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.