Tiny Dead Bunny

Surviving with John

pbeyer — Sun, 18 Mar 2012 22:38:00 -0500

They were still rubbing their sprained ankles and brused heads for a while after the cart flipped over. The snowfall was getting thicker, gathering on the branches until they creaked under their own weight and made it impossible to see or hear John who was out looking for their horses. “How long has it been” Theodore asked. Maxwell pulled a pocket watch from his vest, “Not sure. It seems the watch stopped after the fall.” The other two curled up near the overturned cart. “He said it wouldn’t be long.” Theodore said after a moment. No one responded. “My lord, we’re going to have to sleep in these woods.”

They were returning from a meeting with another county. They were men of note within their community who were supposed to help bring the two counties together to form a new one called ‘Richwater’, a name that was still being disputed. “No one cares how rich our wells are!” John had said, “Fifty years from now water will be standardized! Flourinated! Our selling point shouldn’t be derived from a lack of vision!” The other four rolled their eyes. They only wanted to combine the two counties and make their money. But John kept going on and on about the ‘future’ and planning for when farming would become overrun by large corporations. How independant operations would need to survive off of government funding and eventually close up all together. “Our little towns will die!” He shouted. “Independant stores will shutter against the onslaught of larger ones! Ones that specialize in departments and make running the little guys out of business part of their model! Bookstores won’t be able to compete with the larger, full inventoried establishments! And even those mammoth’s will wither and die under something… Something I don’t even know if yet! Something with unlimited inventory- any title you want at your fingertips!” He was very successful in his feed business, but no one could understand how since he was given to fits like this. Though the one thing they appreciated about him was his resourcefulness. They didn’t doubt for a second that he would be able to retrieve the horses, and in the worst case scenereo, help the other four sleep comfortably in this snow storm.

The gray sky was barely lit when they heard Jon return. They peered through the veil of white to see him emerge shirtless, covered in blood, and hauling carcasses behind him. “My God John! What have you done? Killed the horses?”
“No you moron.” He said, “I have brought you shelter from the cold.” He dropped the carcasses he had been dragging behind him and stepped aside to reveal two dead bears, their insides gutted. Another gasped and said, “What do you expect… you expect us to eat them?”
“Dick, I said I brought you shelter.”
“You don’t honestly say…”
“You’re going to fucking sleep in them.” John’s mustache, hardened by the frozen blood twitched with his words like a boat rocked on violent waves.
“But the horses!”
“Damn the horses!” Jon said. The muscles in his back folding and tensing as he turned to point at the bears. “As I tracked the fucking horses I was attacked by these two bears. Then two more! These four bears will serve as your sleeping bags to get us through the night and…” John trailed off.
“And what John?” Maxwell said hesitantly.
“I had a vision.” Everyone was silent. Afraid for their lives with this murderious force of nature standing shirtless against the freezing winds, his enormous hunting knife tucked in his belt caked in blood. Finally Maxwell had the courage to ask him about the vision. “There’s been a lot of talk about electricity being the future, but I didn’t realize until now what that meant.”
“What does it mean?” Theodore said, crawling inside his bear so that only his face emerged from the beasts throat. The others followed, curled up like little coccons around John who stood in their center. “Electricity will allow for a new apperatus that we’ve never concieved of to come into existance. It will harken a new age of communication beyond the barbaric moris code we use today over the wire. We will share voices! Images! Even documents!”
“Documents John?” Maxwell laughed. the others joined in lazily. “Documents soaring through the sky?”
“No idiot! Documents turned into electricity and sent through wires instantaniously! Imagine recieveing an entire book whenever you want, without ever leaving your home! Imagine seeing your cousins visage before your very eyes, conversing with him instantly though you both are sitting comfortably in your own parlors!”
“Where are you going with this John?” One asked, the warmth of the carcass lulling all of them to sleep. “Niche markets.” John said. “I will take adventage of the ability to send new and updated catalogs of my invintory to anyone in the world, but you have to start with a single market. Books will be too hrd to compete once others catch on. I’ll have to find a market no one wants to bother with, then I will dominate it, branch out into other markets. I’ll start with something small like food supplies to pets. I’ll be known as the single place for anyone in the world to buy their dog or cat’s food. Once I have total control of that market I will begin to carry toiletries. I’ll already have established myself as a trusted resource! Then I’ll begin selling wicks, globes, and lamp oil! Mouth bits and shoes for horses! By the time I am prepared to sell a handful of penny dreadfuls, no other book retailer will dare to compete with me. I will rule the goddamn world.”

John looked at the others, they slept with rosy red cheeks and the faint smiles brought by dreams of far away places. “Sleep my pets. Slumber as the angels, for when you awake it will be in a new world. The world I have only whispered about until now. A world where everything you will ever need can be supplied by my new company, a company with a name that will be surprisingly flexible for my vision. Your children will ask you what life was like before your wives did all their shopping at SmartPet. They’ll mock you when you explain that you needed to take the cart into town, and visit multiple stores for your needs. They’ll all speak of SmartPet with reverence, and I will bring you with me…” John sat in the snow. His body only now starting to shiver from the sweat freezing on his chest. He held up one of the bear heads attached to a slumbering aristocrat. He moved it’s mouth as if it were speaking and considered the moving images. How advertizements would be made with moving pictures, and people will delight in watching them. He would need a mascot. Something cute and non threatening, unlike this bear. Maybe he would have a puppet of some pet, like a cat promote his store.

The Toughest Time in a Young Girls Life

pbeyer — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 10:00:05 -0600

“Well what did you expect?” Henery hissed through large, yellow teeth. His eyes were alive behind a thick, oily film of juice. He was angry. The porus flesh around his nose and cheeks fluttered with each consonant. “If you’re going to act like a goddamn wall flower you’re never going to meet anyone!” Jenny didn’t answer. She couldn’t look directly at him either. She waited for him to finish by staring at his dry, purple hands clutching a glass of scotch. His tiny, bright yellow nails what swam around on his fat fingers and the white hairs which caught up in his gold wrist chain. The ice inside his glass rattled softly when he spoke and grew more agitated as he got louder. Her parents mentioned she was having a hard time making friends at her new school and Henry, who had drank too much during the barbecue, decided to corner her about it. He felt that of all the people at the party he was the one that was going to get through to her. He found her as she walked through the dining room and pulled up a chair, sat on it backwards in a gesture of informality and trapped her against the nearest wall. She could tell he was drunk. Other times he had drank like this at their house he would fly into rages about politics or sports. She knew that there wasn’t anything she could do or say to make this wrap up any faster, so she stayed silent and kept her eyes trained at his hands and knees. At first he was kind and seemed concerned, but eventually he went into a salemen mode. He wasn’t trying to give her advice so much as pitch the idea of “Being less of a bitch” .

“You have to be confident!” He bellowed. “Just looking at you right now I wouldn’t waste my time. You have to make people think you’re better than them. You have to act like you don’t care if they’re in the room or not. No one wants to get to know someone if they don’t seem like a challenge.” He took another sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving her face to assess what other angle he can approach her from. “Look,” he said, his voice lowering, “There’s a reason why there’s cool kids, and losers. The cool kids are normally better looking. You’re pretty good looking- Hell, if you took a little pride in your appearance… You know, dressed a little nicer. Put on some makeup. Show a little leg.” He gave two hard slaps on the back of her calf, much like he had done earlier with their dog when he asked if it was a hunting breed. “And I’m sure you’ve seen some pretty ugly popular kids at your school too. You know what their secret is? Confidence. You following me?” He took another swig of his drink.

“Yes Mr. Simon.” She muttered.

“Hows that?”

“I said yes Mr. Simon.”

“No, I don’t think you’re getting me.” He said, frustrated. He realized this wasn’t going well. He was frightening her. “Look. If you’re too quiet everyone is going to think you’re some kind of bitch. I got a woman, when I’m in the Tulsa office, who’s a like that. She won’t give anyone the time of day. Too goddamn shy. But if she’d smile a little, you know…” Even as the words came out of his mouth he could feel himself tailspinning. He didn’t know how to tell her that he also used to be shy, which is why when he heard about Jenny’s problems he thought his life experience could help. He looked at her again. The frustration with himself being apparent since he could see her pressing herself further and further into the wall.

“Alright. Let me start over.” He said. Something inside Jenny felt like it sank even lower. She had no idea what to say to satisfy him. Until one of her parents came to save her, he could go on like this all night. “I was just like you.” He said. His eyes drifted down towards his own hands now, his voice a little softer.”

“Yeah?” Jenny said.

“Yeah.” He spun his glass around between his fingers, watching the water from the melting ice mix with thin black lines into the alcohol. “I never had any friends. I felt horrible in my own skin.” Jenny was looking at him now, studying the shining scalp through his thinning hair. “Every time I was around anyone it felt like an opportunity to try to make a friend, and I put so much pressure on it that I always failed. It wasn’t until I had something to distract me that things turned around.”

“Distract you?” Jenny asked.

“When you’re so focused on trying to say the perfect few words to get someone to like you, it’s too much pressure. You come off as desperate. They can almost taste it and it drives them away. But when you are preoccupied with something else, when you hardly even notice the other person is there in front of you, if makes you seem more genuine. And no matter who you are, what you dress or look like, if someone senses that you don’t really care they try a little harder to make you like them. It’s just human nature. When I had something else to occupy my mind, to become obcessed over, people started coming to me after a few months. Just from the few interactions- conversations I don’t even remember having with them. Suddenly they were reminding me about something interesting I had said and I honestly don’t remember saying it…”

“What would you say?”

“I don’t even know. But my point is,” Henery said looking at her again, his eyes were softer now, “I stopped caring about making friends and instead put all that energy into something else.”

“What did you put all your energy into?” Jenny asked. “What occupied you so much that you could relax?”

“In my case it was something that happened over the summer that I really regretted. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, I felt horrible. I spent the rest of the year going through the motions, like I was in a dream.” Henry stopped. He played with is glass again. Jenny waited for a moment, then quietly asked him again.

“Henery! What the hell are you doing?” Jenny’s dad said as he walked through the dining room. “Oh Jesus. Henry you’re drunk. Get back outside and leave my poor kid alone.” Henry got up.

“What was it?” Jenny asked again. She held her hand out to touch his shoulder as he rose from his chair and slid it back into the table. Henry didn’t speak. With his head down he made his way out to the back yard. Jenny heard the screen door slam shut and the people outside call for him.

A Mountain Lion Floating Over a Liar

pbeyer — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 19:53:00 -0600

Kevin walked through the park lost in thought. The morning dew hadn’t burned off yet so the air was cold and damp. Sunlight broke up through the leaves of the trees overhead and spread out on the ground before him. The grass seemed almost purple from the shade and the bike path a deep black tar that sunk a little beneath his feet. Above him the mountain lion growled as branches slapped at it’s face and sides, suspended with it’s legs hanging limply beneath it. It was his curse. His punishment for being a liar.

He wasn’t any worse than any other person. It’s common knowledge that everyone lies. People do it all the time to greater or lesser degrees no matter who they are. From what he could understand after weeks of reflection, his problem arose because he lied at work. It was a simple lie. Nothing that he considered big enough to warrant having a lion suspended over his head for the rest of his life but his manager asked if he had finished a project that was due. He hadn’t. He had spent the majority of the day surfing on the internet and hadn’t done a thing. It wasn’t anything new for him, he always procrastinated until the last few hours before something was due but he always got his work done. So this project was like any other. He still had four hours to finish his work. But when he was asked about it, he said he was almost done and would have it by the end of the day. His manager seemed to squint a little as he said, “Ok. Let me know when you have it ready then.” As if he knew Kevin wasn’t telling the truth. He knew it was only going to take a few hours and it should of been done already, but his manager was always under the assumption that when people weren’t performing as they should, they were probably online looking for a new job. So Kevin realized this had larger consequences. He followed with, “I would of been done already, but my computer was acting up. I had to restart it and run tech tool.” That’s when the mountain lion suddenly appeared over his head.

It was in the break room. His manager fell to the floor pulling the rack of coffee cups down with him. He scrambled away clutching at anything he could to propel himself backwards out the door. Kevin did the same. He couldn’t wrap his mind around what was happening. He thought maybe the creature was up in the drop ceiling and had suddenly fell through. The only problem was that it continued to hover above him, growling and pawing at him without actually reaching. He, like his manager, scurried away on his back like a crab, but the lion followed, suspended directly over him. Kevin screamed. From what he could tell the lion was dropping down on him in slow motion. When he scrambled through the door, the lion bumped the top of the door frame to float closer to him. As Kevin slid out into the hall the lion cleared the door and rose to the ceiling again. “What the fuck is going on?!” He yelled. Finally, he gathered the courage to turn and run, ducking, to the front door and out into the street. He thought he was safe, but instantly worried about the others trapped with the lion in the building. He turned to the front doors and dug in his pocket for his phone. As he dialed 911 he heard a loud roar from over head. He looked up, then instantly fell to his knees dropping his phone. The Lion was suspended against the blue sky above him, it’s tail swatting left and right and it’s paws slowly moving around in circles trying to gain footing. He turned to run back into the building, but he saw that the mountain lion always turned with him, so whatever direction he faced, the mountain lion faced as well. He ran for the front doors, looking up, and saw that the lion stayed directly overhead and gained in speed with him. He fell on the front steps still looking above him. The lion floated down with him, always keeping the same distance between it and the top of Kevin’s head. He turned and ran for a picnic table that was around the side of the offices. Since the thing was above him he wanted to put something between it and himself. As soon as he slid under the first bench the lion was instantly upon him clawing and biting. Kevin screamed and scurried through to land on the opposite end of the table. He rolled on his back yelling for help and kicking at the animal he expected to be on top of him. But it wasn’t. Once he was out from under the bench the lion was floating helplessly in the air above him.

It took him almost an hour of random dashing for cover before he realized that the thing was going to stay over his head whether he liked it or not. He learned to avoid trying to hide under things, especially small areas where the ceiling is lower because the lion would magically slide in with him. He positioned himself in the middle of the service road out front by the highway away from any trees to tried to think. All he could do was stand completely still and hope the problem went away. Cars on the highway slowed to a crawl. Some pulled over on to the grass to take a picture. Kevin called to them for help, but they either laughed and asked how he did it, or they simply clapped. Eventually, seeing the spectacle on a traffic camera, the police showed up and told him to stop the magic show since it was slowing rush hour traffic. He tried to explain that he had nothing to do with it. That’s when they called animal control.

Three men showed up with long sticks with wire nooses dangling on the end. They managed to get one around it’s neck and two hind feet but struggled to pull it down. It was impossible. This only made the lion more agitated. When the police put Kevin into the squad car the three men with sticks were dragged along as the lion followed and slid in through the top half of the back door. Kevin sustained some serious injuries as the thing attacked. It took a minute for the officer to figure out what was happening and pulled Kevin out by his ankles. Soon paramedics showed up to treat him and tranquilizer guns were used on the animal to get Kevin safely in the back of the ambulance without more damage. Everyone at his office had stayed and sat on the front steps to watch the proceedings. As Kevin lay in the back with a slumbering lion hanging inches away from his face he remembered the project that was due, and how his manager would find out he hadn’t even started it.

Since then Kevin had time to reflect. It took him a while to try to understand what happened. But his best guess was that he was being punished for lying that day in the break room. He couldn’t understand why though. He didn’t have a history of excessive lying, if anything his greatest sin was masturbation. That was something he did to excess, four times in a day on average. It was as natural and necessary to him as taking a shower. If a lion suddenly appeared overhead one day while he was doing that he wouldn’t be too surprised. So in this case he kept trying to think back, look for patterns in how he conducted himself at work that would have this make sense.

The city put him up in the gym of a community center for the first week. They fed the animal with meat on a pole which was prepared by the local zoo. Scientists, veterinarians, and oddly the CIA all came to inspect what was happening but no one could come up with any type of answer. He lived in an apartment, so he had to move back in with his parents who erected a huge tent in their back yard with a two story ceiling to accommodate him. He spent night after night during the summer laying on his cot staring up at the sleeping lion growling and yawning as it tried to turn over to no avail. He tried reasoning with it. Crying. Screaming and even making friends with it while he was drinking. But the animal was just as confused and unhappy as he was. The local news had been following the story since the first day and this drew the attention of all types of crazies to his enormous tent door. Mainly psychics. They told him it was a type of sign that he needed to change his ways. He tried, but it didn’t make a difference. He refused to lie, but due to masturbation it was nearly impossible where his parents were concerned in his need to use their laptop. So instead he decided to just not speak. He made it known by a piece of paper he carried with him that he was on a vow of silence. When reporters, his parents, or anyone else asked why he’d just point up at the lion swimming around overhead. But after a while he gave that up too. He offered to help feed the homeless and even go to church, but none of those organizations would have him. He also made the effort to give up the act of self love. But in the end nothing changed. After a while he was back to telling small fibs and even masturbating when he knew the lion was sleeping. Every day the local zoo would return to feed the animal and check on it’s health. To prevent the creature from deficating or urinating on him, they tried to fit it with a type of diaper, but the mountain lion grew angry and kicked it off. They warned him that soon it would be fall, then winter. He had to find a solution soon because the tent wouldn’t hold in enough heat to keep him warm. The governor worked out a deal with the zoo to house him there but he already felt like some type of side-show since he couldn’t stand under a shower head and needed to be hosed off by his parents. The lion would have to be washed first, because for the next half hour the remaining moisture would drip on Kevin’s head. Over time he had picked the optimal time for when he could shower because since the diaper experiment had failed the animal would relieve it’s self on him throughout the day. One time it even sprayed some type of milky substance on him out of anger. It smelled horrible. He couldn’t imagine having to suffer those indignations behind glass with the zoo keepers having to help him. By late August he was a nervous wreck. He didn’t know where he was going to live and he couldn’t stand the pain of living under the creature any longer.

His friend Aaron came over to the tent one night. He hadn’t seen him or any of his other friends since the lion appeared so he was both happy and embarrassed to let him in. Aaron brought whisky and a metal grate he had welded himself. He explained that if there were enough openings in the surface maybe the lion wouldn’t force it’s self under. Kevin tried to explain that if he even holds a pen up over his head the monster would suddenly appear underneath it. He screamed and curled into a ball when Aaron, drunk, positioned the grate over Kevin’s head. The lion popped underneath it but surprisingly didn’t attack. It sniffed him, and actually licked his face and emitted a low purr. Kevin laughed and petted the mountain lion. He drank from the bottle and the three spent the night laughing and talking.

Aaron fancied himself a new-age scientist thanks to his discovery of Deepak Chopra. He blended the more convenient aspects of Chaos Theory, sub-atomic physics, and eastern mysticism to fit a grand theory of pretty much everything. If there was any type of problem it could be solved or understood by his special brand of belief. He told Kevin that what was happening was a manifestation of his own fears. “Like the Bell Witch!” Aaron said.

“What do you mean?”

“The Bell Witch was an evil spirit that tormented a little girl and her family for years. It’s main goal was to see that the father of the little girl died.”

“So?”

“So after beating the crap out of the girl and harassing the family, it finally did kill the father by poison I think,” he said, thinking about it for a moment. “But it turned out that it was a manifestation created by the girl because he father used to rape her.”

“Jesus!” Kevin said, pulling the bottle away from his mouth. The lion groaned and turned its head to the other side of Kevin’s chest.

“Yeah I know. It started on one of the nights when he was in the middle of raping her, there were sounds of large rocks being thrown at the roof of the house. All the beatings that the ghost did to the girl after that was a form of self punishment.”

“So you think I was raped?” Kevin whispered, trying not to wake up the beast.

“I don’t know. I think you have created this though for some reason. Were there any signs before this? Like large rocks being thrown against your house?” Kevin thought for a moment. Nothing came up. A bulb went out in his apartment hallway, but he didn’t think that amounted to anything.

“I honestly have no idea what that would be.”

“Another thing could be that it was a freak thing that was going to happen to someone at that moment in time.”

“What do you mean?”

“All atoms have electrons that circle around it, like our moon does around the earth.”

“Yeah.” Kevin said. He had heard this before. As Aaron spoke he started playing with the sticker on the bottle, peeling it off in little strips and rolling them into tiny balls. He had managed to balance the metal grate on the lion who was now laying comfortably on it’s side so he had both hands free.

“So everything is made up of these atoms, but there is a lot of empty space between the atom and the electrons. Yet we’re solid. But theoretically there is nothing preventing us from walking through a wall, and there’s a belief that at some point someone could pass their hand through a table on a freak occurrence.”

“What does this have to do with my lion?”

“Well, what makes my group of atoms come together to form me? What makes your group of atoms form you? There are atoms between us right now, how come we don’t have some huge umbilical cord connecting us? How come the atoms around you couldn’t randomly form a mountain lion that is suspended over you at all times?”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Either way, you have this floating over you and you can’t do anything about it. I believe there was a perfect collection of events that would have had this cat floating over anyone in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“And I created it.”

“No I ditched that idea. This one makes more sense.”

“So,” Kevin said, sounding tired, “Why would this lion appear? Did it already exist somewhere and it was transported here? If it was just ‘created’ then how come it seems intelligent and not some stupid sack of hair and skin with no soul. Why didn’t I get a hot chick instead. And if I did get a hot chick, would she have never existed? Or would she be some sack of fluid and skin in the shape of a hot chick that just drools and farts? You haven’t really thought this through.” The lion yawned and rolled over using the grate to pin it’s self on to it’s back.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Aaron said, seeming a little angry that his theory was being contested. He was used to Kevin passively agreeing with him.

“From what you say, I have some sack of crap made up of atoms that resembles a mountain lion following me all the time. But this thing is sentient. And not sentient like a kitten but sentient like a mountain lion that has been around for a while. It seems like some kind of curse or punishment because I have a living thing with life experience tormenting me.” After that the conversation died down. Aaron’s interest at trying to figure out the nature of the mountain lion was gone. He soon found an opportunity to get up and leave, taking his grate with him. Both Kevin and the lion seemed a little saddened that the distance between them was restored. As Kevin slept pieces of feces fell away from the animal and into his lap.

Kevin took the offer to live at the zoo. It wasn’t as bad as he thought. They modified a large room where they had concrete rocks and fake trees to replicate a mountain on the upper half. The sky-painted ceiling was low enough where Kevin would sort of wedge the lion against it and one of the upper parts of the rock cliff so it could pretend to walk around. Since it was always directly overhead he had to walk back and fourth with it, the lion putting it’s legs on the rocks at an angle like it was in a carnival fun house with tilted floors. He and the lion learned to get along, he would hold up one hand so that it popped in underneath it and he’d and play with it. When the lion looked uncomfortable he would walk over to a low overhang and lie down so that it could roll around and sleep on it’s side. They ate together, played catch with a rubber ball, and learned to do tricks, all to the delight of the people who peered in through the large glass walls. When spring came he would take it for walks around the park that the surrounded the zoo. Kids would pose for pictures where parents laid on their backs to frame Kevin, the child and the lion overhead. Sometimes women would talk to him, but just like in life before the mountain lion appeared, it never came to much. Which was fine. He was so wrapped up in learning how to coexist with the beast that he barely thought of women anymore. He had considered what it would be like if he had sex. It would be impossible unless they did it standing up, he thought that if he was on top it could be possible but he wouldn’t want to risk it. The thing had already sprayed people near him it didn’t trust, happening once during an interview with a local talk show. They didn’t edit that part of the footage out either. They thought it illustrated perfectly the daily struggle he had to endure, or that’s what they told him when he called to complain.

Then one day he did meet someone. He was sitting on a bench with an ice cream like he did every afternoon. He would watch people jog by or bike in small groups along the paths. It had only been an hour since the creature had been fed so he knew he was safe to wear a clean, white shirt and pressed pants. He never had a reason to dress up anymore now that he was unemployed, so he took to the same logic retired people did when it came to formal wear in public. A woman sat down next to him and started with the same opener he always heard, “You’re the guy with the lion!” He looked at her. She was wearing a long dress with her hair pulled into a bun. She looked like she was in her mid twenties.

“Yes.” He said.

“What’s it like?”

“Pretty horrible at first, but I’m getting used to it.” He couldn’t figure her out. She dressed like an old woman, or a librarian, but her personality didn’t fit her reclusive, crazy- cat-lady style.

“Does it ever attack you?” She laughed. Normally he would find an excuse to end the conversation at that point, but he was intrigued by her warm personality and how she kept putting her hand on his knee when making a point. They carried on this way for a while. He didn’t mind it once she got past the formalities of his condition. The few friends he had abandoned him months ago. Something about talking to him through the glass wall at the zoo, or hearing the lion roar while on the phone was unsettling to them. They talked about their favorite movies and books. He learned that she worked at a nursing home and had to deal with feces and urine on a daily basis, which made him feel slightly better. Especially when enough time had passed that he knew the lion was going to relieve it’s self. He moved to the opposite side of the path from the bench and allowed it to happen without hitting her. He had learned to lean forward when this happened so that it went down his back, that way he didn’t have to deal with as much of the smell. She helped wipe him with a handful of napkins that she fetched from the ice cream stand near by. He told her about his old job as a salesmen for a small ad agency and some of the dumb things that clients would ask for. They laughed and continued talking until the trees grew dark and the sky turned red. She got up to leave and told him she would be back the next day. The next morning he waited nervously at the bench for her. He criticized himself for sitting there, telling himself that she wouldn’t show up. He never even learned her name. It was a habit he picked up as a salesmen because he was bad with remembering names. So it was easier to just avoid learning it until someone else told him. For him names always fit the personality. When he didn’t know someone well enough he could never remember their name. But after he had them pegged, their name would fit perfectly. When she did show up it was one of the first things he asked, making light of the fact that they had talked to intensely that he never learned it. “You already knew my name,” he added, “but I never got yours. I guess that’s the curse of being the lion guy.”

“My name is Gretchen.” She said softly, putting her hand on his. ‘Gretchen?’ he thought. ‘What the hell is with this woman?’ They spent every day this way. Walking along the park even when the spring rains gave away to hot afternoons and mosquitos. She would wear summer dresses and bring food for them to eat on the lawn. She never seemed to have anywhere to go. He asked her when she worked, and said he felt bad that he was occupying all her time. But she assured him she didn’t mind. She liked meeting him. “But don’t you have friends? Family? I’m not complaining, but you spend your entire day here with me. Do you work nights or something? I don’t want to wear you down.”

“It’s ok!” Gretchen laughed, and continued telling him about the time she had been to Florence. After a few more visits he didn’t care, he enjoyed seeing her and hearing about all her traveling experiences. From what he could tell she had been everywhere.

Soon she started to open him up to doing more than live the sheltered life he had created for himself at the zoo. She began by asking him to take walks that led outside the park and into the neighboring suburbs. They watched outdoor plays and held hands while listening to Mozart at the bandshell. People around him actually cheered when the lion roared at the end of one piece. She even convinced him to make a trip into the city on the back of her dark green pickup truck to eat at a restaurant patio. At first he said no, but she changed his mind at the hilarity of tying a string to the lions hind leg like it was a balloon. It was a night he would always remember fondly. Even when urine dribbled from above onto his neck while they enjoyed their wine. They ended the night at the park. She brought a bottle of wine for them to share as they laid on their backs and looked up at the mountain lion silhouetted against the stars. She kissed him. Her lips were warm and soft. He leaned on his side and gently put his hand through her hair to the back of her neck as they talked and continued kissing. She smelled amazing. The kissing grew more passionate. He carefully crawled on top of her and they made love in the itchy, wet grass.

They met almost every day for the rest of the summer, their stolen moments becoming more frequent which nearly resulted in their getting caught. Fall came early and along with it an uncomfortable cold that they both tried to pretend wasn’t there. They would meet wearing increasingly more clothes and talk about ways they could be alone together. The zoo wouldn’t allow her into his concrete ‘den’ because they didn’t want to be liable for anything happening to her after he had snuck her in one night and she made the mistake of crawling on top of him. Annoyed at being carted around in the back of her truck, he tried to surprise her at her work by curling up with the lion in the back of a taxi, but the thing was nervous in confined spaces and he learned that it wasn’t worth it. He made it to the nursing home, but he was so scraped up that he turned and walked all the way back, nearly catching the lion in power lines and over hanging street signs. She would come to visit him every once and a while during the winter to hold conversations with him through the glass or for small visits out in the freezing snow. Kevin resented the lion for it. He noticed that Gretchen wouldn’t even make light of it anymore. He could tell that she too was increasingly frustrated and tired. When spring came they had less visits together. He tried to pull her back in, but she always had to work at the senior home. One day on the phone she finally admitted to him that she loved him, but she couldn’t be around the lion any longer. Her voice wavered and cracked as she spoke. She said that she had changed over the winter, and that he wouldn’t recognize her anymore anyway. She told him about how she used to dream of the two of them being together, of getting married and having children. But they could never have that life in a zoo and with life being different now, she wouldn’t have that second chance. Soon she never called at all. He tried contacting her at the home, but she was never available. He realized that he needed to do something. He had to decide between his future with her, or the lion. So one morning he walked out to one of the more secluded paths in the park. A path that took him through thick trees to a corner that people rarely ever jogged or biked to. He intentionally walked close to the edge of the path so the lion had to endure branches from the pine trees hitting it in the face. It roared from the pain and alternated between swiping at the branches and at him. Kevin slowed when he made his way up an incline. The trees cleared at the top and from the path Kevin could look down at the disc golf course and picnic tables below. It was early enough that no one was there. He looked up at the lion which was still growling and swiping at him from above. Tears started to stream down Kevin’s cheeks. For a moment he began to hold one hand up to bring the creature down, but it’s anger changed his mind. After a few moments Kevin walked toward the power lines, and it’s transformer at the far side of the hill.

Kevin could tell that the zoo keepers didn’t believe it was an accident. They did try to console him when he came back sobbing uncontrollably, but didn’t show the same sympathy when he explained what happened. He should of thought that is seemed suspicious that he didn’t own a pair of running shoes, or ever expressed any interest in taking it up. So of course it seemed odd that he would decide to do it that morning. Between them, their expressions were a mixture of pity and anger. Whatever their opinion, the same person never came in twice to refill his toilet paper, take out the trash or hand him his food.

His body hurt. When the lion connected with the transformer it curled up into a ball, like a strip of paper lit on fire. He actually felt a shock of the electricity run through his body as he watched. He didn’t know if that’s what happens when you stand next to an electrical event, or if Aaron was right about atoms connecting him to the animal. Doctors looked him over and decided he was ok. He laid down in his den and tried to rest, but couldn’t when he opened his eyes and saw the blackened shape floating above him.

As the day wore on he could feel pieces of it fall down on his neck and shoulders. The press wouldn’t leave the glass wall. Kevin was too tired to do anything but lay there as they trained their cameras on him. He watched some television that night trying not to think about what he had done, but the local news would lead the end of every batch of commercials with an announcement that the lion was dead. None of them showed any footage of the lifeless shape floating opposite the glass wall. They instead showed a still image taken a year ago of him smiling and surrounded by children. Taken, of course, from the ground up to show the mountain lion overhead. The next day a group of zoo keepers perched up on the top of the fake cliff to chop the carcass up. Local news cameras filmed the process and commented on how unfortunate it was that the pieces couldn’t be removed. They floated above him, swimming around, bumping into each other with muffled thumps as he paced the den. He knew Gretchen would see it, or read about it. He already understood that it was over between them, but he still held out hope that something would spark in her again. He tried calling her once more, but could never actually dial the last number.

Over the next few days the pieces of burnt lion rotted above him. Then in the following weeks they dried and broke up into smaller parts. Soon it was a cloud of dust swirling in on it’s self. Then it was gone.

They weren't listening

pbeyer — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 01:37:00 -0500

They weren’t listening. Like every other night that he took the stage, no one looked at him. He did all the things he was supposed to do, he kept the rhythm of each word, pausing on a beat to emphasize certain parts. He spoke in a soft, faux pleading voice with each line. He even made sure to lean in close to the mic in the beginning. But no matter what he did to ape the styles of every other slam poet that had graced the stage, no one took notice. They talked, held their hands up to order another drink, and laughed loudly at their own jokes through his set.

He finished up and walked off the stage. He couldn’t understand it. He thought that maybe his material wasn’t bold enough. He needed to be more offensive, in your face. So he spent the last two weeks crafting a piece about masturbation. He didn’t even read it from his ruled pad of paper- one he had tried to make his trademark by drawing an oversized exclamation point in magic marker on the back. The other poets sitting backstage patted him on the back and muttered words of ‘next time’ and ‘pearls before swine’. It didn’t help. They were applauded when they left the stage, he wasn’t. “I’m not buying that shit,” he said, “I worked my ass off on this one. It was even more bold than Clint’s bullshit about his balls.” Clint came out of the bathroom wiping his hands. “Well, maybe you’re one of those talented guys who writes the great works, but others perform it for you. Maybe you just don’t have the showmanship…”

“What showmanship?!” He interrupted. “I do all the same shit you guys do. I even grinded up against the mic stand when I talked about blue-balls.”

“You’re too self-conscious” Clint said. “Everyone can tell you’re not comfortable up there. When you didn’t bring your notebook…” The others laughed quietly to each other, “You didn’t know what to do with your hands.” He stood, positioning himself stiffly as he tried to understand what his hands had to do with anything and what his next words were going to be. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your hands! You spent the first couple of minutes trying to put them in your pockets, then you spent the rest of the time with them just hanging at your side. Like they were dead.” Clint sat down. He was right. They were hanging at his sides, which probably made his mic-stand-humping-bit look even more awkward. As the others kept offering advice his mind wandered. He kept thinking about his hands, how limp and transparent they made him. He could hear the buzzing of others talking but they were drowned out by his internal repetition of ‘my hands, my hands…’ Followed by a slideshow of times that his hands had ruined things. How they laid dead on the table during interviews. Allowed pens to slip out of them when signing for a mortgage. Laid limply across the shoulders of woman on a failed date. By god, he wasn’t going to allow it to ruin his dream of slam poetry.

After a late night of researching he was able to find a seminar on “The Art of Hand Presentation – Add some flair to your life”. It was in Las Vegas. He had a little in savings, and about a week of PTO to use so he bought a plane ticket and flew out there. It was life-changing. The first day he learned all about a German hypnotist that could mesmerize entire audiences with his hands. He was so influential that Adolf Hitler mimicked his technique. On the second day he learned about technique. How a fleshy hand needed to be forceful and commanding, while a thin hand with long fingers needed to pass through the air like seaweed under the ebb and flow of passing currents. They watched videos, they had group practices, and that night he couldn’t sleep as he lay in bed watching his hands float against the ceiling’s shadows like a lunar moth. He wasn’t alone either. During the breaks and lunch he met others who also came to the same conclusions by their own means. Some were steel workers, lawyers, doctors. One was a mother who couldn’t get her children to listen to her while during home schooling. He realized that they all suffered from a metaphysical crisis. Their only solution rested in the very hands that had crippled them all their lives.

When he returned to work he put his skills to practice. At first his gestural attempts felt forced. He worried that by being too self conscious of what he was doing he would ruin the effect. He felt like every one could see through him. But he could tell the difference when he finished a statement during a meeting with a fluttering of his hand. Waiving it in the air near his head as if lazily swatting away a fly. It felt stiff and the room was silent for a minute. His hands had spent the hour in his lap, unmoving. But he made a point of saying something toward the end because if it failed he didn’t want to sit in defeat for the rest of the time. As soon as he did it he felt ashamed. Then, clearing his throat, the CEO said, “Go on. Finish your thought.” It was if the entire room grew brighter. He flung both hands out toward the center of the table as if throwing jacks. “Well,” He said, “I just think that if we put more people on the project-“ he balled both his hands into fists, “really define the roles- that we’d have a faster turn around.” He slowly opened both hands with palms up like two flowers blossoming. After a moment, he gave two small claps and dropped his hands back in his lap. Everyone started chattering around him. He had created a flurry of excitement at the table. He looked around at what he had created until his eyes fell on the CEO who was leaning back in his chair with arms folded, smiling. ‘Could he, out of all these people, know what I was doing?’ He thought to himself. Where he should have been happy that people were taking him seriously for the first time, he only felt fear. He wanted to duck out of the meeting, but everyone around him were adding to his idea excitedly. This was going to go on for another hour. Declarations of, ‘Barry- call the client! By God, this changes everything!’ Or ,‘Write that down! Write that down before we forget it!’ swelled up around him. All the while he couldn’t stop staring at the CEO. He was chuckling quietly while staring at him. Then he pulled one hand out from under his arm and made a gesture. The kind of gesture he had seen on one of the convention films. It was waving motion with a twinkling of his fingers so skilled, so graceful, and from a chubby hand that his mind reeled at trying to comprehend what he had just seen. Forget slam poetry. He was in a new world now that words failed to express.

Knife Fight

pbeyer — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 00:11:00 -0500

“I’ve read a lot of books…” Stephen said. He folded his hands behind him and looked out directly at the audience. He paused for a minute. “A lot of them.” He looked at a few people at different ends of the room. He looked stern. His direct approach toward public speaking always won people over, and if he didn’t sound friendly people began to respect and fear him outside of the meeting room. Clients changed their attitudes toward him, coworkers changed their attitudes toward him, even his friends have changed after they’ve seen him give a presentation. At his height, his simply being in the room added a certain weight. But lately he’s noticed people whispering. There’s been more giggling and slights from the people he managed. It always happened when he’d leave the room. He pulled this meeting together, even though the company was under a crunch to get a product out by the end of the week. He had a lot riding on this.

“I’ve read ‘Who Moved My Cheese’. I’ve read ‘Swimming With the Sharks’. I’ve even read ‘Rework’, but they were all missing something.” Everyone was still. “Marliene, can you turn on the overhead?” The lights dimmed and a projector turned on. He walked to the opposite side of the screen. The colors from the projected image crawled across him. Behind him on the screen was a photo of a switchblade. “Knife fights”. He dropped it on them. No one moved. He could almost see their Goddamn heads swimming. He knew he had them- you come out fast and hard, that’s how you win a fight.

“The world of business can’t be planned. You can’t reduce abstract notions like ‘change’ down to something manageable that you can plan.” He said. He could feel the momentum building. This felt good, he was back, even if it only lasted as long as this meeting. “It’s human nature to try to take things you have no control over and reduce them to manageable elements. Like death…” Some of their jaws were dropping. He needed to soften it a little. “When a loved one passes it’s hard for everyone involved. Especially if the process is a long one. It’s terrifying. It’s something most people want to run from- they want someone else to handle it. But if you read the line of self-help style books, they’ll walk you through all the steps of what to expect. If it’s predictable, then it’s not scary anymore.” He had them back. They were getting sucked in. He needed to slap them in the face a little to let them know who’s driving the ship. “Even down to the death rattles. Our company is in a death rattle.” He paused. “But we don’t know, or don’t care because we’ve read all the books, and the books say that this is part of a normal process. We need to be scared. We need to fight. And that’s where knife fights come in.”

Then, he started telling them a story about last week’s trip to Detroit to visit his dying mother. It was perfect. He was tying everything together with a personal message. He never had a mother- he was an orphan that jumped around from family to family all his life. He never loved anyone. But they didn’t know that when he told HR that he was going to need a week off. No one questions you when you toss the words ‘dying mother’ into your reasons for needing the time off during a busy period. He spent the week in his condo, watching youtube videos about knife fights. “Then…” He continued,”she held her hand up and made me promise to make my family proud. I took that hand. I took it and I looked her in the eye and promised that good woman that I would.” He dropped his head down. Damn, he was near tears himself. By dropping his head he could look remorseful without having to actually act like it. It just takes a second. “Then, she took her last breath and left this gentle earth.” A woman in the back sniffed. “Shaken, I went across the street to a waterfront bar. I ordered a whisky and let myself sit with what I had seen, and the promise I made. A man- I believe his name was Cutty- he talked to me. I told him what had happened. Cutty was an old salt. He had been in two wars and was no stranger to death. It turns out he was no stranger to business either. After hearing about my great responsibility he gave me this bit of advice.” Stephen pressed on the small remote in his hand. The image changed from a knife to two knives pointing at each other. Above one was the title ‘Company’, above the other ‘Client’. “And there you have it.” He said.

He started in on his Nietzschian philosophy of great companies having great responsibility outside the norms of conventional businesses. You needed to fight. You had to pull every dirty trick in the book, because in a knife fight you don’t know who you’re up against. You have to take the enemy down. Take them down hard and finish them because you don’t want them coming back later after they’ve learned the limits of your fighting skill. He followed this with instruction manual illustrations of two bland men facing each other, crouching, with knives in their hands. There were arrows illustrating a clockwise motion, with text saying the types of thrusts and swipes to use. Everything symbolized processes in the business world. The man wielding the knife were the executives. The knife was the designers, project managers, copywriters. He punched out the words with the same severity as when he laid off Timothy. He really liked Timothy. He was the only one that Stephen could confide in. They used to get together to watch ‘Fight Club’ and get drunk. But it was out of his hands. He didn’t make the decision. Timothy took it hard and he never heard from him again. He felt like he was doing the same to this audience. He was punishing them, he was laying them off.

“I have a question.” One member raised their hand. He hated that. He didn’t want an open forum, he just wanted to say his piece and be done. “Yes?” Stephen said trying to look disapproving. “When you talk about making a series of thrust-cuts to the hands, and swipes to the forearm as a way of weakening the opponent… isn’t that a way of setting up your bases?” The man said, standing up. He wasn’t so much of a man, he was in his twenties and dressed like a child. Only a douche bag wears t-shirts with oversized prints poking out from their side. He was short too, he might as well have been a kid. “I suppose.” Stephan said. “So if you’re setting up bases, and gearing up for the big attack- Wouldn’t Starcraft be a more appropriate analogy?” The audience made impressed ‘ooh’ sounds and started to talk amongst themselves. Stephen cursed inside. He didn’t know how to save this. By continuing to debate the videogame/knife fight analogy he was only giving the kid’s idea more time to sink in. “First,” the kid continued,”you make your drones start mining minerals and have a few start making a barracks. That way you get your troop count up. Then you make some food storage units to feed the troops as you upgrade to more powerful troops. After that you can set up bunkers and look out towers to keep the spies from seeing your numbers. After you’ve expanded to other mineral fields you can attack the opponent.” Stephen tossed his remote onto a nearby table and casually walked out. As he rounded the corner to his office he could hear the kid still talking. People were applauding. That was supposed to be his applause.

Stephen deleted some files off his computer and put the photo of his family in his bag. It wasn’t his real family, this photo came with the frame. He had no family. Except for Timothy. His old fantasy of starting a company with Timothy bubbled up in his mind. He scanned through the address book on his phone and brought Timothy’s number up, then put the phone in his pocket. As he drove away, he hit the dial button on his phone. It rang. He didn’t know if Timothy would pick up. He’d leave a message explaining that he had quit and see what happened. Maybe he’d bring up the fantasy. Who was he kidding, some upstart would ruin what he had built just like the kid did today. What he had to do was figure out how to gain authority without over-doing it and having it end this way. Timothy answered the phone sounding out of breath. “I was just in the shower.” He said.

I work for the Vatican

pbeyer — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 00:31:00 -0500

“No. You don’t understand.” The priest said, leaning in slightly as he tapped his gloved finger on the plastic check card, and gazing sternly at the man behind the counter. “This card was specially given to me by the Vatican as an expense card…” He asserted calmly, the rings around his eyes conveying a deep sense of exhaustion. “…I work… For the Vatican.”

He stopped to allow for the weight of his words to set in for a moment before continuing. He briefly licked his lips then spoke slowly, with his thick Italian accent rolling around lazily in his mouth, “I’m here on a special mission for the Pope. And this is my expense card. If you can’t take this card, then I have no cigarettes to take in the car to Tulsa. If I have no cigarettes, then I become fussy and light-headed. If I become fussy and light-headed- then I will be in no condition to drive to Tulsa. If I’m not in Tulsa by tomorrow, I will have failed my mission- you understand?”
“I have no idea what that thing is.” The young man behind the counter said, only allowing his eyes to glance down as he pointed, palm up, to the gold and silver plastic card. His body was rigid, as if anticipating something. “I can’t take that- it’s not a choice of mine. It’s not any of the major credit card companies, so it’s not going to work. It’s not even diners club.”

The priest, raising himself up from the counter, sighed as he removed his gloves and passed his bleach white hands through his hair. He stared up at the cigarette kiosk over the clerks head for a moment. Then, resting his hands firmly back down on the counter, he looked the clerk dead in the eye and said softly. “Just try the card.”
“Look, It’s not anything against…”
“Just try the card.”
“If you can’t pay for this with something else then…”
“Just. Try. The. Card.”
“Seriously, I’m going to call the cops.”
”Hey-sus kris-tee!” The priest whispered as he backed away from the counter and clasped both his hands together so that all the fingers were intertwined and resting over his knuckles, leaving only his index fingers protruding up and uniting at the tips. These, he rested against the indent on his upper lip and closed his eyes. There was a silence, then a loud exhale from his enormous nostrils.

“I am about to tell you something that you are not prepared to hear.” he said, his fingers still positioned on his lip. The man behind the counter slowly slid his hand down beneath the register. “I don’t expect you to believe me but I will tell you anyway- Though you are not deserving…”
“Alright, look.” The clerk interrupted, “I’ll slide it through, but don’t get pissed if it’s rejected. Alright?” he added, his head turning and bowing slightly so that he was glaring at the priest from one side of his face. “This is fair.” The man said after a moment.

The Clerk slowly lifted his hand and took the card, all this done through a keen sense of touch since he never actually took his eyes off the pale, white hands of the priest. Glancing only to make sure that the magnetic strip (which, instead of the standard black or brown, was a glittering white) was facing the right way, he swiped it one way. Then he swiped it the opposite way before finishing it with a swipe in the original direction. The register hummed, then clicked and beeped. Both priest and clerk looked at the display which blinked ‘Call in’. “Weird.” The clerk bleated awkwardly.

He backed a few steps, and felt for the phone which hung on the wall. Reading a number which was scribbled on a crinkled and worn post-it note, he punched in the 1-800 number. Then, when the automated voice asked that he punch in the credit card number, the quite tones of the pressed numbers only chimed four times. Then he raised the receiver to his ear and winced slightly as he awaited the rejection. After a moment a man’s voice spoke, “It’s ok, give him whatever he wants.”
“Wait, what?” The clerk demanded. The mans voice, which had a familiar southern accent, repeated what he had said. “This is ridiculous!” The clerk yelled. “His card is clearly a fake! Who is this?”
“The president of The United States of America, son, Just give him the items he wants and let him get on his way.”
“Fuck it!” The clerk said, slamming the phone down and shrugging his shoulders. Walking over to the register he began pulling out all the bills and tossing them to the priest, who accepted them without any sense of surprise. Then, the clerk pulled an entire carton out from the kiosk above. There was a sliding sound followed by a dull thud. He pulled that carton out as well and handed them over to the priest. “Anything else asshole?” he added as innocently as if he had replaced the word ‘asshole’ with ‘sir’.
“No.” The priest said calmly, the words squeezing out of his mouth like play-dough. “This will be fine. Actually, now that I think of it, If I could have your shirt I could use it as a disguise.”
“Oh I know! I was thinking exactly the same thing!” he said as he all but ripped his t-shirt off from over his head.

A few months after that incident, he had began noticing little old women passing by the bay windows of his store. They looked to be in their 60’s and wore dark handkerchiefs over their heads. They always made minimal eye-contact, before moving on. But over time they blatantly stood outside his door and mumbled to themselves, holding rosemary beads and clutching them to their chins and chests. Months after that, he had to wade through the clutter of photographs, candles and flowers that were laid at the foot of his door when he tried to open in the morning. Local news crews came and went, he did an interview or two and eventually quit- never really knowing what all the attention was for. Once, after drinking on the job, he threw the doors open and screamed at the pilgrims demanding to know what was going on. As a response he was flooded with tossed roses and beads.

Grimm Monkey

pbeyer — Wed, 17 Oct 2007 15:00:00 -0500

Henry finally pulled up to his driveway after spending the night at a bar with his friends. From his car he peered into the windows of his house and saw the all the lights were on, “crap” he thought as he got out and checked to make sure that his car was lined up in a ‘normal’ fashion on his driveway.

Carefully, he put the key into the lock and opened the door. He paused and listened to hear if the television was on. It wasn’t. He took off his shoes and put his jacket into the closet. He peered carefully from the kitchen into the living room and saw that though the lights were on, there wasn’t anyone in the room. With a sudden lightness in his step, he trotted across the living room to the sliding patio door. Once outside, he pulled a pack of Marlboros from his pocket. It was dark out, especially since he had turned off the motion sensitive yard-light. It was only by the glow of the match he had struck and held to the cigarette in his mouth that he saw the figure.

It was perched on his patio table. by the light of his match, it seemed to be a tall, thin shape that curled in on it’s self like an inflatable toy that had lost it’s strength. He dropped his match and cigarette. In retrospect, his first reaction should of been to run back into his house, instead he paused waiting to hear if the shape emitted any sound. Slowly, he slid the glass door open behind him and felt for the switch to turn on the yard light- which happened after a few moments of fumbling. The area flooded with a mosquito resistant orange light and revealed what he had feared- a man.

It actually wasn’t really a man, but a skinny, nine foot tall monkey that sat absentmindedly on his patio table. It’s thin hips were planted firmly on the tables edge, with his long legs sprouting in awkward directions so that it’s knees threw themselves at him like cannon barrels before it’s feet tucked neatly under the table. It’s torso grew up from it’s hips and arced over under it’s own weight and from it’s compressed shoulders a neck sprouted, gnarled and muscly in an opposite arc to support it’s small head. On top of it’s head grew a set of antlers, like the type found on a deer. Henry sat motionless with his mouth hanging open. They both sat there in silence until, to Henry’s horror, the monkey turned and looked directly at him.

“You smoking?” It said in a deep and calm voice.

For a while Henry didn’t answer. The monkey, content to wait, continued looking directly at him. Henry couldn’t take his eyes off the antlers, which seemed to reach up to mingle with the branches from a neighbors tree. They were broad and bowed out, it’s sprouting arms meeting at the top. For some reason, it was the antlers that seemed to strike him as the most petrifying part of the experience. Much time passed before he blinked and answered, “Yeah.”

“Then it’s time.” It said flatly, as it continued to look at him with it’s expressionless black eyes.

“For what?” Henry asked automatically.

“I’m here to collect your soul.”

“Wait, what? Why?” Henry said, his voice not seeming to be his own.

“You’re scheduled to expire tonight from a heart attack. I’m here to collect your soul.”

“No!” Henry said. The monkey, still not moving just looked at him unblinking.

After a few moments, Henry collected him self enough to look at his own body. Then he looked around his feet as if for something that had fell from his pockets. Looking up at his accuser he added, “I’m not dead… I think.”

“So it seems.” The monkey said immediately after Henry had finished his sentence. And with a sound like a nail being scraped against glass, a large book appeared, floating before the monkey. “It seems that there has been a miscalculation.” He said smoothly, his deep voice causing the leaves to rustle on the concrete below him.

“I see.” Henry replied.

“You shouldn’t smoke.”

“I know.”

There was a long silence as they both looked at each other. “I will say good day to you then.” The monkey said, the lips on it’s large round mouth barely parting.

“Holy shit, you scared the hell out of me-“ Henry laughed nervously. “I saw you and I was all like, double-you tee eff!”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me.” The monkey replied calmly.

“Oh.”

The monkey, with all it’s length seemed to grow smaller at it’s center, as if someone had lassoed it’s ribcage and pulled it violently backwards while it’s head and legs stayed stationary. With a loud popping sound it was gone, leaving only the smell of burnt hair. Henry’s eyes darted around the empty area where the monkey had sat. Finally accepting that the creature was gone, he pulled one cigarette out from the pack in his pocket and lit it before crushing the container into
a small, misshapen ball.

The Last Horcrux

pbeyer — Wed, 12 Sep 2007 23:14:00 -0500

It was somewhere into the second hour that Rachael decided to take her cloak off. It wasn’t making the search any easier in the way that her sleeve kept getting caught on the end caps or the shelves as she scrambled frantically for the next clue. She was dressed as Hermione, and though her costume far outdid the other kids in the bookstore, she was beginning to wish she just wore a t-shirt like some of the other less dedicated children who were on the hunt. Most of the kids were tearing around the store, frantically pulling books off the shelves. Rachael, after digging around in the ‘world religion’ section, decided to make her way back to the obvious places in an attempt to calibrate her next move- the Harry Potter section.

She pulled her second layer of robe off as she frowned stoically and slowly trudged past all the scurrying kids. She never jarred from thought, even when others elbowed past her or a book flew over her head. All the other horcruxes had been found at this point, and there were only twenty more minutes until the seventh, and final book was released. The first few horcruxes stayed true to the book, but since the last few were yet to be discovered in the final book, they were vague and harder to find clues for. One was a chocolate heart that was under a table in the cafe, and another was a brass bookmark on the top shelf of the world history section. Rachael had narrowly missed getting the that one when, after discovering a clue within a book of Scottish ghost stories, she dashed to the Scottish section of world history to find a chubby boy in a malfoy t-shirt holding the bookmark over his head and declaring his victory. It didn’t matter to her though, it was the final horcrux that really mattered since it was hand-picked by J.K. Rowling her self.

The whole scavenger hunt was done as a promotional event between Rowling’s publisher and the Barnes and Nobel bookstores. Unlike the other events being held at other bookstores, this one had a real impact on finding out the outcome of the final book. Rumor had it that Rowling deliberated on what the final horcrux should be so that the owner of it would know the books ending, while not allowing it’s existence to leak on the Internet. Rachael had to have it. She felt that she was destined to. She had an emotional bond to the books, and especially Hermione, that she knew few others had. She was certain that Rowling had intended that this final item on the hunt was only meant for bright little girls like herself, not something to be stumbled upon by just anyone. So she had spent the majority of the evening focusing on that alone.

When she reached the Harry Potter section of the store, it was as if a tornado had blown through. The store clerks, like rescue workers, crouched over the pile of books and muttered to themselves. “Leave them,” One clerk said, “There’ll just be more kids back to pick through them again.” The others stood up exhausted and wandered, eyes glazed, to different areas of the store. Rachael, now alone with the books, sat on the floor with her legs spread out like a V before her. There was a deep feeling of despair that sank in her stomach as the realization hit her that she wouldn’t find the horcrux in the time remaining. Then, under her right foot, she saw the open page of a book with the words, “When you need help, just ask for it.” She leaned in closer. It was a quote from Dumbledore when he was telling Harry that he shouldn’t be too proud to ask for help. ‘That’s it!’ She thought to herself, rising up from the mound of paper. ‘Sometimes the only answer is to just ask for help!’

She walked steadily toward the help desk. Children of all shapes and sizes flew past her, including one child who was pulling his mother by the arm while crying. Stepping firmly up toward the desk, she laid both hands steadily on the counter and said calmly, “Excuse me”. The lady at the desk was busy filing some things by her feet. “Excuse me.” She said a little louder, the excitement rising to her throat.
“Yes?” The woman said, her head popping up from below the counter. She had a lightening scar on her cheek- fool. “Can you tell me how to find the last horcrux?” Rachael said quietly, her eyes staring intently into the woman’s.
“What?” The woman said, almost offended.
“I’d like to know where the last Horcrux is please…” Rachael repeated, steadily.
“You can’t just ask…” The woman bleated, her eyes narrowing as if ready to scold Rachael. But another woman popped up from below the table and said, “No, that counts. It was in the memo Stacy.”
“Stacy,” Rachael interrupted, her eyes never leaving the woman’s, “I’d like to know where the last horcrux is please.” She said slowly.
“I’m sorry, Stacy was a fill in for another who was sick. It’s busy here as you’d expect… Look in the gift certificate end cap.” She whispered, then she winked.

Stacy ran to the display. ‘Of course!’ she thought as she tore through all the green, plastic cards in their little slots.
“What the fuck!” A clerk pleaded from a few feet away. He was hushed by another, older clerk who muttered something to him about watching. Then, she saw it. A little, gold box at the back of one of the slots. She pulled it out timidly, almost expecting J.K. Rowling to emerge from behind a curtain to congratulate Rachael in person. Carefully she opened up the box an reached in to pull out it’s contents. Other children, sensing something was up, began to gather around her. She let her fingers feel it’s contents. Something hard and smooth. She pulled it out, and her eyes crossed from the confusion of what she saw. It was a Barnes and Nobel gift card with an print of Lord Byron on it’s surface. The older clerk dashed up to her and held her arm up to show the others the card, “She found the last horcrux! It’s a Barnes and Nobel gift card redeemable for forty dollars or less on any purchase between now and December 24th of 2008!” Even before he could finish what he was saying, a deafening cheer grew from the crowd.
“A what?” Rachael muttered, confused and on the verge of crying.
“It’s a Barnes and Nobel gift card redeemable for forty dollars or less on any purchase between now and December 24th of 2008!” The clerk whispered excitedly to her as he knelt down next to her.
“But… but how does this tell me about how the last book ends?”
“Isn’t it obvious to a smart little girl like you? You can use it to buy a copy of the book!” He said, teeth and eyes shining with glee.
“But…” Rachael trailed off.
“J.K. Rowling would of wanted you to have this.” The clerk said, looking very serious as he handed the card back to her.

It was on the ride home, clutching her copy of “The Deathly Hollows” that she resolved to spend the rest of her life extracting her revenge on J.K. Rowling. Nineteen years later, she would make the same resolution while in jail for lighting Rowling’s trash can on fire in the driveway of her mansion. She was suspected in a string of vandalism cases that had emerged since the writing of the final book. Her time in court was going to be long and drawn out, and it only strengthened her hatred of the author.

Malachi

pbeyer — Thu, 11 Jan 2007 11:45:00 -0600

He marveled at the blotches of gray and white feathers that crept around Malachi’s little body. His head, small and aerodynamic, darted from left to right as if to cast a protective eye.
“So you say he will protect me?” Terry asked.
“Absolutely.” The kindly looking old man behind the counter replied. His bleach-blue eyes peeking out playfully from behind the folds around his lids. “I guarantee that once you’ve gained his trust, he will defend you to the death.”
“How soon can I have him trained?” Terry asked, transfixed on the powerful eyes of the falcon that stood proudly on it’s perch, head defiantly in profile as it stared out the shop window.
“Oh, I’m sorry son,” The old man said dropping his head in all seriousness, then his eyes looked back up at the boy, “It’s going to take a few months before he’s properly trained.”
“I don’t know if I can handle another couple months!” Terry exclaimed out of desperation. “I need help now!”

And he did. Ever since the school year started, he had been harassed by one boy who was in all his classes. He had his money taken, he was beaten up on his walk home and humiliated in front of the girl he had a crush on during recess. That was the last straw. He knew that he couldn’t match the bully in strength, but he had his wits- so he began to shop around for a plan. That’s how he came across this pet store, with the quirky old man who had a special kind of twinkle in his eye. Something caused the boy to trust him when he added, “You know, I think Malachi here has taken’ a liking to you.”
“You think so?” The boy asked, awed.
“Yep. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen old Malachi here warm up to someone so quickly- and you know why?”
“No, why?”
“Because he can sense something in you.”
“He can? What?”
”Power.”

The old man then explained that the art of falconry wasn’t just about training a bird to fly and hunt. It was about the falcon craving discipline, but it wouldn’t just follow anyone who came along. A falcon will only respond to a great man, or a boy with the potential for greatness. He then made some whining sounds, as if trying to reason an argument in his head, before following up with the declaration that he would personally help the boy train Malachi in record time. “But,” he followed, “It’s going to take a lot of late nights, and serious effort on your part.” Terry was sold.

What followed was two weeks of intense training in the yard behind the shop where the old man kept his collection of rebuilt, vintage cars. They would train the bird to come when called, and feed from it’s master’s hand. In order to help build muscle in the boys weak arm, to support the bird, he had the boy spend hours applying turtle wax to his cars, and repeating the process until Terry broke down in tears. But in the end he had learned the art of falconry, and taught Malachi to attack a makeshift scarecrow in a red shirt, when the boy pointed and shouted, “Malachi! Engage!” To watch Malachi’s rage taken out on the straw man was a thing of beauty. He would majestically pull tufts of straw out from it’s face with it’s powerful beak before ending the attack with a powerful screeching cry. By this time he felt a deep bond with Malachi that he had never felt toward anyone else. It was less like Malachi was a separate entity, and more like an extension of himself. “You are ready.” The old man finally said one night, “Take him, and seek your vengeance.”

The next day, Terry walked to school nervous with anticipation. He held Malachi on his arm for most of the walk, but removed his small hood when he reached the block where he knew he would run into his nemesis. By the time he had reached the school grounds, he released Malachi into the air so the bully wouldn’t see his new weapon. He walked up to the girl he had a crush on with a new sense of confidence. Though he had never talked to her before, he felt that his old fears were meaningless now that he commanded such power. As if it were scripted, the bully walked up to him and threatened to kick his ass if he didn’t hand over his lunch money. Terry gallantly refused, and when his enemy knocked Terry’s books from his hand, Terry smiled and twisted his red ball cap so it’s brim faced backwards. He could hear his love interest audibly gasp at this touch of flair. He then called out for Malachi who had spent this time flying in the cover of the sun to protect it from view. Malachi swooped down and landed on Terry’s arm, then showed it’s full wingspan while screeching like a horn of the Angil of Apocalypse. The bully stepped back in fear. Terry could of stopped at this point, but so many months of hate had built up that he wanted to see his enemy suffer. Slowly, he held out his fist so that it hovered inches away from the bully’s face and unfurled his index finger. “Malachi…” Terry bellowed, “ENGAGE!”

Malachi bolted from Terry’s arm and shot like a rocket straight into the air. All three winced up at the sun to follow the bird. Finally, with a scream Malachi came down. But he didn’t strike about the head and neck of Terry’s nemesis, but to Terry himself. Screaming in pitches that turned all the heads of the children who were waiting for the school doors to open, Terry ran from the grounds with his arms covering his head. As he tended his wounds back at home, Terry replayed the experience over and over in his mind like a general after a failed campaign. He couldn’t understand what went wrong. He looked up at the kitchen window where Malachi fluttered hysterically in an attempt to break through the glass and finish Terry off. Terry pulled his hat off and scratched his head, and that’s when he realized what had gone wrong. He was wearing a red hat. And all the training against the scarecrow happened while the stuffed mannequin was wearing a red shirt. Malachi hadn’t been trained to kill at Terry’s command, he had learned to kill anything red. And then Terry began to cry softly to himself. He had made his situation worse than before. Any chances he had at impressing that girl were lost. He could of just continued on with the beatings and degradations like any number of children who are harassed by a school bully, but he had made his situation so much worse that he would recess even further into silence and submission. All this because no one told him the consequences of what would happen if his plan failed.

He thought of the old man who had spent all those hours trying to help him. What made him do it? Why wouldn’t he have been kind enough to calm him down and make Terry see reason. Was it pity? Did he also experience the crushing humiliation at the hands of a bully, and just wanted to see someone stand up and take back their pride? Terry stopped crying as he thought of how selfish the old man was for living vicariously through an impressionable young boy. “That’s it old man.” Terry muttered to himself as he went into the basement. A few moments later he came back with an old paint can, it’s lid spattered with the deep red color that he had used to paint his tree house. “Malachi! Come!” He yelled as he marched outside with one arm raised. The screen door slammed behind him.

Comb of the Grotesque

pbeyer — Sat, 16 Dec 2006 00:00:00 -0600

“And this…” Mr. VanHauseman said as he gestured calculatedly toward the item that sat on a lighted pillar. All his movements were deliberate because of the tight, double breasted suit he was wearing. It was an antique, and it looked that any movement on his part would break the shoulders at the seams. “This is a comb.”

The group of teenagers that had straggled in from the rain, all glanced sideways at each other as if looking for reassurance that this man was a loser. Mr. VanHausemen stared intently at each of them as he gave the weight of his words time to settle in. Then he continued, “Is a comb.”
“I know, but- so what?” One of the girls piped in. The others laughed, relieved that someone had pointed out the obvious.
“I’ll tell you ‘so what’.” Mr. VanHauseman replied Cooley. “This comb was used by the great Sullivan McCormith in 1849 during one of his coal mining excavations!” He ended with a flourish.
No one moved, all their little eyes wide as they stared at him in disbelief.
“His luck in finding lucrative coal mines was impeccable…” He added, reducing his tone. “And when he died, he willed all his good fortune into this comb, with the intent of having it passed on to his estranged son so he could continue the family business. But it was intercepted by his business partner and was never returned to it’s rightful owner.”

At this point, Mr. VanHausemen again gestured to the ebony comb which sat lightly on the plaster surface. It looked as old as described. It’s surface covered in thin cracks, with dirt in it’s corners and wear on it’s teeth. One of the kids leaned in for a closer look while asking, “So, whoever has this will get money?”
“So Mr. McCormith’s business partner thought! Until, on an excursion to the dark continent in search of new mines, he suffered a spoliation at the hands of a rhinoceros.”
“Spoliation?” One asked.
“Defloration.” VanHausemen added for clarity. There was moment of silence before he burst out, “Rape!” He did little to hide his disgust. There was a collective gasp from the teenagers.
“He continued on, undaunted in this setback. And made it to a mine that was rumored to hold vast veins of gold. But he didn’t survive the rain of unrelenting pellets of coal!”
“Huh?” One of the girls mumbled, as she continued to snap gum.
“He died you strumpet!”
“From small pellets of coal?”
“Yes. That is correct.”
“Seriously?” One of the boys asked.
“Yes.”
“How big were the coal pellets?” Another asked.
“That’s not important. The point of the story is, that there have been a select few who were able to wield the comb successfully, and had become rich beyond their wildest dreams! But the others suffered a gruesome death.”
“Tits.” One of the other boys quipped. The rest laughed.
“I’m going to leave the room now, I’ll be back in about an hour. So I’ll leave you to wander the museum of your own accord.” He said with a slight grin.

The kids walked around the dark room, peering into glass cases and joking at the contents. There was a pocket watch with a small card beneath it which read, “Used in the murder of Molly Stanford in 1893.” And a fountain pen which was implicated in the abduction of Daniel Rosen. But all focus went back to the unguarded comb. There were a few nervous jokes about how intelligent it was for Mr. VanHausmen to leave the group alone with this important object. They all circled it and dared each other to touch it. After a few were bold enough to prod it gingerly, the jokes about stealing it changed in tone. Soon it was a matter of who was actually going to take it. One, the meekest of the group stepped forward and said quietly that he would.

As they rushed themselves out the door, one of the girls felt something small hit her in the back of the neck. The others inspected her and found a small, red welt swelling near the collar of her raincoat. A few blocks away, a boy nearest the one who took the comb, felt a sharp sting on his temple. Again, a welt was found and they all looked around the empty streets. It was drizzly, Sunday afternoon, so no one was out on this small main street. Unnerved, they quickened their pace back to one of their homes. All the way each were pelted by something, and yelped in fear. They all came to the conclusion that it was the curse of the small coal pellets until the theif was hit inside his mouth. He doubled over, clutching at his mouth. One of the girls squealed, asking what was wrong. They all gathered around him expecting him to die a twitching death before their eyes, until the boy stood up. He put his index finger and thumb into his mouth and pulled out a small, metal ball. They all leaned in and looked. One finally announced that it was a bee bee pellet. Confused and angry, they all pivoted around to see where it came from. Since they had left the empty gaze of the main street windows for the neighborhood, they could easily see where the source was.

Squatting behind a tree, frantically pumping a air rifle, was Mr. VanHauseman. Cold wisps of air trailed from his lips from behind the tree, giving his position away to the gum snapping girl.

They beat the shit out of him. It was the horror of one of the girls producing a primal scream as she rushed him, that sent him running. But it was the repeated blows to his head that finally had him crumpled up in a ball on the wet grass. And as they repeatedly kicked him in his head and ribs, they thought they could hear him say, “I was just trying to put some wonder back in your life.”

Children's Room Decorator

pbeyer — Tue, 12 Dec 2006 01:00:00 -0600

He dropped his roller stick on the hardwood floor, gouging a small scrape as it’s metal arm hit. He didn’t care, and neither did the woman who was watching in awe from the doorway. He studied the walls, hands planted firmly on his hips with a scowl of a man who intended to conquer a well known enemy.

There was a long silence, his intense breathing hissing audibly through his bushy mustache. The mother’s eyes darted from the back of his head, to the naked walls of the room, and back to his head again as if trying to gain some insight into his thoughts. She bit her lip to prevent the nervous babbling she had given into earlier. But the longer the silence, the louder his breathing became, and the more intense the clenching feeling in her stomach grew. Unable to stand it any longer, and sensing that he didn’t approve of her room, she broke in by adding to a previous conversation.
“I know it’s not impressive, I was just wondering if there were anything that could be done to… You know, spice things up a little before-“
“I see…” The decorator interrupted loudly, in an authoritative voice. Then he fell back into silence, with a slight smirk on his face which couldn’t be seen by the woman behind him. He tried not to giggle as he held the silence for as long as he could.
“What’s that?” She asked timidly.
“I see, pink!” He announced.
“Oh perfect!” She clapped her hands together. “I was just telling my husband that no matter if we have a boy or a girl that I thought Pink would-“
“I see pink and…” He interrupted, suddenly pivoting on his heels to face her. “Dolphins.”
“Dolphins?”
“Dolphins. Dolphins that will frolic across these pink expanses.” He added, staring past her shoulder as he envisioned his creation.
“Amazing.” She said breathlessly.
“Yes.” He murmured as he turned from her to pace the room with his hand rubbing his chin. “Skinless dolphins, their veins glistening in the pink waters… Gleefully.”
“Skinless?” The mother asked, becoming hesitant and confused.
“A child’s room isn’t just a canvass for fantasy. No. The best kind of fantasy is fantasy with a message. The kind of message that a child can take with them into adulthood. This child will learn that though their world may look pleasant and boundless, they are actually naked and exposed to the elements. More than naked! Skinless!”
“I see.” The mothers face lit up, her eyes fanatically staring into the walls, the imagery appearing before her.
“And the dolphins are ignorant to their plight, which will be evident in their toothy smiles and bow ties.”
“Bow ties! I love it! I can’t wait to tell Harold! I’m going to call him now!”
“Yes, call your ‘Harold’. And close the door when you leave, I need to be alone with the room as I prepare.”

As the door clicked behind her, he laughed heartily. Then, spontaneously, raised his arms up as he declared to the ceiling, “I decorate children’s rooms!” And somewhere in the depths of the earth, a small voice replied, “And you always will.”

Best Friends Forever

pbeyer — Sun, 19 Nov 2006 23:04:00 -0600

“I can’t be your B.F.F anymore.” She stated. It was dry, and without emotion as if she had done this days ago.
“What?”
“You can not be my B.F.F. anymore. I wanted to call and tell you that I am breaking my B.F.F. with you.” She repeated. Her thick, staccato-ridden, accent putting stress on the wrong syllables.
“Oh I get it. I forgot about that, it’s been something like a year since I saw you- How have you been? How’s Tokyo? You finally get a boyfriend?”
“I’m serious. I only called to tell you that we can not be B.F.F. anymore. I’m not your friend.”
“Mamiko, that was just a joke! You kept saying I was the first American friend you’ve ever had, so I was kidding when I said we should be Best Friends Forever.”
“No joke.”

“Yes, it was just a joke. ‘B.F.F.’ is something little girls do. For an adult to have a B.F.F. is silly!”
“Not silly. This is the last time we talk.”
“Seriously?” He asked after a moment. He almost thought he could hear sniffling on the other end. “Did I do something to piss you off?”
“No.” She said, “You were… Best friend-” Then broke off.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I have met another. She is my new B.F.F.. But she told me there can only be one B.F.F., and you can’t be my B.F.F. anymore.”
“Wait, so she’s saying you can’t have any friends besides her? Is she the only person you’re going to ever talk to? Even at work?”
“No, she said only I can’t have B.F.F.. I can still have friends.”
“You’re friend is nuts.”
”Never talk about my B.F.F.! She was right about you. You’d say anything to be my B.F.F.!”
“Let me change that, you’re nuts.”
“I have to go. This is the last time I talk to you… Good bye.”
“Yep!”

Vibro-Chair

pbeyer — Wed, 30 Aug 2006 16:44:00 -0500

“Ma’am, you can’t sit here all day.” The store clerk said sternly, as his hand rested lightly on the plush, leather vibrating chair.
“I don’t see anyone here, is there a line?” The large woman said, sitting up to dramatically look around the Sharper Image’s show room floor to prove her point.

She was right, there was no one there. No one was ever at the Sharper Image on a week day. The store sold random trinkets which were aimed at wealthy people with nothing to spend their money on, or traveling business men who needed miniature radios for their hotel rooms. Weekends were packed with people who wanted to play with their useless flashlights that held built in compasses, or life-sized spider man statues- but they never buy anything. The leather massage chair was another one of those items. They put them out in the front windows so it would draw people in to sit and try them out, but the nine thousand dollar price tag ensured that no one would actually purchase one. This woman did just that, but the difference between her and the average customer was that she came in every day carrying a duffel bag of food and water.

She wore a tight tee shirt with a lizard on the front, sitting in a lawn chair with sun glasses and holding what looked to be an iced tea. On the top, right across her breasts which were unencumbered by a bra, were the words “Thank God It’s Friday!” Which curved and stretched as it tried to cling to her form. She also wore a pair of tight sweat pants, stained from the diet cola that glided around between her thighs. The chair was vibrating with enough force to shake every portion of her body, but since she had been there so long, the chaotic pattern of the vibrations had settled her body into an equal rhythm that gave the illusion that she was still, but her body was in a type of slow-motion as if she were swimming underwater. The clerk found it hard to maintain eye-contact as he spoke, because of the hypnotic motion of everything between her neck and knees.

“Honestly ma’am. We’re not allowed to have one person sit on this chair all day.”
“Fine, then I’ll move over to the other one.” She bleated angerly as she tried to sit herself up. But, like when spending too much time in a hot tub, her muscles were weak, and she struggled.
“You don’t understand. If you continue to sit on any of these chair for hours at a time, you’re taking advantage of us. If you like the chair so much, you could just buy one. We have a payment plan if you can’t afford it right now.” As soon as he finished, he could tell by the pleading look on her face that buying one of the chairs was the last thing she wanted to do. The clerk looked away after a minute, not able to figure out what her reasoning was, and not able to look at her body sliding around like raw eggs on a skillet. Finally, he went back to the counter, muttering something about giving her a few minutes before calling the mall security. He pretended to file papers, and went on to arrange the items on a shelf behind him but she didn’t move. People walked past and peered in as they always did. Trying to catch a glimpse of the chrome and wood items within, but when they laid eyes on the woman they quickly averted their eyes and hurried on. One child, who’s parents had clearly just taken him to Master Cuts, pointed at the woman- to which the parents instantly covered his eyes and moved to the other side of the hallway while they walked past. The clerk realized that this problem was only going to get worse when he finally mustered up enough strength to walk towards the woman.

As he came up behind her, it all revealed it’s self like a crime scene. First he saw the back of her matted hair, then her red neck, then the top of her T.G.I.F. shirt and the horrors that writhed inside. He lifted his eyes to the store front window and saw something he hadn’t expected. Just beyond the reflection of the woman with his own image rising above her, stood a man. He was holding a over sized “Baby Gap” bag and a cup of Starbucks coffee. His nose was practically pressed to the glass as he gazed lovingly at the woman. Confused, the clerk looked at the man, then re-focused his eyes on the reflection of the woman. Her expression was that of hopeless yearning. The two of them stood there for a long time looking at each other, with the hum of the chair swirling around them. The clerk stopped like that of a man who had just encountered a fawn grazing in the forest. He took a step back, but stopped for fear of breaking this spell. He looked to the man again and thought he could make out a single tear trailing down his cheek. Then, he looked at the floor, ashamed that he was intruding on something so private. He didn’t look up until he heard the woman get out of the chair with labored breaths. She stood up straight, and then bent over to pick up her bag. The man was no longer at the window. Without looking back at the clerk, she walked slowly out the double doors, and what he supposed was the opposite direction from where the man had gone.

A pimp in the sunset of our lives

pbeyer — Sat, 12 Aug 2006 03:08:00 -0500

Jordan played with his cup in silence. The other gray-haired men who sat at the MacDonalds table with him looked to each other with raised eyebrows and smug looks.
“Is that so Jordo? You really married to that idea?” One of them said slyly smirking at another who sat across from him.
“Yes. I’m not changing my mind, and I’m not having a break-down!” Jordan blurted out, his scowl growing deeper as he continued to stare intently at his cup of coffee. “I’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“Well, it’s just strange that you’ve come up with this plan and never said a word all these years that we’ve been meeting here each morning…”
“I didn’t think I could tell any of you! And this just proves it…” Jordan said, looking up at his accuser with a wild expression.
“Ok, ok. Calm down. We’re just concerned for you, that’s all. No one is stopping you. We just think it’s a little silly…”
“Don’t you judge me.” Jordan snapped, his eyes still piercing. The table fell silent. Janice, the slightly overweight eighteen year old with a weak chin came over and asked if anyone wanted a re-fill.
“You boys staying out of trouble?” She said, smiling at them. She hadn’t worked the morning shift very long, but she clearly loved the idea of being a wize-cracking waitress to these regulars, and dove into the role eagerly.
“Oh you just wait.” One of the men boasted, going through the motions of witty banter. “I still have another hour yet before I have to go to work.” All the men laughed, and as she left the laughter faded into sighs, then silence.

“Pimp, Jordan?” Micky, the skinnier and quieter of the group asked.
“Yep.”
“Doesn’t that go against yer upbringing?” He asked with a pleading look.
“It isn’t about that. All my life I’ve held back against the things I always wanted to do, and after the bypass…” Jordan trailed. Another at the table fiddled with a corner of the sports section from the morning paper. The door opened and all but Jordan looked to see who entered.
“Looks like the breakfast rush is coming in.” One said flatly.
“A little later than normal.” Said another. Jordan sighed and looked dispondantly out the window to the highway which contrasted from black to dark blue in the pre-morning light.
“Where did you get this from anyway?”
“Dead Wood.” Jordan said as bright, white headlights sped alone down the highway.
“Dead Wood?”
“Yeah, a show on HBO.”
“Oh, I don’t get HBO. When did you decide to get that? I thought Martha didn’t like you spendin’ your money on those types of things.”
“Remember all the arguing he had to do to get the Internet?” Another added light-heartedly. The others laughed.
“Damn near ruined their marriage didn’t it Jordo?”
“Yeah, well. Things are different now.”
“How so?”

“I’m not living with Martha anymore.”
One man cleared his throat as another loudly stirred the settled sugar in the bottom of his cup.
“Aren’t you worried about the police?”
“I’m tired of letting things get in the way of what I want.”
“Whores Jordo? That’s your life dream?”
“It’s not about the whore’s Ken! Damnit! It’s about the danger, the complexities of life! It’s about making decisions that effect human lives but it’s all done in the name of business, no preservation! I want henchmen who I order to kill a priest who’s been hanging out in my brothel, because it’s bad for business. I want that henchman to take pause, and consider the weight of his soul against his ideals of dedication to his boss! I want to strike one of my bitches for getting out of line, then tell her stories about the way I found her on the streets- and how I’ve made her life better. I want complexity in my life. I want to be multifaceted. I want to be intimidating and compassionate, gaining the respect from people of all walks of life…”
“I don’t know if you realize this, but being a pimp isn’t like it is in ‘Dead Wood’ anymore. That was during the Gold Rush. Now it’s more like ‘New Jack City’.” Ken said, interrupting Jordan. “I don’t think you’re cut out for it Jordo.”
“Don’t call me ‘Jordo’ anymore.”
“What? Uh, alright. What do you want to be called?”
“Swan.”
“Oh dear God.” Another exclaimed, throwing down his paper dramatically. “I can’t take this anymore.” He muttered as he dug in his wallet and pulled out three dollars to toss into the center of the table. “I’m leaving. And I’m not coming back here anymore as long as ‘Swan’ is here.” Taking his cue, the others got up and followed him out. As they filed out the door, Jordan called back to them. Shouting how he would prove them wrong.

Astronomy with Kevin

pbeyer — Wed, 19 Jul 2006 00:00:00 -0500

It was just after midnight late in Sepetember. The air was cool and the sky was clear as Kevin and John trampled the long grass underfoot, to reach the center of the field they had just entered. Both were wearing thick, wooly sweaters while carrying long boxes with both hands. They continued without speaking, following the shaky ball of light on the ground that emitted from Kevin’s flashlight which was tucked under his armpit. Finally, Kevin stopped and gently put his box down. Then, pulling his flashlight out from under his arm, he turned to John so he could have some light as he did the same. John put the box down and carefully opened it up. Inside were a jittering collection of lenses and bellows. Kevin turned to his own box and opened it to reveal a long, antique telescope which lay next to varnished, wooden tripod legs.

“If you could warm up the sight for me while I assemble this…” Kevin said quietly as he delicately pulled the tripod legs out and lined them up carefully on the ground. John pulled out a small, metal tube and held it between his hands.
“I’m glad you invited me to come out here with you,” John added, while he watched Kevin meticulously piece together the tripod and telescope mount. His back was turned to John while his flashlight lay on the ground pointed up before him. To John, it looked as if Kevin were squatting over a small fire, the edges of his form highlighted while the rest of him was silhouetted. “I’ve always admired your dedication to preserving the classic equipment for observing the sky.”
“I knew you were the only one who understood me.” Kevin said quietly. And it was true. Kevin was considered a ‘loose cannon’ by the astronomy club they both attended every Thursday night at the community center. He dressed in suits from the Victorian era. Sported a walrus mustache, and his attendance normally involved some argument with another patron who’s points were pock-marked with terms like “sellout”. Once, as someone showed off their new Schmidt-Cassegrain Reflector with computer-assisted Altazimuth fork mount, Kevin snatched it and hurled it out the door. Laughing as it’s plastic body shattered when it slid down the marble hallway. Of course, he was thrown out by the community center’s security. The entire class stared blankly in disbelief at the broken equipment, as Kevin’s voice shouted in the distance something about their all being a ‘collective prolapsed anus’. John himself wouldn’t of paid any interest in Kevin if it wasn’t for a speech he once made about the importance of preserving and caring for older instruments, and how the act of finding the star was just as important as viewing it. Something in that touched his sense of romance with the night sky. A feeling that got him interested in the hobby to begin with. He felt that he was in the presence of a genius, and a decaying figure. The type of person who wouldn’t be around in the amateur astronomy world twenty years from now.

“Lets sit for a moment while we wait for the lenses to reach the environmental temperature.” Kevin said once his telescope was set up and level. “We can enjoy a libation from the thermos I had you carry for me.”
“Oh, that’s what it was for.” John replied, twisting his torso to look for it. He loved to hear Kevin talk. It was like a page out of a Sherlock Holmes novel. And the added treat of having to carry a thermos which he wasn’t allowed to know the contents of until now only enhanced that.
“Indeed.”
“So, what are you going to try to look for tonight?” John asked.
“Tonight my good friend, we will be gazing on the Andromeda galaxy located at the crux of Pegasuses brisket!”
“Oh, I’m sure that will look great.”
“Quite.”
“Anything else?”
“Of course my good man, We will look for Messer 13, the globular cluster which can be found nestled deep within the bosom of Hercules breast.”
“Oh, ok. we’ll be able to get a good view of that with your equipment?”
“Naturally.”

As they sipped their whiskey the brass telescope cooled. Eventually they pointed it toward the Andromeda galaxy. Kevin, being the only one allowed to touch it, was the first to peer through the lens. He emitted a small gasp of delight. “So beautiful. The delicate, pink mist that floats effortlessly through the heavens…” He whispered, as he took John by the wrist and guided him over to the telescope. John peered in awe at how through the cloudy edges, he could see it clearly in the center. ‘This is how my great, great grandfather must of seen it- if he were ever into astronomy.’ He thought to himself.
“Just the sight of it,” Kevin cut in, “Just the site of it alone inspires one to write poetry. Or paint the finest work of art…”
John was enjoying Kevin’s narration as he looked through the dusty glass.
“… In my pants.” Kevin chirped, trying to stifle a laugh which sounded more like a bird than a man.
“What?” John said, turning toward Kevin.
“Nothing my good man- and now! We turn toward Messer 13!” Kevin bellowed, and with a flair he spun the brass tube around toward the constellation of Hercules. There was a awkward silence as he hurriedly adjusted his lenses. John kept running Kevin’s last comments through his mind with disbelief. He couldn’t believe that Kevin would say something so out of character.
“Ah ha!” Kevin finally bleated. And there she is, in all her milky glory.” He hissed, guiding John back toward the eyepiece. John resisted. Though he leaned in toward the lens, he continued to look at Kevin with disapproval.
“Like pearls spread across a black tapestry, they gesture man toward notions of the infinite. Closer to the beauty of what our Gods have created.” John looked. And he was right. His previous feelings of distrust dissipated at the sight of what looked to be a million, glittering jewels bursting out from some unseen sack, and he told Kevin that in just those words.
“That’s what she said.” Kevin muttered, twittering to himself.
“What?!”
“Well, you set that one up!” Kevin said, covering his mouth.
“Jesus Christ! I thought you were serious about amateur astronomy!”
“My good man. For you to accuse me of not taking this seriously is an unforgivable offense!”
“What do you expect me to think? You’ve been making cock-jokes since we got here.”
“Calm down. Everyone acts differently when out in the night with good friends. Plus we’ve had some whiskey, which causes one to relax their social restrictions. In my case, my humor degenerates to the type of talk that should only be held among men. I apologize if I have caused offense.”
“Ok then. Fine, lets just continue.”
“Quite. And now!” Kevin announced, spinning the telescope around on it’s stand, “We will gaze lovingly upon Uranis!”
“That’s it.” John said as he turned and trudged through he grass to his car. Kevin didn’t follow him, he continued to stand at his telescope giggling to himself. A hideous giggle that John could hear even from the parking lot.

4th of July Vacation

pbeyer — Fri, 07 Jul 2006 06:01:00 -0500

He was half dozing in the beach chair, with one arm laying limply over the edge of the arm rest so that his fingertips played gently on the hot sand. A warm breeze came in off the lake and swirled around him, causing his hair to flitter across his forehead and provoke him into opening his eyes. Ahead of him, wading in the water was his wife and one year old daughter. The daughter was screaming and trying everything she could to keep from getting in the water when his wife playfully dipped her feet in. He smiled as he watched them, and one could tell from the look on his face that he was drifting back to sleep with memories of his own fourth of July trips in his childhood. Just as he was about to close his eyes for the last time, he suddenly popped one eye open to look across the beach. Standing down the beach was the spitting image of himself, with skinny frame and homemade tattoos trailing up his ankles- even down to the cheap Target brand swim trunks.

The man down the beach caught eye of him as well, and they both stood staring at each other. Unlike himself, the other man looked beaten down, as if he had spent too many years in the sun and had lived a hard life. The man walked closer, slightly hunched over as if peering under something to get a better view, he could see that his hands were large with raised veins as he finally reached the man on the beach chair and held his hand out to shake. “Say there, I’m Pete.” He announced with a thick, southern drawl, which was hard to understand since his words came out like he was rolling them around marbles. “I couldn’t help but notice you there- I swear, you’re the spittin’ image of myself.”
“Pat. Hi. Where are you from?”
“Georgia, a little town called Hopkins. And you?”
“Hopkins… Minnesota.” Pat Replied, still staring quizzicly at the man who towered over him, blocking out the sun.
“That’s quite the coincidence there Pat.” He shot, his hands now placed firmly on his hips looking almost angry in his confusion. “What’s your last name?”
“Beyer.” There was a silence that followed, which caused Pat to get up and face his aggressor. “And you?”
“Meyer.”

“Well, uh…” Pat stammered. Suddenly trying to ease the tension, “That’s weird.”
“Ever heard of a doppelganger there Pat?” Pete added, almost insultingly.
“Yeah, but if two doppelgangers meet, don’t they both suddenly stop existing or something?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, I never went to college. How about you- Pat?”
“Three years, didn’t finish.”
“Finish Highschool did ya?”
“Yeah, but barely. How about you?”
“Never did.”
“Oh.”
“Got yer parents still?”
“What do you mean?” Pat asked, almost surprised by the question.
“Still alive?”
“Oh, yeah. They are. Why do you ask?”
“Cause mine are dead.”
“Oh, sorry.” He said, looking out to the beach at his wife and daughter.
“My Grandma once told me a story about how we all have a double…”
“Oh!” Pat interrupted. “You have a large family?”
“No, she’s dead now.”
“Oh.”
“If you’re finished, I was going to say-“
“Sorry.”
“Yeah. I’m sure. She said that for every bad thing that happens in our lives, our double has something good happen to them.”
“That’s interesting.” Pat added, cautiously.
“Ever been to prison?”
“No.” He replied, too nervous to ask if he had.
“Get beat up often as a kid?”
“No, not really.”
“Ever go out drinkin’ and wake up in an airport wearing someone elses clothes, with a pistol in your coat pocket?”
“What are you gettin’ at Pete?”
“What I’m sayin’, is that while I’ve dealt with every bad thing God could throw my way, you look to have lived pretty well. You’re all lilly-white, like you’ve never worked a full day out of doors. Your face ain’t all tore up like mine from fightin’ and you have the body of a nine year old boy. That your wife and kid over there?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Yeah, that’s mine over there.” Pete said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder to a large woman with equally larger hair pouring beer all over her chest while screaming at the top of her lungs. Next to her was a small, unwashed boy who was crying.
“I don’t like the way my life turned out, and I finally got someone to blame. And I’m going to kick your ass, milk-toast.”
“Hey, it’s just a story your Grandma told to fuck with you. You shouldn’t take this so seriously.”
“You saying my Gran’s was lyin?” Pete yelled as he hauled off to hit Pat square in the face. Pat, flinching, held his iPod up to defend himself. Pete’s knuckles snagged a corner of the slim, expensive device and sent it flying straight back into his own face- creating a slash that started above his eyebrow, down over his eye and into his cheek. This shock made Pete loosen his fist and miss his aim, so that his outstretched fingers ran through Pat’s messy hair- straightening it, andÂ leaving it perfect with a nicly groomed part down one side. Pete fell to his knees holding his bleeding face. Pat stood over him as his adrenaline faded, and after a moment of watching Pete sob with blood oozing from between his fingers, Pat put his hand down on Pete’s head as it to pet him like one would a weeping child. But when he pulled his hand back, a large tuft of hair came out of Pete’s head.
“Oh, weird… Honey?!” He called out to his wife, “we should feed the baby, it’s getting late.”

As he walked back to his hotel room, he looked back at Pete. His wife and other friends had crowded around him to see what the matter was, and his wife was stumbling while trying to pour beer into his wounds. “Hon?” Pat said, turning to his beautiful family. “I don’t do enough risky things.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’m going to take up something fun, like sky-diving.”
“What brought that on?”
“Oh… Nothing.” He said smugly. Then he winked to his imaginary audience just past his wife’s head.
“Who are you winking to?”

Mary Tyler Moore House

pbeyer — Fri, 30 Jun 2006 05:28:00 -0500

“Is this it?” Katherine asked, Pressing her face forward, and bending her neck back so her nose and chin almost touched the glass on the car window.
“No. I think it’s down another block.” Phil replied, staring forward, his face without expression. “I don’t know what’s causing the fad to come back, but you’re the third friend from out of town to make me bring ‘em here.”
“I’ve just been ordering the DVD’s from Netflix, so since I’m here… Is that it?”
“No.”
“None of this looks familiar.”
“They didn’t really film any of the show in Minneapolis. They filmed it in California I think.”
“But if you looked out her window you could see the houses across the street.”
“No you couldn’t.”
Katherine looked at him with confusion and eyes flaring in shock. “Yes I did!”
“It was fake. It was a set. The houses you ‘saw’ through her window were fake.”
“They were based on the real neighborhood!”
Phil sighed, and ducked his head down to scan the upper floors of the houses for the infamous window. “Here.” He said after a moment, “This is it.”

Phil slowed the car down and the two of them peered out the drivers side window. There it was, brown, smaller than it looked on the show, and under construction. Katherine was quiet, her face frozen in an expression of anticipation and strain. Neither one spoke as Katherine got out of the car and walked carefully toward the sidewalk, both hands held out delicately at her sides as if she were balancing on a high-wire. She stood there as jetta’s sped past the narrow streets and wealthy men in pink dress shirts made their way home. Her eyes were fixed on the arching upstairs windows as if she saw a ghost. Then her face began to sour. She looked around at the other houses and up the street. “This isn’t it.”
“Christ!” Phil exclaimed, still sitting in the car with the window rolled down and arms draped over the edge like an ape. “It is! I’ve been here a million times!” He added in frustration.
“It’s not. It’s too small. And this street isn’t familiar.”
“It’s television you moron! Plus it’s been 30 years since the show’s been on!” He yelled.
Katherine turned to Phil. Her grimace softened as she looked to him.
“I’m sorry.” Phil said after seeing her expression. “It really is the house though.”
”But… My divorce… Phyllis…” She whispered to herself as she turned to the house again, staring pleadingly to the window.
“C’mon Katherine. I’ll take you to Sabastian Joe’s for a coyote chocolate cone.” Phil said, now out of his car, and guiding her back to her seat.

The two of them sat on the steps of the purple Masonic Temple, licking their spicy ice creams and not speaking. Katherine looking sad, took slow, deliberate licks from her cone. Phil was slouched, sulking from annoyance with his legs spread eagle across the steps below him, and one elbow on the step behind. Finally, without provocation, Katherine stood up, throwing her ice cream cone down on the ground before her. Some people who were seated outside the ice cream shop groaned in annoyance. “That wasn’t the house Phil.” She announced, staring off into the distance.
“Yes it was dick. You want me google the fucking thing on my phone and prove it to you?”
“That wasn’t the house Phil, and we’re not going home until we find the real one.”
“Look. See? Right here. 21^st and Kenwood. We were at the house.” He pleaded, holding his cellphone up to her.
Katherine turned to him with teeth clenched and eyes narrowed, “Were. Going. To. Keep. Looking.”
“You need to go back to Wisconsin.”
She knocked the cellphone out of his hand and stormed to the car. Since the doors were locked, she paused at the passenger door and proceeded to pull the handle up and down, making a repetitive clacking sound.
“Christ! Alright!” Phil growled, scooping his phone off the pavement and storming toward his car. He pressed the unlock button on his key chain and Katherine slid into her seat.

Slamming the door, Phil put the key in the ignition and, without looking at her, demanded to know where she planned on looking.
“We’ll start at lake Calhoon, and widen our search until we find it.” She said matter of factly, then adding, “Mary loved to walk around the lake after work.”
”What the fuck?”
Katherine stared at Phil with intensity. He turned the key and revved the engine while muttering, ‘You’re divorce is going to ruin the whole weekend’ as he peeled out- nearly hitting a wealthy looking teenage girl in a tube top.

T.V. women and time travel

pbeyer — Thu, 22 Jun 2006 21:19:00 -0500

It was when Neal was sitting in his cramped, one room apartment watching the “Mary Tyler Moore” show that the idea hit him. ‘If I was at my age now, back then, I’d clean up. I’d get all the women.’ It was an idea that absorbed him for the duration of the show until he realized that there really wasn’t a reason that he would be so successful with women back then as opposed to his current failures. He tried to analyze what about the show would bring him to that conclusion, but couldn’t put a finger on it. If he was at his current age, back in the 70’s he would be no different than any other guy who spends all his time arguing with people on his favorite website about what constituted as being ‘off topic’, and who should get banned in a flame-war. Except that there wouldn’t be any Internet- just dial up B.B.S.’s- if even that. No, he wouldn’t ‘clean up’ as he was right now.

He decided to break the thought process down, to better understand why he came to the conclusion that he could ‘bag’ Rhoda. First, it was their innocent, and fun-loving nature. But he quickly realized that no one was really like that. It was just television, and no one in the 70’s was prepared for the kind of realistic television we have now. So the show did a disservice portraying women in the 70’s as being more accessible. Second, he wouldn’t be popular back then with his personality as it is now. The only reason why he thought he would have an upper-hand was if they knew he was from the future. And, since they don’t know what people are like in the future, they would be more accepting of his social deficiencies. They wouldn’t know any better. His tight, Star Wars shirt would seem mysterious and intriguing to them, and his obsession with Buffy figurines all the more attractive. He would give them samples of his knowledge of future events, but never give them the full story with the explanation being that it would “upset the fabric of space-time”. But since that was an impossibility, he realized that he would just be another single guy sitting in an equally cramped, one bedroom apartment watching the same shows he his now, but they wouldn’t be reruns.

He should of felt depressed at that point, and start calling women he knew from high school- Instead, he was comforted by the image of a coifed Mary Tyler Moore, smiling at him with sparkling white teeth while swooning, “Oooooh Neal. I think it’s just fascinating when you talk about World of Warcraft. I can’t wait until the Internet is invented so I can play it…”

It's a wonderful life

pbeyer — Tue, 20 Jun 2006 20:10:00 -0500

Chris and Janice had just sat down to watch a movie like they do every night. Right after they put the kids to sleep, they make a snack and curl up on the couch to watch whatever had come in the mail from netflix. This night it was the 1946 classic, “It’s a Wonderful Life” starring James Stewert.

Janice had fallen asleep while laying in her bathrobe, something she always changed into when she came home from work. After many evenings of wearing it while making dinner and cleaning up after the kids, it had worn though around the butt and elbows and accumulated a patchwork of faded stains. Tonight, it’s tacky surface held on to the popcorn that she had been stuffing into her mouth as she watched the grainy, black and white film. She fell asleep with her hand still in the Orville Redenbacher bag, which was burnt brown on the edges from baking in the microwave for a few minutes too long. Around her neck, laid a necklace of popcorn that had missed her mouth to curl up next to her aged cheeks.

Chris had moved from the couch onto the floor. He wore a white under shirt from earlier in the day, and a pair of boxers. He had woke his wife when he got up to take a leak, and didn’t want to disturb her by trying to curl up next to her again. He lay on his stomach with his face only a few feet away from the screen, much like a young child does when it has the television all to it’s self on a Saturday morning. His eyes were wide and darted around, canvassing everything that happened before them. His mouth was open and his face expressed a type of dumb awe. Suddenly, without warning, he leaped from the floor and landed on his feet with the type of spring he hadn’t had since he was in 10th grade wrestling. His wife awoke, choking briefly on a kernel of corn that sat unfinished in her mouth. “Christopher! What’s wrong?”
“I can do it!” He bleated, completely ignoring Janice’s plea.
“What?”
”I can make a difference!” He whispered, more aloud for effect than to himself. He then darted, still in his t-shirt and boxers, out the front door and into the street.

Janice waited for a while. She put the movie on pause and watched a re-run of “Everybody Loves Raymond” while munching on the cold popcorn. She was still munching, without expression, when Chris came back in the middle of a back-to-back line up of Seinfeld episodes. She looked to him and he looked back, his face graven. He slowly laid back down on his stomach and put his chin in his hands. His ankles raised up and began swinging past each other behind his head. Janice pressed the pause button on the DVD player and the movie resumed where it had left off. She then got up, shook the popcorn off her robe, and walked slowly with swollen feet to the front door. She turned on the porch light and went to bed.

Fathers Day

pbeyer — Sun, 18 Jun 2006 18:47:00 -0500

Gus was a well-respected project manager at his office. Quiet but strong. Friendly but dependable. A gentleman with a strong sense of right and wrong. People around the office looked up to him and depended on him to make the hard decisions. He had two beautiful and well-mannered children and a lovely wife, which was expected of someone of his stature.

He wasn’t the type to display his emotions often, so when people saw him more up-beat and making jokes, they all thought something really good was happening in his life. When one coworker asked him what the good mood was all about, he only winked and carried on with his day. So it was understandable when people whispered anxiously to each other when they saw him on the Monday after Fathers Day with his head sunk down to his desk, crying. One person asked him if he was ok. Never imagining someone as strong as him crying for anything less then a death of someone dear, they imagined the worse. He only yelled, “Leave me alone!” while pushing them away, sobbing. Finally he was sent home for the day, and never returned. People wondered aloud in the break room about the downfall of Gus, but how would they of known the real reason was pizza.

He had only mentioned in passing that his wife wanted the children to eat only organically grown foods. He, himself was a junk food addict. He loved ice cream, chips and most of all pizza. Not gourmet, or restraunt pizza either- but the really greasy kind you order from Pizza Hut. That was all cut off from him by his concerned wife, who didn’t want him to be a bad influence on the children. He understood the importance of appearance since he prided himself on his conduct, and how he carried himself around the office. He knew the importance of leading by example, and he made the sacrafice since he children were in awe of his stern, but loving parenting. So, his coworkers would of never known that the reason he was so happy the week before was because his wife, more as a joke than anything, told him that for Fathers Day he would be allowed to order a pizza from any place he wanted to. He realized that it was all in good fun, but he couldn’t help but anticipate it. He had been planning it for days ahead of time, and could almost taste the juicy tomato sauce, oily peperoni’s and hot, buttery cheese.

When he finally was able to make the call, he was like a kid on Christmas morning. Barely able to keep himself in one spot as he waited for the pizza delivery person to arrive. When it came, he hurriedly sat down to eat hot slices right out of the box. That’s when he started to cry. He cried as he ate each slice. At first his wife thought he was kidding, but quickly drew back in horror when he wouldn’t share any with his kids. He cried as he finished every piece of the large, hand-tossed, meat lovers pizza with extra cheese and sauce. He sucked clean every crust and used them to mop up all the remnants on the cardboard box while weeping with deep, uncontrollable sobs. That night, he cried himself to sleep as the wife laid reservedly on her side of the bed, silent and without effort to console him. He seemed o.k. when he woke in the morning and showered, but broke down again as he was shaving.

His coworkers tried to send cards of consolation to his house, and others called to inquire on how he was doing, but there was no answer or response. They never heard from him again.