fiction

The World is My Oyster, Really

“Have you ever noticed that geese, from a distance, sound like dogs barking?” he asks me as he lifts his glass of wine to his lips.

“No,” I reply, thinking him stupid. Really I want to stab him through the heart, but not really. I know I’ll regret it if I do.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” he asks.

“I don’t know, dear. We’re on vacation. The world is our oyster.”

Maybe I’ll strangle you while you sleep and then I can go out on the boat by myself tomorrow and not have to listen to you whine about how much the cottage costs us per month and how much your shoulder hurts when you paddle.

“Maybe we should go out in the boat,” he says.

“That sounds like a good idea, dear,” I reply.

The Words

A story in two sentences.

DSC00146

“Your words are like a damned river!”

“But when I’m around you, my words are like a dammed river: can’t you hear the difference?”

There’s a Hole in my Bucket – A Contemporary Version

Liz and Henry were as childless as a couple could be, meaning they’d been trying for years, but according to the doctors, Henry’s ‘swimmers’ just weren’t up to the task. They’d been living on the farm for a few years, raising goats and chickens, but as the years passed, so did the chances that they’d be raising young ‘uns.

One day, as Henry limped over to the trough that held the goat’s water (Henry had twisted his ankle the day before when he slipped in goat shit) he noticed that his bucket was getting lighter as he walked.

“Shit,” he said out loud.

“What is it?” Liz asked, making Henry jump. He hadn’t heard her sneak up behind him.

“Would you please announce yourself instead of scaring the bejeesus outta me?”

The tension between the couple had been rising like an snail on a year long sabbatical meaning to get up a mountain, but Henry was almost at the peak. He was this far away from dashing back down the hill.

“Sorry,” Liz mumbled. “So why’d you say ‘shit’?

“There’s a hole in my bucket,” Henry grumbled.

“So fix it.”

“With what?”

“I don’t know. A straw.”

Henry stood, water dripping from the leaky bucket onto the sock which encased his sore ankle, and glared at his wife.

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“I don’t know, I heard somewhere that you can fix a bucket with a straw,” she shrugged.

“But it doesn’t make any sense!” Henry took note that his voice was reaching a soprano pitch and made the effort to bring it down. “How in the hell can I fix a bucket with a goddam straw?”

“I dunno. Here,” at that point she pulled a paper wrapped McDonald’s straw from her back pocket and handed it to him. “It’s all I’ve got on me anyway.

“Fold it over or something and stick it in the hole.”

“Whatever,” Henry grumbled, plucking the straw from her fingertips and heading back to the barn with it.

“What if it’s too long?” he called over his shoulder.

“Cut it!”

He could almost hear her eyes rolling around in her head.

Bitch, he thought.

Five minutes later Liz came into the barn. She stopped by him to see what he was doing.

“How’s that cutting coming along?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

It was a McDonald’s straw. It shouldn’t be taking five minutes to get through with a hammer.

“Um… no. Why don’t you use a knife?”

“Oh for fuck sakes. The knife is dull!”

“It can’t be any duller than a hammer.”

She was staring at him. He hated it when she stared at him that way. It made him feel stupid.

Liz sighed as if she was tired. Of him. Yeah, well he was getting tired of the whole, ‘Make me a baby or I’m leaving you,’ too. She whined it in his head at least fifteen times a night while he was trying to get to sleep.

“Why don’t you sharpen the knife?”

Henry felt the blood pressuring up in his veins like someone had pumped a shitload of heat through his pores and inflated him like a balloon.

“Because,” he growled, turning on her with his eyes bulging from their sockets, “the sharpening stone I have here,” he held the object an inch from her nose, “is too fucking dry!”

She looked him right in the eye. Without blinking, hell, without batting a friggin’ eyelash, she said, “Wet it.” Just like that.

Henry lost it.

“Wet it? FUCKING WET IT? I’LL FUCKING WET YOU!!!”

Nine months later their son was born.

The Man in the Mirror

Chain mail

“How does your chain mail feel?” I ask him from the driver’s seat.

“It’s heavy,” he scowls.

*****

It all started one day when I was sitting in the parking lot of a Tim Horton’s, eating ham and Swiss cheese on a croissant with lettuce and tomato. I was half-way through my sandwich when I heard a knock on the back window of my mini-van. I thought at first that maybe it was someone I knew. I looked in both side mirrors to see if someone was approaching the front of the car but I saw no one on foot. When I looked in the rear-view however, there he was. Needless to say I jumped – I’d thought I was alone.

“What are you doing in my car?” I shrieked at the diminutive green man in my farthest back seat. I hopped out of the van before he could answer, which was silly, because I’d left my keys in the ignition. When I reached in through the window to retrieve them he spoke.

“You asked for me!”

“I did what? Who are you?”

He puffed up his chest and gave me a wide multi-cuspate-toothed smile. “I am your prince charming!” His sharply pointed ears twitched and his finely pronged nose lifted as he said this. He was obviously quite proud of his appearance.

“But you don’t look a bit like a prince charming to me!”

“I don’t?”

“You’re green!”

“Oh my!” he exclaimed, and he disappeared.

****

Three days later I heard a knock on the window of my van. I was driving at the time.

“I can’t look right now,” I said, because I was concentrating on the road.

“That’s okay,” came the same voice I had heard from the little green elf-like man.

As soon as I came to a stop light I tilted my head so I could see into the farthest back seat of the car. He wasn’t there. The light turned green. I started driving.

“Pull over,” he said.

“You’ll have to wait.” I was getting annoyed at this strange being I’d been anticipating for three long days.

Just as I got to a driveway, I heard, from directly behind me.

“Oh dear. I’m still a bit green.”

By the time I pulled over I was alone.

***

It was two weeks before I heard the knock on the back window of my van again. I had just pulled into the parking lot of the local mall, and was looking for a spot. It was raining heavily and I lacked an umbrella, but I needed drugs. From the drug store for a change.

“Are you still green?” I asked.

“No.” His voice was as smooth as silk and as deep as dark chocolate.

I found a spot and backed in, hoping for a glimpse of my prince charming. When I put the van in park I saw him leaning between the front seats, in my rear-view mirror. He was stunning. Everything I had ever imagined in a man and… that voice…

“I’m yours to do with whatever you wish.” 70% Cocoa.

“Stay here then, I just have to run in…” The store was about to close.

“I also belong to your van,” he disclosed in a timbre fit for only the bedroom.

“What the…”

“I can’t leave your van.”

“So what’s the use of having a prince charming?”

“We can go parking.”

When I came back from the drug store he was gone.

**

“Why do you even bother with the chain mail?” I ask him.

“I failed as a prince charming, I thought maybe you’d like a knight in shining armor.”

“Well there was that one time…” We’re at a stop sign. I look in the mirror and see the grin I’ve come to love more than life itself.

“That was fun,” he smirks.

“Why can’t we do that again?” I ask, starting to move down the street.

“Because regardless of what you want, you NEED a knight in shining armor now.”

“What for?” I ask.

*

I open my eyes and there is a light shining above me. Florescent. A face with a mask.

“How are you feeling?” I masculine voice with raised, groomed, eyebrows.

“My van…” I croak. I barely recongise my own voice.

“Ma’am, your van was totalled. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“No!” I screech.

I want to die.

Puppet Master

My mind is a playground full of weird and wonderful toys. People. People are my toys to play with. They are my puppets. I am the puppet master, that’s what I am. My control is complete and the utter trash that I spew is unrivaled.

I am not God. I’m not a deity of any kind. I am Lord of my self-absorption. My will encompasses millions upon millions of souls and they aren’t even sure I exist.

I am a ghost. I have no empathy for the living.

I am Ouija. And I am bored.

Fit to be Tied

A little tale of revenge, by me 🙂

Blondes in the Woods

She was one of those characters that you just know she’s going to die soon. You know the ones. They’ve invariably got blonde hair and huge tits. And they’re always running, looking over their shoulder at the guy trudging through the woods behind them.

That’s exactly what she was like. Only difference, she went to work every day in an office. She was a lawyer’s ‘secretary’. (I put that in quotes because the only useful thing she did was lit the boss’s ‘cigar’, if you know what I mean.) And every afternoon when she left the office she would walk–practically run–to the bus stop, looking over her shoulder. Sidewalks were always crowded that time of day, so you never knew which guy she was watching for or who she might think was chasing her.

Anyway, this one day it happened. He caught up with her. She wasn’t watching where she was going (duh) and she tripped over her own damned high heel. She was so scared when he grabbed her by the arm that her mouth opened but no scream came out. All the legs of the people walking past were like the trees in the movies and you just knew it. Just knew that right there and right then, just like all the rest, she was going to die. Hell, even she could hear the music reach it’s climax. And sure enough, right there on the damned pavement, the bus only a quarter mile up the road, she gets freakin’ strangled. And just like the trees in the forest, nobody sees it. Why?

Because nothing fucking surprises us anymore. We’re all blondes in the woods.

It’s too bad about those characters.

The birds and the rain

I remember the birds and I remember the rain.
They sang and they dropped, from above
Pain
Release

I remember your song and I remember the vibration
They echoed in my brain
Release

I remember life and I remember love
They glowed
Darkness

Unbearable now, the memories of life, of touch
I pass through you unnoticed
I pray for release
I pray for pain
I pray for darkness
I pray for true death

Let me go

Average Joe

English: Fishing rods on Worthing Pier This pa...

English: Fishing rods on Worthing Pier

I’m just an average Joe. I like fishin’ and layin’ around in the back yard. I like working with my hands and taking long walks down by the pier.

In fact I was down there just the other day. There was this guy with a bottle in a brown paper bag, staggering about and yelling at seagulls. I exchanged a knowing look at a couple of younger guys who were sitting on the dock with their fishing rods. I laughed, they laughed. It was one of those moments, you know? Doesn’t matter that we’d never seen each other before. Sometimes you just know what another guy is thinking.

Later that night I decided to go back. It hadn’t been a terrific day by the pier and I thought maybe the night would be quieter. I was strollin’ along and what do you know, the drunk guy was still there. I could hear him before I even got to the dock, yelling at the fish this time. What was even crazier, the same two young guys were there! Only they weren’t fishin’ this time, they were just hangin’ out drinkin’ beer on the grass beside the water.

I looked at them and they looked at me. It was just one of those moments, you know? They got up and joined me the rest of the way down to the pier and it wasn’t long before we caught up to the drunk. Man, did he splash about! It wasn’t easy – he was pretty strong for a guy who’d been drinkin’ all day. But together, the three of us got the job done.

I tell ya, sometimes you just know what another guy is thinking.

Olde Friende

There’s nothing quite worse than having an olde friende that you just…can’t…seem to reach, try as you might. I have such a friend. He was a lover, once.

Ah yes, the fun we had. Frolicking and making love where ever we pleased. In back alleys and in the beds of whores as they bled out. Those were the days.

But that was quite literally centuries ago. For a vampyre however it feels like just yesterday. I would choke a nun to have just one more night with him.  Funny, I say that just like mortals like to pretend they could eat a horse. Have you ever tried to eat a horse? Not as easy as it might seem.

But I digress.

My olde friende is out there. I can feel him in my blood. In my balls.

Come to me, my love. Let us kill again. Together.rose