morning. There he would sit beside old derelicts on the benches and try to engage them in conversation for hours at a time. Some of the men were happy to babble endlessly, not caring a bit that their listener understood perhaps a tenth of what they spoke. Others were silent and disdainful, either perceiving the foreigner’s advances as mockery, or else were simply irritated by the encroachment on the usual peace, but there were enough willing talkers to keep the man’s progress rapid, so that before a few months passed he had achieved near fluency in the tongue.

He walked some of the city’s most dangerous areas late into the nights, to familiarize himself with all of its parts. Bands of wild young men would shout threats from stoops. Some formed large groups on the sidewalk that blocked the man’s path. He would look straight ahead and walk through the centers of the groups, provoking odd stares from all around, his face passing inches from other fierce, rigid faces. He could feel and smell the heavy anger that settled around him in such moments, but he could also feel confusion--cold, incredulous eyes searching among their ranks for some consensus, a spark of galvanization, but finding none before the strange ghost had vanished from their midst. In all his nights of roaming, he was never assaulted, or even touched.

Instead of locking up his apartment, he left the door opened wide at all times and was never disturbed, even though he read in the local paper that burglary was a major problem across the city, worst of all in his upscale neighborhood.

When a building in some part of the city was bombed by a rebel group, the man would spend all his time for the next few weeks in that part, eating in empty cafés, shopping at empty markets, walking the empty rubble sprayed streets, until the next bombing occurred. Then he moved on.

One of the old men at the park who he got along well with once asked him, “Why did you choose this city and this country to come live in, of all the cities and countries in the world?”

The man replied after a short pause for thought: “My favorite writer, who is the only person whose opinions I trust, though he is dead, spent most of his life traveling the earth extensively, and in one of his final works, a novel, he attested through a character that of all the cities and countries in the world, the people of this city in this country are the absolute cleverest.”

The old man nodded his agreement with the writer’s statement but held his head in drooping sadness instead of pride. “It is true we are a clever bunch, but are we not twice as ugly as we are clever? Some fortune. Look at the country that borders us to the south: beautiful and stupid are the people there, and so happy, while we roll in the muck of war and misery that our so-called cleverness brings. I could tell a gorgeous young girl from that southern land that I am rich and charming and handsome and she will be mine for life. They are far too stupid to consider that a man might lie, and similarly too stupid to create lies of their own. Why do you think they have closed their border to us? Took the fools four centuries of having their prettiest girls snatched away at seventeen before they finally wizened up. If you are unfettered by love or obligation, why wouldn’t you choose to go live in such a paradise instead of this rubbish heap which surrounds us, this rubbish heap that is the product of our so-called cleverness?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Are you aware that in the country you so admire, a person is put to death when his or her beauty fades? Each birthday is spent nude under meticulous scrutiny by a government council, and the tiniest imperfection is met by poisonous injection the very same day. The average lifespan is thirty-one years, which doesn’t account for even one of the uncountable infants who are discarded at birth.”

The man broke in. “You think that I am better off? At least their short existences are worth something. Their lives command the awe and jealousy of the entire earth, and before these perfect lives can be gnawed away by ugliness and awkwardness and ridicule, they are mercifully snuffed out. Give me thirty-one perfect years, please. I’ll gladly trade my eighty bad ones.”

The man shrugged. “Such a declaration is made much more easily at eighty than it is at thirty-one.”

The old man stared ahead for a moment while he thought of continuing the argument, but decided against it. He rose with a sigh and, before turning to leave, looked at the émigré with a mixture of disgust and sympathy and said, “I wish you luck then, though I fear no amount of luck will help you if you continue to live your life in such a stubbornly foolish manner.” Then he limped away, muttering to the dirt.

The younger man shrugged again, this time to himself. He stretched out on the dirty bench and had a long midmorning nap. He was left unmolested by the hundreds and hundreds of gangsters, drug runners, terrorists, hungry bums, and petty thieves who circled him again and again during his tranquil sleep.

[thatpfunk]

That Someone Should Care

“Debit or credit?” the transvestite asks.

“Credit,” I mumble. I feel someone staring at me so I glance towards the ATM and the two pretty girls. The one staring at my back is blond and has an average body. Her jeans are tight and her yellow shirt is cut low. I stop staring when Rachel gives me the receipt. I sign it sloppily and take the case of beer and cigarettes and walk to the exit towards the girls. The one who had been staring at me whispers something to the other who is taking out money. She has a nice ass and I glance at it as I walk past. She turns her head slightly and looks at me like I know her and it makes me pause in the doorway of the convenience store. She has a very pretty face, thin, pouty almost, and I wonder what actress she reminds me of. Her mouth moves and I have no idea if she is even talking to me but I pause, holding the case of beer, looking at her and waiting. “Huh?” I finally ask, sounding dumb, and she turns to her friend and hands her the money from the ATM and takes a step towards me.

“Did you go to Mission High?” she asks again. She is deeply tanned and her tight pink tank top shows off a chest that looks plastic.

“Yes?” I panic and wish that I had not stopped at all. I don’t remember her from any classes and my mind races and I need to remember who she is because she is really attractive and I wonder if she thought I was an [censored] or maybe she was just a cheerleader or something.

“How are you Nick?” she asks sweetly. She licks her lips and the lip gloss she is wearing shines and I wonder what it tastes like.

“I’m good,” I answer tentatively. Before she has the chance to trap me I blurt, “Do I, uh, know you?”

“Ashley,” she states expectantly. I stare at her. “We went to prom together.”

“Um, wow. I didn’t even recognize you.” She is hotter than she used to be. Her hair used to be blond. I wonder about her natural hair color. “So what are you up to?”

“Nothing much. We’re just headed down to The Tavern. What about you?” I remember her lying on the cheap hotel bed asking me why I didn’t want to make love to her anymore, not knowing that I already came, and I just ignored her phone calls after that night until she stopped calling two and a half months later. Her father had abandoned her mom, her wheelchair-bound brother, and herself when she was seven. I blamed him for her obsessive qualities.

“Uh nothing. Just hanging out. I live right next door actually.” I shift the beer uncomfortably and look towards my house.

“Oh, that’s cool.” We stare at each other awkwardly.

“So, um, what are you doing nowadays?” I wonder if she still wants to [censored] me.

“I’m going to State. Working. That kind of thing.” Her friend finishes buying their cigarettes and sugar-free Redbulls and walks towards us.

“So, uh, do you want to come have a drink or something? I honestly live right next door.” I motion my head towards my house again and she smiles.

“Yeah, sure. That sounds cool, I guess.” She talks to her friend and I realize I should be listening but I’m not. Her friend asks me where they should park. I tell her somewhere down the street. She walks towards the car and Ashley follows me towards the house. We walk past the white picket fence, through the gate, and in to the front door that I left open. The house is messy, empty beer bottles are scattered on the living room table, and I’m embarrassed, but only briefly. Kill Bill I is playing on one of the movie channels. I mute it and grab the I-pod, searching for something. I put on an Outkast album while she stares at my back. I offer her a beer that she accepts and I wish I wasn’t as sober as I was. She sits on the couch, observing the house and asks me who else lives here. I explain that one of my roommates just flew home to the East coast and the other is over at a friend’s house. He started sleeping with a girl that he works with and has been spending a lot of nights over there recently, I explain. I answer Ashley’s questions while drinking my beer. I admire her body. It is tan and thin. Her friend walks in and I get up from the couch and extend my hand, asking her name.

“Oh, sorry, I’m Sarah.” Ashley is better looking than Sarah but I think Sarah would probably more fun to [censored]. She looks slutty, adventurous. I think about Ashley being in my house and I blink quickly a few times, suddenly surprised at the random meeting. Four years is plenty to forgive I think. I suddenly have the urge to shout “So are you still an emotionally unstable psycho?” but don’t and instead chatter with them about school and jobs and my lack of plans after graduation. They both laugh at my jokes and I offer them the half bottle of cheap rum that has been laying in our freezer for a month and a half. They both give in and we walk in to the kitchen and take a shot and chase it with flat Pepsi. I think am the only one that grimaces after the shot.

The girls walk back towards the living room, both holding their beers, and step slowly with the beat of the older Outkast song. I admire both of their asses while they dance. I sit back down on the couch. They start to gossip about a girl that I don’t know and I feel myself zoning out and quickly finish the remainder of my beer. I get up and grab another, offering each of them another drink but they both decline. I stand in the kitchen alone, breathing shallowly, and close my eyes to stop the wave of nostalgia that I write off as pointless and trite: Ashley, top off, room darkened, licking her lips, grabbing at my back. She joins me in the kitchen again and dances next me briefly, laughing, flirting, and I grab her hand and spin her playfully.

She walks me back towards the living room and the music. Her friend starts laughing at her and I wonder how much she drank before she drove down here. I sit on the love seat and laugh at Ashley and she lays next to me. She sings softly into my ear while her friend changes the channel of the muted TV. She stops and suddenly yells, “Lets take another shot,” towards Sarah. I look up and it is surreal because I am 17 again and she smelled like tangerines and the ocean and when she kisses my neck and jumps up, running towards the kitchen, I am back in the living room and the Bud Light is cold in my hand.

The throw up in my mouth is swallowed and I grab the sink after the third shot. The girls are yelling and I wonder if they notice my hands, white knuckled and gripping the sink. I don’t think they do because Ashley grabs my hip and pulls me towards her and runs her hand up my stomach. Sarah steps in front of me and grabs my ass, pulling me towards her and grinds down my leg to the beat of the faint Outkast song and they start laughing and I swallow again. They are talking about how crazy they are and I am between them and they scream playfully again.

We are watching Sportscenter and it is muted and the music is still playing. Ashley gets up, putting her hand on my leg and she says that she is going to the bathroom. Sarah starts laughing and when Ashley looks back at me I ask myself, “why tonight?” I get up and follow her. She stops in my roommate’s doorway and asks me if some of her friends that she is supposed to meet at the bar can come and stop by the house. I am leaning close to her and kiss her neck and whisper “yes” in her ear. She lets me kiss her, running my hand up her back while she opens her phone. She backs away from me, in to the room and begins to give directions to her friend.

The light is off and I am on top of her, hand under her shirt, tongue in her mouth, when I stop and turn on the light and grab a drink from my beer that I had placed on the floor. She looks at me briefly, confused, and I ask her if she parties. She shakes her head slowly so I ask her if she wants a line. She stares at me, gets up, and walks slowly towards me. She kisses me but when I don’t respond she says slowly, “yes” so I reach in my pocket for the small baggy and clumsily cut out four lines on the desk. I take a $20 out of my wallet and roll it quickly and tightly.

She inhales slowly and I hope she finishes at least one line. She hands me the $20, head tilted backwards, sniffing, and I do the three remaining lines quickly. She is drinking my beer and I want a cigarette but she kisses me and I taste her lip gloss, tangerines, and it mixes with the drip of the cocaine in my throat and I kiss her back, taking my beer from her hand.

I hear voices in the other room so I stop kissing her and smile to myself. I need a cigarette so I leave. Ashley stays laying down on my roommates bed. I walk up to one of the guys, mildly surprised, and introduce myself. I pick the pack of Marlboro Lights up from the table and walk outside. On the front porch, through the open door, I watch Ashley walk out of the darkened room and hug Darren, the dude I had just met. She holds his hand and walks him out towards me. I inhale deeply on the cigarette and she asks sweetly, “Nick, did you get a chance to meet my boyfriend, Darren?”

I’m really high so I don’t miss a beat when I shake his hand for the second time and say “Nice to meet you again, Dude,” and I laugh drunkenly. My hands are shaking with paranoia or anxiety or adrenaline or something and I can’t believe she has a boyfriend and I suddenly need to do a lot more coke but I drag on the cigarette and gulp my now-warm beer. Ashley and Darren walk back inside, holding hands, and go towards the refrigerator. She gives him one of my beers and I close my eyes and lean back against the porch railing. Outkast is still playing and I finger my cell phone in my front jean pocket. I call Rob and calmly ask him what he is doing tonight. He tells me that he is probably going to crash at the chicks house. “Cool,” I say flatly. “Um, cool. I guess will see you tomorrow.”

My hands are still shaking and I wonder if this chick is [censored] crazy and I taste the acid from the throw up and I drag on the cigarette. I am really [censored] scared about the situation, momentarily, and then I wonder if it is just the coke and maybe I am just overreacting. I finish the cigarette, throw it over the fence and walk through the door. Everyone is talking and I am glad that no one is paying attention to me. I walk towards the I-pod and put on the best of The Smiths and grab a chair from out of the kitchen, get another beer, and sit in the living room. I watch everyone talking and drinking and I drink fast. The new beer is cold and I concentrate on Sportscenter. I hear Ashley shriek playfully and turn to watch her slap Darren, clutching her chest, laughing. She tells Darren “You are such a [censored] pervert,” too loudly, looking at me, and I see Jorge Posada win a game for the Yankees. They are only a half game back.

I can’t stop shaking my foot and I am getting pissed that Ashley is talking so loud, so exaggerated, that I get up and walk towards the bathroom. I lock the door and cut two lines on the counter of the sink when I hear someone approach the door. I pause quietly while rolling up the $20 again. I don’t hear anything so I do the first line slowly. I pause, rub my nose and finish what is on the counter. I turn on the hot water and take a piss. I can feel someone leaning on the door and I wash my hands, sniffing warm water to soothe my nose.

I unlock the door and Ashley pushes the door into me and I fall back, drunk and staggering, and she locks it quickly behind her. I really wish that it was a dream and that I wasn’t drunk or high and I taste tangerines again. I return the kiss, tasting her, and stop. “What the [censored] are you doing?” I whisper.

“Nothing.” She begins kissing my neck, rubbing her hand over my jeans. Even though I’m high, my dick starts getting hard and I kiss her back. She grabs at my belt, and almost panics when it gets caught in my shirt and now her hand is inside my jeans, going slowly up and down on my dick and she is licking my ear when I push her off me.

“Dude?” I ask seriously. She is staring back at me. “What are you trying to do?”

“Nothing,” she whines sexily and tries to kiss me again. I want a cigarette and I need silence and she won’t stop and I think the lights are blinding and I need the cigarette so I walk past her, unlocking the door, and walk, stopping on the front porch.

I hear her crying and Darren is getting up, asking her something, “What’s wrong” and she’s crying out again, and my hands are shaking and I can’t light the cigarette and the front gate is open and I consider just leaving the house when I hear “rape.” I exhale the cigarette slowly, staring at the white picket fence and the palm trees that line the street when I feel my shirt being yanked and I am falling back in to the living room.

The lights are bright and Morrissey sings, “You shut your mouth / how can you say / I go about things the wrong way? / I am human and I need to be loved / just like everybody else does,” and a shoe connect with my ribs. I see Darren’s face over me, it’s all I see, and he looks like Woody Harrelson in Natural Born Killer, not from the slicked back hair or glasses or anything, but the expression on his face and I wonder if I am going to die. I’m not sure if it is Darren or his friend kicking me now, I feel my lip split in half as blood fills my mouth and I realize that Darren is dragging me across the living room floor by my hair, hitting me in the face. As three knuckles connect to my upper lip and nose I feel a foot connect with my testicles and I wonder when the human body goes into shock. I don’t even feel it when my nose breaks but I roll over when I start to choke on the blood running down the back of my throat.

I try to protect myself and look over, head pressed hard against the living room rug, and I can see Ashley and Sarah yelling. I can barely hear them both screaming in a panic, wondering if they are killing me, and loudly a fist connects with my cheek. It is hard and wet and slow. My tongue, covered in blood and acid and saliva, feels around my mouth, confirming that I haven’t lost any teeth yet. The kicking stops and I continue coughing, spitting blood on the carpet. I hear Darren’s fist hit the back of my head. He curses loudly and I can hear him jumping, grabbing his broken hand in pain. He kicks me in frustration and connects with the side of my torso and my breath explodes again.

The girls are shouting at the guys and the guys are screaming at me and I am coughing violently on the floor. “I would go out tonight / but I haven't got a stitch to wear / this man said / ‘It's gruesome that someone so handsome should care.’" The speakers are screaming at me now. I breathe in heavily but an artery has been severed in my nose and I sneeze and cough blood and it makes me dry heave. I am on the ground now, writhing, and a low dull noise is escaping from my mouth in between coughing fits. Blood is slick over the hardwood floors and rug and my hair is wet and matted with it. When I look up I can see that I have somehow sprayed blood all over the TV, Playstation, I-pod, speakers, wall.

“You killed him,” Ashley is screaming over and over again. Darren grabs her arm and begins to drag her out the door. I am on my hands and knees, crawling, and I start to fall and instead try to roll over but my face lands in blood and carpet and I am blind. I lay drunkenly, needing another line, peering through the blood, and begin to throw up while Darren drags Ashley from the house. Sarah and the guy who had been kicking me are already outside. I cough blood, arching this time, and Ashley doesn’t notice me staring at her as she is carried down the porch steps.

I try to slow my breathing, letting the cool wetness of the rug calm me. I take a deep breath and don’t cough. I blink slowly, feeling the carpet, my puke, saliva, a beer that had been thrown at me, blood. There is nothing until my eyes are opened again. I let it disappear again and I put my hand to my lip and wipe away some of the blood and taste its metallic saltiness and underneath, tangerine, and then Ashley is underneath me and I am seventeen and she is telling me she is going to miss me so I kiss her neck and she smells like the ocean.

[Coffee]

Vespers

Darren McAllen sat in the waiting room. Although he was dressed casually, the collar he wore around his neck identified him as a man of the cloth. He was used to people’s stares and glances. He imagined that he was something of a community celebrity, in that everyone recognized him to be a Catholic priest. In fact, he was the senior priest at St. Michael’s Catholic Church. He had been in that position for six years, and a priest for thirty.

Darren never liked doctors. When he was younger, he was unafraid of getting sick or, much less, dying. The immortality of youth gave him a feeling of invincibility. He combined that feeling with his faith, a constant in his life, to form a potent distrust of the medical profession as a whole. He reasoned that people should not be too concerned with their physical health, and that God would take them when He chose, so people shouldn’t bother so much with doctors. Besides, he hated being undressed in a bright room.

Darren, before he was Father McAllen, was the son of Alice and Edward McAllen. Ed McAllen had been the owner of a small coffee shop that had managed to provide a fairly comfortable life for his family. Unlike many fathers, Ed had never maintained that either of his sons, Darren or Jeff, follow in his footsteps. Since Ed had been an entrepreneur and struck out on his own, he was conscious of the fact that his boys needed to be able to decide their own paths in life. Both Ed and Alice took great pains to instill this sense in their children, tying everything in with a refrain of, “You can do anything you want to do.”

For Darren’s brother Jeff, doing anything he wanted to do was a problem, because Jeff soon discovered that the only thing he really wanted to do was drink large quantities of alcohol. The first time Jeff tasted whiskey, he felt a strange excitement about the sting and tickle he felt in his throat and nose. He began consuming Crown Royal, Jim Beam, Glenlivet, Jack Daniels, and any other kind of whiskey, bourbon, or scotch he could get his hands on. The McAllens, with their Scotch-Irish background, certainly had a predisposition to alcoholism. Darren’s uncle on his father’s side had been an alcoholic, and Ed himself had only escaped this trap when Alice put her foot down about it. Unfortunately, neither Ed nor Alice could save their older son from the liquid trap in which he was ensnared, and he died of cirrhosis of the liver at the age of forty-three.

Watching his brother’s long, drawn-out death had changed Darren’s perspective. He felt something different, and he would not have called it fear, but that is what it was. For the first time in his life, at age thirty-eight, Darren, Catholic priest, discovered that, although he felt sure of his salvation in the afterlife, he was afraid of the actual process of dying. He was afraid of the tubes, the smells, the pain, and the loss of control.

When the headaches had begun seven months ago, Darren had taken some Advil and kept moving. They hurt, but he really did not pay much attention to them because he had been mired in the haggling over the price of the renovation of St. Michael’s. The church’s choir loft was on the verge of being condemned, and several of the walls and struts looked very questionable. At first, it had looked as though the renovations would be done fairly cheaply, but the contractor had apparently undergone a change of heart and decided that St. Peter would not particularly care about this virtual act of charity on Judgement Day. The contractor reneged on the price of the repairs, asking for the price that he would normally charge. Since Darren and the contractor, a disagreeable man named Arthur Jameson, had only had a verbal contract, the only recourse he had was to engage in several extremely heated discussions with Jameson, who finally agreed to the deal at a price halfway between the original and the new price.

Darren supposed that he ignored the headaches for three months, until he noticed that he was taking Advil twice a day, and in increasing doses. When he first went to his internist, a man he blessed in church almost every Sunday, the doctor had simply given him a prescription for the pain, diagnosing them as migraines. It was only at his physical two months later that the doctor became concerned. He referred Darren to another doctor named Jerome Emmons. Emmons, although a Protestant, was, and is, one of the city’s top oncologists. Needless to say, Darren was worried.

Emmons had run an absolute battery of tests on Father McAllen. MRI, PET scan, CT, X-ray, and various other acronyms were all performed on Darren. Darren had only gotten through those two harrowing days because of nearly-constant internal prayer for strength and composure. At the end of the second of two of the longest days of McAllen’s life, Emmons had prescribed him some unpronounceable pain medication and had sent him on his way. The doctor had said that the tests would take a few weeks to process, and in the midst of that, Darren had a church to run. So, he was overdue on the appointment for which he found himself in this waiting room.

He supposed that he should have brought someone along. Darren had never been a very social individual. When he was eighteen, he had elected not to attend his senior prom simply because he was too shy to ask any girl to with him. His associate, David Franks, who went by the nickname of “Father D,” was probably the closest thing Darren had to a best friend. However, Darren had not told anyone about his headaches, and Father D was the only person who probably suspected something was wrong. In the end, he had come by himself because he just didn’t want to go to anymore trouble than he had to.

Two Hispanic women were subtly eyeballing him. He imagined that it was because of the collar, and soon, as the patient’s name was called and she passed by him, they both tilted their heads slightly toward him and said, “Padre.” He returned their nod, almost as if in a dream. In places like this, Darren sometimes forgot that he was a priest. He felt like he was a man first, Darren second, and Father McAllen third. He supposed that this was a trifle blasphemous, but in his study of God, he had come to believe, or at least, hope that the God he worships is completely understanding, being omniscient.

When the nurse called his name, she said all three of his names.

“Darren Michael McAllen.” Darren never liked this very much, but not because he didn’t like his name. For one thing, as with many children, this was the address that was used when they were in trouble. Darren associated the use of his full name with some very long nights, filled with scoldings and an occasional sore bottom.

For another thing, during the course of his priesthood Darren had ministered to some death row convicts. On four or five occasions, he had served as spiritual adviser to the men in their last hours (this was before his brother had died and his feelings about death were clearer). When he read about the executions later in the newspaper or heard about them on television, the journalists would always use the full names of the convicts. Darren never could shake the way it echoed in his head that this had been a living being a few hours earlier.

Darren got up from his chair and walked toward the nurse standing in the open doorway. The nurse held a thick packet in her arm, which was obviously the charts and results and write-ups that Darren had accumulated. Darren marveled that only two days could produce that much paperwork.

The nurse led him to Exam Room 2. The room had the standard leather bound examining table, a counter with a sink and numerous bottles of disinfecting hand soap, and a light board to illuminate X-rays. There was a magazine rack on the wall, filled with out-of-date magazines that were at least six months late.

“How are you feeling today?” she asked, automatically.

“Fine,” he answered, equally automatically.

“Are you still having those headaches?”

“Off and on,” Darren said, reflecting that there was a level of deceit to this answer, in that when he said “off and on,” he was referring to the fact that his headaches came and went several times each day. He also had lied to the doctor earlier about the blurring of his vision that was taking place periodically, but he figured that the doctor was a smart man and did not need that much extra help, being such a hotshot oncologist.

“Okay, Mr. McAllen, well, the doctor will be in shortly,” the nurse said, and then walked outside the room, pausing to place his chart in the rack by the door, and then she closed the door.

Darren sat on the examining table, looking quizzically around the room. He hoped that heaven would be as bright as the examining room, but not smell quite so much like disinfectant. His big toe on his right foot twitched, and he contemplated this foot for a moment. His shoes were very simple, black, and cheap. Darren figured that nearly every priest in America had a pair of these shoes. He referred to them as his “priesters.” He thought that he should perhaps get a new pair soon, since these were really beginning to look bad, but that they could wait at least another week or so.

Darren looked at himself in the floor-length mirror on the wall. He regarded the old man looking back at him, and said his full name aloud.

“Father Darren Michael McAllen.” The old man staring back at him had perfectly mimicked him, but it didn’t seem to be mocking. Darren never thought that the path of his life would have ever led him where it did. He had always thought that his life, the life he had chosen, would have turned out differently. He always thought...

Dr. Jerome Emmons strode into the exam room. He had Darren’s file tucked under his arm. He almost hid the worried expression on his face, but Darren saw it before it was replaced with the doctor’s bedside-manner smile. Darren liked Emmons, but could never quite trust him.

“Hullo, Darren,” Emmons said. “How are we feeling today?”

“Fine, Jerome, fine,” Darren said.

“Have you been taking the pills I prescribed?” Emmons asked.

“Yes, I have, but I have to confess that I may have missed a dose or two recently. They interfere with my ability to give sermons, and I have to be as sharp as possible for Sunday Mass,”
Darren replied, wishing that he could rationalize lying to the man.

“Be that as it may, Darren, I want to urge you to take the dosage I prescribed as faithfully as possible. Now, I have the results of all those tests we ran on you last week.”

“Uh-huh. What’s the prognosis?” Darren asked, though he already could guess the answer.

“Unfortunately, through the tests we have run we have discovered a malignancy growing in your brain. By our estimates, it has been there for some time now, but its growth was very slow. I’m not entirely sure why the growth rate accelerated recently, but it is no longer a problem that can be ignored,” Emmons said. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions, so fire away.”

“What is your recommendation for treatment?” asked Darren, feeling strangely calm. He had imagined that he would lose control of himself when his suspicions were confirmed, but for some reason, he felt more inquisitive than anything else.

“Well, I know that we can try a course or two of radiation treatment, and see if that will slow the growth of the tumor, and there may be another treatment or two we can suggest. Beyond that, I don’t know. Um... ”

“Jerome, tell me the truth about what is in my head. Am I going to die?” Darren asked, already knowing the answer, but needing to hear it.

“Yes. To be honest, the chemo may slow it, but not very much. The tumor began in your frontal lobe, but has spread beyond it into other regions of the brain. There’s really not much that can be done. I’m sorry, Darren, but this one is going to be the last,” Emmons said.

Darren nodded, and then said, “What kinds of symptoms can I expect?”

“Well, the headaches will continue and worsen. You may begin finding your memory lapsing, as well as some reasoning problems. In some rare cases, people experience some hallucinations. All of these symptoms will gradually worsen, and you will probably not be able to function very much longer. I don’t believe you have very much time left. I’m sorry, Darren. Is there someone that I can call for you? Do you have someone who can help you?”

Darren thought for a minute. He considered having Emmons call Father D. Father D could come down to the doctor’s office, pick him up, and then they could go to the coffee shop down the street from St. Michael’s. Darren could tell Father D the truth about the headaches, and what it would mean to St. Michael’s, and about a dozen other things that would be necessary. The more Darren thought about it, the more he just wanted to walk back to his church, and let that be it.

“I have God, Dr. Emmons. He’s all the help anyone needs,” Darren said. Emmons looked pained, but then muttered his leave and left the room. Darren looked at himself in the mirror. He looked at the section of his head where the tumor was located. His head didn’t look any different than usual. The hair was still black with a spritz of grey, and it still had that same coarse texture that had always frustrated him in his earlier years when he still was trying to be attractive to women. He tapped the area gently with two fingers. Darren thought about how many times he had touched that part of his head, absentmindedly. He never imagined that the seed of his end would be planted there.

“Better place than others, I guess,” Darren said aloud. “Better place than others.” He opened the door, and walked out into the hallway, making his way toward the reception desk. The receptionist was a forty-ish woman with pictures of her kids set in frames on her desk. McAllen handed his chart to her, she smiled, printed out a receipt, and then handed it to him with the automatic “Thankshaveaniceday.” Darren took the receipt, smiled back briefly, then went out the door of the office.

Darren left the office of Jerome Emmons for the last time. It was a lovely spring day, with a slight breeze and a nip in the air as the sun began to fade behind the rotating earth. He began the trek back home, slowly and deliberately, savoring the dying of the light.

He walked for a minute or two without a thought in his head. He just slightly glanced at the heavens above him as he ambled toward St. Michael’s, his home for the last six years. He could see its spire from where he was, but it was still several blocks away.

The clouds formed wisps of grey. The sky had settled into a salmon-pink. There were hints of stars to the east. He was in no hurry.

[idrinkcoors]

The Hunt

by idrinkcoors

Damn I’m cold. So cold.

That’s what I was thinking as I lay there, bleeding to death. Getting shot is nothing like the movies, where the bad guy takes a couple rounds and still has the energy to get up and fight. Not at all. Right now, I can barely breathe, much less sit up and try to find the dumb son of a bitch who shot me.

It’s not THAT uncommon to get shot while hunting. We get these dumb-ass Californians and Texas to come up here, (Western Colorado), and spend a week getting drunk and shooting deer. After an afternoon of Jack Daniels, it’s not too hard to start firing away at whatever carbon-based life form happens to be moving between the aspen trees. I was going to wear my standard obnoxious florescent orange hunting vest, but my old lady forgot to pack it with us, which kind of sucks, because even one of those dumb-ass rich Californians are smart enough to know that deer don’t wear orange vests.

So like I was saying, it sucks to get shot. I don’t mean to make light of it, but it is what it is. Who knows, maybe I’m in shock or something. I just know that one minute I was half-way up Racoon Creek spotting a mule deer, and the next minute I feel this sharp pain in my side. It scared my more than anything. I’ve felt worse pain, like that time in my junior year of high school baseball when I was playing 2nd base and I took that hard grounder in the nuts. Of course, it had to be the ONE day that I happened to forget to wear my cup. I’ve always been unlucky that way.

It’s still getting colder, which I figure is on account of me losing all this blood. My camouflage shirt is covered in this dark red color -a lot darker than you normally associate with blood. Basically I’m screwed. It’s not like I have a band-aid or anything. I’m surrounded by nothing but pine cones and tall grass. My rifle is a few feet away from me, but a hell of lot of good that will do me.

The dumb son-of-a-bitch who shot me better get his ass here quick. You don’t just shoot something then leave it be. Of course, he could have seen me all covered in blood and then freaked out and all and bailed. I really wouldn’t put it past some of those tourist bastards to do that sort of [censored].

Yep. The best I can hope for is that my old lady finds me. We came up here together yesterday and camped up over by Blue Ridge reservoir last night. We’ve been fighting a lot lately -the wife and me- and I was kind of hoping that this hunting trip would help out the old relationship. It sure as hell couldn’t hurt. I know that most women don’t give a [censored] about hunting, but my wife is one of those tom boy types who knows her way around a gun, and actually likes to hunt. You got to love a broad who ain’t too pussy enough to gut an Elk.

I figured she will probably be heading my way. She will have heard the gun shot, and will have assumed that I bagged a deer, so she’ll come on over and help me dress it. She’s hunting about a mile or two away from me, so it shouldn’t take her long. I wanted us to hunt together - you know, bonding and all of that crap - but she insisted on going solo. She wanted the thrill of a solo kill, so we went our separate ways this morning. Now, at what I figure to be around 6:30 pm, I sure as hell hope she is busting her ass to get to me, cause I’m about ready to bleed to death.

While waiting for the old lady, (her name is Marcy if you give a [censored]), my eyelids starting feeling heavy. I shut them just for a second, when I was quickly awakened by the sounds of leaves rustling. The sound of the gunshot would have scared animals away, so I wasn’t worried about no opportunistic bear. Slowly, I moved my head up, which took about as much energy as running a 5k, and saw.....Marcy! She was coming my way! Great! What’s that? Oh [censored], she’s crying, and I mean crying hard.

Marcy must have shot me.

I let this little nugget of information sit with me while I focused on Marcy. The thing is, she wasn’t running towards me in a mad panic or nothing. She was just looking around, crying and making her way towards me in a slow strolling manner.

Damn I feel bad for her. She shot me on accident and now she doesn’t know what to do. This whole situation is total [censored]. This was our bonding trip! And now this [censored]? Like I told you before, we’ve been fighting a lot lately and this was going to be our fresh start. We’ve been going round for round over this no-good pussy named Gary. Gary is Marcy’s ex-husband, and lately he has been calling our house and going after Marcy again, and just basically being an [censored]. I tried not to let him get to me, but with their history and all, it got kind of hard.

Despite the arguments and all that [censored], I’m still hoping to start new with Marcy. But first I’ve got to stop bleeding and get the hell off of this mountain. I mustered up the strength to shout towards Marcy, who was still a good 30 feet away from me.

“Honey. Run back to camp. We get cell reception there.”

I’ll be dammed if Marcy just stood there in panic.

She was crying and hysterical, but she couldn’t move a muscle. Psychologists say that when confronted with a fearful situation, a natural reaction is to either fight or freeze. In other words, we either go after what is scaring us, or we freeze up in fear. Marcy had shot her very own husband, and was frozen in shock. It was hard, and I was tired, but not too tired to yell at her again:

“Marcy! Get help! Now!”

Still nothing.

[censored].

A few seconds later she started moving towards me again, but I was fading fast. Tired and still freezing my ass off, I lay my head down and closed my eyes.

I woke up a few minutes later. At least I THINK it was a few minutes later. It could have been 2 days. How the hell would I know? I heard some more footsteps in the distance. The leaves rustling could only mean that either medical help was on the way, or the Californian who shot me had gotten up the balls to face his mistake.

I looked towards the noise, and couldn’t believe the [censored] I saw coming towards me.

Gary.

He got closer and I started to think that I was hallucinating.

What was HE doing here?

My mind was racing. Was this a coincidence? No. Was he stalking us? I knew he was still obsessed with Marcy, but damn. Follow us up into the mountains? What a sicko. I was starting to hope that he wasn’t mad enough at me to avoid helping round up some medical assistance when I saw the big outline of what appeared to be a smile on his face.

“Hi Randy.” He said to me, holding his rife towards me. “Looks like you are in a pretty tough spot, huh?”

I lay my head down again. To be honest, I didn’t think he had it in him. Shooting a romantic rival? I had to hand it to him. I way underestimated the guy. I pegged him as a guy who wouldn’t venture beyond following Marcy and me to restaurants. A guy who would call our house from a pay phone at midnight and hang up, but this? This was bold. I’ll give him that.

“I told you 3 months ago I wanted Marcy back,” Gary smiled, still menacingly pointing the rifle at me. “You could have listened to me [censored].”

I closed my eyes. It was going to suck, but this was going to be how it ended. Not a damn thing I could do about it either.

Zoning in and out, I awoke to the sounds of Marcy crying. She was still a good 20 feet away from me, and after eyeing me suspiciously, Gary made his way to her. Man was she balling her brains out. I felt bad for her. She was going to blame herself. It’s sure as hell wasn’t her fault, but she was going to feel awful about the whole damn mess.

Whatever remaining energy I had in me, (maybe adrenaline or something), enabled me to sit up a bit and see the most gut-wrenching, unbelievable sight I could ever see:

Gary walking up to Marcy and comforting her with a hug.

I had to rub my eyes to make sure I was seeing straight.

“You said it would happen instantly!” Marcy screamed at Gary.
“Yeah, but-”
“You said instantly!” She pounded her fists on his chest.
“I had his head in my sights. He moved and...aw [censored].”

Gary stepped back a few feet, figuring out his next move, as Marcy dropped to her knees, sobbing even heavily than before.

I watched this surreal argument 20 feet away in absolute stunned silence. I was going to bleed to death, all account of this son-of -a-bitch who, for added insult, was banging my wife.

Speaking of the bastard, I heard his voice again:

“Marcy listen. You go walk down the hill a little bit. I’ll finish this up, then I’ll dig a hole, and -”

CRACK

Gary grabbed his crotch as he fell to the ground. On instinct, Marcy jumped up and began screaming as about as loud as a slutty cheating wife could yell. In fact, the only thing louder than her screams, was the moaning coming out of Gary’s fat mouth. Blood seeped from his zipper, and Gary’s cries were deafening.

Now totally out of energy, I dropped my rife and lay flat on the ground. As far as dying last requests go, this one was pretty sweet. Gary would probably die of his wounds, but if even if he didn’t, he would have to explain his gunshot wound at the hospital. Plus, for the rest of his life, he wouldn’t be able to take a leak without thinking about me, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to ever bang anyone again, much less my wife. Another added benefit of my excellent marksmanship was when the sherif showed up looking for answers. I kind of wish I could stay around to see what Marcy would say to the authorities about two of her dead lovers laying a few feet from each other.

From what I could see there while laying there on the sharp pine needles, darkness was a few minutes away. The stars were starting to come out, and up here on Raccoon Creek, you could see them pretty well. Not like in the city, where those damn Wal-Mart and mall lights block out the view. No sir. Here the stars were bright and clear. Considering the circumstances, it was an almost perfect crisp, beautiful Western Colorado evening. I closed my eyes.

Damn it’s cold. So cold.

[TIEdup14]

A Day in the Life: 2035


The crowd is at a halt. “Damn,” I think to myself. “I’m going to be late.” I try to worm my way through the teeming masses, but it is to no avail. When the moving sidewalk breaks down, there’s virtually no way to get through the inevitable standstill. You’d think these young folk forgot how to walk! I guess this is what you get when you have a generation that grows up on mobile convenience… strollers, piggyback rides, video games. Thinking hard to myself, I can’t really recall a child in recent memory who actually went outside to just run around. “Not enough stimuli”, the parents would say. Stick a kid in front of a television with Mozart or Beethoven playing in the background, that’s how a child gets a “head start” nowadays. It’s absurd.

With the drop in physical activity, you’d think that the nation would become overweight. However, the popularity of liposuction resulted in a price war, which ended up in affordable surgery for all. The process has been streamlined, and now it’s as simple as stopping at a gas station used to be.

Silence. There’s no murmuring, no awkward conversations with complete strangers, about how late we’re gonna be, or even about the weather. Just complete silence. Somehow we decided that talking to strangers in any form is a way to cause crime. According to our psychologists, by talking to a person you could possibly unleash latent desires within them to cause harm to you or anything else! It’s just best to keep to yourself and those you know already. Why take the risk?

A humvee pulls up. Through a loudspeaker in the top, it hurriedly blasts: “Do not be alarmed. The conveyor will be mobile again momentarily. I repeat, do not be alarmed.” Ever since the military and the police were joined into one, they have been extra cautious as to not alarm the populous in any way. Maybe we’re just too jumpy.

I hear someone behind me muttering a prayer. “O mighty Osiris, may you see to it in your infinite wisdom to grant us the gift of mobility once again… O migh…” he chants, again and again. Religion is no longer a mainstream thing. All of the major religions were abandoned after the great meteor disaster of 2020. All of Russia and northern Asia was wiped from the map. It was such a disaster that the major religions broke into more and more sects. Eventually religion became like a shattered mirror, with a million different parts. This gave way to the resurgence of Ancient religions, like Ancient Egyptian. However, there are no longer any religious conflicts. With each person deciding their own, it’s not really an issue anymore.

What happened to cars? Those were the days! Personal transportation, as opposed to this massive line of fodder. But with the loss of gasoline and the inability to create an alternative form of fuel, society was forced to abandon the concept of cars. Once we started moving people on these belts, however, the need for an alternative fuel seemed to just fade into the background. Of course, the world has assembled a team of top scientists that are working day and night to solve the problem. But—they’ve been working on it for the past decade, to no avail. Perhaps it’s impossible? In any event, it’s no longer a top priority.

On a nostalgic whim, I decide to strike up a conversation with the person standing next to me. “Nice weather we’re having, eh?” I casually say. To say that the man next to me was shocked would be an understatement. In fact, the surprise at this action ripples through the crowd. A few of the older people among us nod at me wisely, remembering the days when people weren’t afraid to talk. The days when people weren’t afraid to walk. The days, when people weren’t afraid to be people.

[Actual God]

Inside the Lyons' Den


Wally Lyons – tall and stiff – stood over the toilet for two minutes before quitting. He then splashed some cold water on his face and went downstairs to the kitchen to fix himself breakfast: a bowl of Lucky Charms in chocolate milk, two bowls of popcorn – one stale from the night before, and a new batch of Redenbacher extra butter – burnt.

Wally had one rule: if he won or lost more than twenty grand in a night, he treated himself to something nice the next day. He hadn’t worked in a year, but he didn’t care much – he had plenty of money, no one to support, and a marble-sized tumor in his prostate that wasn’t going anywhere.

Wally and his daughter Fanny had been co-hosts of “Inside the Lyons’ Den with Fanny and Wally Lyons,” an hour-long daytime TV newsmagazine that ran for almost two years. Fanny was the one who decided to move on; in the time since, she released a book called Purple Mountains’ Majesty: Securing Our Homeland, Protecting Our Values, and made rounds on cable as a family-values pundit.

At noon, Wally sat in the living room in his chair next to the phone, expecting Fanny’s call. He picked up on the first ring and faked a series of coughs.

“Hi dad.”

“Fan, is that you? I can barely hear you, you’re voice is fading - ” He coughed some more. “I think…this is it.”

“Ha ha ha, dad, seriously. Never get enough of that one. How are you feeling for real?”

“Fine, fine.”

“And the doctor says?”

“Forget about the doctor. How’s my little Eichman doing?”

“Oh, you know…”

“Still hobnobbing with the big-wigs?”

“Exactly, yeah – no, not really – actually I’m kind of depressed.”

“Why? You have cancer too?”

“Worse actually – I got bumped from Hardball for some a-hole Kennedy niece.”

“Heh. That is bad.”

“I know, right?”

“Let me guess – you were going to talk about…Julie Newell.”

“Obviously.”

“Hmm. Eleven-year-old blonde, kidnapped and drilled to death with power tools. Call my daughter, the expert.”

“Come on dad. You know child sex-crime is one of our nation’s gravest concerns.” They both chuckled a little.

“Yea, and that picture of Julie in the blue leotard ain’t bad TV either. Listen – when can I see you sweetheart? You know I’m not long for this world. Tomorrow’s Saturday – we’ll have lunch?”

“You’re sure you’re not too busy…getting bumped from…sitting on your ass all day?”

“I think I can squeeze you in – Balthazar at one?”

“Sure dad.”

---

At ten o’clock, Fanny walked to the bar around the corner intending to drink alone. She angled through the Friday night crowd and found a small table in the back by the dartboard. She dropped her purse on one of the two chairs, took off her leather jacket, and looked around. Her features were small and concentrated; she was clearly attractive, but not without a certain hardness.

As soon as she sat down, a powerful-looking olive-skinned man in tan turtleneck sweater put his hands on her table, and grinned. His teeth impressed her. “Can I help you with something?” she asked.

“Maybe I can help you with something,” he replied.

“Doubtful,” she said.

“You know, I know who you are.”

“You know, that doesn’t really work on me. It’s like, wow, now there’s a man that watches TV.”

“OK. How about this? You want a drink? Whatever you want. On me.”

“Must be a [censored] oil tycoon,” she muttered. “Umm, no thanks. I think I’d rather just drink alone.”

He left and came back with a long island iced tea and a cosmopolitan. “Take your pick,” he offered. She took the cosmopolitan and kept her eyes down. He put her purse and jacket on the ground next to the table and sat down. He waited for a few seconds.

“So. What’s your sign?” She looked up at him, disgusted. “I’m kidding. A joke?”

“Good one,” she said, and twirled her drink.

“You’re probably curious because of my accent,” he started. “I’m from Egypt.” He waited for a response.

“I hear they have nice pyramids.”

“The best.” He lowered his head to look at her face, but she kept her eyes on her drink.

“You want to know my name?”

“Let me guess – Mohammed?”

“Jesus, Fanny Lyons.” He uttered her name in an exaggerated American accent. “No – my name is not Mohammed, believe it or not. I am Tarek Abdulsalam. It means morning star servant of peace.” Fanny started to crack up. Tarek smiled. “What?”

She took a moment to compose, cleared her throat, leaned in, and whispered: “My name, means – lion pussy.” She took a swig and almost finished her drink, glancing back toward the bar, and started laughing again.

“You’re crazy Fanny Lyons. I want to take you home with me.”

“Yeah, OK.”

“No, seriously. I can tell what you like.”

“No, seriously, stop. You’re embarrassing yourself.” She continued to look down.

“I don’t think so, Fanny Lyons.” He touched her arm. “Come on, I’ll get you one for the road and then we’ll get out of here.”

Fanny brought her head up. “Honestly, Tarek Abdulsalam.” She pronounced his name in her best Egyptian accent. “Do you think I would ever go home with a [censored] Arab?”

Tarek’s head jerked back briefly before he leaned back in. She gave him a look as if to remind him that they weren’t the only people in the room. He stroked the sapphire hanging from his gold necklace. “How about this: You walk out of here in fifteen seconds. I’ll follow six paces behind you.” Fanny looked at Tarek, tapped her foot, and bit her lip.

---

Wally sat against the wall at Zebra Lounge. A skinny kid in a Celtics jersey sat down on his left. He had come alone too. Wally said “Hello,” and the kid nodded back. Wally turned ahead toward the stage and breathed in through his nose. A dark black girl in a light blue string bikini sat down next to him. Wally sized her up. Perfect body, nice round ass, okay face. Nice smile.

“Hi sweetie, how you doing tonight?” she asked, and extended her wrist. Wally didn’t know whether to kiss it, so instead he took her hand in his, and stroked her long, curved fingernails with his thumb.

“I’m okay, how about yourself?” he shouted over the music.

She started singing along in a high voice that made her sound like she was twelve. “I love this song,” she laughed.

“You have a very nice voice,” Wally said.

“Aww thanks. You’re sweet.” She put her hand on his khaki-covered thigh. Wally looked at her but couldn’t find any words. “Do you want to try my special chocolate dance?” she asked.

“I’d like to know your name first.”

“It’s Chocolate.”

“Oh. I just thought – nevermind.”

---

Fanny played with Tarek’s necklace. “Can I get you something to eat?” she asked.

“No. I’m not hungry.” He stared at the ceiling. She thought for a moment.

“You want to sleep over?”

“Not really.” She pulled at his necklace and looked into the sapphire.

“You want to…fly a plane into a building?”

Tarek threw the sheet off the bed and rolled on top of Fanny. Fanny reached up to rub sweat off his forehead. Tarek grabbed her hand and pinned it against the headboard.

“Ooh, Praise be to Allah!”

“Be careful with that [censored] Fanny Lyons, or I might have to cut off that pretty little head.” Fanny laughed from her gut, and they started to kiss.

---

Wally sheepishly brushed the side of his hand against the outside of Chocolate’s thigh. She grabbed his wrist and moved his hand over her ass. “It’s okay, baby,” she said, and continued grinding. The song ended a couple seconds later, and she stopped and settled into his lap. “Whooo. That was hot for me too,” she said. Wally chuckled, and she asked: “You want another one?”

“Keep ‘em coming.” She laughed and touched the tip of his nose.

“You’re funny.” She started dancing again. Her face was a half-inch from his. He took one of his hands off of her and reached down to his belt buckle. He started to unbuckle, but she slapped his hand.

“Sorry,” he said. She turned around so her back was too him. She shot him a playful, disappointed look over her shoulder. He closed his eyes.

After three songs, he was through. They stood up in front of their cubicle. “That’s three songs, so…thirty dollars please, and tips are appreciated.”

“Thirty? Huh – “ He reached into his front pocket. “I thought sixty was standard.” He handed her a roll of cash. She stopped counting at three hundred.

“Are you serious?” she asked, showing him the wad. “This is like eight hundred dollars.”

“Just take it.” She jumped up and hugged him around the neck, with the cash in her hand. When she let go, Wally saw her wipe her eyes.

“What’s your real name, Chocolate?” he asked.

“Kristie Lee,” she admitted.

“It was lovely meeting you tonight, Kristie Lee.”

---

Fanny found Wally's table. Wally put down the newspaper and kissed Fanny on the cheek.

“I heard about last night,” he said seriously.

“Heard what?” Fanny took her seat.

“Julie Newell. They arrested a couple from Jersey – a doctor and his wife. Found her blood in their recycling bin.”

“Oh. Terrible. I don’t know how I could have missed that.” She searched her purse for her phone. “A doctor and his wife?”

“Indians,” he added.

“Wow.” Fanny sipped water through a straw. Wally scanned the menu.