July 2008: Ghostbusters 3

Ghostbusters III

_________“Good Evening, New York. This is channel one reporting live from the scene of one of the oddest homicides we’ve seen in a while. I am currently standing in High Bridge Park on the outskirts of the Bronx. Behind me, as you can see, is the historic High Bridge connecting to Manhattan where a man’s body was discovered. His body was seen from where I am standing by an early morning jogger. The body, as officials have confirmed, is bloated from time in the river below. The cause of death is said to be asphyxiation due to drowning. The part about this whole scenario that has officials puzzled is how the body appeared in the center of this bridge.”

Continued . . .

Ghostbusters 2.5

Warm kisses from the frost covered lips of New Yorkers on New Year’s Eve pecked Louis’s face as the pink wall of slime covering the museum cracked open and began to melt. A smile worthy of an Olympic gold cup medalist spread across the face of Louis Tully. “I did it! I helped you guys! I did it. I did it!” he exclaimed as the roar of the crowd got louder and the slime dissipated back into the sewers and netherworlds in which it came from.

peter is ready to believe you.

June 2008: Goodnight Puzzles

"日本語 困惑"

“What do we know about this one?”
“Just the one Asian that needs to be taken out.”
“Do you anticipate a resistance?”
“The boss said not to, but I think we should be prepared anyway.”
“We should have shotguns for this shit,” Karen giggled as she got out of the car. After she shut the door, she checked her hair and dress in the reflection of the car’s window.
“How do I look?” Karen asked. Jack walked around to the other side of the beat up Cadillac that the company gave them for the job. Starting with her feet, he began a close inspection of Karen’s appearance.
“Let’s see…shoes, check. Clear pantyhose, check, but you know I’m a fan of bare legs.” Karen smiled at the compliment about her legs that almost happened. “And we continue, let’s see. Turn around for me?” Karen did a brief 360 degree turn with the grace of a grade school ballerina. “Hmm…that dress does not accentuate your posterior the way that your black business suit does.”
“Stop talking about my ass. We’re professionals!”
“Right, well you asked me how you look, and I’m giving you a fair answer. Having a nice butt is important in this line of work.”
“Jack, come on.”
“Fine,” Jack said with a devious grin. “You’ve been wearing your hair in that same early 90’s Demi Moore style for the past six months, so perhaps it’s time for a change there but other than that, I think you look great. Now can we get to work?”
Karen closed her eyes and handed a shit eating grin on a plate to Jack. “Absolutely.”
“Sun’s going down. Let’s do this.”

peter's story was inspired by Youtube videos of insane Japanese people. He also enjoys mustard.

Andromeda and Nereid

__________He tried to keep the swirling sensation of his guttural panic hidden from Reid. But he couldn't help it. Without even thinking about it, he searched for a line of the horizon in the pitch. His eyes focused, narrowed, dilated, all without his thoughts. Like breathing, his automatic attention was dimmed and sharpened. The air was thick, everything was a shade of shadow, sometimes charcoal, sometimes ink. The moon was hidden and there wasn't even a sign of silver glow behind the clouds, nothing but slow moving bulks in what he had to only assume was the sky because it was what he saw when he stretched his neck and looked up. When Reid emerged from his cabin every few hours, he came up with a lantern and shone it in Andre's face making his eyes water from the shock of the brightness. Reid pulled and jangled the chains to ensure they were still tight. Andre knew they were because his arm had gone numb what could have been hours ago. Another night dragged itself across the sky. In the mornings Andre slept.

Continued. . . .

May 2008: Biblical Unicorn

Each Blade of Grass

___As I gazed across the field, I could not help but notice how green the grass looked after the rain. Combined they were perfectly uniform, forming a shining carpet, almost soft in texture. I picked up my hooves to see the imprint they left. The grass was squished into a perfect replica of where my weight was once held. As I focused my attention on my mark I could see the blades around it, some were taller than others, some blades greener, some even brown, dead and yet still standing. Amazing how perfect they all looked together from far away. Intent on what was below me I could see the young blades, struggling to grow to the height of their elders, and the old blades, struggling to survive against nature's ultimate decree of an end for all things.


Continued. . .

Repent

For all the negative press that this place has been getting in recent years, to their credit it does feel really peaceful and serene in here. I always pictured places like this as having a musky smell, like Nana’s attic or something, but it smells like candle wax in here. Not quite sure of the exact scent, but I do know that whatever it is, it’s something red. Rosary isn’t the right word, but it’s the first one that comes to mind.

peter watches the leaders of the world play like little birds throwing stones. Click here to read the rest of his story.

Biblical Unicorn

_There is a place that exists in every Judeo-Christian child’s mind that houses all the incredible characters of their moralistic bedtime stories. A retainer full of paired species, incredible marine mammals, giants and women who can give birth indefinitely, most inhabitants in this land are pleased that they are kept alive through tradition and conditioning of the young. All are pleased, that is, except for one. That would be me and this is my story.

Continued....

April 2008: Drowning Highchairs

Passiontide, pt 1.

“Why the fuck did you bring him here?” Steve Hall asked, furious.

“Look at me, Rev,” I said. “Where else would I take him?”

We were in his office. There were boxes in large piles all around and behind his desk. Each box had, in large, hand written red letters, the word “ReNcarn8" written on the side. When I came in, he had stood up and thrown his chair back with such force, he’d almost knocked a stack of these boxes over. Now he was leaning over the desk and his face was red with anger. I had other things to think about. I took a rag from the corner of the office and tied it around my upper arm. I pulled it tight, the knife wound was deep. It would heal quickly, but that wouldn’t matter if I lost too much blood.

“I don’t rightly give a fuck, Tucker,” Steve screamed. “Anywhere but here.”

“Steve, c’mon. I don’t have anywhere else to go. You know that. Can you please just trust me?”

“And what if they come looking for him?” Steve sat down. He was still angry, although a little defeated. What had happened, had happened.

“They won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because we don’t exist, Rev. The ones that can even remember us are sure we’re dead. They don’t have protocols for this situation.”

Follow the link, people.

Perfect

I think it's odd to have a crying routine। To set yourself up to cry. My mom cries while doing simple mindless household chores, things like laundry, ironing or cooking. My best friend picks out a movie, or novel, some sort of heart-wrenching saga you can't help but wallow with tears in. I've heard people cry in the shower, the rain cleansing their tears, diluting whatever pain they might be in. My husband always cries at home in his study after pouring himself a good glass of whiskey and opening his newspaper to hide his face behind. He never cries in front of anyone. I could hear him sobbing in his room as I rocked in my rocking chair. I contemplated walking over to him and comforting him but it was a useless thought since I knew he wanted to cry and had taken so much effort and care in making himself ready that I did not want to steal his moment. So I rocked.

Click here to read the rest of Ms. Masson's Story....

The Scarlet Woman

“I have no fear of this machine” ~ Jeff Buckley

___The factory looked like a city in itself with large towers and tiny twinkling lights. The plant was an organism exhaling in billow breathes, a seeming cloud factory. An ardent laborer, the factory was always awake, blinking in different constellations. Its organs stretched across warehouse rooms: ligaments of conveyor belt, kidney vats and stomach of hoppers. It excreted heat, smoke, and all of Petal Plastic’s products. Petal’s brain center was a web of circuits. The black widow, creator of the company, was Scarlet, the plant’s eyes. I was its smiling veneer.

Continued...

Things That End With "Y"

Make me know that you care. There’s nothing I’d rather do than cradle you in my arms and call you my kin. I want to take what’s left of me and plant it inside you. Let the seed crack open, cut through the stringy roots inside, and sprout into something that is better than me. Better than what I have become. Mommy will always love you, my little panda bear. I want the world to see what I have seen in you that being the innocence of it all.


peter can't part the sea or divide waves. He can only cause ripples. Click here to read the rest of his story.

March 2008: 13th Pigeon

13th Pigeon

__Mr. Shifton's bird shop business began at the crest of his youth. A virile and aggressive man, he acquired all that he needed to run an efficient and flourishing business. A man as talented in managing and multi-tasking as Mr. Shifton has marvelous gears hidden beneath his charm and radiant smile. At this time an entire machine, unfelt by its possessor, was running at maximum capacity.

Click here for the rest of Ann's story

Fiorinal

“It hurts, but it’s worth it.”
I’ll take her word for it. Ronnie never did me wrong before. That’s just her nickname. Veronica is her real name. I think. Ronnie makes her sound like a lesbian. Which she is.
I think.
Never could watch when the needle takes its deep plunge into my skin. Scared of those things, always was. I once took an allergy test when I was in the third grade. The nurse sat there and pricked at my arm forty five times.
I think.
Each prick was then padded with a little drip of a common allergy in liquid form. It would sink into the little hole that the nurse had just punctured my beautiful skin with. If that hole would turn green or something, that would mean that I’m allergic to that particular allergy. Each test was inconclusive.

If you click here, it will open up a new window in which you can read the rest of peter's story. For your protection, the management would like to inform you that peter's writing has been known to cause vomiting, apathy, blood clots, and cravings for lemon juice and ice cream.

Solomon Says

This is how it will go. I will no longer, by omission, pretend to know things I do not know. Lana makes an obscure reference, I nod my head. I didn’t know she was breaking up with me. Lord knows, I probably had an inappropriate expression for the situation. Lana and I standing in a phone booth, waiting for the rain to ebb, her wondering why I’ve suddenly borrowed Ethan Hawke’s tick of smiling when his character is sad, or doesn’t understand something. Then, the rain subsided a bit, and she ran off to the steps of her apartment and I walked in the drizzle towards the covered bus stop.

This is a superfluous link to read the rest of this awesome story on another page because we couldn't post the whole story here and clutter up the blog. If you want to comment on this story, I don't know which site to do it on. Probably this one. Since it's more centralized. Or the other one. The author will receive the comment either way. Please comment, by the by. He loves comments.

Lucky to be alive

     It's dark and silent. This could be an almost peaceful place I'm in, minus the wet metallic taste in my mouth. I try to spit the liquid out but it falls back on to my face. I contemplate just staying here in the dark but my ears start ringing. 

     I open my eyes to see a man yelling at my face. I strain to hear him over the bells.

     "Son, do you know where you are," he asks?

     The urgency in his voice alarms me and awakens my pain. I scream, at least I think that is me screaming. I think of my dark, silent, peaceful place and I go there.

     I awake to the horrible smells of a hospital. Generic cleaners, antiseptic, a bit of blood and human waste, it's a horrible place for someone with a sensitive sense of smell. Everything is blurry from the medication I must be on. I hear my mom. She sounds concerned. She is screaming for the doctor. He arrives and my eyes are clear enough to see that this is the man who screamed at my face.

     "Son, we been waiting for you to get up. We...uh...need to talk," he says. This man is from the South. His drawl is annoying and I mistrust him because I associate Southern accents with a clear lack of education. I also can't figure out why he is patronizing me by calling me son, but I know he is.

     "Water...please," I manage to get out. It was an involuntary act on my part seeing as how I had no idea I was so dehydrated from the meds. My mom brought a taupe colored glass with a bendy-straw, I can see she is crying. She puts the straw to my mouth and I drink. 

     "You see son, you were in an accident," he begins, "You've been here at the hospital for 5 days. Can you remember what happened right before you got here?"

This man is an idiot. "Of, course I remember where I was. I was in the car on my way over to my girlfriend Cheryl's mom's house for St. Patty's Day. She was talking about how she hopes her dad doesn't get too drunk this year," I say. At this my mother starts sobbing. I'm confused by this because I'm sure it was funny, or at least cute and I'm trying to be rather charming. 

"Son, Cheryl and you were in a very bad car accident," he says, "Cheryl has passed on to another place, and you're lucky to be alive."

He describes the gruesome details of the event in an even slower drawl. I don't remember any of it. He tells me we were hit by a drunk driver who also did not survive the crash. That Cheryl was thrown from the car on impact and the car flipped at least six times before sliding on the passenger side of the car 250ft to a halt on the interstate. He repeats I am lucky to be alive. At this point my mom comes to my side to give me a hug. I cannot return the gesture. I realize why they have been repeating I am lucky to be alive, why I've been in the hospital for so many days, why I was in so much pain. I was in the passenger seat of that car, as it flipped and after as it began to slide. My arm had become wedged between the wrecked car and the road and as it slid for 250ft, my arm was crushed and shredded across the highway. My right arm was gone, but I was lucky to be alive.

Everyone said I was coping a lot better than they ever thought they could. I'm not sure if they are right.  I was discharged two days later and sent home. I had missed Cheryl's funeral but our apartment had saved all the memories I could only wish were buried with her. I asked to be left alone and I wandered the apartment for a few hours. I had fractured some ribs and was wheelchair-bound, for now. The joke of a one-armed man in a wheelchair did not escape me as I had to use my legs to keep me from circling.  I moved furniture to make space for my new ride and emptied my fridge. The work exhausted me, so I found my way to my bed, my pain killers and sleep. 

I awoke to cooing, Cheryl was saying something to me. Was it I love you? I couldn't quite make it out. I opened my eyes to an empty bed. In the window perched a pigeon mockingly singing its' song. I threw my clock at it and it flew away. I went to sleep and dreamed again of Cheryl saying something to me, her voice not truly formulating words.  Again I opened my eyes to not one, but two pigeons sitting in the window. Frustrated, I attempt to get out of bed and get dressed. I manage to make it to the living room couch and I am exhausted again. I put on the TV in hopes of drowning out all other noises and sleep for a bit. In my dreams I see Cheryl. I once again awake, now to five pigeons in my window loudly singing their songs. 

They won't shut up. I long to kill one of them. I imagine myself holding my gun in my hand as I used to. Right arm extended, one eye closed, I cock the gun, breathe in, steady and focused, finger on the trigger, pigeon in site. I breathe in again, slowly, pull back the trigger and I take the shot. Bang. The feathers outside my window fly. The pigeons have gone crazy now flying in every direction. I wheel myself to the window, open it and see a bird lying dead on my fire escape. What just happened? Confused, I stare at the bird. I look for a gun shot wound. There is none, not like I thought there would be. I must have taken too many painkillers and I am hallucinating, or its stress related from everything I've been through. I rationalize. I wheel myself away from the window and towards my bedroom. This is crazy. I find a bottle of sleeping pills and take three. I just need to get some rest.

I'm dreaming I hear Cheryl again, incessantly calling to me. She is incoherent, babbling, singing tones instead of words. I'm awake now staring at my window eight pigeons are there, standing on the railings. Have they come to pay respects to their departed friend? I attempt to push my self up not realizing that my arm is no longer there to help. I use my left. The sensation of pins and needles chase the missing tissues of my right arm. I slept on the right side and my only guess is that my missing arm had fallen asleep. This absurd idea only maddens me. The pigeons seem to feel my anger and start twittering amongst themselves. Their volume is matched by my rising irritation in them. I sit and stare hoping for silence. I yell at them, tell them to shut up. This only makes them louder. Why won't they just go away? Their incessant singing. I think of my gun. Maybe they want to die. Maybe I am the reaper of pigeons who annoy people until they kill them. I sound crazy and I know it, I just can't handle their noise. 

In one swift move I close my eyes and think of myself picking up my gun, I point it at the birds and shoot. Bang. Bang. I swear I can feel the kick-back from the gun pulsing in my missing right hand. I open my eyes and the perch is empty. I hobble towards the window. Now three dead birds lie in the fire escape stairwell. I need help. I search for my pills and the doctors number. What the fuck is going on with me? I call, his secretary answers. She tells me the doctor will come over to see me and change my bandages instead of the appointed weekly nurse.  

I wait impatiently for him to show. He does about four hours later. I explain everything to him. He tells me that 50% - 80% of all patients who lose limbs can have these odd sensations where they feel as though the limb is still there and that it is commonly referred to as a phantom limb pain. I argue with him telling him that my phantom limb pain "arm" can pick up a fucking phantom limb gun and that I have shot and killed three pigeons already in my fire escape. The doctor goes to the window and sees the birds. In his "medical opinion" someone is probably poisoning these birds and they just happen to die here on my stairwell. I stare incredulously at him. Is he serious? The odds of that happening would be astronomical. I feel like I should shoot him instead of the birds. In that instance I can feel the gun in my hand and my arm pointing it towards the doctor. I don't want this to happen but I can't stop it. 

"Doctor," I ask, "Please move to the other side of the room." The doctor begins to question me and I frantically ask him to move. He does and at that moment I feel the trigger being pulled back. I close my eyes and beg with myself, to please not pull the trigger. Bang. Bang. I open my eyes fearful to see the doctor lying before me. Nothing happened. The doctor looks concerned for my well-being mixed with a twinge of pity. He offers to check me back into the hospital but I refuse. He tells me that he will contact an expert in the arena of phantom limbs to see if they can offer some advice, a Dr. Ramachandran. He describes him as one of the forerunners of research in behavioral neurology and psychophysics and he has pioneered techniques to help readjust ones' memory after losing limbs to reduce phantom limb discomfort. He doesn't believe me but he is trying to help. I thank him and show him to the door. On leaving he suggests I lay off some of the painkillers and he can provide different sedatives should I continue to have an abnormal reaction to the drugs I am on. It was a last ditch gesture to get me help. 

For a few hours I contemplate my sanity. I try to test the phantom gun, visualizing it, aiming at household objects and shooting them. Nothing happens. Thinking my sanity has returned I relax and fall asleep. My dream is great. I'm having hard-core porno-styled sex, slapping ass, smoking a cigarette, and wearing a cowboy hat. It's what I needed. Then I hear murmuring. I immediately awake to see the pigeons back on the perch. I decide to ignore them and masturbate instead. There must be over 10 birds now, watching me in my lame attempt at getting off. The mission was doomed to fail. I miss my right hand. I try to imagine it stroking me instead of my left but the only thing I can feel is the gun's hard, metallic surface. It knows I feel it lying there in my arm that no longer exists. It beckons to me to use it. Something tells me I am not really in control of this situation anymore. My arm begins to lift and point towards the window. I hadn't tried to point the gun this time, it's just pointing. It begins to go off. Bang. Bang. The bullets fly, an entire clip is unloaded towards the flock. The birds outside my window disperse but not before the gun has destroyed another 9 of their rank. The gun is quiet.  

Scared, I hobble to the window. I open it. I see them. They lie their on my fire escape, almost as if placed perfectly in rows. A few feathers still fly around, remnants of the life that was there a moment ago. I stare across the alleyway and see the last pigeon. The only survivor of my fury. I feel the gun again. It begins to point at the bird. I won't let this happen, I'll fight the sensation. I focus elsewhere. I try to move from the window, but my arm keeps pulling me back. I try to grab what is not there. I swing at the open air attempting to catch the arm. Nothing. I stumble to the floor and my arm pulls me up. The bird has flown back to my fire escape. It stares at me. Run bird, get away! Fly, shoo, begone! It stays, perched. I fight my unconscious, I fight the urge to kill the bird, I fight the gun. The bird finally flies off the perch and into the house. My gun follows it, aiming and firing as it swoops across my living room. It shoots my TV, my couch, my fan. I fall and I'm on the floor, the arm pointed in the air firing. I struggle to lean on my couch. I'm in so much pain. The right side of my body feels like it is being beaten, it throbs and burns. The pain killers must be wearing off. The bird is still swooping around the room, the gun still firing. This madness must end.

I stare where my arm should be, where the gun should be. I concentrate on it and I can feel the gun bending back to my whim. It stops firing for a moment. Then I feel it turn, feel my hand turn and my elbow bend. The gun is pointing at me I can feel it even if I cant see it. I try to hide my face but I am unable to move. I feel my finger on the trigger I know what is about to happen. I close my eyes and find that dark, quiet place. Cheryl is there this time. I can hear her now. Bang.