The Feud

The feud between Johnny Johnson and Mr. Pendergast over who owned the tree that fell and broke the fence between their properties should have ended when the old man died. Mrs. Pendergast understood how far her husband could take a grudge – she lived with him for sixty-three years. So when he passed on, she had his name engraved on a plaque, bought a bench, and donated it to the local park. Kind of a placeholder for the old man’s soul, to keep him calm in his favorite spot.

Then one day, as a joke, (or maybe because he didn’t feel like he’d won the last argument) Johnny Johnson pinched the plaque from the bench and stuck it to the inner lid of his toilet. Then he did the obvious; he missed the john on purpose, and pissed all over Mr. Pendergast’s plaque.

Next day, Johnny Johnson was found planted head-first up to his knees in the duck pond at the local park. Most folks blame Mr. Pendergast’s ghost. Me, I’m keeping my eye on his Missus.

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One-Liner Wednesday – What if?

What if you were reading a sentence, minding your own business, and suddenly English words stopped making sence adn sentinse strictires vwfam rp hry skk qwurd?

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One-Liner Wednesday is here: https://lindaghill.com/2016/11/02/one-liner-wednesday-umm-run/ Click the link, check out the rules, and join in!

Breaking Up

Some women deal with their break-ups by drinking wine, some surround themselves with friends and plot how they’re going to let the air out of their ex’s tires. Me, I’m celebrating with a giant bag of Doritos, a bottle of Coke, and a horror movie.

Jeremy was not a nice guy. He started out okay, as most guys do. Why else would I have dated him in the first place? But as time went on he started in with the digs about my weight. We’d be in bed and he’d squeeze my hips and say things like, “That must be the pizza we had tonight,” or “Have you been sneaking chocolate bars again?” I ignored it for the longest time. But eventually it wears on a gal.

Nope, I’m glad Jeremy’s gone. And now I can sit here with my Doritos and not have to deal with the insults. The fact that I burned off a load of calories burying his body in the back yard makes me feel all that much better.

#SoCS – Bridge, a Hallowe’en Story

Taking the Bridge to the inner city is like driving out of fresh air, into the pits of Hell. The Bridge itself is lined on both sides with grills, jails if you will. At the outer edge, near the freshest of air, are the criminals who live, still. But as it gets warmer toward the middle of the Bridge, one can see the prisoners are fighting for air. Zombies, treading upon one another with clubs made of loose bits of the Bridge torn off are closest to the inner city.

Why must we travel there, to the city? For work. The luckiest of us still grow our vegetables at the far end of the Bridge. For meat, we must go to the city. That’s where the brains are.

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This post was written entirely in Stream of Consciousness, and left unedited. If you, too, would like to participate in Stream of Consciousness Saturday, click the following link to add your post! https://lindaghill.com/2016/10/28/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-oct-2916/

Shadow

How is a shadow any less real than that which casts it? Of course it’s real, I would have said six months ago. But it has no life of its own. Now I know different.

It was a warm evening last March. My girlfriend, Amanda, and I were sitting in her basement apartment trying to get a breeze to blow through. We gave up eventually and sat down to watch TV. She rolled a joint and we sparked it up. I thought I was that – that I was too stoned and I was seeing things, but she saw it too.

Our shadows, cast by the bluish light of the TV screen, got up and left without us. Life ever since has been like something out of a horror story.

Author’s note: From October 4th to the 31st, I’m going to use this space to create possible beginnings for my 2016 NaNoWriMo project. Feedback is welcome.

Wings

I feel them as they approach, long before I see them. The dust from the road beneath the lone streetlight swirls around me. Will the angel that comes for me tonight be dark, or of the light?

I look up even though I know it’s useless. When I squint, a halo appears around the bulb above me, in all the colours of the rainbow.

Before long, I pick up the scent. Sulfur. The angel is dark.

He lands some distance away. Finally he steps into the ring of light on the pavement; he saunters toward me. His black wings folded loosely behind him, he wears all white, as though that will absolve him. We both know his clothes will soon be drenched in my blood.

“Hello,” he says with a smile.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” I reply.

I hand him the sword and he studies it for a moment. “Your weapons are getting bigger,” he muses, speaking to me as he looks at the blade.

“The stakes are getting higher. I suppose your rival will be here tomorrow to clean up the mess.”

“You prefer it that way?”

“I think so.”

“He believes he’s mastered the art of protection.”

I nod. “Now he needs to work on his healing.”

“Let’s give him something to work on then.”

I’m aroused at his first slice down my cheek. Tonight will prove to be orgasmic. A little death, indeed.

Clowns

“Send in the clowns!” they say,
so we don our paint
and shovel our feet into gigantic shoes,
place the rainbow wigs upon our heads
and screw our noses in place.

Then, what do you know?
The children’re all afraid
they shiverin their boots
for they told us not
to leave off
the pointy teeth.

Oh, Pennywise, you fool,
shiny eyes peeking through the grate
you’ve ruined it for us all.

Nightmare Alley – 100 words

They say there are ghosts and goblins in Nightmare Alley, but I know different. Nightmare Alley is empty. Devoid of sound and light; even the walls are hard to find. But smell? Oh, there’s a lot of that going on. Dead things and garbage, feces and urine, all of it thinly masked by the sweet scent of mint.

Nightmare Alley is the place where men who have regrets go to die. It’s a dreamscape for the innocent who are eternally paying for their past lives. It’s the plague of the insomniac. It’s purgatory for the guilty who walk there forever.

sixty seconds

i can’t wait to see her
it’s been so long
i feel my heart pounding harder
with every face that
appears from the gate
is that her?
i think it is!
she’s so beautiful
and i can’t wait to
hold her in

sixty seconds of writing in honour of those who have died suddenly, senselessly, by the hands of all the misguided souls, taught to believe that we don’t all deserve to live equally. my heart bleeds for you. all of you.

#SoCS – Amber and Ash

I sit at the traffic light and watch the amber bulb blink on and off. My car is almost out of gas and I wonder how much longer the electricity will stay running. But does it matter? The slain lay behind me, their brains eaten. Now that I’ve finished off the last of the zombies, I have nothing left to eat. Nothing but ash. And zombie brains.

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This post is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday. Click the following link and join in! https://lindaghill.com/2016/06/10/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-june-1116/