Tuesday, December 7, 2010

There's no cathartic moment in this story, her husband fell asleep, and later that day, into a comatose state.
His avatar wasn't tired, so neither was he. The sun rose, and still he plugged away, climbing up that virtual hill, hand in hand with her.
Her office was warm, and smelled like good jasmine tea. She told him to take his coat off with a smile, and he did. She told him to sit with a wink, and he did.
this isn't for anyone any more. I did, I swear, used to have an audience in mind. There were going to be huge, sweeping arcs, and friends becoming enemies and enemies becoming friends and all the other stories that happen.

Now, though, nothing so pleasant. Just a walk in a park. The muted scraping of a shovel on cement, in winter.
"Didn't I used to know you?" He asked.

"No." Came the simple reply.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

"Look, you're the second nice person I've chatted with today, the first one was a guy named Matt, who sold me the ticket. I can't spend that much money, so we'll all get a third, alright?" Annabelle smiled at the janitor, who looked confused, but nodded anyhow.
He smiled sheepishly at the attractive woman who had just introduced herself to him. Half leaning against the broom, the clerk extended a hand, which she shook.

"So if I win, you win. So I'll wish you good luck." She said.

Friday, November 5, 2010

The fire was mostly embers, and the ash from the picnic plates was like a snow flurry, the warm wind whipping it about, and making the trees do ocean sound impressions.

"Dad?"Bello asked (who else?) "What's the point?"

"Of what?"

"Dating. Girls. Life." He poked at the embers, meticulously cleaning the marsh mellow residue of the poker end. "I dunno. Whatever."

"Me either, but. I dated, I'd say, over one hundred people before your mother and I got married."

"Didn't date?"

"Not really."

"Just married."

"We were friends first. Then one day -"

"Night," Bello corrected.

"One night, sure." His father laughed, "One night, we clicked."


"Watch your mouth!" But he laughed.

"And that was it?"

"And that was it."

"But first, you dated, like, a million other girls?"




"That's what uncle Tony calls your man-whore period."

"I'm going to have to tell Tony to watch his mouth around my son now, am I?"


"You know? He told me he was going to enjoy telling you about that."

"It is pretty funny, some of the stories he tells."

"Don't repeat them to your mother." They locked eyes in the near darkness. "I'm serious." And he was. Bello's dad finished with, "She doesn't like to talk about the past." And they were quiet for a long while after that.
When he was nine, his father had the tree in their front yard cut down. It turned out, the tree was riddled with an ant warren, and the last big cut cross sectioned the main hive area. It was fascinating, watching them scurry about. He imagined they were as bleary as when his mother opened the blinds in his room on Sunday afternoon, and asked him why he was still in his work clothes, asked him when he'd gotten home.

"Those poor ants." He said. And his mother, momentarily pale and tight mouthed, had poured two kettles of boiling water into the tree trunk. He said, "It's a good thing we can't hear ants scream."

"They don't know what pain is." His mother replied, and went back inside.
The coffee shop, and in his opinion this was never a good thing, was cheerily bright, even at one in the morning. He sat down and pretended to choose something from the menu. He smiled and greeted the waiter, and when he finished the glass of water, he got up and left.

The early morning was verdant, and, somewhere in an apartment above the shops, someone was smoking some serious, green, weed. He sniffed. Figured out the apartment and considered climbing the drainpipe and making some new friends -then decided against it.

"I walk to much," he said, mostly to himself. "I should get some sleep, I've got work tomorrow."
He sat on the cardboard recycling dumpster, and watched the slow revolution of his ex girlfriend's cigarette: hips, tits, mouth; tits, hips. She squinted at him, but neither of them had anything to say, so he hopped off the dumpster. He half smiled at her, and when he brushed the hair from her eyes, she opened her mouth -she had a pretty scowl.

Still no words between them.

The smile faded from his eyes, and he walked away.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Lost in the basement of a food mall.

What a horrible fate to endure. Especially if you're looking for the bathroom. Especially if it's. . . no, wait, that's redundant.

What if zombies were chasing you? Would that make the eternity better or worse?

What if . . .

Monday, November 1, 2010

This story, and it is not unique in this --indeed every story ever, is my guess- hinges on certain moments of serendipity. Apart from that, you'll find the characters more or less humanely rational.

Step one: being born to a set of aloof, socially misbegottens who managed, somehow, to stay happy and gainfully employed while the rest of the world collapsed around them.

Step two: realizing the important lessen, as a young man, that sports and poetry, fucking and liking, are not mutually exclusive.

Step three: being something of an old soul.

* * *

Bello was not, in actuality, a loud or shouty young man. Quite the contrary. In addition to his quietus, he was tall, in high school, and on the swim team.

Freemont, California. Nothing to do with anything in this story, oh no.

This story is set in and west of Detroit, Michigan. The cracked tower (of academia) and it's snowy, crumbly bedrock.

Where does Bello live? In the middle of course, in a deep country side, with a sheep, some chickens, three cats and a dog. All the neighbors, both that there were, also had dogs.

The dog's name, the dog being a huge orange beast of a mastiff, the dog's name is Kitty.

Bello has a sister named Ellis, but she's much too young for this story. (Which is not to say she doesn't have stories of her own. . . just not this one.)

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Joelle Robinson said, "I really need to find a sick lion...I could use some good protection."

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

I wish this were wish fulfillment, but it's not.

I committed suicide, yesterday.

I woke up again, today.

This is very troubling.
Thankfully, the weather stayed warm and gentle for most of November, which lent living out of his car a rather charmed feeling.

He met a student, young man, who lived in the dorms above where he worked, and showered there every day before work, in exchange for after hours access to restricted computing sites.

Friday, October 22, 2010

From what to who

The joy of finding $20 in one's spring coat pocket: this was the joy that sustained her through Ohio's other three seasons.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

And the rest of his days played out thus.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

That wet earth smell, or the first cut grass of the season. Wearing a hooded sweater, and sweating while you walk home, cigarette in one hand, their hand in your other. Laughing after sweat salty kisses.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

"He wrote about my boots. Foot ware. Seriously!" I laughed and my girlfriend looked at me like I was crazy.

I continued, "My shoes rarely fit my outfit. Back then, I had these busted up, repainted seven times shit stomping boots. I've still got 'em but they're painted white now. They're awesome. Anyhow. Now, I've got this shiny pair of black shoes, but I'm wearing rumpled cargo khaki and a purple button down, and my undershirt doesn't fit quite right, either."

"You're a mess, you know that?"

"Yes. Today, so we could eat, and have gas money, I donated plasma."

Monday, October 11, 2010

He said, "I just don't know how he can wake up miserable every damn day. He's got an amazing wife, a job, and a lot of other things we don't."

I stared into my beer, and I didn't say a word, and the conversation changed, and life went on, but I was thinking: What could make a person wake up miserable every day?

I think it is this: Not being loved by the people who should love you, and not being (at least) marginally self sufficient.

If I were to wake up tomorrow, and I wasn't loved, or even if it dawned slowly on me that I wasn't being loved any more, then I'd be half as happy as I am now.

If I were to wake up tomorrow, unemployed, I would be half as happy as I am now.

Friday, October 1, 2010

How It All Started.

She lit a cigarette, the car window rolling down automatically, as she said, "You can pay me back someday."

Her passenger nodded and smiled graciously. He thanked her.

He never paid her back.

How to say, "I love you" ? (the answer is easy.)

The two young boys sat on the dock, feet dangling in their small lake, wrapped in fog. The smaller one shuddered, and his friend wrapped him in a coat. Their fingers touched, and one of them apologized, as they both reached absently for another mouthful of caramel corn.

Monday, September 27, 2010

"...deck chairs on a sinking ship."

"You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not."

"The only one."

Friday, September 24, 2010

Spook Story 01, Monster Formula

The thing that kills them. It's apathy.

There's a formula: The higher a group of people's apathy rises before action is taken, the more horrific things will happen within that group.

It's like the law that says companies will bloat to spend budgets appointed them, only with horror.

Apathy is a form of entropy.

Squids and Tentacles are squishy, largely unknown, and thus shiver inducing. Ditto chitinous creatures, and viruses (hereafter: viruii.)

The obvious solutions to these horrors are intent, empathy, and awareness.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

She just kept screaming. If she kept screaming, someone would hear her, or the home owners would come out and tell her to shut up. Then they'd see.

So she kept screaming, as her boyfriend was eaten, sloppily, nauseatingly, next to her.

It was so nice out, they'd decided to go for a walk after dinner. They were walking when the guy in the trench coat had walked up behind them and coughed.

"Dude," her boyfriend said, and turned to the guy behind them. "Cover your mouth when you cough." To illustrate his point, Jeremy put his hand to his neck and showed it to the guy. She saw his hand, though, and it wasn't cough guck. It was blood.

The trench coat man pushed her boyfriend, Jeremy, down then pulled him up, and his mouth had done something she couldn't explain and Jeremy started screaming and squirmed out of his shirt and grabbed her hand, then they were running.

And now, they were here, mostly naked, twitching as cars drove by and the thing gobsmacked her boyfriend's last limbs.

Monday, September 20, 2010

The October evenings had been unseasonably cold, but by seeming way of apology, this evening was back in the mid sixties, so the couple tossed some hooded sweaters on and went for a walk through a nearby subdivision.

The man noticed a pair of shoes first, tucked haphazardly under a car. Then, his wife noticed a shirt, then another shirt, both hanging high in some trees.

No new clothing for a few blocks made them talk about it. They postulated that the carelessly nakeding couple must have taken a different path through the suburb.

They turned a corner and stopped short. Right there: middle of the sidewalk, a skirt and a pair of pants both half soaking in a puddle of something dark, wet, and shimmering and bubbling under the lamp light.

Friday, September 17, 2010

Not quite newly weds, now

She was sitting there, huge black tea mug steaming, the gun so flatly, falsely innocuous on the table. I asked her where she'd got it, and she said: "That fruit vendor, the one we always buy the avocados from."

I asked her what she was doing. She told me: "I can't keep doing this; there's no way this is going to last forever."

The gun brushed gently through her hair, rested on her temple.

She gasped: I'd snatched the gun from her hand, and pulled the trigger, the muzzle pushed into my chin. The hammer clicked in air.

She blinked, I blinked.

Quick as I had, she had the gun against her again, and I watched the entire universe, her finger, squeeze into a fist. The hammer clicked in air.

She blinked, I blinked.

I asked her what now. She said: "Not this week, Eh? Would you like some coffee?"

For the first time in ages, we genuinely smiled at each other.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

So, Sunday mornings were always: A bullet, a cup of coffee, and a mug of English Breakfast tea. Always, the rattle of the swing out chamber as someone slapped it shut and spun.

Two clicks, two smiles, and a few laughs, as the toast popped up.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Blood is never the color you think it will be. It will always be darker, or warmer, or brighter than the available light would have you believe possible.

Holding her ruined head against my chest, feeling her blood pour out across my chest, I couldn't believe the darkness of it all.

Friday, September 10, 2010

"You going to kill me? You can't. You've got one minute, mother fucker. One minute to pul

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Turn up in droves, drive away quickly in droves.

It's the speed and the furious that die the quickest. Death whishes and shooting stars. Racing the last train to your stop on a wet Toronto evening.

Fasting. A strange word for people for whom time is slowing to a crawl. At least, that's how (I) get when (I)'m hungry. Everything is slow. I feel I must be speaking in tongues time is so slow. But everyone simply nods and understands and thinks I'm witty.

No, I'm not witty, I've got subjective minutes between your utterances and my responses, and once I've spent a minute filtering out the screaming and drooling and the empty belly aching, I take the other two formulating something wonderful and coherent for you to think about. I have to be careful, though: if I'm too eloquent, you'll take aeons to respond and I'll loose our conversational thread.

Fasting. Nope, not even when I'm not eating.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

The elephant god stared at him, from its lotus position on his dashboard. They eyed each other quietly, until, some minutes later, the god vanished, leaving him to wonder if it had been there at all.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

He smiled at his wife over the rim of their shared, gigantic Hawaiian mixed drink. The dry ice vapor trails cascading over his knuckles felt sharply cool, good.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

In the future, when archeologists are scrounging around in our dirt and dust, they will have to wonder why we had so many redundant doors.

Monday, August 30, 2010

The world was strangely, entirely, quiet, as he set off for home. This was strange, but not unreasonable, as he had been deafened while working a data entry job earlier that morning.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

The light this morning was like a dream. Not yet an evil dream, but it had that gloaming going down feel, like things are about to go south, like that moment just before a storm breaks, or just before another car on the highway gets side swiped.

The cats were all talkative, too, pausing to meow even as they ate.

And now, sitting at work, trying to stay awake, floors and floors above, the sky is roiling, threatening afternoon walks. And: only one person showed up to work today.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

It was a good thing he remembered to bring his tool set.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

"Make culture! We can create anything!"

But then, this was a woman, girl really, who thought I'd been hit by a bus, or a car, or was dead, anyhow.

And admittedly, I had been dead, but not so much so that I couldn't answer a phone, or email or whatever.

"The empathic spectrum. The drivers of connection and community. This world is focused on empathy -not attention- and reputation. It is slower, but richer. This is not easy to get to, but it is possible." -Jamais Casico.

And we got up and left, because that world, the world he'd been speaking about had passed, was passing. Listening to his speech reminded us: Starbucks Raid in twenty minutes, and if you've not got an epic mount IRL, then the zepplin ain't gonna wait for your dawdling ass.

Epic gear: harder to get, and when you hit the level cap (or "Adulthood") then what? Then the real grind begins.

They're making the world so easy, but the actual game doesn't even begin until 80. getting to 80 creates:

A) a barrier to entry, however minimal it may be
B) a structured way to learn the basic skills and roles necessary in your career to continue through the new game, that starts at the level cap.

Sneakily, they've added level cap items that do nothing but make it easier for you to drag other careers to 80. "You can stay in the shallow end as long as you want." is, in effect, what they're saying.

You can get a job without going to college, you can even make good money doing it, and if you're lucky, get end-game/epic rewards.

None of that postulating, gibbering and pontificating though, got us to the bus stop before the 34A pulled away, stranding us miles from home and more miles from where our Service Daily Mission was located.

Monday, August 16, 2010

And here it is: the/your/our witching hour. When we think of witches and wonder at the wonder and wish for fishes and bones and bones and bones.

The witching hour: head butts and blood, witchy tits and bitty titty witches. Blond haired men and women, and a dragon on a wire night stand.

The witching hour: two talkative cats and a sad faced spouse.

The witching hour: tired enough to type.

And here it is: the/your/our wishes, riding away on an oil slick tide, memorial immemorial, and for the best.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

"Oh this? Just something I cobbled together from nothing, really. It's not as impressive as you'd think, and I . . . I'm not really into it. I just did it for the fun of it, kinda. Et cetera."

Monday, August 9, 2010

she looked disdainfully at his baba-ganoush salad. She asked him, "You're really going to eat that?"

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Staring into the mirror, he told himself: "Here I am, right now, in this moment." He knew instantly, from the way his mouth worked too much to form the syllables, that he was lying.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

It’s about cooking, is what it comes down to. The process: shop, clean, prepare, pray, eat, do-the-dishes. When I was very little, it was me playing with a remote controlled car while the grownups did almost all of the process

As I got older, more responsibility was given to me. First, definitely first was: do-the-dishes. Then, once I could see over the counter top, the high one, by the back wall, with the proper post modern stool. Once I could see over that counter top, I got to prepare the potatoes, then maybe clean the carrots, prepare the onions (never the meat, that was always Granddad’s responsibility.)

I’m just now realizing this. I tried to recall, as vividly as possible, my grandfather, and what I came to was always food. It was there in the last post, too. Food: careening (hah hah hah) around English country sides and dirt roads and horse trails in search of the best Yorkshire Pud. Let’s be honest, for a moment. We all knew where the best Yorkshire Pudding was prepared: Granddad’s kitchen. He must’ve forgotten, or wanted some innovation, or we weren’t brave enough to say it, though, because a-careening we would go, when we visited.

We went to two pubs, the last time I was in England, and the convivial joviality with which my granddad swaggered up to the bar and ordered a round of fizzy lemonades from the country cute brunette made me blush. It was impressive, to be sure, and . . .

. . .and now I’ll never hear any secret war stories, or youthful 1940’s carousing stories.

This all seems very self centered, I’m sure, but it’s me and him, really. The two of us, saying good bye and I’m sorry –the both of us saying these things. Sorry I didn’t call more. Sorry I didn’t write more. Sorry there’s no to do list for the process of love in my kitchen. Here, have this skeleton, you can make soup from it, to start, and (and this is the secret of love, and life) and if you’re doing the soup right, following and sharing the process properly, then the bones grow sinew, get soft, sprout meat, blossom into a lamb leg, or steaks, if you’re prickly about eating tiny, cute things.

But first: broth and bones.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Actually, this is my life.

But there are, I'm sure, ficticious moments from some one else's life.

My grandfather passed away in the witchy hours between Wednesday and Thursday. I like to think that, very secretly, he would appreciate being lead gently away in the arms of three witchy young women, at least one of whom he'd loved previously.

He was eighty-eight, and served in . . . one? Both? World Wars. Definitely World War II. He flew in airplanes, was an airman, which is relatively safer than grunt work, I suppose. He came through it like this: he never, ever swore. Not a single cuss word.

Impressive, in these times. It's the year 2010, so that minus 88 is. . . 1922. So, probably just the 2nd world war, it seems. Cars were still a rich person's thing, no internet, no real phones for at least thirty years.

He owned his own bed and breakfast and is survived by his three children, all wonderful humans.

It isn't sad, I keep telling myself. It's impressive, but then I break down and can't talk and my eyes leak like mad -if it were Sara, her mouth'd be a waterfall and I'd laugh at her and she'd laugh and maybe half gag on the oceany outpouring.

He always made Sunday lunch, when we visited. And when we didn't he and his friend Bess would drive deep into the country side and try new, family owned, pubs.

This is desperate and pathetic, is what this reminiscing is. All hot and bothered because why? Because I wasn't there enough? Because I didn't bother writing enough? Because I missed so many birthdays? Didn't send cards?

"He knew you loved him," they'll say, and they'll be liars when they do. "Could've done more, you." is what I think they should say.

I almost got a speeding ticket today, too. Instead I got a citation for not having up-to-date car insurance, and after that my mom called and asked me if I could pull over. I didn't, and I didn't have to. I think the word is: sublimation.

That's all for now.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

She's crying when I come to: we are all in the room, and I'm surrounded by supplies, like a survivalist Christmas, and the others are all dressed in comfortable, loose fitting clothes (four others, precisely). Except Jasmine. Jasmine is dripping wet and naked, and crying.

First things first, I check myself. I have my camping-food bars, and a book, and bottles and bottles and bottles (seven total) of water. I walk over to Jasmine and take off my jacket, set it gently on her shoulders. "What happened?" I ask her.

"I wanted to shower first. It was early this time!"

I check my watch. She is right, the time on the face (mechanical, roman) is a good fifty minutes before the usual time.

"What were you supposed to bring?" I ask, shooing the others away.

"the buckets."


"I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay," I say, looking around. We'll make do, and once the bottles start emptying out, we'll fill them back up again.

"I'm hungry." This is John.

"Not yet. Why didn't you eat before we came here?"

"Fell asleep."

"In all that gear?"

John nods.

I sigh. I stand up. I say: "Okay people, we've got three days, and a liter and a half of water each, and four cliff bars each. This isn't going to be easy, and I'm going to be doing the count down. I hope you all made the appropriate arrangements and." I pause. I breathe slowly. I continue, "And I hope this is the last time we all see this room."

Monday, July 26, 2010

The room was asylum bare, and one of the others was irate. Before now, we'd only been here eye blinks, but this time i counted all the way to thirty before bouncing back.

And this time, I'd been out all night on a date, with a nice young man who told me the sunrise from this one particular spot was too good to miss, but when I got back, he was walking into the orange glow of the parking structure's elevator hub.

I called his name, and when he turned around, and I saw his cheeks glisten, his crotch dark, trickling down his leg. He opened his mouth, to say something I think, but vomited instead.

In the room, it was the black guy being irate. He demanded our names, email addresses, why we were doing this to him. I mumbled something and he turned on me, so i gave him my name, and my public email address. "Thank-you," he said. And then I was back on the top of the parking structure.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Take Two

When the call came, it was easy for him to put things on hold, and fly half way around the world.

Why wouldn't he be there for the birth of his best friend's baby? The swiss alps, bare though they now be, were a wonderful international location for a child.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

What do you do? What do you do when a character you've admired, lusted after, steps off the page of a book and into the club you're celebrating a friend's birthday at? Your friend, she hit you because you were staring.

"That trannie," You say, "She is amazing." And you buy everyone a round of shots, and then she, the trannie, comes over and introduces herself to you. You smile, manage to be smooth from the through the vodka fog.

And the night rolls on: dancing, male strippers, female strippers, table dancing, table falling, a fight.

And at the end of the night the trannie comes out of the VIP section, looks you dead in the eye and says, "I know, you know? White."

And that's the last thing you remember.

Monday, July 19, 2010

"I wish I could say that was a complete success. Instead, I will say this: there was a lot of room for improvement."

Friday, July 16, 2010

A vacation:

. . . pink pants, brown shirt. white shoes and belt and eye liner and teeth, all flashing, dancing under a strobe.

Monday, July 12, 2010

He found out as a five year old, what life is about. It's about finding the people you want to be with, being with them, and knowing when to let go of them.

Friday, July 9, 2010

We now return to our regularly scheduled moments (or: As Good as Synchronicity Gets)

I was driving, singing along to the new CD from my favorite band (it doesn't matter what, just singing along, happily tapping along.) And why not? It was cool for July, and it was so early, yeah: my windows were down and I was singing along.

It started to rain, as I crawled through the get-to-work traffic of a four way stop. I was looking around, and there's this skinny, soaked girl, smiling; huge headphones, a-frame shirt, running shorts, barefoot, whatever. We locked eyes and she smiled and walked up to my car as I stopped again, and, obviously, I'd stopped singing as she walked up to me.

The first words out of her mouth were the chorus to the song, just as it started in my car stereo. She sang along for a bit, smiling, slap drumming on my door. As the song went into its bridge, she lifted her headphones, and? Our songs were perfectly in sync.

I offered her a ride, but she shook her head.

Our song ended and she walked into the green downpour.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

He showed up with a reusable grocery bag, a mild sweat sheen and a wolfish grin. He said, "You thought I'd forgotten, didn't you?"

She smiled despite herself. "If there's meat in there, you're still in trouble."

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Dinner was three sushi rolls. Big, fat affairs, with lots of vegetables stuffed in willy-nilly, then rolled tight and trimmed neat.

They ate on her back porch, sitting on Persian-esque pillows, under a carnival tent mosquito net lit with tea candle paper lanterns that gently shifted in the breeze of a far off storm. He smiled as he dipped a chunk of rice into the soy bowl. He asked her questions, which she politely deflected. So it goes.

They drank warm Saki then lay down. They watched the silver edged clouds slowly roll over the full moon.

Thunder grumbled in the distance.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010


Beat, beat.

. . . beat.


Monday, July 5, 2010

He sighed at her question, so she asked it again. "That's it?" She asked, "There's no beginning? No head cap?"

He shrugged.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Until he turned on the lights in his apartment, since he'd been out of diapers, Neptune Rasmus had not wet himself. Today, though, when he turned on his lights, he did.

The elephant seemed to smile, then it lay down, like a cat stretching. It looked up, and batted its eyelashes at Neptune, who gingerly stepped back, and shut his door. "I've wet myself." he said, quietly.

The elephant nodded.

"Look, I have to go to bed, okay? I've got a date tomorrow." Neptune eyed the elephant nervously. He asked, "You don't have to go to the bathroom, or whatever, do you?"

The elephant shook it's head, no, and Neptune wet waddled back, until he was fully against the door.

Neptune said, "You're probably. No." Neptune started again: "I'm very tired. I think I'm so tired I'm hallucinating."

The elephant stared at him, still but for a single languid right to left tail swish.

Neptune continued: "Since you're probably not real, and you've assured me," He cluck laughed, "You've assured me you're not going to hose my apartment down. I'm going to shower. Maybe have a little cry, and go to bed. And when I wake up, you won't be there." He nodded.

And indeed, after his shower, Neptune checked his apartment, but found nii hide nor hair of the elephant he'd seen when he first arrived home that evening. He drank a glass of water, went to bed and dreamed of kissing.

Neptune woke to his alarm, and, uncustomarily, got up without hitting snooze. Cautiously, he checked his apartment again, for signs of, or an actual, elephant. Finding none, he continued with his daily routine all the way to work, where he worked, had lunch, and worked some more. Finally, it was time to change his shirt, sign out, and head to the new Indian restaurant, to meet his date, Sara Oceania. It would be their third date, as it were, and Neptune was quite excited at the prospects.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Dejectedly, Neptune entered his home. Sadly for him, he was not the first to take such action that evening: Two burglars, in typical burglar ski masks and dark coveralls, looked up at Neptune Rasmus as he walked through his front door.

Unfortunately for Neptune, the light switch was meters into his apartment, so when he flicked the switch, he only saw the broken balcony window. Cursing, he walked toward it, and that's when they pounced, like hyenas in heat, leather gloves beating at Neptune's ribs and face, tackling him from over the couch, slamming him to the ground. Neptune grunted.

Neptune screamed, the floor cracked and just like that, one of the burglars was dead, offal under an elephant's front feet. The sound, when the elephant landed, was deafening, stunning, and the crushed burglar vomited blood and dinner like a fire hose into Neptune's closet. The other burglar snatched out his gun, managed a shot, but the elephant's trunk knocked it wide and part of the couch exploded with a puff of feathers.

Unarmed, the burglar went for the elephant's eyes, driving it back into the couch, fists against the creature's eye sockets as it thrashed about. Neptune grabbed the man and hauled him off the elephant's face; they crashed into the standing lamp, fell, and rolled around knocking trinkets and kitsch off book shelves.

The elephant composed itself, and watched the fight for a moment, tail swinging. It jabbed its tusks into the fray and both men froze.

The elephant reared back, crashed into them again. It lifted the burglar and pinned him to the wall with a tusk thrust. The man twitched, and went limp, and after a moment, the elephant shook him off its tusks, similar to the way one shakes water from their hands, at a sink without a towel.

"Well." The elephant said, somewhat poshly. "I take it your date didn't go well? This probably isn't going to improve your night, either, is it?"

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

The elephant tried to be nonchalant, as Neptune cleaned the blood off it's tusks.

The blood removed, Neptune asked, "Elephants can't get STI's can they?" As he stood up the standing lamp.

"Not human ones," The elephant replied, gently resetting the purple couch, lifting it with it's tusks, and nudging it into the center of the room with its forehead. "What are we going to do about the, ah, bodies?" it asked.

"You know, I hadn't thought that far ahead yet." Neptune sighed, "I suppose we could call the police?" he asked.

"How would we explain, ah, me?"

"You are full of tough questions." Neptune poked his hand through the flat screen television, looked at his fingers, wiggled them. "I think. I think, maybe, they wouldn't notice you."

"I'm an elephant!" the elephant said, somewhat offended.

"Right. Have you not seen Fight Club?" Neptune asked.

The elephant sighed. It said, "In that case I probably won't be here in the morning, will I?"

Neptune asked, "Or will I?" and they chuckled.

Monday, June 28, 2010

The next morning, the elephant was still there, though, and Neptune couldn't remember if this was the how it was last night, but now the elephant was definitely red. Shades of red with dry blood creases. Even the elephant's eyes were red, all red, and they followed Neptune as he single swirled down the spiral staircase.

"Oh." Neptune said, meeting the elephant's eyes. "I'm going to need more money, if you're going to stay here."

The elephant nodded.

Missed Days and Magic

He'd like to say it was laziness that kept him from posting, post an apology. Ectoplasm, though, just doesn't click clack keys like fingers used to.

He'd like to say he's sorry, but that's a half truth.

He didn't need a day off, or a run around the world, or a ninja attack.

He didn't forget.

He wasn't possessed by demons.

There's a reality, and this consoled him, which is why he posted it here, you'll understand, where he and his harem did not miss a message, clicked the button, saved the bunker and the air conditioning unit from explosion.

Where he was still alive.

Where he'd been dead for years.

Where he was internet famous.

Where he was 1920's Hollywood famous.

Where this didn't happen again.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

June 23, 2010. The Earthquake destroyed Detroit, Michigan, USA, and opened a hole to the center of the world.

Monday, June 21, 2010

"You try to do better for your family, right? And you're a thirty something, and you were weird when you were younger, and that stuff kinda worked that one time, right?

So you make something, you stick it on the bottom of one of those automated, scratch off lottery ticket machines and you buy a ticket, and: you win! You win big!

But then, a few days later, two men in khaki pants and blue shirts show up at your office, and you invite them in, and then they have a chat with you. And that last night, the night before the two average men, that night is the last time your family ever saw you."

Friday, June 18, 2010

Simple Literalisms

The elephant sat quietly in the corner of the living room. It must have been a pygmy or a baby elephant, and possessed of a strange grace well beyond it's years.

It blinked, it swished its tail gently on the floor.

"You're not going away, I see, so I'm going to make some salad for dinner. Then we'll figure out why you're here, yes?" The man in the room, named Neptune Rasmus, smiled at the elephant. "Is there anything you don't like on your salad?"

The elephant shook its head.

"Excellent." Replied Neptune.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

The sand cracked, splayed out, under the clear blue of the evening and the drying rain.


The smell of cooking chicken was strange, tinny. Her mouth watered, regardless.


Despite all the motion in the world, despite the swirl of his clock, he couldn't hug her; he couldn't even open his mouth.


Fingers trembling, he called her up. He took a moment, then said, "Look, I love you. You love her. I love her too. She's conflicted. She doesn't have to be, right?"

"What're you saying?" The woman on the other end of the line asked.

Grinning as the idea took form, he replied, "We could move in together. Leave your roommates, and lets all move in together, the three of us, somewhere."


This broken nose, of all the broken noses he'd ever had, this one felt the best.

Monday, June 14, 2010

The green of the trees, in her back yard, with the sun past the horizon, and the fire still tiny? The green of the trees: was perfect.

Friday, June 11, 2010

All those times they said, "I love you."

We laughed at the commercial, wrapped around each other, under a purple blanket, our pink couch! And there we were, laughing, and she goosed me, and our eyes locked and her dog barked. And and and.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Smiling, sweaty, riding her friend in the low orange of her bedroom, fingers splayed, pushing, on his bare chest, she lightly smacked his face and he groaned softly.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

She was facing the sink, back to him, green hair momentarily lit by early morning lightning. January storms are always those all day, wet slush, wish you had a fireplace affairs, and he was thankful she kept a pair of slippers for him. She set the mixing bowl on the drying rack, and turned around

Friday, June 4, 2010

Excerpted from "The 1,001 Deaths of Robert XYZ"

...while the anecdotes contained in the journals are horrific, and, generally, unbelievable, a majority of the circumstantial evidence pans out. . .

. . .It is believed Mr. XYZ is still alive, though quite probably insane, and most likely dangerous.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

The guidance councilor looked at Robert's medical history. "It says here you've been clinically dead twenty times." Robert nodded, staring at the pale green tiles ill-lining the office floor. She asked, "How is that possible?"

"It's been a bad few months." He replied.

Monday, May 31, 2010

"We will stay the same now, won't we?" Danielle asked, quietly.

Friday, May 28, 2010

Climate Change

"Almost didn't make it, through all that darn sleet." he said, drying his glasses on a shirt corner. "It's almost a river out there."

"It's not freezing yet?" she asked.

"Not yet. Forecast said we had until about eight forty-five, when the cold front rolls in. What's for dinner?"

There was a roll of thunder and the power flickered, they both laughed nervously as, outside, the wind got angrier.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

"I'm glad we don't have a basement." she said, knocking her boots together before climbing out of the water, onto the stairs.

Her roommate chuckled.

Diana continued, "Yeah, the neighbor's got some weird whirlpool because of an errant eddy, and their house collapsed in, but the outer walls are all still there."

"That sucks."


It used to be: April Showers bring May flowers. Now it rains in May, and sometimes the flowers last a few days into the scorch of June.

Tea baggers scoff during the frigid winters, saying things like: Global warmin' mah ass! But it's not global warming. It's climate change.

There are a million other slogans that get bandied about, calls for this or that.

Really, though: More warm rains to dance barefoot in the cabbage fields is just fine by us.

Monday, May 24, 2010

We sat and roasted on the slow roof of her house, drinking beers and tossing the empty bottles into her swimming pool, where they shattered or plopped.

We laughed as the cats light footed about, jumping at flies, then dragon flies and, as the evening wore on, fire flies.

The sandwich delivery guy was very unsure at first, but we coaxed him to both (A) run to the liquor store, and (B) toss the beer, the ice, the ordered sandwiches onto the roof.

What did it was, one of us shouted: We can't come down, you're standing in lava! And we tipped him $30.

It was that kind of summer.

Friday, May 21, 2010

Off the deep end. (Or: Down a Dark and Vined Path)

"The Troll Queen is the most beautiful, towering, anthropomorphic leopard frog you will ever see. Tied down on the bed, as I was, she would tower over you, just as she did me. . ."


Daniel's nightmares are as clear as the glass knives The Troll Queen used, playing with him as she did, for those years and years and years.

In his nightmares, Daniel is strapped to a wooden table, an ancient rack made for stretching, and, knowing what's to come, he struggles, frantic. The first time this happened, he was drugged, euphoric.

The Troll Queen appears with a clapping sound and a raging sting on his face and, the first time, Daniel's eyes had snapped shut, been pried open, but in his dream, his eyes are already wide open, and she strolls into his vision casually and backhand wallops his face. In the dream, his flinching makes Daniel's eyes burn.

There she stood: the most beautiful amazonian brown, voluptuous and smiling; dressed in thin shadows, her huge lips a smile, her eyes recessed and hidden. A seven foot, sexy sexy sexy anthropomorphic leopard frog. A fearsome, bald dominatrix. A matron to be cuddled by.

She asked, "What were you doing in my orchard?" so sweetly.

"I was lost." Daniel replied.


"I was lost in a forest. I fell through a gate, and then heard voices, like a party or something, further in the woods and..." He stopped.

She waited, patiently.

Minutes ticked by, but finally, Daniel continued, "I think I was in there for days. I'm hungry."

"A party, or something?" The Troll Queen prompted.


Another back hand, harder this time. And an uncomfortable prod at his mouth with her fingers. The Troll Queen said again: "A party, or something."

So he told her about his stumbling through thick leaves, and the heavy smoke, and, finally, of finding the camp fire, and the three young people roasting meat on sticks. He told her about the rosy glow of the fire, and chatting, then singing songs together, and no, no, no, he doesn't know how he knew the words.

"And found yourself in my orchard, how?" she asked.

So he told her about the winding down of the songs, and the nap they all took, and the getting up again, and then one of them -can't remember which- suggested they play hide and seek, and the wary faces the others put on. But he was happy, wanted to play a game, and so they said yes yes yes, let's play hide and seek, and hasn't it been a long time? And so they'd chosen an IT person, with bickering and play slaps, and Daniel ran off into the verdant forest, until he could barely hear the IT person counting to fifty. And he'd hidden, and no one had found him, and at first: yeay! But, after the minutes turned too long, he got nervous, decided to head back and . . . had wound up in the, excuse him, her orchard.

"And you were still hungry, so you ate one of my fruit?"

Yes, he said, and apologized again, and over and over and over until she pounded his face numb with a palm, to shut him up. She said, "You're getting to be a good big mouth, tattle tale teller, aren't you? Let's see if we can't help you blossom fully."

And then the glass knives came out. And the king crab sat on his chest and held down Daniel's tongue. And in went the knives. And The Troll Queen whistled, croaked a happy, wet and throaty tune, while she-

-Daniel always bolts upright, sweat drenched and shivering before the real pain begins.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

You come into the bar, out from the cold and the mottled slush, and it's warm in here. It's also almost empty: you, the barkeep and the tall, lanky fellow at the bar. That's good, you're looking for a quiet place to get out of your head and into a beer or two.

You sit down far away from the lanky fellow, and order a beer. The barkeep looks at his other customer, then pops the beer open for you. "On him." He says.

You say, "Thank-you" to the man and swish down the first refreshing gulp, savoring its roll down to your belly. You smile.

"You're welcome," The lanky fellow says. He asks, "You want to see a magic trick?"

You laugh, and this guy bought you a beer, so sure, why not? "Yeah, why not?" You say.

"Wonderful." Says he. He sidles over and smiles real wide. "It's a gross one, and you can't tell anyone *where* you saw it. You can tell people 'bout it. But don't tell 'em what i look like, or where it happened, alright? Those're the conditions. Agreed?"

You nod, smiling with curiosity.

"I can swallow your arm." The man says, grinning even wider.

And you laugh. What else could you do, at such a ridiculous statement?

"No, I'm serious. Take your coat off, roll up your sleeves if you've got 'em, and put your arm down my throat."

You think for a moment. You ask, "Is this like sword swallowing?"

"It is almost exactly like sword swallowing, yes, only for me? It is less dangerous. Now go on."

So you roll your sleeve up and the man stands and rolls his head a bit. "Just limbering up." He says.

Then, pulling at the corners of his mouth, he lisps at you to put your hand in his mouth, so you do.

He gestures for you to push a bit, so you do. A bit more: he's gesturing as if guiding a car into a parking space, and a few moments later you're shoulder deep in the man's face. He raises his heavy eyebrows at you, grins as best he can, and slowly, carefully, you pull your arm out.

The barkeep hands you a towel, and you wipe off the drool, of which: surprisingly little.

The lanky fellow sighs. "I was at a party once, swallowed a woman's leg not knowing her boyfriend was one room over. That was in . . . Montana, I think. Didn't end well for anyone."

You ask him: "So, can I buy you a drink?"

Monday, May 17, 2010

That gate, the first gate, it worked like this: the more easily it could be seen on this side of the path, the harder it was to get to the other end, where ever it was going.

So, if you had to hunt for minutes as the sun set quicker than you'd have thought, and you could barely get over the gate (it being over run by vines, propped closed by logs) then, once you were over it, the path to the next place was wide and even.

If, however, you walked up and there were no passing cars, no one to judge you strange, then the gate was right there, swung open a little -beckoning arms- when you approached, then your walk through to where ever this gate lead, whatever path it held in check (this path, dammed up and let bubble in a lake, on its threshold) that walk(?) would be harrowing.

Friday, May 14, 2010

"Home James, home."

The plastic strips were sticking to his thighs, the sweat hiding only in the shade, the heat eating the rest of it.

He drank deeply, longingly, from his pintglass of water, wiped a palm over his cropped hair and said, "I want to go to the moon."

She stared at him for a moment, through messy hair and dark overly big sunglasses. "You know," she said, her big mouth worked itself into a grin. "I could take us there." She nodded, mouth stretching happier, "I went there a few years back."

"How was it?" He was pretty sure their eyes were locked, but he could never quite tell with her.

"See, that's why I love you. You know when I'm telling the truth. I'll need to make a few calls, and we'll need to pick up some more sun screen, but yeah."

"Sweet!" he said, standing and clapping his hands, "Let's do it!"

She stood too. "You'll want to bring a change of pants and underwear. Me too. Probably some wet naps." She tapped her foot. "Look, it gets messy on the moon, okay? it's not like Earth. Sometimes, you shit yourself from what you see, or what happens, or what you end up doing. It's best to be prepared."

"I'll go pack a bag." He said, sounding somewhat nonplussed.

"Not too much, there are weight restrictions!"

"Weight restrictions? Really?"

"Yup. I'm just hoping I'm not to fat, now."

He punched her in the arm, "Hush."

"Hah! I couldn't feel that through my fat!" She laughed, then, "Ow!"

"See? Felt that one!"


"Whatever. You want me to pack you some things, too? We'll just split a back pack."


"Whatever! We're going to the moon!"

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

He looked around, startled. He said to her, "This really, really, isn't how I pictured it."

Monday, May 10, 2010

Sunburned, smiling, drinking a warm cup of jasmine tea. "I want to go back to the moon," he said.

"The moon? We've only been the once, and that was. . . different."

"It was!" He smiled, "And I'm sure this time would be different too."

Friday, May 7, 2010

Here's how you did it, mostly:

One half pound of psilocybin mushrooms. Three and a half shots of tequila. One half loaded .44 magnum revolver.

You took the mushrooms between swigs from the bottle. And when there were three of everything, and everything was the same, perfect, color and your legs didn't work, you thumped your head down on your table, put the gun to your left ear and pulled the trigger.

And woke up yesterday. Only, there was no proof it was yesterday. You're bad with days, and, sometimes, with facts, too.

But you tried the bank robbery again. Shot yourself in the foot, adjusting your pants with the gun in your waistband. Went to the hospital. Got released. Got wasted on hallucinogens and Mexican booze and just before loosing consciousness, head on your table, you tried again.

And woke up yesterday, again. Only now, the hole in your foot was gone, as were the pain pills, and there were still only three bullets in the chamber.

And then, horrified, you noticed it: you were stone sober. And for the first time in the long, stuttering, line of your sobriety, you smiled.

* this is about withdrawl. (ryan) ?

Thursday, May 6, 2010

take two: lost nerve, walked out
take three: shot self in foot with gun, went to hospital
take four: two teller worth of money, not bad.
take five: shot self in leg, tried to finish, passed out from blood loss.
take six: stabbed in ear with pen from overzealous patron
take seven: locked in the vault
take eight: lost nerve, walked out
take nine: lost nerve, didn't even go in
take ten: all teller drawers nabbed, exploding wads avoided -that'll do

Monday, May 3, 2010

The sirens klaxoned closer, and he smiled, weak though he was. Bleeding to death from a hostage, who snapped from to too much threatening, with the police alarms tripped; this was a good first bank robbery attempt, and in his next life, he would get it right.

Friday, April 30, 2010

All in a day's work

The little girl looked up at me, all innocent eyes and curly golden pig tail hair. She asked, "Are you a stranger?" With big blue eyes, staring into me.

I smiled. I said, "Yes, honey, I am."

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

"Very good!" I said, crouching down. I said, "You're a smart girl! Would you like some candy?"

She eyed me, suddenly wary. She bit her lower lip, toeing the floor. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

"Sure!" I said, "But would you like some candy?" I reached dramatically into my coat pocket.

The little girl took off, running away from me, shouting: "Danger! Stranger Danger! Danger!"

I smiled, stood and walked the other way. "Smart little girl," I thought to myself.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

There was a time when I'd walk under that bridge, and there would be three huge black men with baseball bats and I'd walk out from under the other side of that bridge slapping backs and laughing, uproarious, with three new friends.

It does not speak well of me then, that when they came at me, I pushed their baseball bats into them, wrecked their ankles with my toes, boot heeled their hands, whipped cupped hands against their ears, stomped their fallen necks and stood, smirking.

This morning: I was not an enlightened being. And then one of them was pointing a gun at me. I stared at the gun, and, mentally -nothing but a thought!- plugged the barrel. I told him, though. I said, "I've blocked your gun, it'll explode when you pull the trigger."

He swore at me, asked me: "How?"

"The force."

"Like Star Wars?" One of the two I beat down a minute ago was on his feet again, though hands on knees.

"Yup." I said.

He pulled the trigger, the gun exploded and the one who managed to stand up took off into an access, a maintenance door.

I laughed.

Monday, April 26, 2010

It's winter and there were two cars tailing one.

No, no. It was definitely winter, but there was a car, tailing a car that was tailing another car. The first and third cars there, are: car one: henchman, handiman, go to guy, whatever. Car three, the car at the front of this daisy chain, that car is The Boss's car. He has a driver and white hair and a dark grey suit under a dark khaki color rain coat.

He had the driver pull into an Italian restaurant, and the man tailing him jumped him, just as his hand touched the baroque door; they wrestled, fell to the ground.

The driver of car three, the tail of the tail, didn't bother turning off or taking the keys out; slid across the hood of his SUV and was into the fray before his boss saw him. The attacker saw him, though, and kicked at him. The kicks were ineffectual and the attacker was face down on the sidewalk in no time, no sweat.

"Sorry boss." the handy man said.

"It's fine. I miss getting into it like that, frankly." The Boss patted his go to guy on the shoulder. "All in a day, right?" They smiled knowingly at one another as, in the distance, sirens started.

Friday, April 23, 2010

Cat and Cat

He saw her tiny stick figure frame, walking toward the only working ATM in his neighborhood. He'd made sure the camera was fuzzed enough to miss his face, if he came on from the left. But just as he was about to start in on her, she pulled her phone out with a friendly, valley girl, "Hey daddy." So he jitter-stepped past her instead, and turned down an alleyway. Fortunately, she headed his way, still gabbing on loudly. He gave her most of the block before slinking after her.


After finishing the phone call, the girl huddled in on herself and hurried herself on, pulling further ahead of him; she dashed across a street just as the lights changed. An aggressive driver honked, maybe her pursuer had crossed too?

She slowed her pace -she couldn't let herself get too far ahead! What if he lost interest?

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

There are no zombies in this world, but her arms and neck look like they've been had by them: boiling fat scars and impossibly thin elbows. She's got a pretty face and nice legs, but the missing mouth sized chunks, they got a bit of her dark eyes, too, though nothing so solid as her arms.

Monday, April 19, 2010

It surprised the mugger, then, when his knife slipped between his ribs and not hers. It surprised the mugger, the angle and agility with which her twisted, incomplete limbs moved, that she had the mental acuity to unwind herself so delicately, so precisely into his personal space so violently.

Finally, it surprised the mugger just how much granularity there was in the pain and pulse of his blood, as his serrated knife was pulled down and out.

Friday, April 16, 2010

A red dawn washed under the highway bridge

"This was supposed to bring us the end." Xena mumbled, squinting into the rising sun. She slouched, under the overpass, clutching the star to her ruined chest. "This was supposed to save..." she never finished the sentence.

The star pulsed, three times; its energy set the nearby corpses on fire, browned the grass and blackened the underpass cement.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

"I think the star, when it fell, had the same problem as an automated car: the first billion miles were easy, but the last five hundred or so were off by a few millionths of a degree, or whatever, so now here it is." Connor clacked the star on the table.

"So what do we do?" Lara asked.

"We try and communicate with it again." Connor replied, grimly.

Monday, April 12, 2010

“I can't believe you let him get away!” Xena looked suspiciously at Jane. “He was the one! He had-”

Jane cut her off: “I know what he did to you honey and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the pain you've been through, and we all appreciate you. You know that? We do. But I had to let him go.” She grinned. “I planted something on him. Something to lead us to the star.”

“Oh.” Xena said, mollified. “That's. . . Oh."

“Yes.” Jane said and stood. She back handed Xena, hard across her luxurious nose, there was the wet crack of cartilage followed by a slow blood trickle. Jane asked, “Anything else?”

Friday, April 9, 2010

Five Different People

Two hundred ninety-two miles north, we cooled ourselves in the rattle of the air conditioning unit, and I smiled at the smell of clean sheets and the feel of over starched towels.

I sat on the edge of the bed, drying my ears out with a corner of the towel. She flopped happily onto the comforter and turned the television on and we stayed in bed until the sun was well up, but I couldn't tell you what the programming was.


Pulling into the motel, two hundred ninety-two miles north east, windows down, glass bottles of tea sweating in the heat, this motel: so far off the interstate exit we could only hear the crickets, and, somewhere hidden, tiny wind chimes.

Her hand on mine, mine on the gear shift, she leaned in, oceanic hair still smelling like the ocean, and kissed my cheek. "Love you." she said.


Two hundred ninety-two miles north, eighty miles an hour, she said, "Let's stop here for the night."

"What? There's nothing here!"

"We'll find something, just come on, eh? It'll be fun!"

"Fun, huh?" I quipped, but with a grin. At the stop light, "Crickets sure are loud, aren't they? Don't think I've ever heard such loudness before."

And she replied, "My grandma's place used to get chicadas pretty bad in the summers, this isn't so bad."

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Eight hundred ninety-seven miles later, she's lounged naked under buxom moonlight, leaned back on her elbows, wiggling her toes in the ocean, and laughing as waves roll up her legs. Laughing, eyes shadowed away under the floppy brim of her continentally large sun hat, just her large mouth lit, rollicking over a favorite anecdote, purple.

She petered out the anecdote and gazed peacefully at the waves,wiggled her coy tarantula fingers in the water, as it climbed up her ribs.

Finally, solemnly, she said: "Thank-you. Thank-you for bringing me here, even like this."

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

The beat that my heart skipped. It goes like this: walking down a smokey half flight of stairs, looking up and through the jostle and press of bodies, my eyes land on her. She's sitting in a anti-coy neon blue dress, with huge matching boots, chatting-loving-friendly with a cadre of queers and trannies.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Six Months Later

The swish of red coat tails caught her eye and she called out to him, the boy from the train, but she was lost in the Trafalgar crowd and that moment, hands clenched against the chill, was the closest they came to serendipity.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

The guards, bulky, masked, huge shouldered and three tones of black, boarded the train just outside Paris. They stood, rifles ready, one by each compartment.

"That normal?" He asked.


Monday, March 29, 2010

"Europe didn't used to be this hot, did it?" His accent made her look up from the newspaper she'd been half reading, but her huge white headphones were actually for noise reduction and she had to ask him to repeat himself, which he didn't. He continued, "When I was young, we didn't think about things like air conditioning, and now all these old trains are murder. As it to emphasize the point, he swabbed his shiny forehead with the cuff of his t-shirt.

She asked him, "Is this the first time you were in France?"

He smiled at her accent and nodded. "You're French, though?" he asked.

She smiled at his accent and nodded.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Wednesday's Moments of Consciousness

08.15: stubbed finger on nightstand turning off alarm clock
09.45: enjoyed beams of light, breaking through cloud cover
11.20: first bite of extra spiccy curry on naan
13.40: bathroom
17.01: brunette also waiting in line to buy tickets to movie
18.24: heart wrenching goodbye scene in movie
19.47: sunset between clouds and skyline
20.10: cleavage
20.22: a posterior
21.43: the time, ordering a last minute coffee

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

When he did finally collapse into sleep, it was dreamless and soft.

He woke with the sun, on time for his job and breakfast before. This was three hours of sleep, but it felt as if he were dropped newborn fresh into the day, his life, that moment.

Thursday: as different from Wednesday as atomically, schrodingeringly, universally possible.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Walking out of the train station this mid March was strange. Despite the warmth, the sunlight was wan and old leaves skittered down the sidewalk in loops, as if we'd rewound to October, or already missed summer altogether this year.

Friday, March 19, 2010

Somewhere in Eastern Europe

The old and grizzled barkeep side stared at his sole patron while pointlessly wiping his bar down. The man was hunched over a thick beer, dressed in a thicker faux- Russian hooded sweater and otherwise in earthen tones; he blended into the old pub well.

The barkeep tapped the bar, and the man looked up, sniffed, sighed and pointed at his glass, thumbed toward the draft beers. The barkeep nodded, pulled and slung another heavy pint to his patron, who audibly swallowed before finishing the previous and starting on his next.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

He bought their one way plane tickets with cash, always joking they'd get creaks from all the rolls of money scurried away under the mattress.

Monday, March 15, 2010

He locked eyes with the pudgy, balding client, across the vast expanse of moderno-expensive desk. He said, "You may think you're the good guy here, but, you aren't. It's that simple. You did something right, but the rest? The rest of what you did? All very, very wrong. And illegal. Good day."

Friday, March 12, 2010

A Tightness of the Soul

She paused to adjust her sunglasses as he stepped into the street and disappeared: whisked brutally away by the front of a bus.


She woke up three years and four hundred lovers later, hung over with stiff shoulders in a tatty biege wall, purple gauze room she didn't know. The girl in bed next to her rolled over and, gaga makeup eyes still closed, asked a question Z couldn't parse.


Her arthritic hands were finally conking out on her, the snow doing them in, no longer clattering along the keyboard.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

She set the roses in the snow, knees slowly turning blue. The candle wouldn't light, but she left it anyway, snapping her fingers unnaturally loud, on the wick with a prayer and a clap.

Monday, March 8, 2010

She walked calmly out of the rickety old house, ignoring the eyes of two men and a dog boring into her; slid into the black 2004 VW Beatle, and white knuckled through a blizzard to the graveyard.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Fooly Cooly

He said, "I watched it, but I never really felt that any moments in my life were like that, you know? I think that got behind me --that I passed all that-- a few years ago, now." He stirred brown sugar into his tea.

The cat, huge orange paws resting on the table, blinked at him and yawned before taking a neat bite of it's coney dog.

"Nothing to say?" he asked.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

In the day's blue afterglow, he stood staring out over the Pacific ocean. He saw, in the distance, a hundred foot long serpent m-backing it's way toward a school of jellyfish.

She tugged his hand and asked, "Dinner, now?"

Monday, March 1, 2010

Fifty Years later, he died --really died!-- for the second time.