New material coming soon....

So, my potential publisher says I need more material for my book than just the 5 or 6 blog short stories posted here. So, I will be working on that. I would like to find another version of "Flash Fiction Friday", or maybe I will just have to start one myself.

I thought about having some of my employees write random sentences, and writing stories based on those, but it's way more fun seeing other people's interpretations on the same sentence as well.

Any takers?

FFF time. "Cassie and the Snake"

If you found this without knowing about Flash Fiction Friday, click on Purgatorian's link on the right for more info. Otherwise, read on.

So anyway my girlfriend Cassie is totally pissed about the dead body on the floor of our living room. Okay, maybe it's not even the body she's pissed about as much as all the blood on the floor, and the new four hundred dollar carpet we had recently bought. Hell, at this point, she could be pissed about a number of things, and I would have no clue. And she's not even listening to me as I am trying to explain that this all happened because of her, for her, and for us. She's unreasonable like that sometimes.

Let me back up a minute, the last paragraph probably makes me sound bad, which I don't think I am, and normally Cassie doesn't either. Except when I fuck up badly, or when I take acid. Neither of these happen often, but she still gets pissed. So I had taken acid earlier this evening, only the fourth or fifth time in my life that I had ever done it. Cassie had tried to analyze my desire to do acid once every few years or so, but she had never come up with a good reason, other than I must be a major fuck up. Her words, not mine.

Earlier this evening, before Cassie showed up, but after the acid had kicked in, I decided that I would never take it again. This was one of the times I actually meant it. Other times I told myself that, knowing full well that I would take it again. I was scared now, though. And if I got through this, I would never, ever touch acid or any other mind altering drug again.

I glanced at the phone, wishing I had someone to talk to. Someone who would tell me everything was okay. Someone who would reassure me without giving me crap about being fucked up right now. There was no one that fit into that category, so I tried to watch television. Nope, too creepy. Images bled from the screen, onto the floor. I ignored them at first, but when I found myself mopping up a rerun of Three's Company off of the floor, I knew the television wasn't going to help.

One good friend of mine, dead now for three years, always told me that acid and drugs of that sort opened your mind for experiences that could be rewarding, and insightful, and he always told me to remind myself of that when I was having a bad trip. I reminded myself, hoping it would help. It hadn't so far, but when the snake slithered under the door, I calmed down a bit. The snake slithered past, up a chair leg, and coiled into a chair.

"Have a seat, Brad." the snake said. I expected a snake like lisp on the word seat, but the snake spoke perfect english, no lisp at all.

I sat. The lamp had shared a few interesting stories earlier, when the acid first kicked in, so a talking snake was relatively easy for me to deal with.

"Tonight is a life changing time, like the pie incident." the snake said.

An image popped into my head, of the day my grandmother had been cooking a homemade peach pie, the odor so strong it practically hurt my nose. I heard a thud, and thought she was loading another pie into the oven. I found out later it had been my grandmother hitting the floor when a sudden heart attack hit her. No one ever said so, but I felt even at age seven, if I had gone to check on her when I heard the noise, she may have lived.

"Yes, I'm sorry, you totally could have saved her. That's why I am here now." the snake confirmed, apparently reading my thoughts.

"So tonight, what do I do, what's going to happen?" I asked.

"Cassie's ex is going to show up and you will have to get rid of him." the snake said. "Otherwise, he will end up killing her, and probably you in the process."

"What?" I asked, stunned, but the snake was gone, in it's place was a cat. I tried asking questions of the cat, and then realized it was our cat, Toonces, and not an image in my head.

The door suddenly slammed open, despite my knowing it had been locked, and Cassie's ex stood there. He looked extremely menacing, and was practically growling, "Where's Cassie?"

Without a thought, I picked up a knife from the bar that connected to the kitchen and stabbed him. A few times. I anxiously awaited the snake to return, to validate what I had done, and to tell me things were all good, but that's about when Cassie walked in.

So we're all caught up, and I keep trying to explain that I had a vision, I had to kill her ex to save her, I'll clean up the blood. Cassie is amazingly calm about the body and the blood, she still just looks pissed.

Finally, I give up. "What do I do?" I ask.

"Stop taking acid, you stupid fuck." she says, stepping over the body to rest her hand on my shoulder.

"But, what do I do about the body, and the rug?" I ask, sounding too much like a child asking for an adult's help.

"There's no body, no blood, just acid messing with your head." she says, almost lovingly, or in pity, I can't tell. "Go to bed, I'll lock up."

I walk to our bedroom, my mind clearing a bit, so that's why she was pissed. I take out my Cassie notebook, and a pen, and underneath #87, which reads, "Don't tell Cassie her new jeans make her ass look fat." and #88, "Don't invite the guys over for poker without checking with Cassie." I write in a new entry. "#89. Don't take acid anymore, unless Cassie is out of town for the weekend."

I look at my new entry, in my Cassie notebook, which has saved our relationship time and time again, and cross out the part about "unless Cassie is out of town for the weekend."

I am too old for this shit anymore. I look over at Cassie's pillow, and the snake is coiled there. It looks at me a moment, and says, "Yes, you are way too old for this shit." and slithers out the window.

I underline number 89, and then circle it a few times, to make sure I don't miss it later.

Karmic Revelation

The champagne cork was on the floor and in her hand was the empty bottle it must have come from. Or maybe it was from the numerous other bottles scattered around the floor.

What was the last thing she remembered? Coming to the party, despite the host was someone she despised. Having fun avoiding the host and socializing with her friends. After that? Lots of drinking and having fun. Then she noticed another figure on the floor, near the cork. Another person who can't handle their drinking, she thought? On closer inspection, though, she noticed a puddle of blood that had formed around the person's head and the cork.

What the hell? she thought, edging closer, slowly. It was the host of the party. Her ex. The one who had put her through years of crap, who had inspired her to attend months of therapy, and months of drinking. She said his name, softly at first, then loudly. She considered getting some cold water to splash on him when the phone rang.

After one of his ridiculous answering machine messages, a voice came on the machine, "Hey, Mark, did you get lucky last night? Nothing like boning your ex for some bragging points. Call me later!" Laurie did a quick check of herself, it didn't appear she had participated in any "boning." She bent down and shook Mark, and he didn't move. She leaned in and listened, and he was not breathing, and she felt how cold he was.

Laurie freaked out for a few minutes, and searched the apartment, no one else was there. Apparently, for some reason, her and Mark had been the last ones up, him preparing to get his ex into bed, her drunk beyond reason for even staying alone in the same room with him.

Laurie had experienced years of good luck after breaking up with Mark. She and her friends had always joked it was good karma for all of the bad shit and abuse she had experienced. Apparently her good karma had run out, and somehow she had accidentally killed her ex. What should she do? It was barely dawn, she thought she had a good chance of sneaking out, without anyone seeing her.

She got a cigarette out, to calm her nerves, not noticing the spilled alcohol near the bar by the door. She looked around, to see if there was anything else that connect her to the party. Her fingerprints were obviously all over the place, but it was a party, that could be explained. But who else knew that she had stayed the night?

She walked out, not hearing the small puff of a flame starting by the bar, from her cigarette and the alcohol. Before she could close the door, Mark's friend, Brett appeared, scaring the crap out of her. He had just recently been released from jail again, for beating his wife up almost to the point of death.

"Laurie, have a good time last night?" he said with a sneer.

"Not really, did any of our friends see me stay?" Laurie asked, hoping she sounded embarrassed more than worried.

"Nope, we found you passed out in the guest room after everyone had left. I am sure Mark will fill everyone in today though." Brett said and laughed. He laughed again as Laurie stepped out of her right shoe and almost fell.

"Is Mark still home?" Brett asked, still giggling.

"He's inside." Laurie replied, and before she could pick her shoe up, Brett tripped over it into the apartment. She closed the door quickly and headed to the elevator, putting her shoe back on as she waited.

Later, after an extremely long bath, she sat down in front of the television, and while flipping channels, saw a news reporter standing in front of a familiar building. It was Mark's building. With a voice attempting to sound remorseful, the reported said that only two people had been killed, with a few others being treated for smoke inhalation.

It was Brett and Mark who had been killed. They didn't say it, they hadn't notified their families yet, but she knew it was them. A small smile formed on her lips, as she lit another cigarette, took a sip of her drink, and thought, "Maybe my good karma isn't gone after all."

With money in my pocket.

With money in my pocket and a desire so strong it was overwhelming, I told myself to calm down. I sat at my small table, and split the money into four piles. I steadied my hands.

I took the first pile, put it into an envelope, and wrote a word on it. A single word. This envelope would help me get through the rough spots throughout the month, calm my nerves, give me bravery when I needed it, solace when I was already brave, and more. The one word was "Liquor."

I took the second pile, put it into a new envelope, and wrote a word on it. This envelope was the one of the only reasons I made it day to day. My reason for going on. The word was "Alex." My child, and while not with me every day, Alex was with me in my thoughts constantly. I caressed the envelope lovingly, as I hardly got to do with Alex.

I took the third pile, put it into a new envelope, and wrote on it. The writing was getting bad, my hands were getting shaky. And I wasn't fooling anyone, not even myself. The words on the envelope were "Food and Bills." The ritual wasn't complete without at least attempting to fill this envelope.

The fourth pile of money went into a new envelope, but I didn't write on it. No need to incriminate myself. I knew what this envelope was for, there was no way I was forgetting what it was for. I smiled, this envelope would make me feel better. This envelope was what really got me through it all. I noticed, like I had for months now, that the fourth envelope was slightly bigger than the others. And it was slightly bigger than the last time I did this.

I glanced around my small apartment, like anyone was going to be there to catch me doing what I was about to do. I took the food and bills envelope and emptied it out and placed the money into the fourth envelope. I would come up with food money later. And I kept the empty envelope on the table, for proof that I attempted to pay bills with it. Like the bill collectors would see the envelope, sigh, and say, "at least he tried to pay some bills."

I took some money from the liquor envelope, and redistributed it to the fourth envelope. I didn't need too much liquor, as long as I had what the fourth envelope was getting me. I had even considered quitting drinking completely a few times to fill up the fourth envelope, but had never quite gotten to that point.

Next came the long stare. The internal debate. The envelope marked Alex. Did it need that much money in it? Could it spare a little money for the fourth envelope, the insatiable envelope? I cried, per schedule. I argued, told myself I was scum for even thinking about taking money from Alex, told myself Alex would be fine without a few of those dollars. I congratulated myself finally for not taking any money out of it. Of course, I didn't add any money into it either, but I was taking baby steps.

I grabbed the fourth envelope and stuffed it into my coat pocket. I glanced at the clock, and saw that I had a little while before I could get anything with the fourth envelope. I wondered how my life had come to this.

I turned on the small television to try to kill some time. It was on MTV, and for once they were actually playing music, but it was that stupid song about "loping along through the moonlight". That song always gets caught in my head and drives me crazy so I quickly turned the television back off, and went back to staring at the clock.

This was the hardest time of each month, the time that I knew I could change things. I could put the money into the envelopes they should be in, not where I wanted the money to be. I could start working on making myself a better person, so that I could see Alex more often. So that I could be truly happy again someday. I could change my life, maybe not into what it was before, but better than it was now. I could really turn things around. Maybe she would even take me back if she saw the changes in me.

The fantasizing and internal debate got me through the slow ticking minutes, and I finally stood and walked to the door, checking once again that the fourth envelope was still there.

It was.

Trigger Words

"Loping along through the moonlight..." I sang again, trying to recapture the rest of the song's lyrics. I must have heard it somewhere today, muzak on the elevator, a department store, or a turned up radio from a passing car. Either that was all that I had heard, or my mind was messing with me. Again.

I climbed up onto the ledge of the scenic lookout, not caring about the scene at all. What had caught this song into an endless loop in my head? I felt like some hypnotist's victim, and now that I had heard the trigger words, I was supposed to be doing something. On top of not knowing the rest of the lyrics, though, I didn't know what it was that the hypnotist wanted me to do.

Loping along through the moonlight... I tried singing it again. I repeated the phrase in numerous tones of voices. I tried forgetting about it again, which hadn't worked any of the times I had tried it. I vowed I would give up soon, as it had appeared hopeless hours ago, despite google searches, frantic calls to friends and family, nothing would give up the next line of lyrics. I had started to doubt that it was even a song. Maybe it was simply a combination of words that my mind had put together, and was now torturing me with them.

Screw it. I stood on the ledge, toes hanging dangerously over. A strong wind right now and I would be plummeting to my painful death into a waterless riverbed, full of rocks. Which was about what I wanted. What idiot wrote that song anyway? I couldn't even remember that.

Loping along through the moonlight... I decided it was a good metaphor for my life right now. And if I only knew the next line, my problems might not seem so bad.

I decided, and then vowed, this was the absolute last time. If the words, or the meaning didn't pop into my head this time, I was going over the edge. There wasn't much for me right now, I was just loping along without much hope. No romantic moonlight, depressing rain maybe, but no moonlight.

I took a deep breath, I edged closer, ready to jump, and started the line again, hoping that the answer would come.

Loping along through the moonlight...

Sometimes the answers don't always come when we want them to, I thought on my way down, back to my car.

It was a stupid song anyway.

Why I loathe peaches.

I may or may not participate in Flash Fiction Friday but after reading Spinning Girl's entry about Peaches, it brought back a wonderful little tale about why I loathe, absolutely detest, peaches, especially fresh peaches. The rules include the word Fiction, and this is mainly autobiographical, but screw it, here it is anyway.

I had no desire to move to the country, except for two things. One, I was getting away from the middle school I was attending and despised. Two, my parents promised me a new waterbed, which I thought was the coolest invention since television. After setting up my new waterbed, and getting my bedroom to look similar to my old one, providing a little comfort, I decided to survey my new yard.

It was huge. There was an old tree, with winding limbs, that would provide a wonderful place to climb, or build a treehouse if my parents would allow it. There was a spot where my parents said we were going to build a pool, and never in my wildest dreams did I think I would ever have had my own pool. And to top it off, one of the few family traditions that my parents actually let seep into our lives was homemade ice cream, and there were peach trees with beautiful peaches hanging from the branches and a few actually already on the ground. I was a picky eater early in my life, and while I would never consider eating a fresh peach, I would eat the heck out of peach ice cream.

The only thing missing from this new life my parents were trying to create, was a new friend. And after a few bike rides through the new small neighborhood in the middle of nowhere, I decided that my new friend would have to be a dog. Luckily, unknown to me at the time, my parents had been claiming that the move was to benefit me, but was really to benefit them more. So the guilt of moving me had provided me the new waterbed, the plans for the pool, and after some pleading, moping, and eventually some tears, their guilt provided me a dog. How could they say no, especially after I found a dog in the paper, featured by the local humane society, who needed a home and was the cutest dog I had ever seen?

My parents though, did try to trick me a little, they agreed to let me get that particular dog, the one featured in the paper, but if that dog, who had the unfortunate name of "Muffy", was already adopted, I could not get another dog right now. The ones in the paper are obviously the cuter dogs, as the Human Society wants to get people to visit, but my twelve year old mind didn't know that, and I knew that Muffy, despite the name, was meant to be my dog.

We headed to the Human Society, and despite the nice lady trying to get us to look at numerous other dogs, I played like Veruca Salt from Willy Wonka, and declared my intention on adopting Muffy. Not only because of my parent's declaration, but like I mentioned, Muffy was my dog, why else would I have even spotted her in the paper, when I normally only read the comics?

The lady took us to look at, and then play with Muffy. My spirits were crushed when the lady explained that someone had already put papers in for her, and the only way I would be able to get Muffy was if the other people didn't pass the application (which hardly ever happens) or if they decided they didn't want her (how could they not want Muffy?)

While I was playing with Muffy, my dad snuck off to call home and let my mom know they were off the hook, someone already had papers in on Muffy. To my amazement, and I am sure to my parents' dismay, the people who applied for Muffy didn't actually have a yard (one of their requirements) and got declined, while we were there. This started the quick process to get Muffy home to me, where she belonged.

Her area of the yard was quickly laid out, a dog house put into place, and coincidentally, it was right underneath the peach tree area. Which, initially, made for a lovely area for the dog, and for me to play with her.

Then reality set in for me. Of course, other than playing with her, feeding and watering her, my duties also included cleaning up her poop. She was a good sized dog, kind of terrier looking, but big, and she pooped a lot. I had only experienced small dogs in my long twelve years of life, so Muffy's huge piles of poop were quite alarming. I was actually worried she was sick, and drug my mother out one day to examine the piles to ensure she was okay.

As children do, I made a few friends, we got the pool, school started, and more. All of which decreased the time I had to clean up Muffy's crap. Events, unknown to me at the time, prevented my parents from making a lot of peach ice cream, and since the peach trees hung over our property and weren't really ours, no one seemed too inclined to pick the peaches, or pick up the ones that had fallen to the ground. Fallen into Muffy's area of the yard.

One evening, an unusually cool breeze blew into my bedroom window. At first, the smell of peaches blew in, making me crave the home made ice cream we hadn't made in a while. The peaches had started to rot though, which is another smell altogether. Then, the distinct smell of Muffy's crap blew into the window. It was the last time I could differentiate between the two smells. I started to clean it up, but a storm blew in, making me close the windows, and forget the smell.

Until the next morning. My mom was fixing a piece of toast, with peach jelly, and I smelled crap. Well, I smelled peaches and crap. Later in life, anytime someone mentioned peaches and cream, I heard peaches and crap. I had to go clean up Muffy's area, which now contained not only crap, but also rotting peaches, and it was all soaked together due to the rain. After a week or so of cleaning up rotting peaches and crap, I begged to move Muffy's area to another part of the yard, but due to the plans for the pool, there were no other options.

It doesn't matter which individual smell I come across now. It can be crap, peaches, or rotting peaches, but it all comes into my brain as rotting peaches and crap. I can't even smell a freshly picked peach, and this would last long into my life.

Later, in one of my parents' last ditch attempts at doing something as a family, they pulled out the icecream maker and asked me to go get some peaches.

I suggested vanilla.