The shaman sprawled happily against the wall, beer in one hand, laptop balanced on his knees, typing away, slurping away.
He sat in the hallway, patiently waiting for his teacher to arrive.
He probably shouldn't have been drinking beer, but the monkey had demanded it, and the can was in a brown paper bag. He'd justified it to himself with the thought, "If anyone asks, I'll tell them its an energy drink."
"Hurry and throw me more ammunition!" The frightened little brother yelled to his sister. "I'm almost out!"
The house stood empty, water turned off, back porch bare and sun bleached, and brittle in the winter noon.
"I'd like to be free again." He said glumly to his shoes. "More free than this, at least."
I am thirty two years old today --it is my birthday and I am happy. I have: A loving son, a loving wife, a loving boyfriend and a loving girlfriend. We all live together in a house that shouldn't be able to fit five people, but does.
Conversion mentality is how a lot of this works, frankly, and knowing the name of your savior has always been a good thing.
We're all queer here, except maybe my son, who doesn't really think in terms of gender or sexual identity these days.
We're all farmers, here, again except my son, because he's three and doesn't do so well with the coordination.
I'm a hub, it sounds, from that first paragraph. But the spokes are all connected too, friendships platonic and queer and that's delightful, all around delightful.
Maybe I sleep in the garage, because that's a livable space, now: Walls all insulated, a toilet installed, piping just fine, thank-you. There's a skylight, but the roof's a bit too drafty to stay up there long. Murals painted on blankets, stapled to wooden planks --like castles from the 900's or when ever Europe was more than a crater.
Not that Europe is a literal crater, now, just an economic and political one. It looks a lot like a cold, wet version of South Africa, frankly.
Even before the now, I could never picture a prosperous world. But I can always picture a happy one.
My wife and my girlfriend looked at me. "We've met." They said in unison. We all stared somberly at each other, like an emotional mexican standoff. Then, explosive laughter.
My wife and her boyfriend looked at me. Staring at him I said, "We've met." We all stared somberly at each other, like an emotional mexican standoff. Then, explosive laughter.
"You don't love me any more, do you?" She asked him.
Her boyfriend shrugged, brushed hair away from his eyes and said, "We haven't had sex in months. I'm not sure why I'm sticking around."
The vodka bottle exploded against the kitchen cupboard, the baby woke crying, but the couple burst out laughing. "It's your turn, asshole," she smiled at him through the guffaw-tears.
The car engine ran smoothly until the moment it exploded.
The ceiling swirled and though he wanted to speak, the sounds refused to form, hid in fact in his lungs and tickled his bladder.