The Quiet Life of Paul Rudolph, Pages 6-10

It may be hard to understand pages 6-10 out of context with 1-5. The first 5 pages are up here in two separate entries. Leave a comment, even if it’s a critique. My skin is thick. No, literally, it’s like a rhino’s.

Paul closed his eyes for much of the last few songs. The white circle with the secant line. Words mostly absent from his thoughts. Synesthesia: beats turned into shapes. The final chords of the final song were played, and Skip and Paul coordinated the big ending.

Two hours passed like a thought. Sweat. Blister on right index.

If I could stick a knife in my heart—suicide right on stage. Would it be enough for your teenaged lust? Would it help to ease the pain? Ease the pain..

Paul loaded his green Mercury. Tahyler came out carrying a vintage, wooden guitar case. Yellow and blue jogging pants with a red sweatshirt—
“That was pretty rocking,” Tahyler said to him. Maloccluded grin. Long, dark brown hair dangling around the stubble on his face and chin.

”I know it’s only rock n roll, but I like it,” P.R. said.

Tahyler tittered.

“You ready to rock next Friday?”

“Yeah, man. Nice playing today,” Paul said.

“Thanks. You, too.”

“We sounded better than we did on Thursday night.”

“Yeah. ‘Reckless Masturbation’ really sounded good today.”

 

“True. We played it a little faster; I think it needs it.”

 

“I hit a wrong note in ‘Torture the Robot’.”

 

“Oh yea? I didn’t notice.” And P.R. didn’t notice; he was a drummer.

 

“Yea, in the bridge. I’ll listen to it this week, though. It’ll be good. See you Friday, Paulie. Gonna kill those motherfuckers!”

 

Anathemising the audience? Tahyler toddled to his brand new Civic. What a gait! A takahe with a central nervous system injury.

“See ya, man,” Paul called out after him.

Tahyler drove off. Paul lit a cigarette. Musical chairs. Third guitar player in as many months. Consistently inconsistent. Bands as brittle as rods of pure iridium…or is osmium the most brittle? Most dense, I think. Ten years. Playing in groups of all sorts. A few years ago—The Conniving Hermit Crabs. Still the longest lasting band. Toured almost the whole country. Bus. Colleges. Living with Cynthia back then. Expected to stay faithful on the road? Knew my fidelity would be determined by the appeal of my opportunities.

Twenty-Seven years and nothing but failures and promises that I couldn’t keep, Oh Lord.

The studio door opened and slammed.

”Paul!” It was Skip.

“Yo.”

“Can I bum a smoke?”

Paul handed one over and stared at him squarely: inquisitively.

“We’ll use him Friday and then probably find someone else. Don’t you think?” Skip said.

 

Kevin and Keith came out. Skip had something to say to Keith.

 

“What’d you get into last night?” Kevin asked Paul.

 

“Inflamed my liver. We went to NorthBeach and then R-Bar.”

 

“You need a new one?”

 

“New liver? Yea, I probably do. My cytokine levels are increasing. What about you?”

 

Kevin laughed and said, “No, you know, I haven’t been drinking all that much lately.”

 

P.R. grinned, “I mean what did you do last night?”

 

“Ah. Just hung with the old lady. I don’t like going out to bars anymore unless I’m playing.”

 

“I know what you mean, but I still do it.”

 

Skip and Keith approached and the parting niceties took place. Less fumbled were the fist bumps. The musicians entered their cars. They crept toward the exit.

Another release. Paul called Rose. She didn’t answer. Leave a message? No. He dialed for Olivia while driving again on Mansell Street. Think she said something about today. Before whatever I did. Was flirting with Tonya in front of her? Glad Rose did not come? Or is it genuine apathy? The debaucher dialed.
“Hello?” Olivia said, as if she hadn’t looked to see who was calling.

“Hello?” he mocked her questioning voice.

“Hi.” A small giggle escaped.

“What are you doing?”

 

“Oh, just watching TV. I just took a run.”

 

“Oh yea? So, did you have fun last night?” he asked, fishing.

 

“Not as much fun as you had.”

“What do you mean? I thought it was kind of boring.”

“You were a mess last night.”

“Nah, I was fine.”

“You were so drunk.”

“Just blowing off some steam.” Echoing cliché for excessive englutting.

Right. So what are you doing?” She asked.

“Trafficking rocks to the community.”

“What?”

“Plating tanzanite with rhodium.”

“Uh huh.”

“Just finished rehearsal. I’m going for a quesadilla from El Faralito. Are you hungry?”

“No. I ate a huge breakfast with Tonya. She stayed here last night, just left.”

“Well at least somebody took care of you last night. Why didn’t you take me home with you?”

“You were too busy with that blonde.”

Blonde? Blonde Russian? Another visage in his mind: Svetlana? Got her number?

“Whatever,” he said glibly. “Well, do you want to come over and watch me eat? I’ll swing by. I have the Maltese Falcon at my place. Have you seen it?”

Olivia giggled again. “No. What time?”

 

“Be there in fifteen minutes.”

 

Tonya was there all night? Tittle-tattle of little lasses. Menu. Contacts. S, Svetlana. There it is. She was cute, I think. Check the camera. Call Randall.

Paul stopped by the taqueria and proceeded to Olivia’s. He double-parked in front of her three-story building while trying to gluttonize his overstuffed quesadilla. He texted, I’m here, with Linus’ Blanket, for the second time that day. He wiped sour cream from his chin.

 

The busy intersection of 23rd and Valencia served as a place to watch passersby. Tall dark man with white sweatshirt and blue jeans: rare raiment: pink stitching around the pockets. Asian woman. Loving lovers. Hands lovingly clasped. Little, short, white dress. Mild weather for such apparel. Decent figure. Skinny ankles. Laughing. Their eyes met his simultaneously. They passed his parked car.

 

Plant in the window. Shrub? Short with blue flowers. Shrubby sage? Cadger, don’t come over here. Won’t give you fifty–five cents or whatever random amount you want. Always asking for some small specific sum. Given enough to the impecunious.


And I worked hard for every little bit I got, the things I got are gonna stay.

 

 

He looked down at his phone to avoid the panhandler’s eyes. He dialed Randall. Randall reassured him. They spoke briefly about the upcoming evening, Paul explaining he needed a quiet night at home.

Olivia: fell for her fast and thought it would last. Thought I could thwart off temptations. I can resist anything but temptation. Thought it wouldn’t even matter in ten or twenty years, when the wrinkles came, when the sagging began. The sparkle in her eyes doesn’t mean that much anymore. The kisses have lost their tingle. Already after a couple months…already pining for others and lying to her and worrying and feeling guilty. Not as if I killed Alyona Ivanovna.

Where did it go? Was there ever it? Many infatuations, many romances. Never empty love? Never consummate love? Can fly, do the loopty loop, but can’t land.

Olivia came to the car and climbed inside, tossing a small bag in the backseat. Little five foot five frame coming toward me, sitting by me, smiling at me. Light brown hair swathed round to make her face appear heart-shaped, like her posterior. Paul shifted the automatic transmission into drive and pulled onto Valencia. The car approached Cesar Chavez. He looked at Olivia’s pale blue eyes. The Triangular Theory of Love.

 

“Who’s the greater Renaissance man: Leonardo da Vinci or Benjamin Franklin?”

“Franklin wasn’t in the Renaissance,” Olivia said.

“Right, but who achieved more great things in more fields?”

“Da Vinci, definitely.”

“But what about the lightning rod? The…”

“Well, da Vinci was a great artist,” she said. “You know he’s my favorite.”

“Yes, that’s why I said him. But Franklin was a diplomat, inventor, philosopher, scientist and…”

“da Vinci was an inventor. And, I mean, the Mona Lisa! Come on!” Olivia interrupted, “And the Last Supper; he drew the Virtri…, ah, Vit…”

“The Vitruvian Man.” Paul completed.

“Yea, VitruvianMan. And those flying machines he came up with, those were way ahead of his time.”

“Franklin was sort of famous as an inventor. He invented bifocals and the Franklin Stove: both still used today.” Count Rumford. Massachusetts. Franklin and Thompson. Fireplace innovators. Different sides. Two Benjamins.

“So you want to argue about Ben Franklin today?”

Her little nose wrinkled, and her large eyes squinted.

Devil’s defender. Dialectics, darling. Octavian and Mark dueling over power after the break in the Triumvirate.

“No, but we can arm wrestle at my place.”

 

“I’d kick your ass,” she said, smiling widely and caressing his right leg.

 

Rudolph grinned insincerely.

The car made a slight right and went down Mission St.

Sore Winner or Sorbet de Sade

It’s what I can’t imagine

That keeps my eyes peeled

Glued to seat

Everyone in denial

And maybe that’s the worst part

 

Pretending.

We bury the dead

Celebrate creation

Is there somewhere else

Beyond these concerns?

 

Trust is a funny concept

We trust we will wake up tomorrow

And the sun rise

We trust in god

How ridiculous

 

She hates me because

She loves me

Her extraordinary brilliance

We might have found genius together

Separated, we’re simply hopeful remnants

 

Ok, here’s a joke

Adam: “What are you eating?”

Eve: “Snake gave it to me”

Adam: “The snake?”

Eve: (palms open reaching out) “We didn’t fuck, I swear”

 

Acceptance beyond understanding

Beyond morality

Because there is no other choice

It’s what I can’t imagine

That arrests me

 

 

can_we_possibly_be_friends_again_or_conflicted_codependent

Being male, I wander

Mom dares not wonder

What kind of monsters she birthed

She brought her own equipment

I was aggressive but shy

 

Her womb is the most magnificent

Temple I’ve ever visited

There is nowhere else I want to be

Sister insisted

I stiffened then gave in

 

Children tease, squeal, scamper

Adults know unspeakable reality

Dizziness of first love

Mayhem, murder

Solemn whisper of infinity

 

After an uncertain age,

No one wants you anymore

Old women bond

Confer their anger

Old men tread alone

 

She knew from moment he laid eyes on her, she had him. She wore no make-up, anemic complexion, chin and jawline slightly broken out with red spots, cobalt blue irises, aquiline nose, hair dyed dark, fuzz-balled scarf, light blue fluffy sweater, big buttons, canvas shoulder bag, skinny jeans, leather boots, little boney black dog with ashen appointments. Instantly he fell in love. He confessed, “Your Chinese Crested pup stole my heart.”

 

In doggie-style position, neither lover sees other’s face. The top sees backside. The bottom sees what? He didn’t know.

 

She unlocks the door. He enters room. She tells him what to do, making demands. He follows her orders. She questions, “Why do we dance to these tunes?” He answers, “I want to smell your smells, suck, drink your darkest juices.” She articulates, “Stay,” then kisses him goodbye. She wakes wearing his ring, around her neck. They are each other’s slaves. Ceiling leaks, floor creaks, light beams through window as they waltz arm in arm.

 

She demands, “I want roast rack of lamb, or thinly sliced Serrano ham on buttered toast for dinner. And then I want to go home alone. I need some down time, away from you. I don’t belong to you, god-damn-it!” Deep in financial debt, he hands the waiter his debit card.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Quiet Life of Paul Rudolph, Chapter 1, Pages 3-5

The next installment: taking up where we left off. In the first two pages, Paul has walked from his bedroom to his garage, back to his bedroom and into the bathroom. See what he might do next…a journey into innerspace, a trip through cortexes and lobes and chambers. Action and dialogue give way to the gears and cranks of thought. Can lists and language outdo shoot-outs and back-alley fights in a battle for attention?

 

 

The Quiet Life of Paul Rudolph (pages 3-5)

The hangover peaked. Reality was disarranged with flashbacks. Faces from the night before materialized and vanished. His head pounded. Maybe a smoke? Cure with a disease. Delay the pain. Pay Peter to rape Paul. Blackouts surely stealing some fond or humorous memories. Better bad than none. Those who don’t forget are doomed to remember. Remember when you could drink? Could be completely drunk but still there. A code hero? Impertinent intemperance. Pain, anxiety, nausea, guilt. P.A.N.G. of the alcoholic.

 

All I wanna do is get down, is get down, is get down, in the evening, in the evening and not wanna die tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

 

What can honestly be extrapolated from these cloudy apparitions of last night? Call Randall. Chipping away at the archives of the hippocampus with each time traveling voyage? The short term must be weakening. What about Miller’s Magic Number? Shereshevskii’s eidetic memory. Kim Peek: Hoffman’s best role.

He went to the living room with a cup of strong coffee and blazed the coals of his marijuana bowl. His concerns turned to smoke and filled the air. He added some water to the bong from a bottle on the coffee table.  Fuzzy feelings from a few tokes blanket cold crapulence. Was not born on the wrong side of the blanket but conceived there. On a chair, sofa, or table? Perhaps! Conceived out of bed-lock, out of wed-lock.

Time passed quickly as he read some from Meditations on First Philosophy, by Descartes, and smoked. He drank coffee. He walked back to his bedroom and into the other room with so many names.

Paul dressed. Brush the lengthening teeth. Wash the wrinkling face. Slick the cowlicks and duck-tails. Trim the soul patch. Squeeze blackheads and whiteheads; the sebum exits like snakes from their lairs. Pluck hair from the concha and vicinity, some as low as the lobe.

He looked hard into the mirror. Limpid gray eyes stolen from Athena. Pallas Athena. Andrea Palladio’s Palazzo Chiericati. Palladium…Any relation between an owl and William Hyde Wollaston? Red vessels of the sclera. The iris and pupil. The gray iris: a cold chromosphere housing coronal loops and spicules. The dilator muscle.  The convection zone. Maybe palladium…Put some money into…Inflation. The conundrum of corundum.

 

Where does the answer lie? Living from day to day. If it’s something we can’t buy. There must be another way.

 

Paul Rudolph was ready for rehearsal. His memory jogged. Flirted conspicuously in front of Olivia. Ah. Ambulation of abode. Not forgetting…After several laps of the apartment, he went to the garage for the second time that day. Aftermath of aqua vitae.

The garage door opened. Laggard growl—making a kind of whistling sound—rising and folding to its highest resting place—ready for its inhabitant’s exit, slightly trembling, like a woman’s legs after orgasm.

P.R. conceived a vision of his childhood:

Next to the window. Ten years old? The neighbors in their yard. Parents downstairs. Fred and Sarah with some of their progeny. Whistled at them, and they all turned to face the back of their house. Recommenced their confabulation and disport. Whistled again. Still they turned and looked at the back of their house. Whistled again, after which they stood and leaned to look alongside the house.

He laughed while pulling out of his driveway and tapping eighth notes on the steering wheel. Funny they didn’t look up. Most people hardly ever look up—look up to think that we’re revolving around a yellow star, twenty-five thousand light years from the center of the galaxy, one hundred six thousand two hundred seventeen kilometers per hour, metrically speaking.

Rudolph tapped with terminal members the beat from the radio and admonished himself some for his drunkenness. Forget it. Malleate the membranes of cylindrical bodies. Sweat.

On this particular trip, he drove through his Excelsior neighborhood to the Bay View Area. Avoiding highways, he used Mansell Street and Third Street. Children played here and there on sidewalks and among shady individuals, with some of whom he may have dealt under other, previous circumstances. He heard some whistling and yelling and laughing. That’s the chair, Titi; that’s god. The radio blasted. Trite, meandering lyrics accompanied by an uninventive guitar riff. He passed Egbert Street while driving on Third. P. R. Egbert: the ophthalmologist. Studied the Onchocerca Volvulus at Stanford. An argument against god. Blindness. His report that maternal LSD ingestion may cause some ocular malformations for the offspring. Who’d take LSD while pregnant?

He thought of Chris from the night before, telling him they should go camping on Angel Island and take LSD. The modality of the visible not ineluctable. The world as an impressionistic painting. Colors and sparks and the breathing of inanimate objects. Synesthesia. Alan Watts’ assiduously fostered descriptions. Seeing things almost on a molecular level. Maybe should experiment scientifically, not recreationally. Hofmann’s bike ride.

Thoughts whirled; he arrived at the business park housing the studio and waited at the gate. He texted, I’m here. Cell phone: Linus’ blanket, as Eco says, though I don’t think he coined it. Lysergic acid diethylamide. Wonder how I managed it so well. Knew nothing of how to prepare. Now I know. Use as entheogen. Did it open something? Knew some dolts who did it. They didn’t change. Some were scared. I was…

THUD!

Paul jumped in his seat and looked in the rearview to see Skip laughing through the windshield of his Civic. He’d bumped the rear of Paul’s car softly, jarred and startled him. From the opposite direction, Kevin’s Chrysler was decelerating.

”Paulie!” Skip yelled out the window. He opened the gate with the remote.

The three cars pulled in and parked. The men exited their vehicles. Typical niceties ensued: fumbled fist bumps, half shakes and half slaps. They talked briefly of whether or not the guitar player, arriving shortly, would be permanent. They walked inside carrying their burdens of amps, bags, cables, cases, speakers, and stands.

A music studio: an anodyne for Paul, an analgesic with no negative side effects. He entered one as one might enter a church, mosque, or synagogue: not as a priest, imam, or rabbi might enter those respective edifices, but as one might. At the trap set he dropped his equipment, closed his eyes, and stretched. Staring at the blackness through the conjunctiva, a white circle with a secant line formed in his vision. He fell into a modified form of meditation. Tahyler and Keith arrived. Skip tuned his guitar and Kevin his bass guitar in discord.

”Yo, Rudolph. Hey, Paulie! PAUL!”

Rudolph opened his eyes and the circle and line disappeared. He looked at Keith cradling his saxophone while sliding the reed into the mouthpiece. Chick with that birth-control device that felt like the mouthpiece of a brass horn.

”Keith,” Paul said in long monotone.

They shook hands. After one show at the Red Devil Lounge, Paul and Keith had drank and conversed with the female lead singer of another band for far too long after last call. They resisted and were rude when asked to leave. This had angered the bar staff and infuriated Skip; he fell out of favor with the bar for some time, but had regained it after a few stellar shows.

Paul went back to stretching. The circle with the secant line was not there. Keith was now talking to Kevin. Tuning continued. Paul sat at the drum throne twirling his sticks, warming his wrists. He greeted Tahyler with a nod.

Practice began in earnest. The songs played ranged from andante to presto. Time signatures of four/four were most common. Odd times, mainly threes, were used sparingly. Bars of supreme cohesion provoked twinkles of rapture. Paul occasionally felt the tempo push and pull, each musician imposing his perspective of space. P.R. despised any waver in time, and he educed all his vanity in these moments. No, Accelerando Ritardando. No!

Tahyler’s eyes…Skip…syllabic singing. Kevin. Listen. Fingers. Thumb and index. Keith’s solo. Sixteenth note triplets. Snare drum, bass drum, paradiddle fill. Tempo Giusto.

The Quiet Life of Paul Rudolph, Chapter One, Page One and Two

I hope to deliver this as literary greats such as Charles Dickens and Thomas Hardy once delivered their novels: periodically. This is a bit of the first chapter. The novel is a combination of a linear narrative and stream of consciousness from the main characters’ POV. It will also, I hope, be a guided tour through one of America’s greatest cities. Lyrics of some popular songs are used to emphasize emotions of the character(s). The novel is set in 2007. I hope to publish this and become the next big thing, but for now I only want to let my friends at MyMorningStory take a peak and possibly share some thoughts. Here are the first two pages, unedited.

 

The Quiet Life of Paul Randolph

 

Paul Rudolph awoke from forgotten dreams to find himself, surprisingly, in his own bed. He had a headache and an inkling that he was transforming into a monstrous pedant; he knew he was a drunk. He hurried to his garage. It was there. He knew he had been out the previous night but could not remember much else. He’d driven home in the depths of a terrible blackout. His car was safe again, though. Lucky lush. Foggy scenes from the night before began to take shape.

 

Someone angry? Maybe I was embarrassed. In front of…who was there? Olivia? Tonya? Chris? Justin? Not Rose. Randall. Said something off-putting to Olivia? Tonya? Said what I was thinking earlier—before intoxicated. Something I knew not to reveal. Someone’s upset.

Woke up in the morning and all my friends hate me……… What Happened?

 

 

Started in NorthBeach: The International and La Rocca’s. Then where?

He came from the garage to the landing, walked up the steps, and entered his apartment. Laborious chores for this languorous state. He took the hall to his bedroom, stepped inside and looked in the mirror. Shirtless man-child wearing rhinoceros-cartooned boxer shorts. Short, brown hair inert on ellipsoidal head. Itching—left arm. Scar still tactile. More ink? Why? Two koi fish scarred in red and yellow swimming in the foliage of a Japanese Rush across my right calf. What about this medieval etching on my back? What’s the use? What does it mean? Wanting some identity? What identity? A person is the Ship of Theseus.  Rummaging the Internet for some symbol or emblem or image or sign or crest or mandala which represents my beliefs or interests or ideas or fancies or principles or essence or nature or something. Clear your mind.

He recalled the drinks from the previous night: beer at home and a shot of cognac before driving to NorthBeach. More beer at The International and a shot of something blue and free from the L.A. 7 behind the bar. Then La Rocca’s for Fernet shots with gingerbacks. After that? Downtown? Yes.

 

Paul Rudolph remembered, vaguely, standing outside of Vertigo. Least favorite bar in that section, six blocks from Nob Hill. Only end up there in a blackout. Time traveling. Not in my body. Completely unaware but still functioning. Talking…Thought I was there. They didn’t know I had anterograde amnesia. That I had a two-minute-memory. How many people have conversed with me in that state? How many dialogues have been forgotten while fluttering in the deep dark space of lost time? Should at least finish Swann’s Way. Not able to find everything in my memory. Must memorize more mnemonic methods. Myriads of them. Mnemonics will do no good. Time travelling, it’s like.

Had shots at Vertigo. Shots of what? Fernet? Tequila? Whiskey? Yes. Suddenly, his mind sculpted the interior of the R-Bar. The cherry wood and long, narrow frame. The mid 20′s to mid 30′s crowd trying hard not to care. The barmen feigning attentiveness to each evenly but attending to females of particular beauty, face and figure, ever so cordially.

He wobbled to the bedroom doorway wondering if the phantasm was from the night before. Corroborate gray matter. Yes, R-Bar. Last night. He took the corridor to the kitchen. That was where Randall and I ran into the others. Last night. The Fernet bottles on the wall. Glasses of beer on the bar. Two girls sitting close by. Randall taking a photo of the girls and me. Only Randall had not taken a photo. The camera was set to video mode or something. Said something droll. Made them laugh. They were interested. I didn’t care. Overwrought laughter indicated lubricious inclinations. What did I say? Why so bewitching when obliterated by booze? Could charm Nefertiti after a shot and a beer. Could dethrone her romantic, monotheistic diplomat with some combination of sword, hand, and a seated man doing something with his mouth. Everyone is like that. No one is like that.

Earlier last night: Randall, Rose and her girlfriend (Jessica?), at my place for drinks and a smoke of the nuthastuff. I forced philosophy into the conversation somehow: an obscure reference like Avicenna. Dropped his name casually like he’s a modern-day celebrity. Trying to impress. Brought up his thoughts on motion? Medicorum Principes. Large, powerful, enduring canon. Dietitian. Sad we don’t study him or Al-Farabi much in the west. Translated Aristotle far before Europe’s Renaissance. Discredited alchemy and astrology a thousand years ago. Was perturbing. Impressing? Drunken wit. Then later: a stupor similar to senility. The stages of drunkenness are like the stages of life. Peak somewhere in the middle. Never discussed Averroes and monopsychism or the ‘ud tuning of the peripatetic, musical Arab: Al-Kindi.

Went to the R-Bar after Vertigo. Rose was supposed to come but didn’t. Then homeways? Yes. Maybe. How did I drive? Can’t remember the…Glad to be not in jail, safe, alive.

I broke every single traffic rule………

 

 

What happened? He put on the coffee. It was Saturday, July eighteenth, the year two thousand seven. What to do? Ah, yes, practice. Less than two hours off. Why think practice but say rehearsal? Only when talking to someone. It sounds more professional. Commode sounds better than toilet, but nobody says commode. Nobody says toilet either. Everyone says bathroom or restroom. I need to go to the bathroom or restroom.  I have to use the bathhouse, the outhouse, the lavatory, the john, the head, the pot, the potty, the privy, the latrine, the loo, the sandbox, the throne, the washroom, the water closet… need to void excrement. Need to take a leak, drain the lizard, piss, pee, wiz, urinate, defecate, shit, crap, shit or get off the pot, drop the kids off at the pool, conduct a fetid experiment in the scientific lavatory.

The Fainter

It was obvious how to do it

Yet I couldn’t figure it out

Until I saw it in a movie

Then it became a question,

Was I wicked enough

To pull it off?

Was I strong enough

To see it through?

 

In one instant, you’re alive,

Eyes darting, heart pounding,

Gushing love, throwing temper tantrums,

Collapsing under weight of existence.

In next instant, you’re dead,

Cold and lifeless, end of story.

Leaving arriving escaping

The perspiration urine smell of fear

 

People tell me how smart I am,

But I’m not really smart,

More like lucky, and fast runner.

I run from everything.

Did I ever tell you about the times

I’ve run straight into death’s grip,

And that son-of-a-bitch

Keeps spitting me out

 

One more day, year, decade.

Ok, I say, and make more drawings,

More paintings, more poems,

More stories, more lies.

Live long enough, everything you know collapses.

I know I can be a terrible bitch.

I apologize.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

 

Dreaming of moving away

Packing only bare bones of love

And commitment to never betray

Leaving arriving escaping

I wish I were married to one woman

And we lived quiet life sustaining passion

Is sustaining passion possible?

 

Under weight of existence?

One more moment, hour, night,

Eyes darting, heart pounding,

Gushing love, emotional insecurities,

Making more drawings, more paintings,

More poems, more stories, more lies.

People tell me how smart I am.

I can’t figure it out.

 

 

The Fainter’s Wife

She looks at mirror

Cannot understand

What she’s become

Never queen her entire life

She glances out alley window

Into 4am darkness

Feeling tragic ending

To accidental romance

Premeditated murder

In Chicago in bitter winter

In rundown diner kitchen

Haphazardly displayed

Sharp shiny axe

Above doorway

White lit sign with red lettering

That spells TIXE

chat during office hours

One FRIEND wAS chatting with a female – Online chat.

(Background both are s/w engineers by the way and both work for real big MNC’s)

Hero : Hey…GM (Good Morning)… How’s u doing today?

Female: VGM…Day is going good and it got better having found u on chat

Hero : wow…am honoured, u know what, my day starts only when I find you on Chat

Female: Yep…me too feel the same…Brb (be right back)’ll get some Coffee.

Hero : OK

(Hero waits impatiently. Meanwhile, his manager comes to his desk ).

Manager : Hey, I need some help from you

Hero : [**** This guy always comes at wrong time] Yeah tell me.

Manager : Could u write a program for me which generates nth prime number, Given value of n. Would you give this by today evening?

Hero : I would do that, but I think it’s quite hard, is it ok with you, if I Give it by tomorrow evening.

Manager: Yeah, that would be fine. Thank you [Leaves the place]

(Our hero sighs and stares at his monitor waiting impatiently for Female to Arrive. All of a sudden smiles on his face. Over to chat window…)

Female: Hey, am back

Hero : cool, you know what my manager does, he’s kinda….. keeps asking stupid tings, tries to give me stupid work…. $*#&$@

Female: Yeah, it’s the same everywhere. Real sick ppl these managers are!!

Hero : Yep, u rite!!

Female: Hey, can u do me a favor

Hero : *smiles* sure, why not.

Female: Hey, I want you to write me a program to print nth prime Number, given N. Would you give that to me by tomorrow evening? Plzzz. You know it’s real Urgent for me to work this out

Hero : hey, that’s a one-hour’s work. Sure check Ur mail in an hour from now. ok?

Female: THIS IS WHAT I ASKED U WHEN I CAME TO YOUR WORK PLACE. NOW YOU KNOW WHO I AM …!!

AND ONE MORE POINT…. YOUR 1 HOUR TIME STARTS NOW !!
MORAL: Don’t CHAT while you work!

The Amazing Adventures of Captain Gladys Stoat-Pamphlet -

The Amazing Adventures of Captain Gladys Stoat-Pamphlet and her Intrepid Spaniel Stig amongst the Giant Pygmies of Beccles, Volume Eight

Chapter Two

 

Once Terry had opened the invitation, it read

 

“To whom it may concern (and We hope that it only concerns Terry);

 

This is your official invitation to the Grand Royal Ball of Yorkshirehamptontown. Attendance is compulsory- tardiness will be met with the swift and sure annihilation of all that you have loved, known and forgotten (unless, of course, you have forgotten us).

Formal dress (or undress if that is your preference).

Please bring cookies and cupcakes.

 

The Royal Commiserate High Lawyers and Other People of Importance,

 

Smith, Farkle, Bludgeon and He Who Shall Not Be Named”

 

in a very high, tinny voice. This was a surprise to Terry since, up until that point, he had no idea that invitations could actually read themselves out loud. Terry was happy that it read itself since he had no idea what some of the words meant. “Compulsory” gave him trouble as did “Yorkshirehamptontown” (although he was sort of sure that this last one was a place, which, of course it sort of was. It was a place in the same way that licorice was an entree- through no means of its own and only because somebody insisted that it was against all evidence to the contrary.) Terry checked compulsory in his thesaurus and it read “Compulsory- mandatory, necessary, because Wednesday is booked at the restaurant, yadda, yadda, yadda. I hate my job, why does everything I say show up on this screen? I need more sleep- it’s been days; I hate deadlines. Who told the printer that we would have this whole book ready in a week? I mean, really! Where was I? We can edit this later, right? Good. O.k…. Congo Line-”.

“Come on,” said Spot, “or we’ll be late.” Spot then pulled a motorcycle with a side car out of his dog house. The motorcycle was lime green with blue polka-dots and purple elephants painted on the side of it. Terry had a sub-conscious insight that, if he had been wiser, this would have scared him in a way that would have been hard to describe. However, since he was unknowingly and unwittingly taking the “ignorance is bliss” route, he was quite unaware of what should have frightened him and only mildly aware that he was unaware of something that should have been frightening. (The “ignorance is bliss” route, by the way, is never, ever a bad route to take if you want to truly be happy. I mean, irreverent governmental jokes aside, the happiest people in the world seem to be the most ignorant. Watch ten adults who read the papers and watch the news. Then, watch ten adults who do not. You will find that the happiest of them all are the ones who ignore the world outside of what they come into contact with on a day to day basis. They only worry about their little section of the world and they try to make it a happier place. Then again, I’m happy, so what in the world do I know?)

Terry climbed into the side-car of the lime green with blue polka-dots and purple elephants painted on the side of it motorcycle and looked around for a helmet. Terry was quite sure that he was supposed to be wearing a helmet. However, he could not find one. (Well, to be more precise, he couldn’t find one at this time since there was not one to be found; to be sure, if there had been a helmet to be found, then he would have found it since his locative abilities would have found one if one would have been able to be found. In other words, he was not lacking in the ability to find a helmet, just in a helmet to find.)

“Here, put this on,” said Spot and he handed Terry a five pound chicken to stick onto his head. Terry looked at Spot who was already sporting a live pink flamingo tied to his head with ribbon. Terry tied on his chicken with ribbon as Spot had done, and feeling quite like the fool (much like most people who ride in the side car of a lime green motorcycle with blue polka-dots and purple elephants painted on the side of it with a chicken tied to their heads do; he should have had a pink flamingo like Spot as they do have a much, much higher crash test rating) he settled in for the journey to wherever it was that they were going. In fact, he thought that he should ask.

“I think that I should ask where it is that we are going” queried Terry.

“Well then, ask” replied Spot.

“Um… o.k… Where are we going?”

“What?”

“Where are we going?”

“Oh, are you talking to me?” said Spot.

“Yes, you are the only one here.”

“Actually, you should ask the motorcycle; he is the only one who knows.”

“The motorcycle?”

“Yes, the motorcycle”

“Motorcycle, where are we going?” asked Terry.

“You don’t have to call me motorcycle,” said the motorcycle. “I have a name.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Terry, very much surprised to receive an answer from the machine at all. (It should suffice it to say that, at this point, Terry’s surprise meter had run empty and he was completely running on fumes when it came to surprises. From here on out in the story, he is hardly dazed anymore by anything that happens, much less truly surprised. Sort of like when you come home and, for the 333rd day in a row, a new and different cat is in your living room protesting your treatment of the cottage cheese with picket signs and the local union; you might be dazed at a new and previously non-sentient life-form communicating with you in a way that seems utterly amazing, but you would have absolutely no amazement or surprise left you, just a little bit of haggard and tired daze.) “What is your name?”

“My name is Dennis. Thank you very much for asking, not that it ever occurred to you to ask before. I could have been called Martha or Oswald or Phillip, but you would have never known or cared if I hadn’t told you to ask, if I hadn’t put up a fight. Where’s the dignity, I ask you? Where’s the common courtesy? Where’s the humanity? It’s enough these days for a motorcycle to quit working and hang up his gaskets for want of some civilized treatment and respect. Just because I’m the hired help doesn’t mean that I have to be treated like an underling. ‘Oh, thank you for hauling me for six thousand miles, Motorcycle; I just wanted to get some food in Paris. Thanks for driving over water with no gasoline.’ Right! The nerve of some drivers,” said the motorcycle Dennis “And do you think that they would ever consider a new coat of paint on me? I mean, what’s the deal with the polka-dots. The elephants I understand, but polka-dots? I’ve never polka-ed or dotted in my life!”

“Dennis?” Terry asked very hesitatingly.

“Well, how many things are exactly eighteen minutes and twenty seconds long?” replied Dennis the motorcycle.

“What?” replied Terry, nonplussed, nonminused and non-everything else that would have made a difference in his current level of understanding the situation.

“Never mind. Now what was your question?”

“Where are we going?” asked Terry, who suddenly noticed that the chicken on his head had changed into a giant egg. It was at this moment that he also noticed that the pink flamingo on Spot’s head had changed into a tortoise and the fact that Spot had fallen asleep at the wheel. If any of these facts could have unsettled him at this point, he would have had a very hard time choosing between them which was the most unsettling.

“It’s where and when. Look at my meter. We’re travelling at the rate of two days an hour.”

Terry looked at the meter on the handlebars and it did indeed say “Two days per hour”. Terry, having given up on the impossible being impossible frame of mind and settling into the impossible must not only be likely but inevitable today frame of mind (which is funny, because, as far as frames go, the former is more conventional, but the latter looks better hung on the wall around an art print), took all of this in stride. “O.k.,” said Terry, “where and when are we going?”

“We are going to the Grand Royal Ball, which took place last week. Thus, we are going to last Thursday and Yorkshirehamptontown, which would have been a suburb of Albuquerque if Albuquerque would have been formed in an outer time loop instead of in a time stilted desert. However, if there is one place that comes close to transcending time and space like Yorkshirehamptontown does on a what-will-come-to-be-as-soon-as-their-full-daytimeness-comes-into-existence daily basis, it’s Albuquerque. I love Albuquerque.”

Terry noticed a stamp on the side of Dennis which said “Made in Albuquerque” and he thought that he might have made the connection. Then, he noticed that his egg was a chicken again. Despite the fact that the question “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” is an old question for most of us, it was a very new question for Terry. He contemplated this while Dennis whizzed along the road. Finally, Terry fell asleep comfortably in the side-car with the thesaurus as a pillow. (While most thesauruses don’t make good pillows, the deluxe edition didn’t either. Thus, Terry’s comfort had as much to do with the fact that he was exhausted as it did with the fact that the thesaurus made a good pillow- because it didn’t.)

Dennis continued to speed along back in time at a rate measured in time in exactly the way that most physicists believe that they can travel in time at a rate measured in time but can’t since it is utterly impossible unless you have a lime green motorcycle with blue polka-dots and purple elephants painted on the side named Dennis. (Actually, the purple elephants are named Phyllis, Frank and Bob; the motorcycle is named Dennis.)

Fracking Zombie’s?

It wasn’t much of a night, but it was a night nonetheless.  The streets were empty, the bars were closed & not even the drug dealers seemed to be out. I was all by myself walking the streets, looking out at the sea. With each swell my heart would beat. I contemplated jumping over the railing and into the water, but I felt that wouldn’t solve America’s political issues.  I decided to stop, sit down and think about the world, as we knew it.

This space was the only place I was meant to be.

I sat down and waited for an answer on the cold block of concrete edged between the street and the iron railing.  I could tell the rain storm was over but the effects were far from as the water rushed down the sides of the road carrying the fall leaves.  There I counted the leaves as they passed, hoping & praying things would turn out fine.

Then it happened!

The nation for the first time saw what it could not see. Something so unimaginable that just doesn’t make sense.  Not even Sarah Palin would have figured this stuff out!

The Zombie Apocalypse!

That’s when I first saw them & that’s when I realized the election no longer mattered.

Part 1 of X

*Matt’s none allowed submission for the Halloween Contest*

A promise is forever

“Trick r’ treat Mrs. Summers,” the little boy said, Autumn unsure of who exactly it was, the mask hiding the child’s face and muffling his voice. A hideous mask, a Cyclops monster, the little one-eyed creature held out their plastic Jack-O’-Lantern bucket expecting candy.
“And just who is that hiding behind such a scary mask?” Autumn asked, giving her evening’s first trick-r’-treater a heartwarming smile. She knew it had to be one of her students, just which one. Getting a hearty handful of candy from the large, purple plastic bowl resting on her lap, she dropped the candy in, knowing that would make any child happy, though she knew she gave such a hearty amount since it was one of her students.
“It’s me,” the child said as they lifted their mask, revealing it to be Tommy Clare, one of her favorite students. Not the brightest, but the boy had been raised right. Well mannered and attentive, he made up in young character what he lacked in academics. “And thank you Mrs. Summers.” Pulling his mask back down, the boy told her happy Halloween and made his way back to the sidewalk and down to the next house.
The trick-r-treaters were starting early that year, but it was still slow, still a little too early in the evening, which was just alright for Autumn. Taking a sip from her beer, the Busch light she was hiding behind her back so kid’s coming up for candy wouldn’t see, she checked her phone, which she knew was pointless, the Iphone having died no more than ten minutes earlier. Looking to the baby monitor next to her, her baby girl April was still fast asleep.
Autumn Summers had lived in Cleveland, Ohio her entire life. She loved the city. Not the sports teams. She knew nothing about sports. No, it was the city itself. The people. It was why she had become a teacher. She loved the city’s people, but more so she loved children. Seeing the kid’s play on the playgrounds, hearing them laugh. And how smart they could be; she found herself everyday in some way astounded by something one her students would say or do.
A third grade teacher, she was also a happy mother, her baby girl April having been in her life for almost seven months. Her daughter asleep, Autumn had mixed feelings about Halloween, but that wasn’t going to stop her from handing out candy to all the children that wanted it.
After thirty more minutes, more and more kids and parents had begun to fill the street, all different kinds of costumes, most making their way up to her house where she sat on her front steps, letting the children reach in and take whatever pieces of candy she had to offer. Some like Tommy would address by her name, Mrs. Summers, and every time one would, just like when they did in the classroom, it made her swallow hard, forcing her fight back her tears.
Eight months had passed since the funeral, and even after eight months it wasn’t easy. Smiling to each and every kid, she wasn’t going to break down, not on her front porch, not in front of all the trick-r’-treaters. Ryan wouldn’t have wanted that. Halloween had been their night, and he would have wanted her to enjoy it she convinced herself.
“Happy Halloween Autumn,” Mr. Wilson said, bringing his two daughters up to the house so they too could get candy from Autumn’s candy bowl. Mr. Wilson lived down the street with his wife and twin daughters, Tara and Brittney. The girls dressed in cowgirls, the costumes were practically identical, except for the colors, Tara mostly in pink, Brittney mostly in aqua blue. Mr. Wilson, waiting as his daughters got their candies, looked Autumn over. While he was married and she was widowed, he couldn’t help but admire the young woman, him like most other men finding her very attractive.
Only twenty six, her skin was flawless, a natural tan only complimented by her auburn hair and chestnut eyes. When she’d fully smile, she’d smile so wide her eyes would squint, which was her cutest feature. Dressed in a burnt orange turtleneck, she was wearing a brown and lighter orange striped scarf. Autumn had a weakness for scarves, her bed and closet littered with too many to count. Her hair shoulder length, she always wore it down, more often than not her bangs falling down into her face, her ever the casually brushing her hair away, and more often than not another boy or man would notice it and fall in love with her that moment.
But for Autumn Summer’s only one man and one man only had ever won her heart. The father of her child, her late husband, and the man she loved more so than she could ever love another, Ryan Summer’s had met Autumn on that night itself, Halloween, four years prior.
She’d been at a party, dragged there by her friend Katie. Not really one for parties, she had half-assed her costume, putting on a cat-ear head band and mascara whiskers upon her face. Katie had wanted Autumn to dress a little more, as Katie had put it, “sluttier”, Katie’s intentions being that of finding Autumn a boy-toy for the All Hallows evening, though Autumn wasn’t to delighted at the thought of hooking up with a stranger. Having turned down wearing the Playboy Bunny outfit that Katie had wanted Autumn to wear “oh so badly”, Autumn was content with her half-assed kitten costume.
Having stood alone at the back of the party most of the night, Katie talking to one boy or another, and a few guys having tried their moves on Autumn, she just turned them all down as politely as she could and sipped at her red plastic cup of beer, the smile on her face never once vanishing. Though she wasn’t the party type girl, she was still enjoying herself, seeing all the other’s having fun. The music wasn’t terrible either.
“These things are always such a drag.” Another guy seeing if he was lucky enough to win over the lonesome “kitten” of the party. Tall, dressed in a half-assed werewolf costume, with a dog eared head band on his head, a leather jacket with a fabric dog tail safety pinned to his jeans, Autumn did think he was cute, but she was most likely gonna turn him down like she had the others that had tried earlier.
“Got that right,” she said, joining into the idle conversation.
“So how do you get an elephant into a safeway bag?” the question the boy asked leaving Autumn perplexed. She looked puzzling at cute boy, his face serious, or as serious as he could keep it. Unsure if she heard him correctly, she just stared at him till he repeated himself. “How do you get an elephant into a safeway bag?”
“How?” Autumn asked, not sure what the safeway bag was, but curious as to what the cute werewolf was going with his strange, very strange question.
“Well. It’s quite simple my little party kitten. You just remove the letter ‘s’ from the word ‘way’. And the letter ‘f’ from the word ‘way’. That simple.” Taking a sip from his own red plastic cup, the cute werewolf gave a warm grin as the obvious bewilderment on Autumn’s face became more and more obvious.
“What?” Autumn insanely confused by the solution the cute werewolf had just given her to his strange, random question. “There’s no ‘F’ in way.” As soon as she said the sentence, as soon as she heard the words exit her lips, she couldn’t help but laugh.
“Oh, but there is an F’in way,” the cute werewolf retorted, joining into the laughter with her, a boy across from the two seeing their shared laugh, irritated that the cute kitten girl had turned him away, instead falling for Ryan’s stupid elephant in a safeway bag joke. “I’m Ryan” the boy said, extending his hand for a handshake.
“Autumn Christmas,” Autumn said, taking her hand in his, his grip strong, but not too tight. In fact, as she held his hand, she felt butterflies begin to flutter in her tummy. “And that’s not a joke. That’s my real name. My parents have a strange sense of humor.”
“Well Autumn Christmas, in a strange turn of events, my last name just so happens to be Summers. Quite the kawinkydink if I may so myself.” Knowing he should let go of her hand, he, just like her had butterflies, something he’d never felt before, at least not from a handshake.
“Summers, huh?” Autumn took another sip of her beer. “Wouldn’t it be funny if we got married. Then my name would be Autumn Summers.” Rambling on, her normally adherent and logical thinking was somewhat hindered by the beer she was sipping at, and the uniqueness the cute werewolf had from all the other boys at the party. “Oh god! I just met you. I mean, I just found out your name, and I’m already going on about getting married. Oh god. Yeah, you can walk away with that ‘yep that chick was psycho’ look on your face and I’ll completely understand. It’s just that I’m slightly tipsy, and you are REALLY cute, and…”
Silenced when Ryan put a finger to her lips, he was quick to pull it away and take a sip from his cup, then give a warm smile. He found himself more attracted to this Autumn Christmas than he had any other girl. At these parties, he, just like his friends would see how many girls they could hook up with. And while that had been his plan when he had begun conversation with Autumn, that was long since abandoned, the butterflies in his gut making him think with the head on his shoulders, not the one in his jeans.
“You seem like you can hold a stimulating conversation. You want to get out of here? And I mean that in a ‘I-find-you-funny-and-cute-and-think-it-would-nice-to-get-out-of-here-and-get-to-know-you-better-not-a-get-you-alone-to-see-what-kinda-panties-you-are-wearing-though-I-wouldn’t-mind-knowing’ kinda way. A nerdy smile on his lips, Autumn couldn’t help but laugh and nod, agreeing to get out of there with this Ryan Summers.
Looking for Katie, the girl was nowhere in sight, most likely a “victim” to one of the other guys, just another number for the boy’s ego, not that Katie minded any. Knowing she would have to tell Katie all about Ryan the next day, she was more worried about what was going to happen, what story she was going to tell her friend.
Following Ryan through the crowd to the door, she took one last sip on her beer before she set it down, Ryan doing the same and opening the door, motioning for her to make her exit first.
“Such the gentleman.” Leaning in close, she could smell his cologne, and the fact that he smelled so good was just another reason she found him so very, very attractive. Feeling a little uninhibited, most likely from the few sips of beer she’d had (Autumn was a light weight when it came to drinking), she thought she could reward Ryan with just a tidbit of information. “And by the way, they are Pink, with frilly white trim, and these little red hearts on the cheeks.” Planting a kiss on his cheek, she pulled away with the biggest grin upon her lips, unbelieving what she had just said, but rather proud that she had, leaving Ryan to realize what he’d just been filled in on.
And when it occurred to him what she had just told him, he was quick to catch up to her, just as big a grin on his face, and his eyes wide as he pictured those panties on his “kitten”.

That night, the two had gone for a long walk, eventually Ryan giving Autumn his jacket, her loving the gesture, and the two walking and talking for hours. She told him about how she was so close of becoming a teacher, her dream. Explained what the ring she wore on a chain around her neck was.
“It had been my grandpa’s wedding band. He was my favorite person in the world, and when he died, my grandmother gave me the ring. It’s like my lucky charm.”
“Does it work?” Ryan asked, his hands in his pockets, and the goosebumps on his arms going away. He was freezing, but he wasn’t going to ask for his jacket back.
When the conversation turned to him talking, he told her about his parent’s divorce, how his little brother was a flute prodigy, and how in a week from that night, Ryan would be leaving for basic training in the Army. A military police job awaiting him, she seemed sad till he told her he was just a reservist, which made her feel a little better, but not the much.
At the end of that night, she exchanged number’s and shared a long, passionate kiss before parting ways. The next day Autumn had been the one to text him first. They met for lunch. Then dinner. And they saw each other every day till he left. And even then she wrote him a letter every day, well, at least one letter every day.
She went and seen him when he graduated basic training, meeting his parents and little brother. They talked on the phone every chance they could when he was in AIT. And when he finally came home, they were inseparable.
The next Halloween, a year after they had met, Ryan proposed, to which Autumn accepted and the two were married a week later, the two too impatient to wait. Giggling like a school girl when it was finally done, she loved her new name.
“Autumn Summers,” she would say over and over again to herself. “Mrs. Autumn Summers.”

The last pieces of candy taken by Optimus Prime, Autumn wished the child a happy Halloween and got up to retrieve more candy, a few more bags sitting right inside the house by the front door. Grabbing her beer as she stood, she paused to listen to the baby monitor, April still fast asleep. Taking a long gulp of her beer, Autumn had a foot inside the front door when she was stopped in her tracks, her heart skipping a beat when she heard what she heard.
“Knights in white satin, never reaching the end. Letter’s I’ve written, never meaning to send.” It was Ryan’s ringtone. Coming from her phone. Her Iphone that was dead. Dropping the candy bowl, dropping the beer bottle, she turned slowly, tears welling in her eyes and she looked down upon the phone, the screen black, but the song playing. “Beauty I’d always missed with these eyes before, Just what the truth is, I can’t say anymore.”
Knights in White Satin by the Moody Blues. Both Ryan and Autumn had had a love for seventies psychedelic music. And that song, it was Ryan’s favorite. In her phone, that song was his, and only his tone. Not that it mattered. Her phone was dead. There was no way it could be playing. No way, she thought.
Moving back to the steps, falling to her knees, tears running free from her eyes, she just looked at her phone, stared at it. It was impossible, was all her thoughts were. Impossible for her dead Iphone to be playing that song. Her husband was dead, like the phone. Just a month before their daughter had been born, he had been killed in a roadside bomb. Breathing hard, Autumn was scared, shaking her head as she clenched her eyes shut tight, just wanting the phone to shut up, but too afraid to touch it.
Reaching for her necklace, it was the first time since Ryan’s death she had done so, but her neck was bare, her grandfather’s ring absent from where it had hung for years. Before each of Ryan’s deployment’s she’d given it to him, making him promise to bring it back. She’d always believed the ring to be lucky, hoping it’s luck would keep her husband safe, bring him back to her. But apparently it wasn’t lucky enough.
Feeling her heart beating, thudding in her chest, the Iphone silenced as she was startled by another, a young child at the foot of her steps.
“Mrs. Summers,” the child had spoken, spooking Autumn, making her squeal and jump a bit. The little boy, Steven Price, another of her students, was dressed as a pirate, and standing there, he had an apologetic look upon his face, not meaning to startle his teacher.
“Steven. Yes, Steven,” she said, wiping her tears away, trying to remain calm. Giving the Iphone one last look, she wasn’t sure if she had been imagining the song playing, or if it really had been heard.
“Here,” Steven said, holding out an envelope. “The soldier man across the street wanted me to give this to you.” Autumn, reaching to take the envelope, looked across the street but only saw kids walking back and forth, no soldier. Taking the envelope, Autumn read the words written upon it as Steven just walked away, turning to move on to the next house for more candy.
A promise is forever. The words written on the envelope. Crying harder, Autumn recognized the handwriting. It was impossible for her not to. It was Ryan’s. Running fingers over the letters, it was impossible. Just like her dead phone ringing, it was impossible. Opening it, there was a letter within, but there was something else as well.
Pulling the letter free, Autumn turned the envelope over, and falling free, much to her shock, was her grandfather’s ring, still on the chain. Her breath caught in her throat, Autumn sobbed heavily. Large tears forming from her chestnut eyes, they ran slowly down her cheeks, meeting at her chin, coming together to fall, the large tear drop hitting the ring itself upon her lap.
Looking up again, there was still no solider across the street. Part of her wanted to see her husband standing there, while the rest of her wasn’t sure what to think. What was happening? She did believe in ghosts, but she never thought something like this would ever happen to her. Where she thought her grandfather’s ring had been lost when the bomb killed her husband, there it was on her lap. And still unread in her hand was a letter, Autumn afraid to open. Afraid to read what was written.
One more look up, still nothing to shock and awe her, just trick-r-treaters walking back and forth, she slowly opened the letter, her eyes closed the whole time, Autumn taking a deep breath before beginning to read.
Kitten.
I didn’t mean to scare you with the phone. Didn’t think you’d answer, but hey, a guy can hope, right? This is all so hard to believe, I know. But, a promise is a promise, and I promised to bring back that ring.
I miss you. And April. I watch you both, make sure you’re safe. You smile in your sleep still. And talk in your sleep. Incoherent gibberish.

Autumn laughed. It was definitely her husband’s hand that had written this letter. Even after death, he was still able to find a laugh in anything. Smiling so big her eyes squinted, forcing a few more tears from her eyes, she continued reading.

I’m sorry I can’t come home. I really am. I miss your kisses. I miss your touch. I miss you. I wish I could hold our baby girl, which April is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. She gets that from you. And I bet she gets that weird star thing you can do with your tongue from you too.
Anyhoo, I’m always here with you Autumn. Always watching you, keeping you and April safe. So, I did come home, I’m just not going to ever clean out the garage for you babe.
And if you are thinking, there is no way your husband is a ghost, or your guardian angel, there is an “F’in” way.
I love you Autumn Summers.
P.s. Look up.

Doing as the letter said, Autumn looked up to finally see him, Ryan, standing there across the street from their home. Dressed in his service dress uniform, his hands were in his pockets and he was smiling. Looking at him, he looked handsome, but it was obvious that there was something otherworldly about him. Unnaturally bright, it was like someone had turned up the contrast on her husband.
Going to stand, going to run to him, he shook his head, not wanting her to be disappointed. She couldn’t hold him. Couldn’t kiss him. It was taking a lot of energy to just be seen by her. No one else could see him, and that was a helluva trick that took him quite a while to learn, him having practiced it on the old couple that lived down the street. The one’s that had always given him weird looks when he had been living.
Pulling his right hand free from his pocket, he placed his right index finger to his nose, and like it was a button, his tongue slid out through his lips and smile. Autumn laughing, she did the same. That had been there “thing”, doing that to one other whenever they were at gatherings, parties, too far away from each other to talk, but still wanting to be silly and showed they loved each other. His hand falling back to his side, Ryan mouthed that he loved her, a shiny tear falling from his eye.
“I love you too,” Autumn whispered, watching as he disappeared in a bright flash. Sitting there, holding her letter, more tears ran from her eyes, but these were tears of happiness. Putting the necklace around her neck, she felt a brush on her cheek, a familiar feeling, like Ryan’s fingers brushing her cheek, brushing her hair away from her face.
Taking a deep breath, sighing deeply, Autumn was happy. Watching kids walk by, laughing, some already digging into their candy bowls, Autumn heard something that didn’t scare her at all. Coming from the baby monitor, she heard Ryan, and focusing on his voice, she had missed it so.
“I love you baby girl,” Ryan said, talking to his sleeping daughter, the baby monitor picking it up, Autumn sitting, an audience to a ghost father’s love. “Daddy’s here. Daddy’s always gonna be here.”
Knowing her husband was there, knowing he was her husband forever, well after death did its part, Autumn knew she loved him just as much then as when he was alive. The amount of effort he had to have gone through to return the necklace, the write the letter, she felt that she had to return the favor. And she knew just how. Gathering the baby monitor and her phone, she would clean the beer and broken glass later. She had a pair of pink panties with white frilly trim to find. Her husband was going to get a show that night.

A “Are you seriously Serious?” kinda Halloween

“Show yourself mother fucker!!” Kurtis yelled, his knuckles white from gripping the wood axe tightly, the blood from the wound on his forehead running down his face, around his right eye, gathering in his goatee. His letterman ruined, his own blood staining it, he was pissed. More pissed that his head had been slammed off a corner of a kitchen cabinet, but his ruined letterman was coming in close second.
“Maybe we should, you know, try to get out of here,” Jayme whispered, her arms shaking from holding the shotgun. Firing the two rounds she had fired had rocked her body. She had never fired a gun before, and wasn’t in the least bit expecting the kick from the weapon. The only reason it hadn’t floored her was the amount of adrenaline running through her body. Just like Kurtis’ letterman, her skimpy playboy bunny costume was ruined, but the blood covering it wasn’t her own. No, the blood covering her, from her bunny-ear-blond-haired head down to her three inch healed feet was the blood of her gutted friend Laurie, who had been cut from throat to gut, like a deer, the blood spraying like a terrible horror movie.
“The doors are locked. And the windows are shatterproof. We need to kill this fucker and, I don’t know, get the keys off him.” Liam had a headache. Staring through his glasses with the left lens missing gave him a headache, his eyes trying to fight with each other over focus, his brain being the victim. But more so his right leg hurt, the stab wound in his thigh making it almost impossible to stand. The belt he was using as a turniquette only slowed the bleeding, but not stopped it, his jeans warm and sticking to his leg, the pants soaked through with blood. Gripping the fire poker in one hand, he had to fight to keep his free hand from shaking, trying to seem as calm and brave as Kurtis.
The bodies that littered the home were classmates, some friends of the trio, more so Kurtis and Jayme, a very few Liam’s. In ten of the rooms, playing on the televisions in each of the rooms, a Halloween movie was playing, the second of the original series playing in the living room that the trio was in. Trapped in the home that had earlier been the scene of the biggest Halloween party that any of the teenagers had been too, it had quickly become a living nightmare, all but the three killed by a Michael Myers impersonator.
“Come on you fucking pussy!” Kurtis continued to taunt their enemy, their own Michael Myers. “Let’s finish this!” Taking his axe to the television, he smashed the screen, cutting short the “real” Myers’ massacre through the hospital.
“Yeah, you pussy,” Liam yelled, not going to let Kurtis be the sole hero in the situation. He knew it wasn’t the best time to try and one-up the school’s star quarterback, but Jayme had always been his crush, and in that instance, if they lived and he had been brave enough, maybe, just maybe she would see him for more than just the horror-movie/ indie-comic nerd that he was. “You look like a douchebag in that mask! IT WAS A WILLIAM SHATNER MASK TO BEGIN WITH YOU ASSHOLE!!!”
“Who,” Jayme began, stuttering from fear, “who is William Shatner?” she asked. Both Kurtis and Liam gave her quick glances wondering why the hell she would be asking a question like that at a time like that. If they both made it through the night, Liam was so going to fill her in on the ol’ Kirkmeister.
Hearing a scream from the upstairs, the trio was startled, all three jumping, Jayme having to force her own scream to stay in her throat and had been just two more millimeters away from pulling the trigger on the shotgun enough to let off another round. Thinking everyone was dead, they knew that someone else had been found by the killer, and that someone had been killed by said killer.
“He’s upstairs,” Liam said, slowing making his way to the door that led into the hallway that led to the staircase.
“No shit dipshit,” Kurtis said, giving the nerd a narrow-eyed glare.
“Be nice Kurtis,” Jayme said, the head cheerleader not believing that in their time of needing to pull together, her hot-headed boyfriend was still being a dick to one of the many kids he was so regularly a dick too. “Where are you going Lee?”
“It’s Liam,” he corrected his crush, not at all upset that she still didn’t know his name, “And if he’s upstairs, if we, I don’t know, corner him. I mean. The two, or three of us, should be able to take him. Right?”
“I shot him. With a shotgun.” Jayme said, her first round missing the killer, but her second shock after she quickly and somewhat knew what to expect from pulling the trigger hit the target.
“And I stabbed him with his own knife man. Then got him twice with the axe. And he’s still coming! So fuck that. We stay here. He’ll come to us, or fuck man, the cops should be on their way. They have to be.” The three took a moment to listen, hoping to hear approaching sirens, or even creaky footsteps from someone coming down the stairs. Instead only their heavy breathing was audible.
“Where do you think he is?” Liam began, and as the final words exited his mouth, he felt the sharp pain of the large kitchen knife enter his back, just as he heard the words “behind you!” exit the mouths of Kurtis and Jayme. The knife being pulled free, Liam was pushed aside, the killer done with him. For the time being.
“Who the fuck are you!?” Jayme said, waving the gun at the killer, wanting to know who had killed all her friends. Instead of pulling the trigger again, her shotgun pointed right on the masked murderer.
Kurtis raising the axe above his shoulder like a baseball bat, he ran at the copycat Michael Myers, anger painted on his face, the quarterback’s plan to decapitate the murderer, knowing he had the strength to do the job, if only he could connect….
Swinging the axe, the blade missed, the murderer ducking, lunging forward and up, digging his kitchen knife into Kurtis’ throat, the football star dropping the axe, reaching for the knife buried clean to the hilt in his neck. Pushing Kurtis off his knife with three fingers against the quarterback’s head, blood squirted from the wound, splattering the murderers jumpsuit.
Jayme, the last standing, seeing her boyfriend squirming on the ground, blood from his neck wound pooling around him as he gurgled and was dying, then a quick glance to the nerd that had been dressed as John Constantine, though she hadn’t know that. He was still alive, wide-eyed looking at the murderer, the knife having severed his spine, leaving his paralyzed.
Squeezing the trigger, there was no gunshot, only that oh-so-familiar click that said the gun was empty. Frantically squeezing again and again, nothing fired. Tears running from her eyes, mingling with her dead friends blood that was caked on her face, Jayme couldn’t help but keep on squeezing that trigger.
“So you want to know who I am, do ya?” the murderer finally spoke, having not said a single word throughout the entire night’s massacre. Letting the arm holding the knife fall to his side, his free hand moved to remove the mask. Pulling it free, the killer looked at the last remaining, standing person left from the party.
“Mike Meyers?” Jayme asked, in shock that the killer had been one of Kurtis’ best friends. “Why? Why would you do all this? Why would you kill all those people? Kurtis? Lee?”
“Liam,” Liam managed to say from the floor, correcting the girl again though she hadn’t really been paying attention to him, her focus more so on Mike.
“Why!? Why did I kill all you mother fuckers!? I’ll tell you bitch. Mike Myers!! Helluva name, right? I couldn’t have been named Frederick Krueger. Or Jason Vorhees, or even FUCKING CHUCKY THE LIVING MOTHER FUCKING MY BUDDY DOLL!! No, my parents just had to name me Michael. They had to give everyone a reason to connect me to those stupid fucking Halloween movies!! I mean, the third one didn’t even have anything to do with Michael Myers, but still, that one dumb fuck had to say to me, ‘season of the witch, man’. I gutted him with a big fucking smile on my face! Liam was right. It had been a William Shatner mask that was the face of that mother fucker. Michael mother fucking Myers!”
“You, you killed all those people because your name is Michael Meyers? Are you fucking crazy?!” Jayme couldn’t believe it. Yeah, she had made a Halloween movie reference joke to Mike here and there, but everyone did. They had all just been jokes. Just jokes.
“Am I crazy?” Mike laughed. Laughed so hard it made his stomach hurt. A great chuckle had had at that question. “Of course I’m fucking crazy you dumb blond bimbo!! I killed more than half our classmates at my Halloween party because they made jokes concerning my name. If that ain’t crazy, then what the fuck is these days baby?!”
“Go to hell Mike!” Jayme said, squeezing the trigger one last, knowing nothing would happen, but hoping something would.
“You first doll!” Mike, lifting the knife and running leaping at her, he was stopped in midair, the floor below him, the spot where he had been standing erupting in an explosion. Floorboards and splinters going everywhere, Kurtis’ body flying till his corpse collided with the wall, his blood splattering like a paintball impact.
From the explosion, the source of the sudden change in events, a giant tentacle, wrapping itself around Mike, wrapping like an anaconda would it’s prey. Slamming the murderer into the wall, the floor, the wall, then violently waving the crazed teenager through the air like a toddler would a rattle.
“What the fuck!!!” Mike yelled, hearing his bones snap from the squeezing, the sound mixing with Jayme’s screams as she backed up quickly to get away from the writhing, strange, giant tentacle that had just burst out from the basement. Slamming Mike against the floor one more time, it silenced the teen before pulling him through the whole, the tentacle and teen disappearing.
In shock, not sure what to think, Jayme dropped the shotgun, her eyes not leaving the gaping hole in the floor. Shaking all over, she slowly moved to sit on the floor, unsure of what to do next. Closing her eyes, tears still falling, streaks running down her cheeks, she sobbed quietly, opening her eyes just in time to see another tentacle make it’s entrance into the room through the hole.
Snapping her way in the blink of her baby blue eyes, the olive green tentacle wrapped itself around her ankle, pausing only for a brief two and three quarter seconds before dragging the girl across the floor to the hole, which would then lead to her most certain, most likely gruesome and slow demise.
Gripping for her life to the edge of the hole, fighting against the tentacle pulling at her leg, she looked with terror into Liam’s eyes, her eyes growing wider and wider with each passing millisecond.
“Lee!” she strained to say, her strength draining quickly, the tentacle willing the tug-o-war battle. “Lee! Help me!”
“I’m fucking paralyzed!” Liam yelled. “AND MY GOD DAMNED NAME IS LIAM YOU DUMB BLOND BIMBO!!!” His irritated yell distracting her and surprising her momentarily, it was enough for her to be pulled into the hole from his sight.
Laying there, unable to move, not sure if a tentacle was coming for him, Liam just closed his eyes and lay there, not wanting to know what his fate was going to be. His body numb all over, his eyelids growing heavy, he was just about asleep when another sound stirred him from his almost sleep.
Coming from the other side of the room, where Jayme had slid down to sit, her cell phone lay, ringing, having fallen out of her short, short, shorts just before the tentacle that had taken her had taken her. Ringing, the song blaring from the bedazzled phone told Liam one thing and one thing only. He was in hell. Unable to move, unable to answer the phone, he had to just lay there and listen. Listen to….
“Mmmmm boppp, doo dada mmmmm boppp.”
“Noooooo!!!!”

 

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