fragment #16

fragment #15

I think things are cool between me and Ben Franklin. We had a talk, and I explained that I wasn't into immortals. I also introduced him to my friend, Gay Andy. They seem to really like each other. I wonder if all gay people scissor, or just lesbians?

The rest of the day was pretty boring except a snake talked to me. He was pretty boring too though. He just kept asking me to read his poetry. I don't want to read any snake poetry. It's probably depressing.

fragment #15

fragment #14

OK so, Ben Franklin is not a vampire, just immortal, and now things are kinda awkward (I think I broke his heart).

I think I'm going to just skip a day, and make myself a Whiskey Bathtub. If you don't know how to make a Whiskey Bathtub here's the recipe...

1 glass of whiskey (fill to brim)

1 bathtub

Fill bathtub with water

Get into bathtub (remember to take the whiskey with you)

Wallow in sadness

fragment #14

fragment #13

Ben Franklin is a vampire! We all hung out at FatFat's the day after the party. Ben Franklin kept trying to get me to go into the bathroom with him. I think he was trying to suck my blood. Also one time, when were in the kitchen alone, I felt him come up behind me. He just stood there, really close, breathing on my neck. I wonder if I should destroy him.

FatFat made us all huevos rancheros. Mine had a sock in it for some reason but was still pretty good.

fragment #13

fragment #12

Since I had returned to life, Lyle threw me a big party. He gave me this huge bottle of this stuff called Zwak. It's kinda like Jäger but for pretentious people. I drank like half the bottle, but never really got buzzed. I wonder how come that happened.

A lot of people showed up, including this one guy that looked just like Ben Franklin. I asked FatFat about him and it turns out, it was Ben Franklin! Lyle met him at the laundry mat on the corner of Sidco and Elm, and they hit it off. How is he still alive? I wonder if he's a vampire...

Davenport did a keg stand, and somehow managed to break all his fingers in the process. Weird.

fragment #11

fragment #10

This morning I shit on the carpet, and dry humped a girls leg. I ate dry dog food and my own vomit. Being a wiener dog is terrible.

fragment #10

fragment #9

Being dead was boring. I thought about visiting my grandmother but she didn't care for me much when we were alive. I remember on her death bed, she told me she had been faking the Alzheimer's so she could avoid talking to me. Instead, I decided to become reincarnated as wiener dog. I felt it would be less humiliating than being ignored by my own Gran.

fragment #9

fragment #8

While I was in the shower a spider crawled out of my ear, so I went to the doctor to have shots done.

When the doctor looked in my ear he discovered a whole spider family. A momma spider, a poppa spider, and ten million baby spiders. The doctor told me it was unethical to destroy a family, and that I would be a terrible man to ask. He also told me the spiders had eaten most of my brain anyway, and I was basically a walking corpse.

I went home, laid down on the couch, and waited to die. I left my will on the coffee table next to me, although I have nothing to give.

fragment #8

fragment #7

When I got back from space FatFat was waiting for me at my door. He told me Lyle had some moonshine his parents had smuggled in from Macedonia, and that I should come over and try a bit. The rest of that day is pretty hazy, at best. I do remember squashing roaches in Lyle's kitchen while screaming "I do not value human life!" I also remember FatFat saying he was disappointed in my behavior, but I can't remember if it was about killing the roaches or not.

When I woke up the next morning my ears were bleeding but nothing felt missing so I took a shower, and went to work. They sent me home due to my smell and the bleeding. I tried to tell them the smell was from space but no one believed me.

fragment #7

fragment #6

Lyle and FatFat gave me a call, and asked if I wanted to ride over to a party at Davenports with them. I sat in the back seat with the window cracked. Pretty soon I started to feel my self fade away. When I moved my hands they seemed to leave a trail behind. FatFat looked back at me and said something, but I couldn't understand him. His words were gibberish and his tone harsh. Lyle tried to slug my leg but his hand just went through me. I started to float out the cracked window so FatFat tried to roll it up, but I was already gone. I watched the car get smaller and smaller as I lifted higher into the stratosphere. After not to long, Earth was a tiny beautiful blue dot. I stayed in space for a few weeks. I was the loneliest time in my life I could ever remember and it smelled terrible.

reason #6

fragment #5

Yesterday, I went for a bike ride in the park. I noticed a path I hadn't taken before, so I took it. The path seemed to go on for miles and miles. At the end I came to a clearing. Beautiful naked people were everywhere. You could see there was no sexual tension in their eyes. The innocence of childhood had been reclaimed. I took off my clothes and let the sun wash over me. I had never felt so free. A young women approached me with a frown on her face. She looked down at my body and then said to me, "You are terrible." Then she began to vomit. Mortified, I threw my clothes back on, jumped on my bike, and peddled away. On the way home I wrecked and cut my knee. Unfortunately the bleeding stopped.

fragment #5

fragment #4

Me and Lyle went to the corner store to get some more beer, but when we go there, the windows were boarded up. There was a hand written sign that read "PLEASE GO THE FUCK AWAY RIGHT NOW". I'm not sure why but the sign made me sad. We walked home without our beers, defeated. Lyle told me I had to go anyway because he had women coming over.

fragment #4

fragment #3


Tuesday morning, I got up and it was the end of the world. Bombs rained from the sky, and the streets were lit with fire. People were screaming, sirens wailed. One lady ran past my window clutching her head. Blood streaked her hair, and it was falling out in big patches. I closed my blinds and went back to sleep.

The next day I went over to Lyle's house. I told him about my date with the lady and the child that we did not have. He told me that it was for the best, and that I was too young to be a father anyhow. I like Lyle because he always knows what to say. We spent the rest of the day playing Mortal Kombat on his old Sega and drinking rum and grenadine. I think you call that a zombie.

fragment #3

fragment #2

Later that day, on my way home for work, I met a girl. I invited her to dinner, and over the course of the meal we fell very much in love. Later that night we tried to have a baby but it died inside her. With shovels found in the basement we dug a hole and buried it in the back yard. It looked like a bit of raw chicken laying there alone in the dirt. I cried all night, and soon a great river began to flow down the street on which she lived. Neighbors climbed onto their roofs, uncertain of what to do. I overturned an old doghouse and, after fashioning it into a raft, I paddled my way home.

fragment #2

Part 1

I went to work even though I was still blind from the sun, and drunk from the vodka. No one seemed to notice or care. I was happy today, secure in the knowledge that I had forgoten what I was trying to forget and also, from the vodka. Customers came and went in a grey, shapeless, unfulfilling kind of way. At one point a man from Germany came in and yelled at me until he bled from his throat. He fell to the floor, exhausted, but still cursing my name. I and the other employees left him there for the rest of day. Every hour or so he would yell "Scheisskopf!" and someone would toss some change at him. As I was leaving I noticed the cleaning lady sweep him away with the rest of the trash, and I couldn't help but smile.

fragment

I'm sitting on my porch watching the ice melt in my glass of vodka. Little rivers form flowing through the drink, barely noticeable. Cloudy swirls of chemicals travel along these rivers making the water more than water. Chemicals that kill micro organisms and strengthen my teeth. In the darkest places of my heart I can't think of these chemicals as anything but little intruders of cleanliness and well being. When I'm poisoning myself these intruders are unwelcome. I lift the glass and toast to my own health. The vodka is cold in my mouth. It immediately washes away any fear I have of intruders in my water or elsewhere. A pleasant numbness creeps along my tongue, to the edge of my lips, up my spine, and into my brain. The radio begins to play an Eagles song so I get up to switch it off but the silence is deafening, making it much harder to ignore things that I'm trying to ignore. I switch the radio back on and tune the dial to some white noise and stair at the sun till I go blind.

Animals

Martin liked to drink from the tin can. It gave the water a hard metallic back that was pleasing to his palette. He had read somewhere that this meant that he had some type of mineral deficiency, but he had never bothered to see a doctor about it. Now that the war had come and gone, there were no doctors to go to. Instead of worrying about it, he simply allowed himself the pleasure of the tin tasting water, sipping it slowly as he looked out the window at the now unpopulated city in which he lived.

Some mornings he would hunt. Deer and wild pigs had moved into the city, so game was plentiful. He taught himself to cure and smoke meat, and after a few months of trial and error he was making his own salt pork and jerky. He would snare rabbits in box traps, later to be moved to the hutches that he had built on the far side of his roof top garden. He had found an old copy of Julia Child's The Way to Cook, and after some false starts, he was eating much better than he had before the war. Sometimes, as he was tending to his garden he would say out loud, "This new life, it's not so bad. Different, but not bad."

One morning, as he was hunting, he spotted a skinny calf walking down what had once been the city's Main Street. Martin was shocked to see a rope tied loosely around the animal's neck. A rope meant other people. The calf was much too young to be alive before the war and the it certainly hadn't tied the rope. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen another person alive. He could call out, but he didn't want to risk spooking the animal. Instead, he shouldered his rifle and approached the calf slowly. As he grabbed the rope the calf licked his hand much like a dog. Martin couldn't help but be pleased. He looked into the calf's eyes and asked, "Where did you come from?"

It took him the better part of the day to lead the calf up the three flights of stairs to the garden. "Well, I suppose you're thirsty." said Martin. He filled a pan with water and pulled up three carrots to feed the animal. For the first time since laying eyes on the beast he wondered how he was going to feed it. Maybe he could grow a plot of grass, but that would take too much time. He would have to sacrifice the wheat he had been growing. Martin had been looking forward to making his own flour and bread, but the prospect of fresh milk, butter, and cream was too tempting. He gave the calf the an affectionate pat on the head and headed off to bed for the night. Tomorrow would be a busy day. He would need to gather material to make a shelter for the calf and also search the area for any signs of the animals original owner. That rope made him wonder.

Martin awoke to an unearthly scream from the garden above. It was the rabbits. From time to time a fox or a wild dog would find its way up the hutches and the shrill scream from the rabbits always gave him a fright. He pulled on his pants, grabbed his rifle from the corner, and rushed up the stairs. What he saw when he reached the roof shocked him. A hooded figure was holding one of his rabbits by the throat with a gloved hand. The rabbit was struggling for its life, scratching and biting at it's attacker with a viciousness Martin didn't know the animal was capable of. It was then that he noticed the lifeless bodies of several of the other rabbits laying at the feet of the figure. Martin raised his rifle and with a thunderous crack the rabbit's attacker dropped to the ground. Slowly he approached the crumpled form It wasn't until he got closer that he noticed how small it was. With the his foot he turned the body over. A girl still alive but breathing heavily. Her blue eyes betrayed no hint of fear just contempt. "You stole our cow!" she spat. Blood trickled from both sides her mouth. Martin could only stare in horror although his mind was racing. Who was this? What had he done? "They will come for you! They will crush you! They will gnaw your bones!" she growled at him. Then with a scream, not unlike the rabbits, the life went out of her. He looked over to the calf. It stared back at him blankly.

Martin buried her that night, a few yards away from his building. He wrapped the tiny body in the hood she had been wearing and began to dig. The work was long. Every time he heard a noise in the distance he would put down the shovel and pick up his rifle.He would force himself to count to two hundred before placing the gun down and resuming his work. The sun began to rise as he threw on the last shovelful of dirt. He said, "I'm sorry", aloud before heading back to his home. When he finally laid back in his bed he could not keep his head from racing. What had she meant by "They"? Were there more like her? The cruelty in that little voice and the slaughter of his rabbits led him to believe if there were, that they would be hard to reason with. For the first time in many years Martin's feeling of isolation was gone, replaced now by fear and guilt.

That afternoon he cleaned and prepared the rabbits the girl had killed for curing. Three does and one buck, the biggest of the does Cass, had been pregnant. After skinning and gutting the animals he treated each with salt and left them to hang in the smoke house. Upon exiting the smokehouse door he saw something move underneath one of the hutches. It was the other rabbit. The one the girl had been strangling when he had shot her. "Hello." He said to the rabbit. Martin got down on both knees and reached for the animal. The rabbit hissed and scratched Martin like a cat. "Son of bitch!" Martin yelled pulling his hand back. The rabbit darted past him to hide in some other corner of the garden. Martin inspected his hand. Three deep gashes were welling up with blood. "What did you do that for?" he yelled to the long gone rabbit. Removing his shirt he wrapped his hand to stop the blood flow. The wound need stitching. Martin went downstairs to gather supplies for the unavoidable. He prepared the supplies he would need for the surgery on the desk next to his bed. Surgical thread, peroxide, bactine, scissors, and a sharp curved needle that Martin had once hoped he would never have to use. He removed his belt, with his good hand, doubled it, and placed it his mouth biting down hard. Unwrapping the hand was painful. They blood had already started to coagulate and was sticking to the shirt. "Fuck!" Martin yelled through the belt clenched teeth. He doused the wound first with peroxide then with the bactine. While letting the cut dry he threaded the needle and then held it over the flame of the candle for a moment. "And now the hard part." he said through belt clenched teeth before making the first stitching. He saw red as the needle punched through his calloused skin but the second stitch wasn't nearly as bad. As he was finishing the first scratch he noticed a boy was standing in the doorway to his bedroom. He wasn't much older than the girl and he was gripping a pistol in his right hand. "Hi." said Martin.

"Hello." said the boy back and then after a pause asked, "Did you kill my sister?"

"Yes. I believe so." said Martin.

"Why?" Asked the boy.

"She was killing my rabbits..." Martin tried to explain. "I think she thought that I stole her cow but I just found it." The words didn't even make sense to him so he just said "I'm sorry."

The boy looked at Martin. His eyes were so sad. "Does that really matter?" He asked."No, I suppose it doesn't." Replied Martin.

The boy fired the gun once hitting Martin in the stomach. Martin looked at the blood welling from his body in disbelief. "You killed me."

"Yes." Said the boy. He was now crying. "I'm sorry."

Martin pressed his hand against the wound but the blood would not stop. The boy was watching him, still crying. "Do you think I'll be the last person?", asked the boy.

"I don't know." Said Martin. He was beginning to get sleepy and the pain was becoming a dull throb. It wouldn't be long now. "What happened to the rest of family? You're sister...when it happened she mentioned a they."

"My sister wasn't right sir. Our family died when we were younger. It was just me and Nalla." The Boy had stopped crying now and was now looking at ground with a blank expression.

"Nalla... What's your name?" Martin asked the boy.

"Jacob." Said the boy still looking at the ground.

"Jacob, my name is Martin and I will be dead very soon. I have a hutch of rabbits on the roof. Will you let them out before you leave this place?" Martin coughed twice projecting a fine pink mist in the candles light.

"Yes." Said Jacob.

"Thank you. Now will you end this? It will take hours otherwise." Martin laid back in the bed slowly and closed his eyes.

Jacob nodded and approached the bed hesitantly. He raised the gun to Martin's head and closed his eyes.

Later on the roof Jacob set the rabbits free. He was surprised to see one was already loose. His sister Nalla's calf was tied to one corner of the rabbits hutch. Jacob looked into the animal's eyes. "You are the only thing my sister ever loved." He left the calf on Martin's roof and set off back into the city alone.

the witch walks out on john

"God dammmit!" Cynthia yelled, as she threw her flattening iron through the bathroom door and into the living room. Her boyfriend John looked up from his beer as it landed at feet.

"You OK?" said John.

"No, I just burnt my fucking hand!" Cynthia looked at her hand. Little blisters were already starting to form. She saw John walk to door frame still holding his beer. She twitched her nose and the door slammed in his face.

"Dammit, babe! Why do you have to be that way?" John yelled from behind the door.

"Just leave me alone for a minute!" she shouted back. "Just fuck off, John."

"Fine, whatever." he muttered.

Cynthia thought about twitching her nose again and turning John's skin inside out, but managed to keep her composure. She could still hear him muttering under his breath from the other room. With her uninjured hand she turned on the sink and ran cold water over the burn. After staring at the medicine cabinet door for a moment, it popped open and a box of bandages flew over to her. She dressed her wound and put the bandages back up without using her powers. The throbbing was beginning to ease off and she was starting to feel a little guilty for snapping at John, he had meant well after all. Suddenly, Cynthia realized it hadn't really been the pain. She no longer loved him and that hurt much more than the burn.

"John, I'm sorry. You can come in now." she called though the door.

He came in quicker than she expected. His face was blank and he wouldn't look directly at her.

"I didn't mean to yell like that. I apologize." said Cynthia

"It's OK. Is your hand all right?" He asked without looking up.

"I'm alright." she said holding up the bandaged hand. "I never really wanted to play the violin anyway."

He smiled a little at that. She had fallen for that smile. For a second she remembered why she had once loved him.

"Would you care to dance?" Cynthia asked him. She held out her hand and John took it. She twitched her nose once more. Suddenly, their tiny apartment was a ballroom. A pianist sat in the corner. He began to play Chopin's "Minute Waltz". Without her powers neither Cynthia nor John would have been very good dancers, but in that moment they were gliding around the room like a couple of old pros. When the music stopped, Cynthia said, "John I don't want to do this anymore."

"You're the one who asked me to dance, Cynthia." John replied, still smiling.

"No. This. Us. I don't love you anymore." Cynthia said quietly. John's smile faded and became a glare of contempt. For a moment they just stood there still holding each other.

"Fuck you, Cynthia." John said quietly.

She thought for a moment that he may hit her, but instead he squeezed her injured hand hard and then spat on the floor. The pain shot through her body and the ballroom began to melt away. Soon enough they were in the tiny apartment again and John wouldn't look at her. Instead of dancers they were just two people.

"I'm leaving you, John." said Cynthia.

"I'm sorry I squeezed your hand." He said, still not looking at her.

"No, you're not." She replied coolly.

John finally looked her in the eye.

"No, I'm not." He said with a wicked smile. That smile made her shutter.

"I hope it hurts for days!" He screamed.

With that, she got up and walked out the door without bothering to pack. The few things that meant anything to her she could send for later. Right now all she wanted was to be any where but this tiny apartment and with this man who already felt like a stranger.

While in the hallway, she heard a mighty crash against the door, followed by a muffled "Fuck you!". Probably the bottle of beer John had been drinking. It was hard for her to imagine him displaying that kind of passion, and ever harder to imagine him wasting a beer. People were starting to poke their noses through cracked doors, trying to discover what the commotion was. She glared at Mrs. Adams from 301, who quickly ducked back into her apartment.

On her way down to the lobby, she began to think about how many times she had walked up and down this flight of stairs and how odd it felt that this would be the last. She passed by Peter Rigginhouse, who smiled at her wanly. Peter was a dumpy little man who had always given Cynthia the creeps. Just to be mean, she wiggled her nose and the bag of groceries that Peter had been carrying became a bag of snakes. Peter dropped the bag in horror. His girlish scream reverberating in the stair well. Cynthia had to bite her lip, almost to the point of bleeding, to keep from laughing out loud. She twitched her nose again and the bag returned to an ordinary sack of groceries. "Everything OK, Mr. Rigginhouse?" She asked the terrified man. It was becoming harder and harder for her to suppress her laughter.

Peter was starring at the bag not knowing what to expect.
"That was a cruel trick, Cynthia..." He stammered. "I have a bad heart you know!"

"Trick, Mr. Rigginhouse?" She was no longer able to contain herself. "I don't know what you could be talking about," She said through the laughter.
Cynthia was now feeling much better. Soon my life with John will be a distant memory, she thought to herself. She continued through the lobby, leaving Mr. Riggenhouse to collect his groceries. Before walking through the doors one last time, she stopped to take once last look around. Plastic potted plants covered in dust and a threadbare couch in the one corner. She would not miss this place.

In the parking lot stood the beat up old Buick she and John shared. The car was in his name. She had been paying the rent for last six months and had made no attempt to pay her back. "This is collateral, John." Cynthia said out loud to herself. She wrapped her coat tightly around her arm and busted the glass out of the window with her elbow. Being careful not to cut herself, she reached through the broken glass, unlocked the door, and climbed in. Somethings were just more satisfying the hard way, she mused. She wiggled her nose and the engine roared to life. Without looking in the rear view mirror, she threw the car in reverse and backed out into the street, leaving the shattered glass glittering on the asphalt.

the roach

i wrote a little short story. here it is.

John Carver could hear his landlord, Tex Gregory, scratching at the door. The landlord was a cockroach and that is the truth in the most literal sense. Six legs, little translucent wings, and antenna that stuck through tiny holes on his even tinier pork pie hat. Pretty soon the scratching was joined by the Tex’s quiet but menacing bark.

"Carver! you in there Carver!? You’re goddamn rent is a month behind! I’m throwing your deadbeat ass out on the street if you ain’t got my money!"

Carver, who was hiding under a dirty gray sheet, was doing his best to try and ignore the situation. The cockroach started in again.

"Carver, I saw your little shit box car parked in the drive! Get out here!"

John thought about what it would be like to crush that bully under his shoe but Tex had told him once that the world only existed in his mind and when it was his time to die the rest of the world would follow him in to the dark. This of course was a foolish notion and carver would have usually ignored such a boast but something in his landlord's insect eyes made him believe it enough to not chance it. After all the man was a talking cockroach.

"This your last chance deadbeat! Open up! Damn it! Open up!"

"Yeah, yeah! OK..." Carver shouted back.

John himself was surprised at the words coming out of his own mouth. He got up and pulled on a ratty old robe he had left hanging from the closet door. He took a quick look into the dresser mirror to try appraise the situation that was his face. John hadn’t shaved for three days and his eyes were red from drinking and staying up much to late. There was also an enormous bruise on the right side of his face. Cynthia’s new boyfriend had given him that little gift the night before when he had show up at her new place drunk and expectant. the new man introduced himself as Tom, had given him a light pummeling and then mentioned something about "kicking his lungs out through his ass" if ever showed up there again. Carver was inclined to believe him. He had seemed like a nice fellow considering the situation though and didn't hold him much ill will. Tex wrapped on the door again.

"Are you coming out her or not asshole?!"

Carver stumbled to the door and opened it. For a moment he thought there was no one there and then he remembered to look down.

"About goddamn time." said the diminutive landlord. "You got my money or not?"

"Not exactly..." Carver mumbled.

"Why the the fuck not?" growled Tex.

"Cynthia left me."

"She left you a month ago and what’s that got to do with me?"

"She was helping out with the rent she..."

"What kind of man lets a woman pay his rent, Carver?" interrupted the cockroach.

John wanted to look down at his feet in shame but Tex was down there so he looked up at the door frame instead. He wasn’t bothered by a woman paying his rent but he hated being reminded that he had basically been living out of Cynthia's pocket for the last year.

Life it seems had creeped up on him and had began to tear away at him. His job delivering newspapers had been first to go. At the time he had shrugged it off. He didn’t enjoy the hours and most of his co-workers were teenagers. Next to go had been the tip of his finger which he had sliced off some how on the edge of an opened tin can of tomato soup. He felt he could taste iron in his mouth for days after deciding to eat the soup anyway. Last had been Cynthia who one day unceremoniously had packed her things and driven away in his old banged up Buick. Carver had guessed the theft of the car had been some sort of ransom for the unpaid debt he still owed her. Last night he had gone back after his beating and stolen the car back. This was his first victory in a long while but now there was this literal bug of a man standing before him, trying to take his home too.

"I’ll get you the money Tex..." Carver said.

"Oh, bull shit!" exploded the cockroach. "You’ve used up all your excuses. You have till midnight to get your shit out before i call the sheriff."

"You can't do this!" carver pleaded. "I can have it by tonight."

John tried to think of something, anything to make the situation more bearable. He tried to think of what Cynthia would do but could only picture the stern face of her new beau. He also tried to think of a way to make good on his promise to get the money. He didn't think he would make much of a stick up man and an honest days work wouldn't make him the kinda of money he needed.

"I can do anything I want! I don't want your money! I want you out! I may be a roach but you sir are a worm!" roared Tex.

This was too much for Carver. He began to think about what rude little insect had once told him about the world ending with him. He looked at the tiny bug wearing the pork pie hat, lifted up his leg and smashed Tex Gregory with his barefoot. The world went out like a light.