wind

Of nature, it is wind that I love best of all. It can calm an overburdened heart, or move a man to great things. It is the warning before a storm. It is the storm. Through it, against it, or with it. The wind is beautiful. It moves the world. And me too.

--

dream of insects, evil, and a key

Whenever there are insects in my dreams, I always wake up wondering what kind of shit has been crawling on me in the night.

All I remember of it is the end, when a presence, foreboding and sinister, stood outside my door. Terror oozed under the door toward me. The thing, whatever it was, pounded once on the door frame, then faded away. When at last I opened the door, I saw that a key had been stabbed into the door frame like a knife, protruding from a keyhole that had never been there before.

I knew I could never allow that key to be turned, so I pulled it out and started looking for a place to hide it. But everywhere I took the key, the wood around me would rot away. Insects too large to be natural came out of this rot and try to skitter away, only to die after a few feet. I couldn't think of how to get rid of it without poisoning the surrounding area.

--

vroom cough cough gasp cough

I lost my car today. I guess she's been near death for awhile, the way I drive, but today was the day she was towed away and out of my life. She was there through the best of the good times and the worst of the bad, and I couldn't have done any of it without her. Baby, you will be missed.

--

friendly shadow

I named her Mr Cat. Every night I came home, she charged across two lawns meowing, and jumped right into my lap. I assumed she wanted affection and warmth, but it may also be because cats are evil, and she knew I'm deathly allergic to her. Either way she was pretty cute. Her legs thumped when you scratched her ears.

She was fifteen, and scrawny enough to be mistaken for a year old cat. Her real name was lame as hell. Her owners tossed her out after twelve years. She was declawed, and pitiful.

--

dream of red, flesh of blue

In my dream, I ruled a kingdom of red stone and crimson sand. My people were blue-skinned, and though this was not our native land, the city we were in was now our capital. Here technology was of the occult, and any advanced machinery found was immediately hauled away to secret chambers, to be puzzled over by alchemists and wizards.

The throne room in which I held court was an immense, cavernous room inside a twisted, bulbous castle. An adviser stood to either side of me.

Leaning over my shoulder, one adviser said, "Doom is very low in our country, sire. The nobles grow restless."

The second adviser shook his head, then leaned over my other shoulder. "Sire, about your doom quotas...we've found that the people poll very positively to less doom."

The first adviser gave the other a dirty look, then they both looked to me expectantly.

--

inevitability

In the center of the apartment there was a leather recliner, and in this chair sat a man with both hands holding a glass. The glass contained a brown liquid mostly comprised of alcohol, which the man hoped would bring solace. But there was no solace in this room, he knew; just alcohol, a glass, a chair, a man, and an end.

And a cat. But the cat didn''t have anything to do with anything. It was just a cat.

The man was not surprised when he heard a knock at the door, and although some part of him was relieved, his expression did not change. He drank the last of the brown liquid, set down the glass, and rose from the chair to walk across the apartment to the door.

The cat watched him, but did not move.

Opening the door, both he and the cat saw an elderly woman without. She was gray and small, yet unbent by age.

"Hello," she said, her voice cautious. "Are you him?"

He stared at her. "I suppose I am," he said.

"Ah. Good."

The air between them seemed to waver and distort, like heat rising off of coals. There was an audible CRACK, and was immediately followed by the dull thud of the man falling limply to the ground. He shuddered violently for a moment more, then was still.

After a few seconds, the old woman looked up, and she and the cat exchanged glances.

She did not close the door when she left.



Once the cat was sure she was gone, it stood, stretched, then padded past the glass, the chair, and the man; and out the door.

--

almost done

It is a machine of and for commerce, devouring time itself and growing bloated by our debt, with only an insignificantly small concern for the actual acquisition of knowledge, or the distribution of said knowledge to attending students. Our only rewards are the experience of agony, and a piece of paper devalued by our own ignorance (giving others the right to punish us further by lower wages).

Weeeeeee.

--

etiquette

This is a true story.

I was at school, waiting for my class to start, and I had a few hours to kill. As is my custom, I walked to the library's computer lab to murder time on the Internet. The computer lab was mostly empty at this point in the day, with only three or four students besides myself amidst dozens of computers. I chose a machine furthest from the entrance, far away from anyone else - the farthest you could get from anyone else and still be in the computer lab. It was a location that screamed privacy and isolation, and I was comfortable in the knowledge that I would not be disturbed right up until the somewhat overweight woman sat down next to me in a huff.

There are elements of this moment in time that may not yet be entirely clear to you, and for that I've only myself and my limited abilities as a writer to blame. Let me make this clear, let me stress it: there were other computers available. She had to walk past a computer to sit at the one next to me.

The rational part of my mind died trying to cope with the reality of this moment. Up was down, right was wrong, and left just stopped existing altogether. I wanted to ask her what she was doing, how she could possibly stand it. She crookedly crammed two usb drives into the computer, our arms almost touching. I wanted to ask her how she thought she could get away with it. She started looking at pictures on face book. I wanted to ask the librarians to call campus security, and have her dragged away, out of the library, out of my life, out of my space. She began to breathe in all of my air. The computer lab, still mostly empty, began to feel like a tomb.

I started to panic.

Yes, of course, this is a nothing moment. It's unimportant, and ultimately irrelevant. This isn't really something that should get to anyone, I know. BUT WHERE THE HELL DOES SHE GET OFF DOING THAT? That isn't just standing next to someone at a urinal, its arcing some urine right into the one you were using! I thought about moving - but then that would mean she would win, and I couldn't let that happen...could I? I thought about turning and asking her to give me some space, to move over one seat, but I couldn't - I was too afraid. If she were capable of sitting next to me in a nearly vacant room, who could say what else she might be capable of? I saw the confrontation in my mind's eye...

"Excuse me, could you please mo-"

Turning on me sharply, she would interrupt in a shrill whisper "I am the goddess of putrefaction, and I will stain the soul of your world" She would then pull a knife, and begin cutting a pentagram into her face, humming 'pop goes the weasel'.

Yeah. No thanks.

Ultimately, I left. I couldn't find the words to fight her, and in fact, it took me almost an hour afterward to regain my ability to speak English at all. As I left I did my best not to break into a run, and hid in a bathroom for almost fifteen minutes. When I felt I could face the outside world again, I went to a couch and read for almost an hour and a half, and then it was time for class. On my way there, I had to pass the computer lab, and looking in, I could see that there, in the back, she sat still. Waiting. Breathing.

I think I did run then, but I can't be sure. All I remember is finding myself in class, out of breath, trying to make some sense out of what happened. Even now, days later, it is a struggle to believe that it was real. That such a thing could happen, in broad daylight, in a society of laws and reason.

I may never look at another person quite the same way again.

--

Five major papers due.
Food poisoning, thanks BK.
I envy the dead.

necessity of the heart

Long ago, well before your birth, our city was ruled by a fool. He was a whimsical, well meaning fool, and not a native to our country, but none of us really minded. For you see this fool was also known throughout the lands as a mighty and terrible wizard. And it is because of this lie, or should I say 'strategic misconception', that our country remained not only undisturbed, but also greatly feared. It was a good life for all of us, really.

Before the straw man.

I was not yet alive then myself, you understand, but I know the stories. It came to us as a friend, of course. With companions as strange and full of kind words as itself. We were unafraid. Not even when the wizard (the fool) abandoned us, and saw fit to leave the straw man to rule over us. Nor did we know fear when it started to build and surround itself with more of it's own kind, silent and eternal. I could not tell you why we thought we could trust it, this being cold reason. Perhaps we were too distracted by how efficient everything was now, how orderly. We did not understand that being able to think was not the same as being able to feel.

I am old enough to remember the day they executed her. The off-worlder, the girl from Cainsis. We were told she was a witch, with aims to retake the West, but I knew better. She didn't want to be a part of what this nation was becoming, and I do not blame her. The exact details I cannot tell you for certain, but I do know she tried to burn it. How she was able to smuggle fire into the City, I wish I knew. Some believe she succeeded, and that another straw creature rules with the original's brain, but no one knows for sure. Not that it matters.

But this is where you come in. This is why I built you, Tic-Tok, with not only a brain, but a heart as well. A soul. In a body impervious to harm. The King's Men do not know of your existence, but not for long will this be so. For the time has come for you to realize your destiny, Tic-Tok.

The time has come for you to kill the Lord of Straw, and all of it's brood. It is time to free the Emerald City.

--

psa: ralph nader

I won't go too much into this, but I just wanted to say people are misinformed about Ralph Nader, often willfully so. If you dislike him - if you wince a little or slowly shake your head when you hear his name, or discourage people from voting for him - ask yourself why that is.

Sometimes when enough people tell a large enough lie, it becomes the truth. Maybe you should do some research on this subject (or any subject) before you continue hating what you've been told to hate.

--

dear mom and dad,

While doing my laundry last night, I happened to look over at the shadowy back corner of the crawlspace, and noticed that some of the insulation there was starting to fall down. Now, being no stranger to science fiction horror, there is no question in my mind that this is likely due to some manner of bulbous, many legged creature bent on devouring our skin for it's subtle nutrients. So I didn't check it out, and opted instead to write this note, letting you know what was up.

When you decide to fix the insulation, I strongly encourage that you do so only when the entire family is present. I'll happily check it out myself, so long as you are standing nearby with a flashlight, a phone to dial 911, and a gun/flame thrower. I realize that these precautions may seem somewhat extreme, but believe me when I say they are necessary. However, if you decide to crawl back there alone and unarmed, don't come crying to me when you find yourself limbless and cocooned to the washer and dryer. I could only hope that whatever hatched out of you would exercise greater caution.

Love, your son

amazing cats!

“Now, the kittens have quite soft, malleable bones, of course,” continued the host of the show, stepping up onto a small stool. “As a result, you really need to cram them down there.” He took the large ramrod he had been gesturing with and slid it into the cannon. Small, muffled “meows!” of protest could be faintly heard each time he firmly slammed the stick downward, again and again.

At last satisfied, he threw the plunger away as he hopped down from the stool, scurrying to where the fuse laid waiting. Lighting the fuse, he dramatically took a few steps backward, spitting “Stand back lads!” to the others. Like thunder the cannon fired, and eleven tiny kittens were propelled through the air with a terrible wail, to thunderous applause.

--

unhelpful

The bomb chirped again. The display read three minutes.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Arnold began again, “That you have been working here for ten fucking months, and you haven’t learned word one of English?!?”

Ivan shrugged. “Ваши часы сломаны.” he said, amiably.

“Mother fucker,” Arnold said. He turned back to the bomb. “If we don’t disarm this, everyone in a ten mile radius is dead. DEAD, comprende?”

Ivan looked at him blankly. “Я получаю платы за сверхурочную работу?”

Two minutes.

I’ll just cut the blue wire, thought Arnold, ignoring the other man. After a tense moment of searching the device –

“There are no fucking wires.” Arnold said, turning on Ivan like it was his fault.

“Вы знаете, я действительно могу говорить Английский, я просто ненавижу этот город.”

One minute.

“What the fuck is that? What does that mean? Is it ‘I’m sorry, I hid all the wires, surprise it’s a fucking Popsicle?!’ God damnit man!” His face was turning purple.

Ivan looked thoughtful. “Yes,” he said, then “no.” He thought a little while longer, and then said, “Vodka.”

Fifteen seconds.

“You bastard.”

--

ugh

There is something dangerously misleading about the word 'seafood'.

--

light hearted comedy

The apple crunched as he bit into it. It had a bitter taste he didn't much care for, but he continued eating it anyway. He was sitting cross-legged, a small open notebook resting open on his leg. Just write something funny, they had said, and expected him to have it done by tomorrow morning. Well, it was almost midnight, and he didn't fucking feel funny. He didn't feel much like anything, other than screaming his throat raw or destroying some more of his things. Lying forgotten nearby were the remains of a telephone and the desk lamp that had sat next to it.

Biting another chunk out of the apple and chewing it in spite of himself, he glanced unseeing at the notebook. The page was still blank, and all he could think about was her, and the of taste bitterness.

--

passing notes

She wasn't considered beautiful by idiots, Annie reckoned. As they had no true intelligence, they would have difficulty recognizing such a higher concept.

Annie nodded to herself. She sat alone in her car, holding a sheet of notebook paper with two sets of hand writing on it. Without looking at it, she was slowly tearing the piece of paper into smaller and smaller shreds.

Continuing her train of thought, her mind turned again to James. James, she thought, was clearly the king of idiots. They'd likely hold secret meetings where they could high five one another and congratulate themselves on their own stupidity. Of course, she knew they didn't hold these meetings, because they were all far too dim to organize them properly. But still, if someone smarter planned that kind of get together for them, they'd attend.

Annie chuckled to herself. Tears continued to run down her cheeks.

--

or some parmesan cheese

It was Sunday, half past five, and Shelly had just finished making herself spaghetti when the doorbell rang. Outside of Shelly’s apartment stood Mel (short for Melanie). Mel was Shelly’s closest friend, and they usually got together every Sunday evening for dinner and a movie. For the first time ever, however, Shelly did not answer the door. Mel rang the doorbell several more times, until, confused, and more than a little sad, she went home.

Shelly didn't answer the door because she couldn't, and she couldn’t because she had just finished becoming spaghetti, and instead thought about how nice it would have been if she had some marinara. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers, and she started to eat herself to the best of her ability.

--

dignity

I work circulation at a library. Amongst other things, I sit at a desk and help patrons check out books, issue library cards, etc.
The following story is true.

Some time ago, a family approached me at the desk: a mother, two girls (aged perhaps 12-14), and an old man in a wheel chair, being pushed by the girls. The youngest girl wanted a library card (though I later found out she didn't want to use it, for some reason beyond my understanding), and as I busied myself issuing her a card, I observed the old man. His unhappiness was as clear to me as his discomfort, and while dejected wouldn't have been the right word to describe how he looked, it would have been a pretty close one.

When I finished giving the little girl her card, I began checking her books out (on her mother's card, okay, whatever). The little girls set about in a flurry of talking and chaos around the old man, much to his increased discomfort, and as I was scanning their books I asked him, "and how are you holding up sir?"

It took him a moment to realize I was addressing him. Slowly he lifted his head, and looked straight into my eyes. He nodded, I smiled, and so did he.

"Oh look, you made him smile, he never smiles!" ejaculated the older girl. She then grabbed his glasses and skewed them awkwardly on his head. His smile died and his face turned red, but he was unable to move his shaking hands up high enough to fix it. The mother reached over and skewed them somewhat less onto his face (still painfully off) and pet him like a dog. This seemed like a common indignity. He shouted, in a trembling voice.

"God DAMN IT, let's GO."

And they left.

--

worn to shreds

When I wake up, I am alone. With my eyes still closed, I touch the pillow next to mine to confirm what the cold sheets had already told me. She's gone. I can't say I'm surprised. I expect to find a note on the dresser next to our bed, but when I reach over to check, my hand finds only an alarm clock, a lighter, and an empty pack of cigarettes.

Still groggy from sleep, and more than a little hungover, it takes me few minutes to notice the burnt hair smell. When I open my eyes at last, I see that someone had put a cigarette out on my chest while I was sleeping. Ah, I think. That must be the note.

I sit up in the bed, swinging my legs over the side. As the sheets fall away the chill air hits my naked flesh and causes goose bumps to run up and down my arms and legs. The cigarette which had until now been sticking straight out from my chest falls to my lap, and I pick it up. Reaching over to the dresser, I pick up the lighter and light what little was left of the cigarette. Taking a long drag, I stand and step over magazines, empty beer cans and parts of a broken lamp as I make my way to the bathroom.

I begin pissing into the sink before I even notice how bare the bathroom now looks. All of her lotions, her hairpins, her soaps, her smelly make-up kits, and all of the other inventions that went towards making her look worse are gone. She'd even taken the toilet paper and the shower curtain. The only thing left was my toothbrush, a sad, frayed looking thing, like a dog that had frozen to death in the cold.

--

why do they fight?

Mario's reasons are clear. He fights to rescue a princess, the woman he loves. Every fireball, every leap, brings him closer to her. At the same time, his actions fly in the face of convention and societal norms. Plumbers, you see, do not go well with princesses, traditionally. But here, social classes be damned - this is love.

Toad's reasons are likewise easily seen. With the sovereign heir to the united city-states of the Mushroom Kingdom kidnapped, of course the King will send the kingdom's best to retrieve her: a warrior ninja with enough stealth to get in and out of heavily defended castles completely undetected. He fights out of loyalty, plain and simple.

But Luigi, ah, now there is an interesting one. Why does Luigi fight? He is a plumber, not a soldier for hire. The woman in question is not his love, nor his sovereign. As far as we know, he has no great enmity against King Koopa, nor the race of the Elder Shelled Ones (nor they against him, specifically). So I ask, why?

I believe Luigi fights out of love for his brother. Whatever Mario's cause, whatever his pain, Luigi will be there for him, watching his back and shouldering his share of conquest. He fights for the gem of an entire Kingdom, not for himself, but for family. I think there is something to that.

--

retail

These kids smelled. They smelled, and they touched everything with their filthy hands. And they wouldn't go away. A dark fascination seemed to pull them toward the most mundane of items. Mood rings. Stuffed cats. Novelty cigarettes. Always touching, always probing. From time to time they would emit sharp, barking noises that could have been words, and glanced at me as they did so. It didn't take me long to realize they weren't human.

--

green

It turned on me. I knew it had to happen, the only question was when. I just didn't expect it so soon. I was too distracted. I didn't see any of the obvious signs. I...I was caught off guard. I couldn't even pinpoint the exact moment it turned on me. All I know is that it happened, and there's no denying that. The only thing left now is to continue, and move forward.

--

what does god need with a starship?

Dante placed virtuous non-believers on the first level of hell, but some elements within Christianity say, "lower." Why? If being good isn't the point, perhaps these elements should rethink some things.

--

not so great

If anyone EVER asks you to watch the Great Gatsby (1974), punch them until they stop moving.

--

eventually

It was his mind: it was quietly slipping away from him. Thoughts and memories as recent as yesterday were distant and unrecognizable to him now. Faces of friends and family alike were difficult to conjure, and places once familiar were now foreign to his eyes. Only his heart remembered, but without memory the feelings were just confusing, at times painful.

--

note, never found

Tonight I'm going to go to sleep, and I'm not going to dream of shadows. They will be bloodless, my dreams, a world of carefree happiness. In those dreams our child will be alive and full of laughter. Familiar strangers will shake my hand, and a smile will rest on my lips comfortably. I will walk through streets not laden with ashes, or the dead. Yes, tonight I'm going to go to sleep at last, and I will welcome the shadows when they come, for their presence will spare me the horror of waking.

--

light blue with a star in the center

Jack was afraid. The house was too quiet, too still, and terribly not empty. He could feel it. Walking slowly through a doorway, he was startled to feel the light touch of fingertips on top of his head, and spun violently away. As he did so, they fell from his hair to the floor, making five tiny, muted thumps. To make matters worse, he recognized the nail polish.

--

god damnit, another orgy

Orgies, in theory, are supposed to be spontaneous, sexy, and an all around good time. In this particular case, eighteen moaning, naked people sticking whatever they have into whomever they could find. A completely carnal coexistence of total strangers, in the anonymity of one, united purpose. Sounds pretty nice.

I can’t get them to leave my apartment.

Don't get me wrong, the first day was everything I had been led to believe, albeit with a few initial awkward moments. Of course I was confused at the very first as to why an orgy was taking place in my own apartment. I didn't know any of these people, and orgies don''t exactly fit into my lifestyle. But those concerns kinda slid away after about twenty minutes of trying to speak to the undulating mass of legs and arms. I'll admit, the hours that followed passed in a bit of a blur.

But it's been eight days now. I haven’t been able to leave my apartment. They won’t let me. I’ve used up all my sick days, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. I’ve barely been able to sleep, much less anything else. The best I’ve been able to do is catch a few catnaps while receiving fellatio. Eating food has become something done in the act, which means essentially all I’ve been able to eat is strawberries, whipped cream and chocolate.

I contemplated suicide twice, but couldn’t go through with it. The first time because I didn’t want to think about what they’d do with my corpse, the second time because I couldn’t think of a way to write a suicide note that wouldn’t make whoever read it just laugh. So I'm writing this letter as a warning, instead of a plea for help. You know when you hear that orgies just, 'sort of happen'? Well, it's true. Be careful out there.

--

faith in imagination

From lofty deity to amphibious under-lord, we've imagined it all. Regardless of any potential substance behind any conceptual absolutes, we are able to imagine it. Not only that, we are able to imagine it so well, that concepts and ideas govern our behavior in almost every way. That's impressive - human imagination. Something to believe in.

--

free will

-A brief message from our sponsors-
You alone determine your fate. The world may throw everything it has at you; tornadoes, disease, abusive fathers, car accidents - but you determine how to react. Unhappiness is all well and good, if you're into that sort of thing, but it is a choice. The path you walk may not always be of your choosing, but you still choose how to walk it. You dig?

--

flip flops

They fail as shoes, make poor slippers, and generally serve no function whatsoever. Probably why they're so popular.

With no heel strap, these foam cutouts enable the wearer to loudly "hobble", which I'm told via reliable sources is now in with the younger crowd. Now I'm sure there are certain advantages of wearing something that prevents one from moving faster than a shuffle, but...they're still kinda retarded.

Dog is about to run outside, can you stop her? No, you've fallen on your face. The bus is leaving, can you make it? No, you've taken off your flip flops to run, and have stepped on any one of a thousand objects slightly smaller than a marble and crippled yourself. Zombies are plodding toward you, can you run away? No, they can move faster than you. Yes, even the ones without legs.

I understand the distaste for confining shoes, believe me. That's why there I wear sandals, which have a heel strap, silence, and at least resemble real shoes. Sure, they still allow small rocks, spiders, venomous snakes, tar and poison ivy to get at your feet, but at least you'll be able to run. Flip flops though? While I'll grant they can make a handy impromptu chew toy for Fido, they are next to useless elsewise.

--

tired of walking

I've often wondered: is it that I can't fly, or have I just not been trying hard enough?

--

a grue?

Every night I walk out of my bathroom, I see two glowing eyes to my left. One day I expect whatever it is will try to eat me, but until then it's nice to know I'm not alone.

--