short stories

Rock and Roll

Sitting by the fire, you work your fingers to the bone, but your mind is ages away. In your head you hear music; it sounds so foreign as to make you believe you could be insane. But it doesn’t stop. In your mind you compose symphonies in crashes and whines like the screams of frightened livestock. You want to tell me of these auditory ‘visions’ but there is no way to explain them. Instead you hum as you work, wishing there was at least some way to record what you compose.

Perhaps in another lifetime…

Outta Your Erps

Ah, your screams are music to my ears. That is to say I love to frighten you outta your erps. What does that mean, exactly, you ask?

Well, some may say I’m trying to scare the fear out of you. “E”xposure and “R”esponse “P”revention, like. Meaning the more I expose you to having your wits jump right outta your skull, the more you’ll come to expect it and therefore, not be so fearful.

On the other hand, when my dad used to say it to me, many years ago, I don’t know if that sort of therapy was in practice. Maybe he just thought it sounded funny.

So I’ll keep doin’ it. Scarin’ you outta your erps. Just for laughs.

What’s a momma for, after all?

Shoulder

I am walking along a deserted street. It is daytime and inside the houses, dogs whine, expectant; the driveways empty of cars that instead are offhandedly whiling away dollars in dirty parking lots. The autumn wind blows beneath an overcast sky and the remaining leaves rustle like bones turning to dust in drafty mausoleums. I think that you are following me.

Footsteps plod along behind me to the rhythm of my own and your icy stare crawls up my spine like an eight-legged ghoul. I increase my speed, unwilling to look over my shoulder. To envision you there is horror enough: to see you there will turn me to mortar.

In my dreams I am unable to run fast enough and I awake with a film of cold sweat coating my skin. I turn and see the silhouette of your shoulder under the covers in the bed beside me, framed by moonlight and I awake yet again, relieved to find I am alone.

But now I am sure. I feel static in the air as your hand reaches out. Your dry palm scratches against the fabric on the shoulder of my coat. I crumble, screaming, screaming at the top of my lungs. I awake.

I glance at the dog. He whines, expectant.

Superpower

At the fish market, Jim decided that his choice of superpower – the power to smell any pussy at less than a hundred yards – wasn’t necessarily the best choice.

…because, you know, cats like to hang around fish markets, and most of them have bad breath…

Apocalypse

I read the story in the car, in a parking lot, while my husband went into the building for an interview. The story was set in an apocalyptic world. Two people, believing the world was about to end, made love like there was no tomorrow. And then they lived to tell about it.

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.