John's muscles screamed, his pole bent within a hair of its limit. If not for the dock being dry he surely would've slipped off hours ago.
"Come on!" he said, pulling, tugging, yanking, jerking . . . seaweed collecting around the reel as he struggled against wind, weight and water.
Exhasuted, John sat for a few seconds as his catch flopped around, cursing him. He mustered enough strength to remove the hook from the inside of his grandmother's cheek, then rolled her back into the Atlantic.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Me... Creepy... Never...
"The Homicide Diaries"
Entry 1
Again synchronicity.
But of what?
I was having dreams of particularly loving sex (very little blood) along the luminous surf of a deserted beach in Hawaii. I remember at the time I was mentally ignoring my dream-partner, slamming away and concentrating on a single memory to fuel my dying erection.
1986… the plump calves and springy sneakers of High school cheerleaders, me hiding under the bleachers, catching a glimpse up red skirts at long legs, masturbating furiously…
I woke up, glad to see those same legs next to me, rotten to bone, wrapped around my body and hanging from meat-hooks on my wall.
There was no dream girl. This was not Hawaii… this was my filthy basement in Upstate California.
I was not a lover, I was a killer.
Entry 2
That sonic taste…
The waking nightmare I’ve grown to love. The detailed shadows of moonlit grass against stucco walls. The sounds of silence.
I stopped licking the lawndirt and put my cock back in my pants. Despite the late hours… this was suburbia, and there were watchers in every window.
I thought of that old rhyme my mother had sung to me as a boy:
Watch the watchers
Watch them well
They are always watching you
Watch the watchers
Watch them well
For you are now a watcher too
...Mother
I realized my knife hand had begun a slow pumping motion.
I put my cock back in my pants.
Entry 3
I came in through the bathroom window, humming a tune by a similar name.
I killed her children first. Sharp ,swift cuts. Painless.
A merciful stabbing.
Cute little things that made funny noises when they died.
I moved into her bedroom and slit her husband's throat. She didn’t wake up; I knew what I was doing.
I took out her miniature poodle out with a piano wire for purely comedic reasons, then hastily returned to her bedside, watching her stir in the growing crimson of the man she loved.
I wanted to fuck her right then and there in his pooling blood (and would had no moral qualms about doing so) but I knew very well I would be unable maintain my erection in her presence.
She wasn’t like the others. She was special.
(I almost chuckled to myself.)
I have the names of everyone she’s ever loved written down on a neat little list... I’ll scratch them off one by one just to see her in a funeral dress.
...
~The rest of the pages are blank or stained with blood.~
Entry 1
Again synchronicity.
But of what?
I was having dreams of particularly loving sex (very little blood) along the luminous surf of a deserted beach in Hawaii. I remember at the time I was mentally ignoring my dream-partner, slamming away and concentrating on a single memory to fuel my dying erection.
1986… the plump calves and springy sneakers of High school cheerleaders, me hiding under the bleachers, catching a glimpse up red skirts at long legs, masturbating furiously…
I woke up, glad to see those same legs next to me, rotten to bone, wrapped around my body and hanging from meat-hooks on my wall.
There was no dream girl. This was not Hawaii… this was my filthy basement in Upstate California.
I was not a lover, I was a killer.
Entry 2
That sonic taste…
The waking nightmare I’ve grown to love. The detailed shadows of moonlit grass against stucco walls. The sounds of silence.
I stopped licking the lawndirt and put my cock back in my pants. Despite the late hours… this was suburbia, and there were watchers in every window.
I thought of that old rhyme my mother had sung to me as a boy:
Watch the watchers
Watch them well
They are always watching you
Watch the watchers
Watch them well
For you are now a watcher too
...Mother
I realized my knife hand had begun a slow pumping motion.
I put my cock back in my pants.
Entry 3
I came in through the bathroom window, humming a tune by a similar name.
I killed her children first. Sharp ,swift cuts. Painless.
A merciful stabbing.
Cute little things that made funny noises when they died.
I moved into her bedroom and slit her husband's throat. She didn’t wake up; I knew what I was doing.
I took out her miniature poodle out with a piano wire for purely comedic reasons, then hastily returned to her bedside, watching her stir in the growing crimson of the man she loved.
I wanted to fuck her right then and there in his pooling blood (and would had no moral qualms about doing so) but I knew very well I would be unable maintain my erection in her presence.
She wasn’t like the others. She was special.
(I almost chuckled to myself.)
I have the names of everyone she’s ever loved written down on a neat little list... I’ll scratch them off one by one just to see her in a funeral dress.
...
~The rest of the pages are blank or stained with blood.~
"Lorozapam Tea"
The Lorozapam Tea has a funny taste on this bitter-cold monday morning. My mood, as always, resembled the dour storm clouds that slithered across the colorless sky outside the bars of my window. I think that, perhaps, in time, the drugs will bring a fleeting escape from these prison walls. They don't. As always, they simply make my grip on reality tenuous at best. I slip away, but not to sleep.
The cocktail of drugs I'm on is not hallucinatory in the least, but luckily for me, my sanity is quickly slipping. And madness, as a wise man once said, is a drug.
The bars become snakes and my filthy bedroll opens like mouth, teeth gnashing, gum-rotten gums sporting pustules in spore-like formations. I take another sip of my Tea.
My mood has now improved slightly. By the time my folding chair begins to consume me in small, loving, bites... I think I have an idea for another story.
A knock on the slippery-green, flesh covered cell door , it's bars hugged by some thin mucus that hardens with fright at the orderly's knock. "Mr. Novac, it's time for your treatment."
Or at least I did.
The cocktail of drugs I'm on is not hallucinatory in the least, but luckily for me, my sanity is quickly slipping. And madness, as a wise man once said, is a drug.
The bars become snakes and my filthy bedroll opens like mouth, teeth gnashing, gum-rotten gums sporting pustules in spore-like formations. I take another sip of my Tea.
My mood has now improved slightly. By the time my folding chair begins to consume me in small, loving, bites... I think I have an idea for another story.
A knock on the slippery-green, flesh covered cell door , it's bars hugged by some thin mucus that hardens with fright at the orderly's knock. "Mr. Novac, it's time for your treatment."
Or at least I did.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Road Pirates
Is anyone else a fan of those Pirates of the Caribbean soundtracks? I love 'em, especially the one for Dead Man's Chest. It's been in my car for months now and I have yet to tire of it.
Track #2 is the best for driving through thunderstorms. I'll be swishing through the downpour, waves crashing against the windshield - giving the wipers quite a task - and I can't shake the urge to hang an anchor out the window and fire cannons at trucks. I might board a car full of college kids to steal their money, booze, and wenches. Then leave the rest to sink in the ditch.
After a long day's work, I could then dock at the nearest convenience store for some energy drinks and pork rinds. But alas, the storage rooms are full of cannibals, waiting to ambush me.
Have you recently eaten a gas station hot dog? How did I taste?
Track #2 is the best for driving through thunderstorms. I'll be swishing through the downpour, waves crashing against the windshield - giving the wipers quite a task - and I can't shake the urge to hang an anchor out the window and fire cannons at trucks. I might board a car full of college kids to steal their money, booze, and wenches. Then leave the rest to sink in the ditch.
After a long day's work, I could then dock at the nearest convenience store for some energy drinks and pork rinds. But alas, the storage rooms are full of cannibals, waiting to ambush me.
Have you recently eaten a gas station hot dog? How did I taste?
Un Conte Stupide
"In France," a young and beautiful Joni Mitchell once sang, "they kiss on Main Street."
They also shit and piss freely in the alleyways, but no one writes songs about it. No one wants to see.
In France, the celebrated cafes and bistros serve rotted fish heads with cream of maggot soup. It is nothing like the illustrious paradise depicted in magazines, brochures, film and television. It is not a hallmark of grace where each young American can come and loss his or herself, for just a moment, into the woodwork of the Old World.
In France, it is a continual war zone. A young Frenchman with a pencil-thin mustache and a beret (all Frenchmen have pencil-thin mustaches and berets. Just as all French women have hairy armpits and bushes. This much holds true.) hoists a bazooka atop his shoulder and blasts apart a storefront window. Hairy naked French women squeal with glee, like wood nymphs, and rush into the store and grab long loafs of bread, bottles of wine and elegant cigarette holders.
In France, they keep tight lips about what really happens. In France, they do well by lying to those who want to be lied to, who are easy to lie to.
And young, beautiful Americans continue writing songs. Restless students, drunk with their own wanderlust and daydream, continue clutching their brochures and magazines amorously. Continue visiting the bistros, savoring the richness of the soup. Continue skiing the Alps, until they hit a rock, and fall down and die. Then they float a million miles through space into Heaven where they are greeted by God, Jesus, the apostles and the living dead.
They also shit and piss freely in the alleyways, but no one writes songs about it. No one wants to see.
In France, the celebrated cafes and bistros serve rotted fish heads with cream of maggot soup. It is nothing like the illustrious paradise depicted in magazines, brochures, film and television. It is not a hallmark of grace where each young American can come and loss his or herself, for just a moment, into the woodwork of the Old World.
In France, it is a continual war zone. A young Frenchman with a pencil-thin mustache and a beret (all Frenchmen have pencil-thin mustaches and berets. Just as all French women have hairy armpits and bushes. This much holds true.) hoists a bazooka atop his shoulder and blasts apart a storefront window. Hairy naked French women squeal with glee, like wood nymphs, and rush into the store and grab long loafs of bread, bottles of wine and elegant cigarette holders.
In France, they keep tight lips about what really happens. In France, they do well by lying to those who want to be lied to, who are easy to lie to.
And young, beautiful Americans continue writing songs. Restless students, drunk with their own wanderlust and daydream, continue clutching their brochures and magazines amorously. Continue visiting the bistros, savoring the richness of the soup. Continue skiing the Alps, until they hit a rock, and fall down and die. Then they float a million miles through space into Heaven where they are greeted by God, Jesus, the apostles and the living dead.
Fingertips
“Let me have your hands please?” the doctor asked.
Julia held her hands out, palms facing upward.
With a look of deep concentration he took the splinters out of here fingertips one by one.
“Well, it looks like we are done for today. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow correct?”
Julia simply nodded her head. She grabbed her purse and waved before heading back home.
The doctor didn’t know what to make of Julia. She was an anomaly an object of curio. Everyday for the last three months she came in fingertips covered in splinters. No explanation, no excuses, just those delicate fingers.
“Janet I’m going out for a little bit. Can you cover for me?”
“No problem.”
“Thanks.” The doctor grabbed his coat and left entering the night.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked fast trying to warm his body up. Julia wasn’t too far ahead. He kept a comfortable distance as he trailed her to her home.
Julia stepped inside.
A few minutes later she walked around the kitchen making things shake and clatter. More time passed and the doctor began to feel like a voyeur. He felt like dirt so he left feeling cold and empty both inside and out.
As night deepened, Julia crawled into her bed. She felt the stiffness of shadows enclose the room and the cold bark clutched her hands in its own seeking warmth.
Julia held her hands out, palms facing upward.
With a look of deep concentration he took the splinters out of here fingertips one by one.
“Well, it looks like we are done for today. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow correct?”
Julia simply nodded her head. She grabbed her purse and waved before heading back home.
The doctor didn’t know what to make of Julia. She was an anomaly an object of curio. Everyday for the last three months she came in fingertips covered in splinters. No explanation, no excuses, just those delicate fingers.
“Janet I’m going out for a little bit. Can you cover for me?”
“No problem.”
“Thanks.” The doctor grabbed his coat and left entering the night.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked fast trying to warm his body up. Julia wasn’t too far ahead. He kept a comfortable distance as he trailed her to her home.
Julia stepped inside.
A few minutes later she walked around the kitchen making things shake and clatter. More time passed and the doctor began to feel like a voyeur. He felt like dirt so he left feeling cold and empty both inside and out.
As night deepened, Julia crawled into her bed. She felt the stiffness of shadows enclose the room and the cold bark clutched her hands in its own seeking warmth.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
FURNITURE MUSIC
Frank rearranged the furniture in his apartment every night from 6:00 to 11:15 p.m. He was never happy with his final set-up and began planning new ways to arrange things even as he worked on his current design.
His wood floors were scratched beyond repair, but the sounds made by the sliding couch, chairs, computer table, TV stand and bookcases sounded sweeter with each passing night.
#
In the apartment below, a couple (who dressed as if it were the Roaring Twenties) danced to the sounds coming from their ceiling.
One night they found their dog's body hanging limp over the toilet seat; despite the apparent suicide, they continued to dance whenever the furniture music began.
His wood floors were scratched beyond repair, but the sounds made by the sliding couch, chairs, computer table, TV stand and bookcases sounded sweeter with each passing night.
#
In the apartment below, a couple (who dressed as if it were the Roaring Twenties) danced to the sounds coming from their ceiling.
One night they found their dog's body hanging limp over the toilet seat; despite the apparent suicide, they continued to dance whenever the furniture music began.
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