This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Enlightenment at the End of the World
By Plot Roach
Soft footsteps on the marble floor, Zach had to walk slowly to keep from slipping and falling on his face. He padded along behind his friends, Joe and Micah, as they sought enlightenment at the End of the World Sanctuary.
It had taken three months, two planes and endless treks on unmarked roads driven by crazy cab drivers to find the place, and Zach still was not sure that they were in the right temple. Nothing was in English, and none of the locals seemed to answer any of their questions with anything more than a nod or a shake of the head. They stepped inside the first temple that they had come to while in the dense forest. The people inside dressed in thin robes, gestured to them that they should shed their shoes at the temple’s entrance and walk in their socks. Micah was in the middle of negotiations with one of the ’priests’, making sure that they were in the right location, when Zach wandered off, taking his notebook out and making a quick sketch of the inside of the building.
There were mosaics along the walls and the floors of the place, the ceiling itself the natural roof of a cave, complete with stalactites. Everyone was hushed as they went about the temple on various errands, and Zach had no doubt that they did not want to break off one of the sharp spikes hanging overhead with harsh vibrations. Though that thought had not seemed to dawn on his two friends.
“Are we here, at the end of the world, or not?” Micah yelled in frustration.
“I think it’s all a hoax.” said Joe.
The priest waved his hands at them and made hushing noises, pointing to the roof. And then quickly backed away from the men.
“What’s with him?” Micah asked.
“He’s afraid the stalactites will fall and kill him with all the noise you’re making.” answered Zach.
“The stalagmites?” asked Joe.
“Stalactites.” corrected Zach.
“What’s the freaking difference?” asked Micah.
“Stalactites are formed from the ceiling down, stalagmites form from the floor up.”
“And you know this how?” Joe asked.
“I obviously learned a thing or two in school. Stalactites have to hold on ‘tight’ or else they will fall to the floor. Stalagmites reach up and ‘might’ reach the ceiling if they try hard enough.” explained Zach.
“You are such a nerd.” Joe said, shaking his head.
“At least I wasn’t the one to talk so loud it threatened to bring the ceiling down on us and chased away the priest in the meantime.”
The three men walked form the main hall to the little rooms that branched off via natural tunnels in the cave. Micah got out his camera and began snapping pictures as fast as his flash would allow. Joe ran a hand along a rock wall that appeared to be the inside of a geode, filled with thick chunks of purple amethyst. Zach held onto his sketchbook, taken aback by the beauty before him.
“I wonder what these pictures will be worth to something like Natural Adventurer or Exciting Times…” Micah mumbled, still snapping photographs.
“Do we really want to sell them?” Zach asked. “I mean, those are great magazines and all. But if Mr. and Mrs. Redneck American find out about a place like this, they’ll only ruin in by wanting to carve away the rock to take home and sell. Or they’ll insist that everyone here speak English all the time to suit their needs. Then, before you know it, all the people here will lose their native beliefs in order to run the busy shift at the local fast food restaurant. And the forest will be cleared away for a parking lot. They’ll ruin everything…”
Joe and Micah looked at one another and laughed, deeply and loudly. They spent the rest of the tour pointing out the ‘beautiful things’ Zach had tried to impress them with and made fun of him in every way possible.
Once back in the main cathedral of the temple, Zach was sure that their teasing would stop, but he could not have been further from the truth. “Oh, look, a ‘stalactite’. Joe said, mimicking Zach’s voice. We better hold on ‘tight’ to it, or else someone will steal it and sell it on the black market.”
“And we should definitely put the McDonald’s over here and the Taco Bell over by the main doorway. Oh, and don’t forget the Starbucks. We need something for the locals to get them up at the crack of dawn to give tours and sweep the parking lot clean for Mr. And Mrs. Redneck’s arrival.”
Zach stalked away and was almost out of the temple itself when he heard the rumble. He turned, a scream caught in his throat as he watched his two friends laugh obnoxiously, sealing their fate. Joe was looking up at the ceiling with his camera when the first stalactite fell from the ceiling, piercing the camera lens and traveling through the body of the device until it planted itself deep inside his friend’s brain. Micah had enough warning to try and make a break for it, for all the good it did for him. Halfway to the door, where Zach was standing, a rain of pointy rocks launched from the ceiling, pinning his friend to the floor and staining the mosaic red with the man’s blood.
Zach watched in horror, knowing that he could do nothing to help them. The priests came from their various posts in the side rooms. Once it was clear that death would no longer fall upon them in the form of mineral fangs, the priests helped Zach pull his friends out of the main cathedral and through the front entrance.
Zach sat in silence, looking at the bodies of his two friends covered in blankets as he waited for what passed for the police and the coroner in a country such as this. Most of the priests had gone back to their prayers and rituals, leaving Zach to his own thoughts. They had treated the incident as if it happened everyday. But while Zach had expected a kind word or even a small show of remorse, he certainly received none. “Some enlightenment.” Zach complained.
“Do not confuse our actions -or inactions- for rudeness, young fellow.” one of the priests said. “What happened today simply reaffirmed our faith. Your friends were meant to die so that you could carry their story to others that need to hear and to learn from it.”
“But..” Zach started to argue. It all seemed so meaningless, to let them die like that and not even offer a prayer for their departure. It was wasteful, inhumane and downright stupid, he thought. Tears welled up in his eyes and he turned away from the priest.
“Often enlightenment is painful, but is necessary to fulfill the life lessons we need to know before we can move on to the next world.”
“Any other bits of wisdom you’d like to pass down to me?” Zach snapped at the old man, wiping away his tears. And with them, his views on third world wisdom and spirituality.
“I can offer you a coupon for thirty percent off anything in our gift shop.” the old man offered, holding out a scrap of paper to Zach.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
The Last of the Last
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Last of the Last
By Plot Roach
Bernard shifted from one foot to the other, trying to think of a way he could approach the blonde woman without sounding like an idiot. He was at a friend’s nightclub, the Disaster Zone, on its opening night. It was filled wall to wall with posters, pictures and other items for post apocalyptic survival. Bernard was impressed with the lower level, an actual bomb shelter from the past, that had been refurbished as a lounge of sorts.
He practiced his lines, trying to get the words and the timing right, without sounding rehearsed. But knew without a shadow of a doubt, that she was well out of his league. He stepped forward, ready to make his move when a younger man, physically better built than Bernard himself, stepped forward to charm her for his own. She took a glance at him before shooting him down. The man had not even had a chance, and he was built like a male model. What kind of chance do I have with her? He thought. He lumbered back to the bar, ordering another beer when his friend walked up to him.
“So…How did it go?”
“I never even talked to her.”
“What?”
“Some other guy built like a Greek god got there first and she swatted him like a fly.”
“So? Try anyway.”
“Have you seen what I look like lately?” Bernard whined. If the male she had turned away earlier was the prime example of the male physical form, Bernard looked like a genetic freak, with a high forehead, thick waist and tons of hair everywhere except for the top of his head.
“Dude, what’s the worst that can happen?” his friend asked. “So she says ‘no’, it’s not the end of the world. And you’ll never know until you ask.”
Bernard sighed and nodded, but when he turned around to find her, she was gone. He scanned the different rooms, hoping that she had not already left the club with someone else. But the more frantic his search became, the more he had hoped that she had left the building. Then at least I won’t have made a fool of myself, he thought.
But there she was, in the basement lounge. And she was alone on the fuzzy couch that reminded Bernard of shag carpet. She was looking at the monitor across from her as it showed snippets of various old horror movies from the past. Ant headed men, giant rodents and aliens chasing well endowed, scantily clad women. There were no speakers, so the women screamed silently, even though the music from the floor above would have surely drown out any noise from the television.
Bernard crept forward, wondering how he should introduce himself. “That one was from ‘Pod People of Andromeda Four‘, I think.” he said, pointing to the screen as green suited men with glittered helmets chased after a woman with a torn skirt.
“These actually came from real movies?” she asked.
“Yep, my friend owns the club and he asked for help finding the worst horror and science fiction movies possible.”
“And you would be the expert on such things?”
“Not the expert, but I’ve seen my fair share of loser movies.”
“Hmmm.”
Got to think of something cool to say, he thought to himself. You’re losing her. “So what brings you here?”
“A girl friend wanted to see the opening night, and I have a hard time saying no to her.”
“Well, at least you found a quiet corner for yourself.”
“Yeah…I had.”
“Oh” he said. Maybe I should take that as a clue, he thought. Better to leave now with his dignity intact then wait until it was too late. “I’ll see you later, then.” he said and backed away to the door. His friend smiled at him and closed the door before he could walk through, making a face at him through the clear glass window.
“Very funny, Greg. Now open the door.”
“Not until she gives you a smooch, lover boy.”
“Greg, come on.” Bernard was beginning to panic, if the woman did not like him before, he was definitely on her naughty list now. He slammed his hand against the door and Greg only laughed.
“You should see the look on your face-”
The building shook and Greg turned away from the window in the door. “What the fu-”
The shaking was accompanied by a roar, the electricity was cut from the room and bits of debris piled about them in the bomb shelter. When all was still, a backup generator came on, flooding the little room with enough light to see a freckle on a mouse's butt.
“What do you think happened?” the woman asked.
“Maybe an earthquake? Or could it have been a bomb?”
Bernard tried to open the door, and found a small timer ticking madly above the entrance. He had thought it was part of the décor of the room. But now realized that the shelter was still ‘active’. “Oh crap.”
“What is it?”
“The door is really locked for good now.”
“What do you mean?”
“These old shelters had timers on the locks to prevent them from opening too early. This one is set for two weeks.”
“Why two weeks?”
“Some were set for as long as twenty five years, I’ll take two weeks any day. Besides, someone is sure to know that we’re down here and they’ll cut us out soon.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m Bernard, by the way.”
“Like the dog?”
He smiled. “I get that a lot. It’s actually a family name.”
“I’m Eve.”
Within minutes they finished their pleasantries. Within hours they knew about each other past, like schools attended, family quirks and other assorted tidbits people in disasters trade with one another when there is little else to talk about. Hours passed and became the first day, which stretched into the first week. By then, they had rationed what food they could find in the cupboards of the shelter. They read books, watched the monitor on the endless ‘disaster movie’ reel, making up their own dialogue, and played checkers when they substituted some of the missing black markers for Oreo cookies. Until Bernard ate the pieces, that is. When two weeks had passed, the door opened with a swish, allowing fresh, if highly dusty air to filter into the shelter. They walked through the wreckage of the nightclub, stepping over bloated corpses and broken Hollywood props.
“For being in a place loaded down with survival gear, it doesn’t look like anyone made it out alive.” Eve said.
Once out into the sunlight, the sight of the city around them was no better. Buildings lay broken like children’s toys, charred skeletons lined the streets and odd looking chunks of metal were cast about like loose change in a wishing pool.
“Are those space ships?” Eve asked. She pointed to the burned skeleton halfway out of its ‘ship’, its skull blackened and elongated like a bird’s.
“They sure as hell don’t look like dinosaurs.” Bernard said.
“Or big ass rats.”
They wandered the city, afraid at first that more of the ‘aliens’ would be on the prowl. But after a few hours of searching, they realized that they were very much alone. “We could be the only humans left on the planet.” Bernard said.
“And just what is that supposed to mean?” asked Eve, searching under the wreckage of a grocery store front for anything usable.
“The whole of the human race is in our hands.” Bernard said. “We’ll have to breed to save the species.”
“What are we, panda bears?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I see where you’re going.” she said, breaking her way through a tangle of broken concrete and rebar to reach into the store’s surviving display.
“I would have only the greatest respect for you, you know.” Bernard said, trying to undo some of the damage.
“Like you could leave me for another woman…”
“But… It’s not like that-”
“Here,” she said, handing him a partially melted plastic glass. “You fill this up and I’ll look for a turkey baster.”
“But that’s not how…”
“No, I see how it is. But there’s something you have to understand, Bernard.” she said with her arms crossed over her chest, tapping her foot on the wreckage of the city. “I might be the last woman on the planet, but I’m also the last lesbian.”
The Last of the Last
By Plot Roach
Bernard shifted from one foot to the other, trying to think of a way he could approach the blonde woman without sounding like an idiot. He was at a friend’s nightclub, the Disaster Zone, on its opening night. It was filled wall to wall with posters, pictures and other items for post apocalyptic survival. Bernard was impressed with the lower level, an actual bomb shelter from the past, that had been refurbished as a lounge of sorts.
He practiced his lines, trying to get the words and the timing right, without sounding rehearsed. But knew without a shadow of a doubt, that she was well out of his league. He stepped forward, ready to make his move when a younger man, physically better built than Bernard himself, stepped forward to charm her for his own. She took a glance at him before shooting him down. The man had not even had a chance, and he was built like a male model. What kind of chance do I have with her? He thought. He lumbered back to the bar, ordering another beer when his friend walked up to him.
“So…How did it go?”
“I never even talked to her.”
“What?”
“Some other guy built like a Greek god got there first and she swatted him like a fly.”
“So? Try anyway.”
“Have you seen what I look like lately?” Bernard whined. If the male she had turned away earlier was the prime example of the male physical form, Bernard looked like a genetic freak, with a high forehead, thick waist and tons of hair everywhere except for the top of his head.
“Dude, what’s the worst that can happen?” his friend asked. “So she says ‘no’, it’s not the end of the world. And you’ll never know until you ask.”
Bernard sighed and nodded, but when he turned around to find her, she was gone. He scanned the different rooms, hoping that she had not already left the club with someone else. But the more frantic his search became, the more he had hoped that she had left the building. Then at least I won’t have made a fool of myself, he thought.
But there she was, in the basement lounge. And she was alone on the fuzzy couch that reminded Bernard of shag carpet. She was looking at the monitor across from her as it showed snippets of various old horror movies from the past. Ant headed men, giant rodents and aliens chasing well endowed, scantily clad women. There were no speakers, so the women screamed silently, even though the music from the floor above would have surely drown out any noise from the television.
Bernard crept forward, wondering how he should introduce himself. “That one was from ‘Pod People of Andromeda Four‘, I think.” he said, pointing to the screen as green suited men with glittered helmets chased after a woman with a torn skirt.
“These actually came from real movies?” she asked.
“Yep, my friend owns the club and he asked for help finding the worst horror and science fiction movies possible.”
“And you would be the expert on such things?”
“Not the expert, but I’ve seen my fair share of loser movies.”
“Hmmm.”
Got to think of something cool to say, he thought to himself. You’re losing her. “So what brings you here?”
“A girl friend wanted to see the opening night, and I have a hard time saying no to her.”
“Well, at least you found a quiet corner for yourself.”
“Yeah…I had.”
“Oh” he said. Maybe I should take that as a clue, he thought. Better to leave now with his dignity intact then wait until it was too late. “I’ll see you later, then.” he said and backed away to the door. His friend smiled at him and closed the door before he could walk through, making a face at him through the clear glass window.
“Very funny, Greg. Now open the door.”
“Not until she gives you a smooch, lover boy.”
“Greg, come on.” Bernard was beginning to panic, if the woman did not like him before, he was definitely on her naughty list now. He slammed his hand against the door and Greg only laughed.
“You should see the look on your face-”
The building shook and Greg turned away from the window in the door. “What the fu-”
The shaking was accompanied by a roar, the electricity was cut from the room and bits of debris piled about them in the bomb shelter. When all was still, a backup generator came on, flooding the little room with enough light to see a freckle on a mouse's butt.
“What do you think happened?” the woman asked.
“Maybe an earthquake? Or could it have been a bomb?”
Bernard tried to open the door, and found a small timer ticking madly above the entrance. He had thought it was part of the décor of the room. But now realized that the shelter was still ‘active’. “Oh crap.”
“What is it?”
“The door is really locked for good now.”
“What do you mean?”
“These old shelters had timers on the locks to prevent them from opening too early. This one is set for two weeks.”
“Why two weeks?”
“Some were set for as long as twenty five years, I’ll take two weeks any day. Besides, someone is sure to know that we’re down here and they’ll cut us out soon.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m Bernard, by the way.”
“Like the dog?”
He smiled. “I get that a lot. It’s actually a family name.”
“I’m Eve.”
Within minutes they finished their pleasantries. Within hours they knew about each other past, like schools attended, family quirks and other assorted tidbits people in disasters trade with one another when there is little else to talk about. Hours passed and became the first day, which stretched into the first week. By then, they had rationed what food they could find in the cupboards of the shelter. They read books, watched the monitor on the endless ‘disaster movie’ reel, making up their own dialogue, and played checkers when they substituted some of the missing black markers for Oreo cookies. Until Bernard ate the pieces, that is. When two weeks had passed, the door opened with a swish, allowing fresh, if highly dusty air to filter into the shelter. They walked through the wreckage of the nightclub, stepping over bloated corpses and broken Hollywood props.
“For being in a place loaded down with survival gear, it doesn’t look like anyone made it out alive.” Eve said.
Once out into the sunlight, the sight of the city around them was no better. Buildings lay broken like children’s toys, charred skeletons lined the streets and odd looking chunks of metal were cast about like loose change in a wishing pool.
“Are those space ships?” Eve asked. She pointed to the burned skeleton halfway out of its ‘ship’, its skull blackened and elongated like a bird’s.
“They sure as hell don’t look like dinosaurs.” Bernard said.
“Or big ass rats.”
They wandered the city, afraid at first that more of the ‘aliens’ would be on the prowl. But after a few hours of searching, they realized that they were very much alone. “We could be the only humans left on the planet.” Bernard said.
“And just what is that supposed to mean?” asked Eve, searching under the wreckage of a grocery store front for anything usable.
“The whole of the human race is in our hands.” Bernard said. “We’ll have to breed to save the species.”
“What are we, panda bears?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I see where you’re going.” she said, breaking her way through a tangle of broken concrete and rebar to reach into the store’s surviving display.
“I would have only the greatest respect for you, you know.” Bernard said, trying to undo some of the damage.
“Like you could leave me for another woman…”
“But… It’s not like that-”
“Here,” she said, handing him a partially melted plastic glass. “You fill this up and I’ll look for a turkey baster.”
“But that’s not how…”
“No, I see how it is. But there’s something you have to understand, Bernard.” she said with her arms crossed over her chest, tapping her foot on the wreckage of the city. “I might be the last woman on the planet, but I’m also the last lesbian.”
Sunday, May 29, 2011
A Cute and Fuzzy Death
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
A Cute and Fuzzy Death
By Plot Roach
“Oh, how cute.” Melissa said, reaching out to pet the little black rabbit which immediately took cover under the plastic igloo in the cage.
“Don’t move so fast.” Jared said. “They spook easily and it will never come out again.”
The manager of the pet store looked over and made a quick assessment of the two people who had just entered the store, making a beeline for the section he called the ‘cute and fuzzys’. It was just past spring, the beginning of summer and people had the urge to hold something fluffy and cuddly, buying whatever creature fit their mood at the time, and quickly losing interest when their ‘pet’ became a ‘responsibility’.
He rolled his eyes and wandered over, hoping to dissuade them from such a thoughtless purchase, even though it might cost the store a sale.
“May I help you?” he asked, a bit more somber than the occasion called for.
“Oh, no. We’re just looking.” Melissa said, still eyeing the plastic dome that held the minute black rabbit.
“What she means to say, is that we’re looking to pick up a new pet today.”
“What will it be replacing?” the manager asked.
“We’re no good with fish, the gerbil managed to Houdini his way out of his cage (and we never saw him again), and-”
“Plants are too boring.” finished Melissa.
Let me get this right, the manager thought. You’re no good with things that can’t escape and you probably have a mummified rodent behind your couch? And now you’re looking to torture another innocent life? But what he managed to say was, “I see. Maybe something beautiful but sedate. Like a snake or a turtle?”
“Oh, ick!” said Melissa. “I want something warm and fuzzy, not something slimy.”
“Actually, snakes and turtles aren’t ‘slimy’, it’s a misconception.”
“Hey, whatever.” said Jared. “We just want something we can cuddle with, but isn’t too much trouble to keep.”
Maybe a hooker? The manager thought, not daring to open his mouth until he had taken a few deep breaths and was sure that he would not mistakenly tell them what he really thought of them. “You could start out with mice, or a nice rat. Then when you get the hang of it, work your way up to a guinea pig.”
“Rodents, ick!” Melissa squealed. “I hate vermin.”
And just what do you think that you are? The manager thought to himself. “Well… What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I like this rabbit, but he keeps hiding from me.”
I can’t imagine why, the manager thought. “Let me collect him for you.” He overturned the plastic igloo and scooped the bunny up into his arms. The poor thing shook and tried to hide in the crook of his arm. I would hide too, if I was sentenced to live (and most assuredly die) with these two.
“Bunny!” Melissa squealed, and the rabbit nearly jumped from the manager’s hands to the floor in order to escape her clutches. Reluctantly the store manager passed the creature over, watching the woman’s red painted fingernails sink like talons into the poor beast.
“Bunny! Bunny! Bunny!” she began to sing, pressing the rabbit up to her face to feel its soft fur against her cheek.
“Why is it the only one in the cage?” Jared asked.
The manager lifted an eyebrow and made one last effort to save the poor creature, thinking fast. “That’s because it’s black, instead of one of the other colors. It’s not a popular choice. In fact, we got it by mistake and were stuck with it. It’s been here a while, so it’s older than most of our other furry residents. Which means it will not have as long of a life with you as you might like.”
“Because it’s black?” Melissa asked.
“Like a black cat, it’s bad luck or something like that?” Jared asked.
Well, at least I can give them a show, the manager thought. “Yes, they are believed to be bad luck. In fact, some believe that to bring a black rabbit into your home -even a dead one, is to invite death to carry away a loved one.”
“It brings death into your house?” Melissa asked, pulling the fuzzy creature away from her face and holding it at an arm’s length.
“Cool, I’ll buy it.” Jared said.
“Did you not here what I said?” asked the manager. “To take it into your home is to invite death in.”
“Yeah, I heard what you said.” Jared said, smiling. “And I want to buy it as a gift for my grandma. She’s old and sick anyway. But I can’t get my inheritance from her until she dies. So maybe Mr. Bunny will make her feel all warm and happy before, well, she kicks the bucket.”
“And then what will you do with the creature?” the manager demanded.
“Well… I have a grandma too.” Melissa ventured.
The manager rolled his eyes, obviously defeated in his effort to save the rabbit. He took it to the front counter where he placed it into a carrier box and handed it over to Melissa. “That will be twenty seven fifty for the fuzzy black assassin, please.”
A Cute and Fuzzy Death
By Plot Roach
“Oh, how cute.” Melissa said, reaching out to pet the little black rabbit which immediately took cover under the plastic igloo in the cage.
“Don’t move so fast.” Jared said. “They spook easily and it will never come out again.”
The manager of the pet store looked over and made a quick assessment of the two people who had just entered the store, making a beeline for the section he called the ‘cute and fuzzys’. It was just past spring, the beginning of summer and people had the urge to hold something fluffy and cuddly, buying whatever creature fit their mood at the time, and quickly losing interest when their ‘pet’ became a ‘responsibility’.
He rolled his eyes and wandered over, hoping to dissuade them from such a thoughtless purchase, even though it might cost the store a sale.
“May I help you?” he asked, a bit more somber than the occasion called for.
“Oh, no. We’re just looking.” Melissa said, still eyeing the plastic dome that held the minute black rabbit.
“What she means to say, is that we’re looking to pick up a new pet today.”
“What will it be replacing?” the manager asked.
“We’re no good with fish, the gerbil managed to Houdini his way out of his cage (and we never saw him again), and-”
“Plants are too boring.” finished Melissa.
Let me get this right, the manager thought. You’re no good with things that can’t escape and you probably have a mummified rodent behind your couch? And now you’re looking to torture another innocent life? But what he managed to say was, “I see. Maybe something beautiful but sedate. Like a snake or a turtle?”
“Oh, ick!” said Melissa. “I want something warm and fuzzy, not something slimy.”
“Actually, snakes and turtles aren’t ‘slimy’, it’s a misconception.”
“Hey, whatever.” said Jared. “We just want something we can cuddle with, but isn’t too much trouble to keep.”
Maybe a hooker? The manager thought, not daring to open his mouth until he had taken a few deep breaths and was sure that he would not mistakenly tell them what he really thought of them. “You could start out with mice, or a nice rat. Then when you get the hang of it, work your way up to a guinea pig.”
“Rodents, ick!” Melissa squealed. “I hate vermin.”
And just what do you think that you are? The manager thought to himself. “Well… What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I like this rabbit, but he keeps hiding from me.”
I can’t imagine why, the manager thought. “Let me collect him for you.” He overturned the plastic igloo and scooped the bunny up into his arms. The poor thing shook and tried to hide in the crook of his arm. I would hide too, if I was sentenced to live (and most assuredly die) with these two.
“Bunny!” Melissa squealed, and the rabbit nearly jumped from the manager’s hands to the floor in order to escape her clutches. Reluctantly the store manager passed the creature over, watching the woman’s red painted fingernails sink like talons into the poor beast.
“Bunny! Bunny! Bunny!” she began to sing, pressing the rabbit up to her face to feel its soft fur against her cheek.
“Why is it the only one in the cage?” Jared asked.
The manager lifted an eyebrow and made one last effort to save the poor creature, thinking fast. “That’s because it’s black, instead of one of the other colors. It’s not a popular choice. In fact, we got it by mistake and were stuck with it. It’s been here a while, so it’s older than most of our other furry residents. Which means it will not have as long of a life with you as you might like.”
“Because it’s black?” Melissa asked.
“Like a black cat, it’s bad luck or something like that?” Jared asked.
Well, at least I can give them a show, the manager thought. “Yes, they are believed to be bad luck. In fact, some believe that to bring a black rabbit into your home -even a dead one, is to invite death to carry away a loved one.”
“It brings death into your house?” Melissa asked, pulling the fuzzy creature away from her face and holding it at an arm’s length.
“Cool, I’ll buy it.” Jared said.
“Did you not here what I said?” asked the manager. “To take it into your home is to invite death in.”
“Yeah, I heard what you said.” Jared said, smiling. “And I want to buy it as a gift for my grandma. She’s old and sick anyway. But I can’t get my inheritance from her until she dies. So maybe Mr. Bunny will make her feel all warm and happy before, well, she kicks the bucket.”
“And then what will you do with the creature?” the manager demanded.
“Well… I have a grandma too.” Melissa ventured.
The manager rolled his eyes, obviously defeated in his effort to save the rabbit. He took it to the front counter where he placed it into a carrier box and handed it over to Melissa. “That will be twenty seven fifty for the fuzzy black assassin, please.”
Saturday, May 28, 2011
The Perfect Party
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Perfect Party
By Plot Roach
Sam grumbled under his breath as he switched the outside light bulbs from the red and green Christmas colors to red white and blue in order to help celebrate Memorial day. Why can’t we just buy the damn white ones and leave them up all year, he thought to himself. Then I wouldn’t have to climb up this damned rickety ladder again the day after Thanksgiving to do it again.
He sighed and tossed on bulb into the bucket below him as he twisted another one into its place. He loved his wife, Martha, but felt that there were times she went too far when entertaining the locals. He had agreed to the barbeque, and to the fireworks that they would be setting off afterwards, but why she had to have everything perfect was beyond him. No neighbor would frown if the grass was half an inch too long, if his mouth was full of Cajun style pork ribs and a hand holding a chilled beer. No one that he knew would be looking at the crab grass that grew between the cracks of his driveway when blossoms of color exploded in the sky that night with the show that Sam had planned. But he loved his wife, and thus had to pay the price for that affection, making sure that everything was perfect in her world so that he could tolerate things in his own.
He ran out of blue light bulbs as he reached the end of the strand on the edge of the garage. Martha approached with a critical eye as she handed him a cold beer, and Sam could tell what she was about to say, before she could even say it.
“Sam, I don’t think-”
“I know, Martha. It doesn’t match, but I ran out of blue light bulbs and I don’t want to go running off to the store just yet. Let a man rest on his day off for once, and I’ll pick up some more on the way home from work tomorrow."
“It’s just that I want everything to be-”
“Perfect, I know. But the party won’t be until the day after tomorrow, and I promise that I’ll get it up first thing after I get home. I promise, love.”
She made a face and handed him his beer. “You better call it a day then, I don’t want you drinking and up on that latter. It’s dangerous.”
“I’ve only had one sip, not a six-pack.” he hissed. “A unicorn falling from the sky is far more likely to happen than me falling off this ladder. Now let me finish my work.”
A great shadow passed over him and for a moment Sam thought that a plane had passed too low to the ground, but there was no sound of an engine, except from far away. There was a great thud behind him that he felt more than heard. “Oh, look Sam!” Martha exclaimed, as a big wooden crate came to rest in their front yard, crushing the birdbath even as the parachute connected to the cargo tangled itself in the nearby tree.
So much for having the yard perfect the day after tomorrow, Sam thought. No way we can replace the birdbath in time. And I’m damn sure that the crate dug a groove in the lawn.
“What do you think it is?” Martha asked as they approached the wooden crate.
“Only one way to tell.” Sam said. “Bring me my crowbar from the top of my tool chest.” Sam circled the crate, looking for any distinguishing markings. All he found was a small card stapled to the top that read “Einhorn Exotics box 7 of 20.” There was no address nor a telephone number. He tapped on the side of the box, but it sounded mostly hollow. He had heard of things falling from planes before, but mostly it was just engine parts or frozen passenger poop. Never something that had been a part of actual cargo. He wondered what it would be worth.
He started prying open the side of the crate, as Martha watched from a safe distance. While she was curious as to what the box held, she was also afraid that what they were doing was illegal. “I think we should call the police, Sam. It’s not ours and maybe someone will give us a reward if we give it back to them intact.”
“Don’t you know that these things are usually insured up the wazoo?” Sam asked. “So whomever lost it will be reimbursed. In the meantime maybe we’ll find something that’s worth the price of replacing our birdbath.”
A few wooden planks pried off, and the side of the crate gave way. In the depths of the dark interior Sam could hear the sound of breathing. “What the hell could it be?” he asked. He continued to look inside the dark box while Martha fetched a flashlight to give them a better look at the cargo.
“It’s some kind of beast,” Sam said. He wondered if the creature was dying, but the box had drifted down with the help of the parachute, so he doubted that the ride had cause the thing any major harm. He remembered that some animals had to be heavily sedated before taking long trips in a plane and chalked that up to the creature’s lethargy. Even in the beam of the flashlight he couldn’t quite make out what it was. It seemed to be build almost like a mule or small horse. Its hide was mostly black, but with zebra stripes along its legs and rear. The head and ears reminded him of a mule deer. And rising from its forehead was a single black horn, that spiraled toward the back of the beast.
Slowly it opened its eyes and got to its feet. “Easy now, boy.” Sam said, suddenly wishing that he had followed his wife’s advise and left the crate closed. But there was no going back now, as the creature began to walk toward the sunlight. When Sam looked over his shoulder, Martha was nowhere to be found. I hope she’s calling animal control, Sam thought. But no, she returned a moment later with a mixing bowl full of water and a few carrots dangling form her hand.
“What are you up to with all that?” he asked her.
“The thing looks like it’s had a long trip, Sam. Maybe it could use some refreshments.”
Oh there she goes again, he thought. If she’s not making the neighbor’s happy, she’s trying to help some stray animal. He shook his head and was about to walk away, leaving her to tend the animal, when he saw the creature charge. He pushed his wife out of the way of what would have been a fatal blow. As it was, he became entangled in the creature’s horn and as it ran off down the block, it took Sam with it.
He held onto the beast with all his strength as he tried to disengage himself from the animal. He was carried for what seemed like an hour, though he was later told that the incident had only taken fifteen minutes. The thing rampaged through the manicured lawns of his city and tried to make a break for it by jumping into the manmade lake. At some point during the journey, Sam was certain that he would drown thanks to the creature and lost consciousness about the time that animal control became aware of the being that threatened the city’s tranquility.
Sam was rescued after the creature was brought down by a tranquilizer dart. When he was released from the hospital, all in time for the barbeque and the festivities of the black party, Sam noticed that some thoughtful neighbor had changed the white light bulb on the edge of the garage to a blue one and had finished all the lights in front of the house as well. The birdbath had been replaced and a large settlement had been offered to pay recompense for the damages the creature had caused. It seemed that Einhorn Exotics dealt with mutated creatures found in nature and transported them to the highest bidder. The “unicorn” that dropped on Sam and Martha’s front lawn had been born in a local zoo and was on its way to a private collector in New York.
And try as he might, Sam could not relax and enjoy himself during the festivities. While everything had been deemed ‘perfect’ when he returned home, there was one small detail that nagged at him. As the fireworks exploded overhead, they highlighted the new birdbath that sported a streamlined unicorn rearing at its center. And while this little detail would not have bothered him a week earlier. The only unicorn Sam wished to see was the beast that took him for a ride, preferably gutted and cooking on his barbeque.
The Perfect Party
By Plot Roach
Sam grumbled under his breath as he switched the outside light bulbs from the red and green Christmas colors to red white and blue in order to help celebrate Memorial day. Why can’t we just buy the damn white ones and leave them up all year, he thought to himself. Then I wouldn’t have to climb up this damned rickety ladder again the day after Thanksgiving to do it again.
He sighed and tossed on bulb into the bucket below him as he twisted another one into its place. He loved his wife, Martha, but felt that there were times she went too far when entertaining the locals. He had agreed to the barbeque, and to the fireworks that they would be setting off afterwards, but why she had to have everything perfect was beyond him. No neighbor would frown if the grass was half an inch too long, if his mouth was full of Cajun style pork ribs and a hand holding a chilled beer. No one that he knew would be looking at the crab grass that grew between the cracks of his driveway when blossoms of color exploded in the sky that night with the show that Sam had planned. But he loved his wife, and thus had to pay the price for that affection, making sure that everything was perfect in her world so that he could tolerate things in his own.
He ran out of blue light bulbs as he reached the end of the strand on the edge of the garage. Martha approached with a critical eye as she handed him a cold beer, and Sam could tell what she was about to say, before she could even say it.
“Sam, I don’t think-”
“I know, Martha. It doesn’t match, but I ran out of blue light bulbs and I don’t want to go running off to the store just yet. Let a man rest on his day off for once, and I’ll pick up some more on the way home from work tomorrow."
“It’s just that I want everything to be-”
“Perfect, I know. But the party won’t be until the day after tomorrow, and I promise that I’ll get it up first thing after I get home. I promise, love.”
She made a face and handed him his beer. “You better call it a day then, I don’t want you drinking and up on that latter. It’s dangerous.”
“I’ve only had one sip, not a six-pack.” he hissed. “A unicorn falling from the sky is far more likely to happen than me falling off this ladder. Now let me finish my work.”
A great shadow passed over him and for a moment Sam thought that a plane had passed too low to the ground, but there was no sound of an engine, except from far away. There was a great thud behind him that he felt more than heard. “Oh, look Sam!” Martha exclaimed, as a big wooden crate came to rest in their front yard, crushing the birdbath even as the parachute connected to the cargo tangled itself in the nearby tree.
So much for having the yard perfect the day after tomorrow, Sam thought. No way we can replace the birdbath in time. And I’m damn sure that the crate dug a groove in the lawn.
“What do you think it is?” Martha asked as they approached the wooden crate.
“Only one way to tell.” Sam said. “Bring me my crowbar from the top of my tool chest.” Sam circled the crate, looking for any distinguishing markings. All he found was a small card stapled to the top that read “Einhorn Exotics box 7 of 20.” There was no address nor a telephone number. He tapped on the side of the box, but it sounded mostly hollow. He had heard of things falling from planes before, but mostly it was just engine parts or frozen passenger poop. Never something that had been a part of actual cargo. He wondered what it would be worth.
He started prying open the side of the crate, as Martha watched from a safe distance. While she was curious as to what the box held, she was also afraid that what they were doing was illegal. “I think we should call the police, Sam. It’s not ours and maybe someone will give us a reward if we give it back to them intact.”
“Don’t you know that these things are usually insured up the wazoo?” Sam asked. “So whomever lost it will be reimbursed. In the meantime maybe we’ll find something that’s worth the price of replacing our birdbath.”
A few wooden planks pried off, and the side of the crate gave way. In the depths of the dark interior Sam could hear the sound of breathing. “What the hell could it be?” he asked. He continued to look inside the dark box while Martha fetched a flashlight to give them a better look at the cargo.
“It’s some kind of beast,” Sam said. He wondered if the creature was dying, but the box had drifted down with the help of the parachute, so he doubted that the ride had cause the thing any major harm. He remembered that some animals had to be heavily sedated before taking long trips in a plane and chalked that up to the creature’s lethargy. Even in the beam of the flashlight he couldn’t quite make out what it was. It seemed to be build almost like a mule or small horse. Its hide was mostly black, but with zebra stripes along its legs and rear. The head and ears reminded him of a mule deer. And rising from its forehead was a single black horn, that spiraled toward the back of the beast.
Slowly it opened its eyes and got to its feet. “Easy now, boy.” Sam said, suddenly wishing that he had followed his wife’s advise and left the crate closed. But there was no going back now, as the creature began to walk toward the sunlight. When Sam looked over his shoulder, Martha was nowhere to be found. I hope she’s calling animal control, Sam thought. But no, she returned a moment later with a mixing bowl full of water and a few carrots dangling form her hand.
“What are you up to with all that?” he asked her.
“The thing looks like it’s had a long trip, Sam. Maybe it could use some refreshments.”
Oh there she goes again, he thought. If she’s not making the neighbor’s happy, she’s trying to help some stray animal. He shook his head and was about to walk away, leaving her to tend the animal, when he saw the creature charge. He pushed his wife out of the way of what would have been a fatal blow. As it was, he became entangled in the creature’s horn and as it ran off down the block, it took Sam with it.
He held onto the beast with all his strength as he tried to disengage himself from the animal. He was carried for what seemed like an hour, though he was later told that the incident had only taken fifteen minutes. The thing rampaged through the manicured lawns of his city and tried to make a break for it by jumping into the manmade lake. At some point during the journey, Sam was certain that he would drown thanks to the creature and lost consciousness about the time that animal control became aware of the being that threatened the city’s tranquility.
Sam was rescued after the creature was brought down by a tranquilizer dart. When he was released from the hospital, all in time for the barbeque and the festivities of the black party, Sam noticed that some thoughtful neighbor had changed the white light bulb on the edge of the garage to a blue one and had finished all the lights in front of the house as well. The birdbath had been replaced and a large settlement had been offered to pay recompense for the damages the creature had caused. It seemed that Einhorn Exotics dealt with mutated creatures found in nature and transported them to the highest bidder. The “unicorn” that dropped on Sam and Martha’s front lawn had been born in a local zoo and was on its way to a private collector in New York.
And try as he might, Sam could not relax and enjoy himself during the festivities. While everything had been deemed ‘perfect’ when he returned home, there was one small detail that nagged at him. As the fireworks exploded overhead, they highlighted the new birdbath that sported a streamlined unicorn rearing at its center. And while this little detail would not have bothered him a week earlier. The only unicorn Sam wished to see was the beast that took him for a ride, preferably gutted and cooking on his barbeque.
Friday, May 27, 2011
A Forgotten Fate
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
A Forgotten Fate
By Plot Roach
Mitch ran for the cab, sure that he would miss it before it pulled away from the curb. His foot caught on the edge of the sidewalk and he sprawled forward into the street, a car coming to a screeching halt mere inches from his face. He breathed a sigh of relief, even as the driver leaned on his horn, sending him blaring back into reality. He watched as a rain drop landed on the bridge of his nose, almost in slow motion. The coldness of it shocked him as it clashed against his skin. Then time resumed its normal speed and he picked himself up from the hard pavement and stumbled toward the cab that was still waiting for him.
A shudder passed through him and he attributed it to the near fatal accident which he had narrowly avoided. He looked out of the window, into the rain streaked road and saw three women glare at him from the very spot he almost met his end. When he could not hold their predatory stare any longer, he turned away and looked down to his briefcase, now scuffed and damp from the encounter. When he managed the courage to look back at them, they were gone.
Back in his office, he unloaded his briefcase and was elated to find that the manuscript had suffered no ill effects from the afternoon’s encounter. The pages were old and fragile as dragonfly wings, the smell of history wafted off of them like a fine perfume. He turned each page carefully, as if touching an ethereal lover that might vanish if he breathed too deeply upon it. The phone rang, sounding too loud for his ears, jerking him taut in his chair.
“Hello?” he asked. “This is Dr. Barnes.”
“Do you have it?” the voice on the other end of the phone asked.
“Yes, Dr. Landun. I was able to find it and bring it in. I will be here in my office, examining it until my class at seven this evening.”
The two men made arrangements for the manuscript to be safely viewed before it would be locked away in the university’s private vault. Mitch was tempted to have his secretary scan the papers into the computer, but was unsure as to what the light form modern technology would do to the frail forms. He settled back down in his chair, aware of everything that surrounded him, from the humming of the air conditioner to the smell of the leather top of his desk. Nothing was lost on him, not even the heartbeat of the person who now slipped into his office.
She did not use the door to enter, and she could not have come in by means of the window, since his office was on the third floor. One moment he had been alone with the manuscript and his thoughts, and the next instant she was simply there, as if by some magician’s trick.
“I will not ask you how you got here.” he said. “Because quite a great deal of odd things have happened since I obtained this manuscript, but I will ask you who you are and what your presence here means to me?”
“You are not naïve to the ways of the gods, then?” she asked. She moved across the room as gracefully as a hunting cat and as light on her feet as a ballerina.
“I should think not, I have been a professor of mythology for ten years, and an avid student since I could pick up a book.”
“Then you should know that what you have there is of great consequence to the Old Ones.”
“It is a collection of stories from an unknown scribe.” he said. “And although I have no means to date them as of yet, I am sure that the stories told here date back to almost the beginning of Greek history.”
“It is more than that, Mitch Barnes. It is a history of the gods themselves.”
“And how would you know this?”
“Because I have been following that manuscript since it was created, waiting for the right time for its truth to be unveiled to the world.”
“You look no older than my students, miss.”
“I assure you that I am the oldest thing in this room -nay, in this university.”
“Are you a god?” he asked.
“Nothing so powerful.”
“A Muse?”
“Nothing so flighty.”
“Then what sort of creature are you?” he asked.
“If you study us so greatly, then you must have heard of my sisters: Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos.”
“The fates.” he said. “The one who spins, the one who measures and the one who cuts. They determine a person’s fate as soon as they are born, and nothing can divert it, not even the gods. There were only the three, I have never heard of a forth.”
She thrust her chin forward with a slight pout and for all the world reminded him of his daughter at a younger age. For all of her bravado, she looked as fragile as a butterfly and he wanted to reach over the desk and smooth a stray lock of hair to its rightful place back behind her ear. Yet he knew even as he felt this way, that she was a creature of myth and magic. And that if he let his guard down for even the slightest moment he might find himself tortured for all eternity in the Greek underworld, or transformed into some ridiculous beast.
“You have never heard of the forth -until now.” she corrected. “I am Alyssus, the one who tangles.”
“The one who tangles?” he asked.
She glared at him and he dared ask no further questions. “Sometimes, while a person's fate cannot be changed, it can be averted if only for a few moments. When something needs to be found or someone needs to finish a task, it is my job to give the extra time that is needed.”
“But isn’t that cheating?” he asked, immediately regretting the fact that he had opened his mouth.
“Is it cheating when you implant an elderly patient with a pacemaker, or give the organs from the dead into one who is terminally ill? What about the medications which prolong the lives of your people, and the inoculations which keep them from illness and certain death?”
“I never thought about it that way, but you’re right.”
“Now that we have an understanding, shut up an listen. I am the one who takes the thread of life and tangles it in such a way that the other fates must spend the time tracking down the right life in order to end it. But in the process, they have no other alternative but to extend the lives of the few that are entangled in order to make sure that they end the right one. Do you understand?”
“The accident this afternoon? Was that you?”
“Now the professor gets it!” she said. “I needed you to bring the manuscript here, so that it could be studied and the truth could be told.”
“What have you done in order to get it here, besides sparing my life, that is?”
“I arranged for the scribe to write the manuscript, for a messenger to take it to a library where it would be stored safely until it could be hidden in a temple whose ruins would later be discovered by another of my ‘tangled souls’, it would be set aside in his personal effects until it was sold to a book dealer and would eventually come into your possession. And you, dear man, brought it here for me.”
“And I will write a book on it, making its contents famous.”
“No, dear. You have already done your part. And now the knot is untangled and I can spare you no longer from your death.”
“What? But I can do so much more for you!” Mitch cried out. “Think of the connections I have in this university, think of my past and how it will add credibility to your manuscript.”
“I appreciate the offer, Mitch. But we both know that I cannot delay my sisters forever from their hunt. Besides, Dr. Landun will be here soon. He will take credit for finding the manuscript and make sure it falls into the right hands.”
Mitch tried to argue further, but the lancing pain in his chest robbed him of his final breath. The forth fate shimmered and disappeared like a mirage, while three women crept forward from the shadows. He knew them instantly, for he had seen them at the scene of the failed car accident. He put a hand out to stop them, as if he could appeal to their better nature. A long red thread passed from the first one, her hands permanently dyed and calloused from the many years she had formed the cord. It was measured by the second, who squinted at it as she held it against a knotted silver chain. The third stepped forward and brandished shears rusted dark with age, that carried an edge Mitch knew without touching that was sharper than anything mankind had ever made. Slinkt! And the office fell to silence, the thread unraveling as the professor’s blood cooled in his veins. The three women paced back into the darkness, their job done for the moment.
A Forgotten Fate
By Plot Roach
Mitch ran for the cab, sure that he would miss it before it pulled away from the curb. His foot caught on the edge of the sidewalk and he sprawled forward into the street, a car coming to a screeching halt mere inches from his face. He breathed a sigh of relief, even as the driver leaned on his horn, sending him blaring back into reality. He watched as a rain drop landed on the bridge of his nose, almost in slow motion. The coldness of it shocked him as it clashed against his skin. Then time resumed its normal speed and he picked himself up from the hard pavement and stumbled toward the cab that was still waiting for him.
A shudder passed through him and he attributed it to the near fatal accident which he had narrowly avoided. He looked out of the window, into the rain streaked road and saw three women glare at him from the very spot he almost met his end. When he could not hold their predatory stare any longer, he turned away and looked down to his briefcase, now scuffed and damp from the encounter. When he managed the courage to look back at them, they were gone.
Back in his office, he unloaded his briefcase and was elated to find that the manuscript had suffered no ill effects from the afternoon’s encounter. The pages were old and fragile as dragonfly wings, the smell of history wafted off of them like a fine perfume. He turned each page carefully, as if touching an ethereal lover that might vanish if he breathed too deeply upon it. The phone rang, sounding too loud for his ears, jerking him taut in his chair.
“Hello?” he asked. “This is Dr. Barnes.”
“Do you have it?” the voice on the other end of the phone asked.
“Yes, Dr. Landun. I was able to find it and bring it in. I will be here in my office, examining it until my class at seven this evening.”
The two men made arrangements for the manuscript to be safely viewed before it would be locked away in the university’s private vault. Mitch was tempted to have his secretary scan the papers into the computer, but was unsure as to what the light form modern technology would do to the frail forms. He settled back down in his chair, aware of everything that surrounded him, from the humming of the air conditioner to the smell of the leather top of his desk. Nothing was lost on him, not even the heartbeat of the person who now slipped into his office.
She did not use the door to enter, and she could not have come in by means of the window, since his office was on the third floor. One moment he had been alone with the manuscript and his thoughts, and the next instant she was simply there, as if by some magician’s trick.
“I will not ask you how you got here.” he said. “Because quite a great deal of odd things have happened since I obtained this manuscript, but I will ask you who you are and what your presence here means to me?”
“You are not naïve to the ways of the gods, then?” she asked. She moved across the room as gracefully as a hunting cat and as light on her feet as a ballerina.
“I should think not, I have been a professor of mythology for ten years, and an avid student since I could pick up a book.”
“Then you should know that what you have there is of great consequence to the Old Ones.”
“It is a collection of stories from an unknown scribe.” he said. “And although I have no means to date them as of yet, I am sure that the stories told here date back to almost the beginning of Greek history.”
“It is more than that, Mitch Barnes. It is a history of the gods themselves.”
“And how would you know this?”
“Because I have been following that manuscript since it was created, waiting for the right time for its truth to be unveiled to the world.”
“You look no older than my students, miss.”
“I assure you that I am the oldest thing in this room -nay, in this university.”
“Are you a god?” he asked.
“Nothing so powerful.”
“A Muse?”
“Nothing so flighty.”
“Then what sort of creature are you?” he asked.
“If you study us so greatly, then you must have heard of my sisters: Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos.”
“The fates.” he said. “The one who spins, the one who measures and the one who cuts. They determine a person’s fate as soon as they are born, and nothing can divert it, not even the gods. There were only the three, I have never heard of a forth.”
She thrust her chin forward with a slight pout and for all the world reminded him of his daughter at a younger age. For all of her bravado, she looked as fragile as a butterfly and he wanted to reach over the desk and smooth a stray lock of hair to its rightful place back behind her ear. Yet he knew even as he felt this way, that she was a creature of myth and magic. And that if he let his guard down for even the slightest moment he might find himself tortured for all eternity in the Greek underworld, or transformed into some ridiculous beast.
“You have never heard of the forth -until now.” she corrected. “I am Alyssus, the one who tangles.”
“The one who tangles?” he asked.
She glared at him and he dared ask no further questions. “Sometimes, while a person's fate cannot be changed, it can be averted if only for a few moments. When something needs to be found or someone needs to finish a task, it is my job to give the extra time that is needed.”
“But isn’t that cheating?” he asked, immediately regretting the fact that he had opened his mouth.
“Is it cheating when you implant an elderly patient with a pacemaker, or give the organs from the dead into one who is terminally ill? What about the medications which prolong the lives of your people, and the inoculations which keep them from illness and certain death?”
“I never thought about it that way, but you’re right.”
“Now that we have an understanding, shut up an listen. I am the one who takes the thread of life and tangles it in such a way that the other fates must spend the time tracking down the right life in order to end it. But in the process, they have no other alternative but to extend the lives of the few that are entangled in order to make sure that they end the right one. Do you understand?”
“The accident this afternoon? Was that you?”
“Now the professor gets it!” she said. “I needed you to bring the manuscript here, so that it could be studied and the truth could be told.”
“What have you done in order to get it here, besides sparing my life, that is?”
“I arranged for the scribe to write the manuscript, for a messenger to take it to a library where it would be stored safely until it could be hidden in a temple whose ruins would later be discovered by another of my ‘tangled souls’, it would be set aside in his personal effects until it was sold to a book dealer and would eventually come into your possession. And you, dear man, brought it here for me.”
“And I will write a book on it, making its contents famous.”
“No, dear. You have already done your part. And now the knot is untangled and I can spare you no longer from your death.”
“What? But I can do so much more for you!” Mitch cried out. “Think of the connections I have in this university, think of my past and how it will add credibility to your manuscript.”
“I appreciate the offer, Mitch. But we both know that I cannot delay my sisters forever from their hunt. Besides, Dr. Landun will be here soon. He will take credit for finding the manuscript and make sure it falls into the right hands.”
Mitch tried to argue further, but the lancing pain in his chest robbed him of his final breath. The forth fate shimmered and disappeared like a mirage, while three women crept forward from the shadows. He knew them instantly, for he had seen them at the scene of the failed car accident. He put a hand out to stop them, as if he could appeal to their better nature. A long red thread passed from the first one, her hands permanently dyed and calloused from the many years she had formed the cord. It was measured by the second, who squinted at it as she held it against a knotted silver chain. The third stepped forward and brandished shears rusted dark with age, that carried an edge Mitch knew without touching that was sharper than anything mankind had ever made. Slinkt! And the office fell to silence, the thread unraveling as the professor’s blood cooled in his veins. The three women paced back into the darkness, their job done for the moment.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Beauty in Nature
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Beauty in Nature
By Plot Roach
Gene put the bait on the hook before hanging it an inch above the water. The rotting chicken smell would entice the alligator to jump for the bait and land the hook squarely in its gut if all went according to plan. Normally he would tie a brightly colored cloth around the tree trunk that the line was anchored to, but since he was hunting gator out of season, he put a mark on his map instead. Not that many police would be patrolling the waters of his backyard bijou, but he did not want to take the chance.
Twenty traps baited and three hours later, he turned the boat for home. He eyed the places he had baited and made a quick prayer to God and the spirits of the swamp that he and his family would not go hungry much longer. He lost his job down at the factory, and waited for the unemployment, his wife having given up her career three years ago to raise their twin boys. Money was tight, and the bills piled higher every day. They had to make due by cutting back on what they could, and getting creative to make ends meet whenever possible.
His father had taught him that not all food came from the supermarket. And as a child, he learned fishing, hunting frogs and even which snakes were poisonous and to be avoided at all cost while others were destined for the stewpot. But gator was another matter. Even hunted out of season, there were those that would pay a handsome dollar for both the meat and the hide, provided the animal caught was big enough.
Gene followed the advice of his father and grandfather before him, cutting himself on the hand and sending a few drops of blood into the water at each baited site in order to offer up thanks for the bounty that each line promised.
The following morning he checked his traps, and a gator had taken the bait in each one. He hunted alone, which was not the tradition among the usual hunters of these primordial beasts. One man usually held the line straight that anchored the gator while the other shot it in the head with a rifle. And while Gene felt it was not sporting at times, he doubted that the animal on the other end of the line would give him a second chance, should he slip into the water in front of some hungry brute.
So as he hunted alone, he depended on pulling the bait line with one hand as he aimed and shot with rifle with the other. It was hard work, and he was rewarded with nineteen of the heavily armored creatures ranging in size from six feet to twelve in a pile in his boat. He smiled with the miracle that had been bestowed upon him and aimed the boat for the last of the baited traps, thinking of all the bills that he could pay once he unloaded his catch. I am thankful for what I have been given here today, Lord. He thought. Just let me know what I can do in return for your bounty.
The last trap, the creature surfaced without a fuss, unlike its scaly brethren. And when its head hit the surface of the water, Gene gasped at its beauty. Most of the reptiles he had pulled up out of the water this day had been dark, with mottled hides. Some chewed up with clashes with others of their kind or been scarred from run ins with the blades of fishing boats. But this creature was truly exceptional in Gene’s opinion, for the green of its hide was highlighted by a crisscross of a gold patterning like sunlight shining down through the branches of the swamp trees. The creature held still, studying him as much as he studied it. His first thought was of just how much the thing’s hide would fetch at market. But he felt a chill up his spine, and knew what he should do. He had been blessed with nineteen other beasts whose death would more than pay the expenses he owed. He should let this beauty free.
Quickly, before he lost his nerve, he pulled his knife free from his belt and cut the creature loose, remembering too late that the thing still had a hook in its gut. He could not remember form his father’s teaching whether such a thing was fatal or if it could pass the hook through its digestive tract. By the time he made it to the edge of the swamp and unloaded his catch into the back of his truck, his mood had gone from elated to somber, now convinced that the creature would die because of his foolishness. He received high prices for his day’s work and drove home to hand the money to his wife. Upon seeing his mood, she asked him what had happened and she chastised him for letting the beast go free.
“It could have brought us more money than all the other hides you caught today.”
“Yes, but it was too beautiful kill.” He said.
“Be careful, husband.” she warned. “Isn’t nature filled with beautiful things that use beauty to their advantage?”
He nodded, and excused himself to sit out on the back porch. And while it was not the same solitude of the swamp, it let him reflect on the day’s events and on the words of his beloved wife. He sipped a cold beer and could not get his mind off of the golden scaled alligator. His thoughts seemed to make the memory so real it was like the creature was sitting in the water in front of him. But then the vision changed, and before him was a lovely woman, heavy of bosom, slim of waist and with dark hair displaying highlights of gold. She beckoned to him with open arms from the water even as her reptile eyes froze him in place. He felt an unnatural calm come over him and was drawn to her like a magnet. About to jump into the water after her, the vision was shattered by a gunshot. His wife, standing from the back porch had fired upon the creature, which now reverted to its alligator form.
He helped her drag the beast out of the water, where he took it to the back shed and quickly skinned it. She took the meat into the kitchen as he went to work, salting the hide until it could be properly tanned.
At the end of the night, as he sat down to the table with his wife and two sons, he took a bite of his dinner: deep fried alligator. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste as he thought about what she had looked like in the water. And he marveled at how such a creature that had survived millions of years, several mass extinctions and had more magic in its hide than he could ever imagine in a lifetime, succumbed to something as simple as a bullet before being rolled in flour and cooked for two and a half minutes in boiling vegetable oil.
Beauty in Nature
By Plot Roach
Gene put the bait on the hook before hanging it an inch above the water. The rotting chicken smell would entice the alligator to jump for the bait and land the hook squarely in its gut if all went according to plan. Normally he would tie a brightly colored cloth around the tree trunk that the line was anchored to, but since he was hunting gator out of season, he put a mark on his map instead. Not that many police would be patrolling the waters of his backyard bijou, but he did not want to take the chance.
Twenty traps baited and three hours later, he turned the boat for home. He eyed the places he had baited and made a quick prayer to God and the spirits of the swamp that he and his family would not go hungry much longer. He lost his job down at the factory, and waited for the unemployment, his wife having given up her career three years ago to raise their twin boys. Money was tight, and the bills piled higher every day. They had to make due by cutting back on what they could, and getting creative to make ends meet whenever possible.
His father had taught him that not all food came from the supermarket. And as a child, he learned fishing, hunting frogs and even which snakes were poisonous and to be avoided at all cost while others were destined for the stewpot. But gator was another matter. Even hunted out of season, there were those that would pay a handsome dollar for both the meat and the hide, provided the animal caught was big enough.
Gene followed the advice of his father and grandfather before him, cutting himself on the hand and sending a few drops of blood into the water at each baited site in order to offer up thanks for the bounty that each line promised.
The following morning he checked his traps, and a gator had taken the bait in each one. He hunted alone, which was not the tradition among the usual hunters of these primordial beasts. One man usually held the line straight that anchored the gator while the other shot it in the head with a rifle. And while Gene felt it was not sporting at times, he doubted that the animal on the other end of the line would give him a second chance, should he slip into the water in front of some hungry brute.
So as he hunted alone, he depended on pulling the bait line with one hand as he aimed and shot with rifle with the other. It was hard work, and he was rewarded with nineteen of the heavily armored creatures ranging in size from six feet to twelve in a pile in his boat. He smiled with the miracle that had been bestowed upon him and aimed the boat for the last of the baited traps, thinking of all the bills that he could pay once he unloaded his catch. I am thankful for what I have been given here today, Lord. He thought. Just let me know what I can do in return for your bounty.
The last trap, the creature surfaced without a fuss, unlike its scaly brethren. And when its head hit the surface of the water, Gene gasped at its beauty. Most of the reptiles he had pulled up out of the water this day had been dark, with mottled hides. Some chewed up with clashes with others of their kind or been scarred from run ins with the blades of fishing boats. But this creature was truly exceptional in Gene’s opinion, for the green of its hide was highlighted by a crisscross of a gold patterning like sunlight shining down through the branches of the swamp trees. The creature held still, studying him as much as he studied it. His first thought was of just how much the thing’s hide would fetch at market. But he felt a chill up his spine, and knew what he should do. He had been blessed with nineteen other beasts whose death would more than pay the expenses he owed. He should let this beauty free.
Quickly, before he lost his nerve, he pulled his knife free from his belt and cut the creature loose, remembering too late that the thing still had a hook in its gut. He could not remember form his father’s teaching whether such a thing was fatal or if it could pass the hook through its digestive tract. By the time he made it to the edge of the swamp and unloaded his catch into the back of his truck, his mood had gone from elated to somber, now convinced that the creature would die because of his foolishness. He received high prices for his day’s work and drove home to hand the money to his wife. Upon seeing his mood, she asked him what had happened and she chastised him for letting the beast go free.
“It could have brought us more money than all the other hides you caught today.”
“Yes, but it was too beautiful kill.” He said.
“Be careful, husband.” she warned. “Isn’t nature filled with beautiful things that use beauty to their advantage?”
He nodded, and excused himself to sit out on the back porch. And while it was not the same solitude of the swamp, it let him reflect on the day’s events and on the words of his beloved wife. He sipped a cold beer and could not get his mind off of the golden scaled alligator. His thoughts seemed to make the memory so real it was like the creature was sitting in the water in front of him. But then the vision changed, and before him was a lovely woman, heavy of bosom, slim of waist and with dark hair displaying highlights of gold. She beckoned to him with open arms from the water even as her reptile eyes froze him in place. He felt an unnatural calm come over him and was drawn to her like a magnet. About to jump into the water after her, the vision was shattered by a gunshot. His wife, standing from the back porch had fired upon the creature, which now reverted to its alligator form.
He helped her drag the beast out of the water, where he took it to the back shed and quickly skinned it. She took the meat into the kitchen as he went to work, salting the hide until it could be properly tanned.
At the end of the night, as he sat down to the table with his wife and two sons, he took a bite of his dinner: deep fried alligator. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste as he thought about what she had looked like in the water. And he marveled at how such a creature that had survived millions of years, several mass extinctions and had more magic in its hide than he could ever imagine in a lifetime, succumbed to something as simple as a bullet before being rolled in flour and cooked for two and a half minutes in boiling vegetable oil.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Fountain of Youth
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Fountain of Youth
By Plot Roach
“Fountain of Youth”
It was emblazoned in brass and attached to the side of a water fountain. I did a double take before taking a sip. Someone’s idea of a joke, no doubt. It was hidden snugly behind the big orange dinosaur playhouse that was next to the swing set. I was waiting for my sister in law to get here with my nephew, Riley. He was seven, a head taller than most of the kids in his class, and a handful for his fragile mother. I heard him before I saw him, making growling sounds like the prehistoric beast he was running to.
“Hiya, Aunt Mag!” he called out, his head up the orange dinosaur’s mouth while I watched him through the open backside of the beast.
“Hey, Riley.” I called back. I looked over to his mother, Willow. She nodded, talking extensively into her cell phone and handed over a backpack that was nicknamed “the boy’s bag”. Though some parents wish that their children came with an instruction book, Riley came with survival gear. It carried everything from snacks and juice, to medication and emergency medical paperwork. The boy suffered from allergies, asthma and a few other things that the doctors of this fine city had been unable to identify as of yet. He had bad days, where he could barley get out of bed, and good days, where he was the king of the playground. Today was a good day, and I was grateful for it. I hated being stuck in Willow’s museum like house with its air filters and ionizers as much as I’m sure a boy like Riley did.
In the old days, he would be heading off to some lake in a country side home, a dog tagging along at his heels. Now he couldn’t touch a seat in a doctor’s office without his mother smothering him from head to toe in antibacterial gel, and no animals were permitted within fifty feet of the young man due to ‘dangers of dander’.
Now he had to make due with a playground and some quality time with his Aunt Mag. And I tried my best to see that the little boy had the time of his life, even if it was on a sterilized playground. Other kids and their parents came and went throughout the day. And while Riley played with a few of them, he didn’t really know any of them by name. While his mother often dropped him off here for playtime with me, she never spent time here herself. Riley was ill so much of the time that traditional schooling was no longer and option, so he was home schooled with tutors who sometimes knew him better than his own parents.
I sat to the side on a green wooden bench, letting him play tag with a group of five youngsters around his age, keeping his asthma inhaler handy for when it was needed. The sight of him running, screaming and smiling from ear to ear warmed me heart even as the sun threatened me with heatstroke. I moved to the water fountain and took another drink, keeping an eye on Riley just in case something should happen.
I never saw the little old man until I nearly tripped over him.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.” I apologized.
“No need, I should have made more noise, but I’m used to coming and going without being seen.” He said. He was a little man with thinning grey hair combed over the bald spot on the top of his head. His smile was infectious and he looked like a figure from a fairytale in green overalls and a matching green undershirt. I looked to his grass stained boots and caught a whiff of hay, and in an instant I remembered my childhood summers visiting an aunt on her ranch and helping to take care of her horses.
“Are you a caretaker here?” I asked.
“Not officially, but I do take care of the land and the people who visit it.” he said, his eyes winking in the sunlight. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and polished the brass plate on the side of the drinking fountain.
“Oh, cute sign.” I said.
“I don’t think that I get your meaning, miss.”
“’The Fountain of Youth’, it’s cute. Though probably lost on the kids.”
“Oh that.” he said. “Have you tried it?”
“Yes, I drink from it whenever I come here.”
“And your boy?”
“My nephew. Yes, I supposed he does as well. Though I’m sure his mom would have a fit if she ever found out. She only likes him to have ‘sanitized’ things.”
“That’s a shame, especially when nature can heal so much.”
“Tell that to the hand sanitizer queen…” I mumbled, looking for Riley on the playground.
“Still, it seems to be working its magic on him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He hasn’t had to use that white little device you carry around with you today.”
“His asthma inhaler?” I asked. And then I realized that the old man was right. Riley has been playing, running and jumping for more than an hour and hadn’t needed one puff of the stuff since we had been here. In fact, I couldn’t ever recall him having to need to use it since we started visiting this playground. Ever.
“But it couldn’t be the water.” I said and turned back to the old man. He was gone, like a puff of smoke in a magician’s act. And as I stood watching Riley play with the other children I wracked my brain to think of the last time I was sick, tired or otherwise run down after I had visited this place with my nephew. And I had to admit to myself that perhaps this place held a little bit of magic in it after all.
Fountain of Youth
By Plot Roach
“Fountain of Youth”
It was emblazoned in brass and attached to the side of a water fountain. I did a double take before taking a sip. Someone’s idea of a joke, no doubt. It was hidden snugly behind the big orange dinosaur playhouse that was next to the swing set. I was waiting for my sister in law to get here with my nephew, Riley. He was seven, a head taller than most of the kids in his class, and a handful for his fragile mother. I heard him before I saw him, making growling sounds like the prehistoric beast he was running to.
“Hiya, Aunt Mag!” he called out, his head up the orange dinosaur’s mouth while I watched him through the open backside of the beast.
“Hey, Riley.” I called back. I looked over to his mother, Willow. She nodded, talking extensively into her cell phone and handed over a backpack that was nicknamed “the boy’s bag”. Though some parents wish that their children came with an instruction book, Riley came with survival gear. It carried everything from snacks and juice, to medication and emergency medical paperwork. The boy suffered from allergies, asthma and a few other things that the doctors of this fine city had been unable to identify as of yet. He had bad days, where he could barley get out of bed, and good days, where he was the king of the playground. Today was a good day, and I was grateful for it. I hated being stuck in Willow’s museum like house with its air filters and ionizers as much as I’m sure a boy like Riley did.
In the old days, he would be heading off to some lake in a country side home, a dog tagging along at his heels. Now he couldn’t touch a seat in a doctor’s office without his mother smothering him from head to toe in antibacterial gel, and no animals were permitted within fifty feet of the young man due to ‘dangers of dander’.
Now he had to make due with a playground and some quality time with his Aunt Mag. And I tried my best to see that the little boy had the time of his life, even if it was on a sterilized playground. Other kids and their parents came and went throughout the day. And while Riley played with a few of them, he didn’t really know any of them by name. While his mother often dropped him off here for playtime with me, she never spent time here herself. Riley was ill so much of the time that traditional schooling was no longer and option, so he was home schooled with tutors who sometimes knew him better than his own parents.
I sat to the side on a green wooden bench, letting him play tag with a group of five youngsters around his age, keeping his asthma inhaler handy for when it was needed. The sight of him running, screaming and smiling from ear to ear warmed me heart even as the sun threatened me with heatstroke. I moved to the water fountain and took another drink, keeping an eye on Riley just in case something should happen.
I never saw the little old man until I nearly tripped over him.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.” I apologized.
“No need, I should have made more noise, but I’m used to coming and going without being seen.” He said. He was a little man with thinning grey hair combed over the bald spot on the top of his head. His smile was infectious and he looked like a figure from a fairytale in green overalls and a matching green undershirt. I looked to his grass stained boots and caught a whiff of hay, and in an instant I remembered my childhood summers visiting an aunt on her ranch and helping to take care of her horses.
“Are you a caretaker here?” I asked.
“Not officially, but I do take care of the land and the people who visit it.” he said, his eyes winking in the sunlight. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and polished the brass plate on the side of the drinking fountain.
“Oh, cute sign.” I said.
“I don’t think that I get your meaning, miss.”
“’The Fountain of Youth’, it’s cute. Though probably lost on the kids.”
“Oh that.” he said. “Have you tried it?”
“Yes, I drink from it whenever I come here.”
“And your boy?”
“My nephew. Yes, I supposed he does as well. Though I’m sure his mom would have a fit if she ever found out. She only likes him to have ‘sanitized’ things.”
“That’s a shame, especially when nature can heal so much.”
“Tell that to the hand sanitizer queen…” I mumbled, looking for Riley on the playground.
“Still, it seems to be working its magic on him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He hasn’t had to use that white little device you carry around with you today.”
“His asthma inhaler?” I asked. And then I realized that the old man was right. Riley has been playing, running and jumping for more than an hour and hadn’t needed one puff of the stuff since we had been here. In fact, I couldn’t ever recall him having to need to use it since we started visiting this playground. Ever.
“But it couldn’t be the water.” I said and turned back to the old man. He was gone, like a puff of smoke in a magician’s act. And as I stood watching Riley play with the other children I wracked my brain to think of the last time I was sick, tired or otherwise run down after I had visited this place with my nephew. And I had to admit to myself that perhaps this place held a little bit of magic in it after all.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Pet Project
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Pet Project
By Plot Roach
Have you ever had a piece of art really speak to you. I mean REALLY speak to you. Not so much in the ‘Hi, how ya doin’?’ kind of thing, but the ‘take me home, they don’t appreciate me here.’ And the problem was, I wasn’t the only one hearing it.
I go to the museum a few days out of the week. Usually on my lunch hour, when it’s too hot or cold to eat outside. I sneak myself into the upstairs bathroom, quickly eat whatever meager meal I call lunch as quickly and quietly as I can, and then wander the walls of displays for the rest of my free time before I have to go back to the living purgatory that I call work.
My favorite exhibits are the Native American art and the animals of the California desert. I like hand woven baskets and animals that look like they could leap out of the display and run off into the city’s streets. I’m weird, I know. There are other displays, they change from month to month, but I always return to these two. On my way out, I usually check out the gift store (not like I can afford a pair of eighty dollar hand beaded earrings or a fifty dollar hand thrown ceramic vase) and dump a little pocket change into the donation box. Yeah, I could probably eat a little better if I saved the money, but this place feeds my soul in a way that a bologna sandwich never could.
So I’m standing in front of the mountain lion display, studying the glass eyes on the big cat when a kid comes running up and plasters his face against the side of the glass. His mother chases after him, chastising him for running off. I can see that she doesn’t want him to be rude. But really, where can the kid go in a closed up museum? Most of the displays are locked up tight, and anything that could hurt him was long ago removed. It’s not like the lioness can come back to life and make a snack out of her firstborn, or anything.
And then I see a twitch in the flank of the long dead beast. That’s new, I think to myself. Since when did they update the old girl and put animatronics in her? Then her eyes shift, from the kid now licking the glass display case to me. She’s actually looking at me. And a whisker moves, I see it disturb a cobweb some industrious spider has woven from her muzzle to the wall beside her.
And I think to myself, if they went so far as to add animatronics, why wouldn’t they clean up the display as well? Unless they never did anything to change her…
The mother drags the screaming kid away, and all I can do is smile weakly as the mother tries desperately to placate him while trying to cause as little chaos as possible as she drags him out of the museum. I turn back to the mountain lion, now looking straight ahead into empty space. Maybe I imagined it? I think. It had been a hard week and I was tired. So I wandered off to another section of the museum and bump into Jeff. He’s one of the part time volunteers there. He is one of the ones that works upstairs on the fossils that come in, painstakingly rubbing the dirt away from the precious bones with a toothbrush so that the past can see new life. And while I sometimes envy his discoveries, I do not envy the backbreaking labor as he scrubs each bone with a tiny brush and a big magnifying glass.
“How’s the big game hunt going?” I ask him. He’s been working on a specimen of a Smilodon, a saber-toothed cat that would put a modern lion to shame.
“It’s weird, the skeleton I’m working on is…different today.”
“Different how” I ask.
“It’s like it moved somehow. But it’s trapped in stone, so it couldn’t possibly…”
“Yeah” I said. “I thought that the mountain lion on the first floor moved as well. Maybe we both need a break from the museum.”
We wandered through the updated main exhibit, something about the different types of magic from around the world. There were totems from Africa, spell books from Salem, and various assorted odd bits of magical tools from both history and from Hollywood.
“Hey, look here” Jeff called out, pointing to a stuffed teddy bear in a glass case in the corner. To say that it was old, was like saying that Abraham Lincoln was slightly taller than the average man. One eye hung from a string, and if it was possible for a stuffed animal to suffer from mange, than this little guy had a terminal case. “It says that some objects, when owned or used by people over the years, absorb their energy and begin to show signs of life on their own.”
“So what’s this guy’s story?” I asked.
“Evidently it wouldn’t leave its owner alone.”
“How so?”
“It seems that she gave it away as a child, but it returned to her when she was a teenager. Then it was in a house that burned to the ground, but someone gave it back to her on her wedding day. She died in labor with her third child, and when they went to close the casket, they found it in her arms.”
“So why is it here now?”
“It seems it wanted to follow the remainder of the family, as a type of guardian. The last relative, her great grandson, donated it to the museum when he died.”
“How odd.” I said. “Do you believe it?”
“Imagine how much time we’ve spent here, with these exhibits. It’s hard to think that a part of us won’t somehow stay with them.”
“Hmm…A part of me staying with Miss Kitty.”
“Miss Kitty?”
“The mountain lion on the first floor.”
“And I’ve been working with Smiley for four months now, almost eighty hours a week…”
We laughed at our own silliness, and parted ways for the day. I went back to work, he continued to unearth his ‘pet project’. The rest of my shift at work crawled by like an ant caught in honey, and I was glad to catch the bus to my apartment. Even if it was packed with others who were grouchy and grumbled like myself, trapped in dead end jobs and the endless cycle of work- home-work.
I no sooner walked into my apartment when the phone started ringing. By then the sun had set and a cool breeze had taken the place of the heat of the day. I opened the sliding glass door to my balcony and answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Good, you’re there!”
“Jeff? What’s wrong?”
“You know that exhibit we were reading, the one about the teddy bear?”
“Yeah?”
“It happened.”
“What happened?”
“I came home from the grocery store and found Smiley in my living room.”
“Smiley?” I asked. “The skeleton?”
“Yep.”
“So someone’s playing a joke on you, and left the slab on your floor or something.”
“Even if that was true, the slab Smiley was trapped in should have weighted more than what a few men could lift without a forklift.”
“What do you mean ‘was trapped’?” I asked.
“It’s standing next to the fireplace, wagging its stump of a tail.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I was. Now what will I tell the museum? I doubt that they’ll buy the whole ‘it followed me home, can I keep it?’ defense.”
“I’d be more worried that it might be hungry. It is just skin and bones -er, bones and bones.”
“What do I feed it?”
“Something high in calcium?”
“I have to go now.”
“What’s going on?”
“It brought me a log from the fireplace, I think it wants to play fetch…”
“Just don’t let it confuse your femur for a stick, Jeff.”
“Uh-huh.”
I hung up the phone, thinking it was a crank call. It had to be, there was no way that the skeleton of his beloved Smiley could unearth itself from the rock slab that had contained it since its death and wander the city until it found his home.
Then I heard a thump on my outside patio and saw a shadowy figure push against the drapes. When they slipped aside and I saw my intruder, I recognized her glass eyes all too well. She stalked into my bedroom and waited by the foot of the bed, where I had been sitting when Jeff called.
“Well, Miss Kitty” I said. “Do I feed you bologna sandwiches or cotton balls?”
Pet Project
By Plot Roach
Have you ever had a piece of art really speak to you. I mean REALLY speak to you. Not so much in the ‘Hi, how ya doin’?’ kind of thing, but the ‘take me home, they don’t appreciate me here.’ And the problem was, I wasn’t the only one hearing it.
I go to the museum a few days out of the week. Usually on my lunch hour, when it’s too hot or cold to eat outside. I sneak myself into the upstairs bathroom, quickly eat whatever meager meal I call lunch as quickly and quietly as I can, and then wander the walls of displays for the rest of my free time before I have to go back to the living purgatory that I call work.
My favorite exhibits are the Native American art and the animals of the California desert. I like hand woven baskets and animals that look like they could leap out of the display and run off into the city’s streets. I’m weird, I know. There are other displays, they change from month to month, but I always return to these two. On my way out, I usually check out the gift store (not like I can afford a pair of eighty dollar hand beaded earrings or a fifty dollar hand thrown ceramic vase) and dump a little pocket change into the donation box. Yeah, I could probably eat a little better if I saved the money, but this place feeds my soul in a way that a bologna sandwich never could.
So I’m standing in front of the mountain lion display, studying the glass eyes on the big cat when a kid comes running up and plasters his face against the side of the glass. His mother chases after him, chastising him for running off. I can see that she doesn’t want him to be rude. But really, where can the kid go in a closed up museum? Most of the displays are locked up tight, and anything that could hurt him was long ago removed. It’s not like the lioness can come back to life and make a snack out of her firstborn, or anything.
And then I see a twitch in the flank of the long dead beast. That’s new, I think to myself. Since when did they update the old girl and put animatronics in her? Then her eyes shift, from the kid now licking the glass display case to me. She’s actually looking at me. And a whisker moves, I see it disturb a cobweb some industrious spider has woven from her muzzle to the wall beside her.
And I think to myself, if they went so far as to add animatronics, why wouldn’t they clean up the display as well? Unless they never did anything to change her…
The mother drags the screaming kid away, and all I can do is smile weakly as the mother tries desperately to placate him while trying to cause as little chaos as possible as she drags him out of the museum. I turn back to the mountain lion, now looking straight ahead into empty space. Maybe I imagined it? I think. It had been a hard week and I was tired. So I wandered off to another section of the museum and bump into Jeff. He’s one of the part time volunteers there. He is one of the ones that works upstairs on the fossils that come in, painstakingly rubbing the dirt away from the precious bones with a toothbrush so that the past can see new life. And while I sometimes envy his discoveries, I do not envy the backbreaking labor as he scrubs each bone with a tiny brush and a big magnifying glass.
“How’s the big game hunt going?” I ask him. He’s been working on a specimen of a Smilodon, a saber-toothed cat that would put a modern lion to shame.
“It’s weird, the skeleton I’m working on is…different today.”
“Different how” I ask.
“It’s like it moved somehow. But it’s trapped in stone, so it couldn’t possibly…”
“Yeah” I said. “I thought that the mountain lion on the first floor moved as well. Maybe we both need a break from the museum.”
We wandered through the updated main exhibit, something about the different types of magic from around the world. There were totems from Africa, spell books from Salem, and various assorted odd bits of magical tools from both history and from Hollywood.
“Hey, look here” Jeff called out, pointing to a stuffed teddy bear in a glass case in the corner. To say that it was old, was like saying that Abraham Lincoln was slightly taller than the average man. One eye hung from a string, and if it was possible for a stuffed animal to suffer from mange, than this little guy had a terminal case. “It says that some objects, when owned or used by people over the years, absorb their energy and begin to show signs of life on their own.”
“So what’s this guy’s story?” I asked.
“Evidently it wouldn’t leave its owner alone.”
“How so?”
“It seems that she gave it away as a child, but it returned to her when she was a teenager. Then it was in a house that burned to the ground, but someone gave it back to her on her wedding day. She died in labor with her third child, and when they went to close the casket, they found it in her arms.”
“So why is it here now?”
“It seems it wanted to follow the remainder of the family, as a type of guardian. The last relative, her great grandson, donated it to the museum when he died.”
“How odd.” I said. “Do you believe it?”
“Imagine how much time we’ve spent here, with these exhibits. It’s hard to think that a part of us won’t somehow stay with them.”
“Hmm…A part of me staying with Miss Kitty.”
“Miss Kitty?”
“The mountain lion on the first floor.”
“And I’ve been working with Smiley for four months now, almost eighty hours a week…”
We laughed at our own silliness, and parted ways for the day. I went back to work, he continued to unearth his ‘pet project’. The rest of my shift at work crawled by like an ant caught in honey, and I was glad to catch the bus to my apartment. Even if it was packed with others who were grouchy and grumbled like myself, trapped in dead end jobs and the endless cycle of work- home-work.
I no sooner walked into my apartment when the phone started ringing. By then the sun had set and a cool breeze had taken the place of the heat of the day. I opened the sliding glass door to my balcony and answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Good, you’re there!”
“Jeff? What’s wrong?”
“You know that exhibit we were reading, the one about the teddy bear?”
“Yeah?”
“It happened.”
“What happened?”
“I came home from the grocery store and found Smiley in my living room.”
“Smiley?” I asked. “The skeleton?”
“Yep.”
“So someone’s playing a joke on you, and left the slab on your floor or something.”
“Even if that was true, the slab Smiley was trapped in should have weighted more than what a few men could lift without a forklift.”
“What do you mean ‘was trapped’?” I asked.
“It’s standing next to the fireplace, wagging its stump of a tail.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I was. Now what will I tell the museum? I doubt that they’ll buy the whole ‘it followed me home, can I keep it?’ defense.”
“I’d be more worried that it might be hungry. It is just skin and bones -er, bones and bones.”
“What do I feed it?”
“Something high in calcium?”
“I have to go now.”
“What’s going on?”
“It brought me a log from the fireplace, I think it wants to play fetch…”
“Just don’t let it confuse your femur for a stick, Jeff.”
“Uh-huh.”
I hung up the phone, thinking it was a crank call. It had to be, there was no way that the skeleton of his beloved Smiley could unearth itself from the rock slab that had contained it since its death and wander the city until it found his home.
Then I heard a thump on my outside patio and saw a shadowy figure push against the drapes. When they slipped aside and I saw my intruder, I recognized her glass eyes all too well. She stalked into my bedroom and waited by the foot of the bed, where I had been sitting when Jeff called.
“Well, Miss Kitty” I said. “Do I feed you bologna sandwiches or cotton balls?”
Monday, May 23, 2011
The Unintentional Curse
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Unintentional Curse
By Plot Roach
Witches, wizards and Santeria Priestesses are pretty heavy handed with curses. But when you piss off a priest, be prepared for the consequences. The littlest of things can make a person angry and make them say things that they would never in a millions years wish on even the lowest scoundrel that was ever born a human. So when Father Jacob, a good old fashioned, god fearing priest loses his temper, he does not say ‘Damn it!’, ‘Shoot!’ or some other explanative found in current culture. No he goes beyond that and says something so simple that even a toddler would take no offense, yet it opens the gates of Hell.
It was at a church function, a picnic of sorts, when he unleashed the unholy offspring of Satan. He was busy regaling members of the church with tales of his youth when he traveled to distant lands, bringing the word of the Lord to heathen and savage alike. What he failed to tell them was of how happy the native people were before he came, and how he introduced hate, greed and guilt into their society, poisoning them forever.
In the middle of this tirade against the past, he trips on a leash and falls down on his righteous butt. Someone had tied their dog to the edge of the picnic table and the mutt, in order to get a handout from a child, stretched his leash to the fullest extent and it entangled the priest’s leg, sending him to the ground. So, with clothes streaked with potato salad and fruit punch, he utters an epithet to the mongrel: “Demons, take you!”
And that’s all we need to get through, really. A bit of anger, an unexpected curse and all of it coming from a man who posses the power to wield magic (even if it is from ‘the Lord‘). And here we come, like hungry mutts ourselves, pouring through tiny cracks in the earth. Called by accident, surely. But called, none the less.
The skies darken, the sun blotted out by blood red clouds and teeming with flies. It was beautiful work, some of the best that our leader, Mogglebog has done in AGES. We don’t get a chance to get out much among you humans, so we are forced to practice in the underworld. And despite what you might think, while we do have tons of maggots, flies are harder to come by. There’s not a lot of places for them to fly around and they tend to be eaten as a food source when we’ve run out of rotting flesh. They are awfully good pan-fried with a bit of garlic.
But as I was saying… with the skies blotted out, the priest and his congregation escape to the church, thinking themselves safe from our torment. Which they would have been, if the church had been constructed in the old manner of the cathedrals and other places of worship. But you silly humans do not bury clergyman or other true believers alive before laying the foundation to a new place of sanctuary. What you find squeamish, is really quite necessary, if you want the departed’s soul to watch over the building and protect you from the likes of us.
That and the holy runes. A few lines of angelic script on the walls, floor and ceiling and any building can be zipped up tight against our assault. But the building father Jacob and the rest fled into had no such protections, the only things buried there were cans of lead based paint that the building contractor didn’t want to pay the recycling fee on, and the only writing was a telephone number written on drywall of a local whore who gave the caller a severe case of crabs. So we were free to enter as we wished. Leaving, however, was not so easy a task. For the prey we had been summoned to dispatch fled, trailing its leash behind it, and was well out of the space in which we had been summoned. We were given a diameter of fifty feet in which to do our demonic duties, generous by some standards, but the mutt was already outside that border when we first made our appearance, scared off by Father Jacob when he tripped over the beast.
So we made do with the humans instead.
I will not bore you with the grimy little details, but I will admit that the blood splatter analyst that they send to study this crime scene will need a nice long vacation in a padded cell, if he does not commit suicide on the spot. Our little game of hide and seek with the humans was over before we knew it. Though why father Jacob did not save himself and the others by banishing us, I cannot say. Unless, of course, he was not the true believer that he claimed to be, in which his words had little power over us. It is easy to unlock the cage of a lion and set him loose upon the sheep. It is not, however, so easy to cage the beast once he has gotten a taste of blood.
Our bloodlust satiated, we sat and waited for the curse to run its course. And from past experience, we knew that we could be waiting for years. Unless the dog could be lured back to the scene or we were dispatched by an actual man of the cloth, we were stuck. Symbols, invisible to the human eye, were set into the walls of the building, the wood of the nearby trees and the dirt on the ground. We could neither touch them nor pass over them. I left my foul brothers in the church, as they fought over odd bits of ’devout follower’, and wandered the front lot of the church. It gets so crowded in Hell, I like to get out on my own once in a while. I like the feeling of grass under my gnarled feet. Its coolness so different from the burning hot coals of the land of my birth. I squatted next to a wooden picnic table, still laden with foodstuffs and experimented with what humans called food. I found that some of it was palatable indeed, when covered with a substance called ’Tabasco sauce’. I tipped a pitcher of fruit punch over in my eagerness to get at a piece of fried chicken that had been visited by ants -delectable little things that wiggle down the gullet, and noticed that the liquid had disturbed the ground next to the bench. And had, in fact, obliterated the symbol that had been set into the dirt. I passes a foot over the spot and felt no resistance. The barrier was weak in this spot and could be easily crossed over.
I opened my mouth to call to the others and clamped it shut, almost biting my tongue off in the process. Sure, I could tell my brothers about the escape route. Or…I could finally have the world to myself, if only until the dog could be found and killed. And if I should just so happen to see that the dog found a new safe haven, and lived to a good, old age. Hey, more time for me to explore the world and buffet it had to offer… Right?
The Unintentional Curse
By Plot Roach
Witches, wizards and Santeria Priestesses are pretty heavy handed with curses. But when you piss off a priest, be prepared for the consequences. The littlest of things can make a person angry and make them say things that they would never in a millions years wish on even the lowest scoundrel that was ever born a human. So when Father Jacob, a good old fashioned, god fearing priest loses his temper, he does not say ‘Damn it!’, ‘Shoot!’ or some other explanative found in current culture. No he goes beyond that and says something so simple that even a toddler would take no offense, yet it opens the gates of Hell.
It was at a church function, a picnic of sorts, when he unleashed the unholy offspring of Satan. He was busy regaling members of the church with tales of his youth when he traveled to distant lands, bringing the word of the Lord to heathen and savage alike. What he failed to tell them was of how happy the native people were before he came, and how he introduced hate, greed and guilt into their society, poisoning them forever.
In the middle of this tirade against the past, he trips on a leash and falls down on his righteous butt. Someone had tied their dog to the edge of the picnic table and the mutt, in order to get a handout from a child, stretched his leash to the fullest extent and it entangled the priest’s leg, sending him to the ground. So, with clothes streaked with potato salad and fruit punch, he utters an epithet to the mongrel: “Demons, take you!”
And that’s all we need to get through, really. A bit of anger, an unexpected curse and all of it coming from a man who posses the power to wield magic (even if it is from ‘the Lord‘). And here we come, like hungry mutts ourselves, pouring through tiny cracks in the earth. Called by accident, surely. But called, none the less.
The skies darken, the sun blotted out by blood red clouds and teeming with flies. It was beautiful work, some of the best that our leader, Mogglebog has done in AGES. We don’t get a chance to get out much among you humans, so we are forced to practice in the underworld. And despite what you might think, while we do have tons of maggots, flies are harder to come by. There’s not a lot of places for them to fly around and they tend to be eaten as a food source when we’ve run out of rotting flesh. They are awfully good pan-fried with a bit of garlic.
But as I was saying… with the skies blotted out, the priest and his congregation escape to the church, thinking themselves safe from our torment. Which they would have been, if the church had been constructed in the old manner of the cathedrals and other places of worship. But you silly humans do not bury clergyman or other true believers alive before laying the foundation to a new place of sanctuary. What you find squeamish, is really quite necessary, if you want the departed’s soul to watch over the building and protect you from the likes of us.
That and the holy runes. A few lines of angelic script on the walls, floor and ceiling and any building can be zipped up tight against our assault. But the building father Jacob and the rest fled into had no such protections, the only things buried there were cans of lead based paint that the building contractor didn’t want to pay the recycling fee on, and the only writing was a telephone number written on drywall of a local whore who gave the caller a severe case of crabs. So we were free to enter as we wished. Leaving, however, was not so easy a task. For the prey we had been summoned to dispatch fled, trailing its leash behind it, and was well out of the space in which we had been summoned. We were given a diameter of fifty feet in which to do our demonic duties, generous by some standards, but the mutt was already outside that border when we first made our appearance, scared off by Father Jacob when he tripped over the beast.
So we made do with the humans instead.
I will not bore you with the grimy little details, but I will admit that the blood splatter analyst that they send to study this crime scene will need a nice long vacation in a padded cell, if he does not commit suicide on the spot. Our little game of hide and seek with the humans was over before we knew it. Though why father Jacob did not save himself and the others by banishing us, I cannot say. Unless, of course, he was not the true believer that he claimed to be, in which his words had little power over us. It is easy to unlock the cage of a lion and set him loose upon the sheep. It is not, however, so easy to cage the beast once he has gotten a taste of blood.
Our bloodlust satiated, we sat and waited for the curse to run its course. And from past experience, we knew that we could be waiting for years. Unless the dog could be lured back to the scene or we were dispatched by an actual man of the cloth, we were stuck. Symbols, invisible to the human eye, were set into the walls of the building, the wood of the nearby trees and the dirt on the ground. We could neither touch them nor pass over them. I left my foul brothers in the church, as they fought over odd bits of ’devout follower’, and wandered the front lot of the church. It gets so crowded in Hell, I like to get out on my own once in a while. I like the feeling of grass under my gnarled feet. Its coolness so different from the burning hot coals of the land of my birth. I squatted next to a wooden picnic table, still laden with foodstuffs and experimented with what humans called food. I found that some of it was palatable indeed, when covered with a substance called ’Tabasco sauce’. I tipped a pitcher of fruit punch over in my eagerness to get at a piece of fried chicken that had been visited by ants -delectable little things that wiggle down the gullet, and noticed that the liquid had disturbed the ground next to the bench. And had, in fact, obliterated the symbol that had been set into the dirt. I passes a foot over the spot and felt no resistance. The barrier was weak in this spot and could be easily crossed over.
I opened my mouth to call to the others and clamped it shut, almost biting my tongue off in the process. Sure, I could tell my brothers about the escape route. Or…I could finally have the world to myself, if only until the dog could be found and killed. And if I should just so happen to see that the dog found a new safe haven, and lived to a good, old age. Hey, more time for me to explore the world and buffet it had to offer… Right?
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Career Girl
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Career Girl
By Plot Roach
The shop bell chimed above the door, another customer had entered. Madame Zanda checked her reflection in the mirror to make sure her façade was flawless before greeting the stranger. Appearances are everything, she thought.
It was a business woman in a grey pantsuit that did nothing to show her female form. This one depends on deed and smarts, not looks, Zanda told herself. She must be a career girl. “Welcome to my humble establishment.” she greeted the woman. “How may I be of assistance?”
The woman looked around, her face sneering ever so slightly at the props Madame Zanda had placed about the room for effect. Beside the usual religious artifacts (cheap knockoffs she had purchased at the local flea market that she ‘antiqued’ herself using spray on patina and generous doses of dust), there were various odd bits and pieces of things in jars of colored liquid. A few taxidermy animals lined the walls to finish the eerie effect.
“I heard that you can extend a person’s life.”
“Straight to the point, I like that in a customer.”
“Can you or not?”
“Rude, however, I do not appreciate.” Madame Zanda scolded.
“I’m sorry, you see I’m in a bit of a rush-”
“For yourself or someone else?”
“Myself.” the woman said, looking down at her plain shoes. “I was told that I have cancer and I cannot afford that right now.”
“Afford it?”
“I don’t have the time to take off work for the therapy -even if it works, which no one can say for sure either way. And my insurance won’t pay for half of the testing and medicine that I’ll need.”
“So you are quite literally working yourself to death.” Madame Zanda said, matter of factly.
“Except then a co-worker told me about you and…”
“You want to know if I can really help.”
The woman nodded, lifted her eyes from her shoes and looked at a jar next to her. Then quickly looked back down when she recognized that the contents had once been living. “What you do is humane, right?”
“I do not use humans to take your illness or to steal their life force to feed your own, if that is what you mean.”
“Good, because I could never live with myself if-”
“But, something else will have to pay the price for your illness and your health.”
“But, I-”
“Do you want to live?” Madame Zanda asked.
The woman nodded, unable to speak.
“Then perhaps it is better if you do not know how it works. Simply know this, you bring me the money that I demand and ask no questions. No humans will be ‘hurt’ to bring you relief." Zanda wrote a figure down on a piece of parchment paper and slid it to the woman.
“But this is more than I can afford.”
“What is the price of life to you? To be whole and healthy and able to pursue your dreams in the corporate world? We can come to an agreement. I’m sure that a ‘payment plan’ will satisfy us both.”
“And what happens if I cannot pay?” the woman asked. “Can you actually repossess health and life?”
“I can do many things. So do not try my patience.”
“Okay, I’ll pay.”
“Good. Bring the first thousand tomorrow and five thousand more by the end of the month. Payment of six thousand each month and you’ll be paid off by the end of the year. Make it cash. You should feel the effects of the spell by Friday.”
The woman swallowed hard and left the shop quickly. Madame Zanda turned the ‘open’ sign over to ‘closed’. She headed into the back of the store where she pulled aside the curtain to reveal a network of glass cages, each holding animals. She pulled aside a rat to take the woman’s cancer and a guinea pig to provide the extra life force and healing energy that the woman would need. The rat she would have to replace several times, since no one rat could hold all of a human’s illnesses, but monkeys were too costly and she would need a permit to keep them anyway. Small furry creatures that reproduced at a good rate kept her in clients and in business. Though sometimes they were a pain to watch over.
She remembered a time, not even two years ago she had hired her nephew to watch over and take care of the little beasts while she took a five day cruise to Mexico (both for fun and for a few magical ingredients). The dolt had botched things and Madame Zanda came home to a roomful of dead creatures -and deceased clients. She had had to change cities and names, while drumming up a whole new clientele. She still kept her nephew’s shrunken head on a shelf next to the rodent food pellets, to remind her never to trust her career to an idiot again.
Career Girl
By Plot Roach
The shop bell chimed above the door, another customer had entered. Madame Zanda checked her reflection in the mirror to make sure her façade was flawless before greeting the stranger. Appearances are everything, she thought.
It was a business woman in a grey pantsuit that did nothing to show her female form. This one depends on deed and smarts, not looks, Zanda told herself. She must be a career girl. “Welcome to my humble establishment.” she greeted the woman. “How may I be of assistance?”
The woman looked around, her face sneering ever so slightly at the props Madame Zanda had placed about the room for effect. Beside the usual religious artifacts (cheap knockoffs she had purchased at the local flea market that she ‘antiqued’ herself using spray on patina and generous doses of dust), there were various odd bits and pieces of things in jars of colored liquid. A few taxidermy animals lined the walls to finish the eerie effect.
“I heard that you can extend a person’s life.”
“Straight to the point, I like that in a customer.”
“Can you or not?”
“Rude, however, I do not appreciate.” Madame Zanda scolded.
“I’m sorry, you see I’m in a bit of a rush-”
“For yourself or someone else?”
“Myself.” the woman said, looking down at her plain shoes. “I was told that I have cancer and I cannot afford that right now.”
“Afford it?”
“I don’t have the time to take off work for the therapy -even if it works, which no one can say for sure either way. And my insurance won’t pay for half of the testing and medicine that I’ll need.”
“So you are quite literally working yourself to death.” Madame Zanda said, matter of factly.
“Except then a co-worker told me about you and…”
“You want to know if I can really help.”
The woman nodded, lifted her eyes from her shoes and looked at a jar next to her. Then quickly looked back down when she recognized that the contents had once been living. “What you do is humane, right?”
“I do not use humans to take your illness or to steal their life force to feed your own, if that is what you mean.”
“Good, because I could never live with myself if-”
“But, something else will have to pay the price for your illness and your health.”
“But, I-”
“Do you want to live?” Madame Zanda asked.
The woman nodded, unable to speak.
“Then perhaps it is better if you do not know how it works. Simply know this, you bring me the money that I demand and ask no questions. No humans will be ‘hurt’ to bring you relief." Zanda wrote a figure down on a piece of parchment paper and slid it to the woman.
“But this is more than I can afford.”
“What is the price of life to you? To be whole and healthy and able to pursue your dreams in the corporate world? We can come to an agreement. I’m sure that a ‘payment plan’ will satisfy us both.”
“And what happens if I cannot pay?” the woman asked. “Can you actually repossess health and life?”
“I can do many things. So do not try my patience.”
“Okay, I’ll pay.”
“Good. Bring the first thousand tomorrow and five thousand more by the end of the month. Payment of six thousand each month and you’ll be paid off by the end of the year. Make it cash. You should feel the effects of the spell by Friday.”
The woman swallowed hard and left the shop quickly. Madame Zanda turned the ‘open’ sign over to ‘closed’. She headed into the back of the store where she pulled aside the curtain to reveal a network of glass cages, each holding animals. She pulled aside a rat to take the woman’s cancer and a guinea pig to provide the extra life force and healing energy that the woman would need. The rat she would have to replace several times, since no one rat could hold all of a human’s illnesses, but monkeys were too costly and she would need a permit to keep them anyway. Small furry creatures that reproduced at a good rate kept her in clients and in business. Though sometimes they were a pain to watch over.
She remembered a time, not even two years ago she had hired her nephew to watch over and take care of the little beasts while she took a five day cruise to Mexico (both for fun and for a few magical ingredients). The dolt had botched things and Madame Zanda came home to a roomful of dead creatures -and deceased clients. She had had to change cities and names, while drumming up a whole new clientele. She still kept her nephew’s shrunken head on a shelf next to the rodent food pellets, to remind her never to trust her career to an idiot again.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
How come no one told me that today was supposed to be the end of the world?
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
How come no one told me that today was supposed to be the end of the world?
By Plot Roach
Eliza wiped down the last glass countertop at the jewelry section before taking off her apron and heading for the time clock in back. As much as she hated working at the department store, she hated the thought of facing an empty studio apartment for the next few days. She was just about out of the door and down the long back hallway that would lead to the parking lot when she heard Jeremiah and Daniel talk about their end of the world plans for the weekend.
“End of the world?” she asked.
“Yeah, didn’t you know? The end of the world is this weekend.” said Daniel.
“How? Why?”
“Don’t get into a twist over it, Eliza. It’s not real or anything like that. It’s just that a few years ago this ‘prophet’ bilked like about a million followers into giving him money so that he could prepare them for the end of the world.”
“And then what?” asked Eliza.
“What do you think?” asked Daniel. “It was a fake. They all stood there with their thumbs up their butts, totally broke and this guy made off with all their money.”
“And you’re celebrating this?” she asked.
“No.” said Jeremiah. “I’m celebrating the fact that I didn’t know about it until it was after the fact. Since so many people I knew were conned by the guy, I got off easy when they did not. They came to me balling their eyes out the following Monday, because they quit their jobs, gave away everything that they had and ended up looking like fools. And I was pissed because I just wanted to know that if the end of the world was happening, why did no one tell me about it? What? I’m not good enough to go to heaven or be taken aboard your mother ship? I have to stay behind and cancel my weekend plans to cover your shift because you’re too busy waiting for it all to end? At the very least, I wouldn‘t have bothered paying my credit card bills.”
“So the following year, we decided that we would turn it into a spiritual thing. We claim that it’s for religious purposes and the boss can’t tell us no.” said Daniel. “You should come with us, if you don’t have anything better to do then be present of the end of the world.”
“Hmm… Do laundry or be witness to the Apocalypse?” Eliza said. “I’m coming along.
They filled her in on the details and what supplies to bring. And the following morning Eliza found herself driving to the local park. Daniel and Jeremiah waved her down from the side of the road. They helped her bring her supplies from her car to their makeshift tent.
“So what goes on from here?” she asked.
“Well, there’s lots of fun things to do at the end of the world. Do you feel like games, swimming or maybe an educational lecture?”
“A lecture? Like a sermon?”
“Oh, Hell no!” Daniel exclaimed. “But there are some groups that put out some decent literature on how to survive various end of the world scenarios and what supplies you should stock up on just in case.”
“Like what you get on the CDC website?” Eliza asked.
“Better, actually. These people actually thought things through.” Jeremiah said.
“Like plastic sheeting and duct tape is really going to keep out radiation and genetically mutated super germs…” Daniel said.
“Like what Daniel said, but some of it is a bit more… fantastical than what reality might actually produce. Helen over there in the blue tent put out a pretty good manual on how to survive the Zombie Apocalypse. And Steven at the bench there will be giving a lecture on alternate food sources.”
The three wandered around, moving from one informational group to another. Eliza was surprised at the amount of information they these people were willing to share and wished that she, too, would be able to contribute something should she find herself alive at the end of the world and sans rapture. Though she was a little unsure as to her ability to eat things like mealworms and guinea pigs.
“Oh, let’s not forget the costume awards at three o’clock. There’s different sections for nuns, priests, saviors, and post apocalyptic survivors. Though zombies are really coming into their own this year…”
Eliza smiled as she watched a man dressed as a nun swing from a rope and jump into the water, screaming: “Iteotwawki!” before disappearing into its murky depths.
“What was he yelling?”
“It’s based on initials of a well used phrase around here: It’s The End Of The World As We Know It. Which reminds me, Daniel. Did you remember to load the End of the World music mix I made for the MP3 player?”
How come no one told me that today was supposed to be the end of the world?
By Plot Roach
Eliza wiped down the last glass countertop at the jewelry section before taking off her apron and heading for the time clock in back. As much as she hated working at the department store, she hated the thought of facing an empty studio apartment for the next few days. She was just about out of the door and down the long back hallway that would lead to the parking lot when she heard Jeremiah and Daniel talk about their end of the world plans for the weekend.
“End of the world?” she asked.
“Yeah, didn’t you know? The end of the world is this weekend.” said Daniel.
“How? Why?”
“Don’t get into a twist over it, Eliza. It’s not real or anything like that. It’s just that a few years ago this ‘prophet’ bilked like about a million followers into giving him money so that he could prepare them for the end of the world.”
“And then what?” asked Eliza.
“What do you think?” asked Daniel. “It was a fake. They all stood there with their thumbs up their butts, totally broke and this guy made off with all their money.”
“And you’re celebrating this?” she asked.
“No.” said Jeremiah. “I’m celebrating the fact that I didn’t know about it until it was after the fact. Since so many people I knew were conned by the guy, I got off easy when they did not. They came to me balling their eyes out the following Monday, because they quit their jobs, gave away everything that they had and ended up looking like fools. And I was pissed because I just wanted to know that if the end of the world was happening, why did no one tell me about it? What? I’m not good enough to go to heaven or be taken aboard your mother ship? I have to stay behind and cancel my weekend plans to cover your shift because you’re too busy waiting for it all to end? At the very least, I wouldn‘t have bothered paying my credit card bills.”
“So the following year, we decided that we would turn it into a spiritual thing. We claim that it’s for religious purposes and the boss can’t tell us no.” said Daniel. “You should come with us, if you don’t have anything better to do then be present of the end of the world.”
“Hmm… Do laundry or be witness to the Apocalypse?” Eliza said. “I’m coming along.
They filled her in on the details and what supplies to bring. And the following morning Eliza found herself driving to the local park. Daniel and Jeremiah waved her down from the side of the road. They helped her bring her supplies from her car to their makeshift tent.
“So what goes on from here?” she asked.
“Well, there’s lots of fun things to do at the end of the world. Do you feel like games, swimming or maybe an educational lecture?”
“A lecture? Like a sermon?”
“Oh, Hell no!” Daniel exclaimed. “But there are some groups that put out some decent literature on how to survive various end of the world scenarios and what supplies you should stock up on just in case.”
“Like what you get on the CDC website?” Eliza asked.
“Better, actually. These people actually thought things through.” Jeremiah said.
“Like plastic sheeting and duct tape is really going to keep out radiation and genetically mutated super germs…” Daniel said.
“Like what Daniel said, but some of it is a bit more… fantastical than what reality might actually produce. Helen over there in the blue tent put out a pretty good manual on how to survive the Zombie Apocalypse. And Steven at the bench there will be giving a lecture on alternate food sources.”
The three wandered around, moving from one informational group to another. Eliza was surprised at the amount of information they these people were willing to share and wished that she, too, would be able to contribute something should she find herself alive at the end of the world and sans rapture. Though she was a little unsure as to her ability to eat things like mealworms and guinea pigs.
“Oh, let’s not forget the costume awards at three o’clock. There’s different sections for nuns, priests, saviors, and post apocalyptic survivors. Though zombies are really coming into their own this year…”
Eliza smiled as she watched a man dressed as a nun swing from a rope and jump into the water, screaming: “Iteotwawki!” before disappearing into its murky depths.
“What was he yelling?”
“It’s based on initials of a well used phrase around here: It’s The End Of The World As We Know It. Which reminds me, Daniel. Did you remember to load the End of the World music mix I made for the MP3 player?”
Friday, May 20, 2011
Ode to an Electric Cart
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Ode to an Electric Cart
By Plot Roach
“Get in the cart, Mandy” said Sarah.
“But I feel weird about it. It’s not like I’m an invalid.”
“No, you’re thirty six weeks pregnant, and the doctor put you on bed rest. So if you’re going to go shopping with me, then you’re going to use the electronic shopping cart.”
Mandy eyed the scooter skeptically. “What if I just take it easy and walk slowly?” she asked. Her answer came from Sarah in the form of a glare that would have turned Medusa to stone. “Okay, I’ll get in the damned cart.”
It took a few minutes, even with reading the instructions on the side of the cart to get the hang of things. And with a little shaky maneuvering Mandy managed to get the cart from the front of the store down the main aisle and into the baked goods section. Immediately she was surrounded by glares from other shoppers looking at her like she was a seven year old child playing with a tank.
“Sarah, I have a bad feeling about this…” she said, trying to look inconspicuous as she pulled the cart to a stop.
“Why? You could give birth any time if you stress your body out. This just ensures that the child has a little longer in the womb.” Sarah rationalized.
A man standing to one side, looking at the filled pies turned and laughed. “You really don’t have anything to feel guilty for. My wife used the same thing her last few months of pregnancy. And it’s not like you’re like them.” He said, pointing to a couple who sagged over each end of the scooters that they were using. Each person alone made the electric scooter whine beneath his or her girth. Mandy was afraid of what their combined weight could do to a freight elevator.
“Maybe they have a thyroid problem?” Mandy reasoned.
“And maybe they never met a hamburger that they didn’t like.” Sarah mused.
Mandy ducked her head and traveled down another aisle or two, getting the hang of the electric cart. Before twenty minutes were out, she could handle the device like a pro, backing up, making u turns and being able to stop on a dime.
More stares followed her, riddling her with guilt from one aisle to the next. A few aisles later she found the source of the ill tempers of fellow shoppers. The ‘big’ couple was causing trouble, blocking some aisles entirely or rudely bumping into people, shopping carts or knocking over merchandise and driving off without so much as an apology.
Well, hell. Mandy thought. Even I can drive better than THAT. Sarah had traded places with her for a few minutes and found the cart dangerous and unwieldy at best. She announced to Mandy that she was going to try on a few things in the ladies changing room and asked if she would be okay alone.
“Sure thing. I’m just going to burn some rubber.” she smiled before taking off into the aisles of the market.
First she tested how little of a space she could get the cart through. Then came the obstacle course of small display stands which she wove in and out of like a racecar driver. She tested her speed and reflexes as children, playing in the toy aisle appeared from seemingly nowhere. And as much as her friend had joked that pedestrians on the road were extra ‘bonus’ points, she dared not test the theory as their parents might not agree.
She pulled off a khaki cotton bucket hat and a pair of reflective sunglasses from a display shelf and put them on, hunching over the electric scooter and she passes aisle after aisle. She spied a young man stocking a display of Hostess baked goods, scowling like he was trapped in a never ending torture in Hell. She pulled up next to him, scowling to match his mood and then announced: “We can’t stop here, it’s bat country!” before pulling away into another section of the store. His laughter followed her like a chorus of butterflies. She repeated the same stunt for Sarah, once her friend had left the ladies changing room.
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s from ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’” Mandy said.
“Huh?”
“Never mind, I guess you had to be there.”
“Are we ready to go yet?”
“I guess. Though I really am going to miss this thing.”
Mandy parked the scooter while Sarah paid for the merchandise. Patting the handle of the machine lovingly before she headed to the car, humming the song ‘Born To Be Wild’ as she left the store.
Ode to an Electric Cart
By Plot Roach
“Get in the cart, Mandy” said Sarah.
“But I feel weird about it. It’s not like I’m an invalid.”
“No, you’re thirty six weeks pregnant, and the doctor put you on bed rest. So if you’re going to go shopping with me, then you’re going to use the electronic shopping cart.”
Mandy eyed the scooter skeptically. “What if I just take it easy and walk slowly?” she asked. Her answer came from Sarah in the form of a glare that would have turned Medusa to stone. “Okay, I’ll get in the damned cart.”
It took a few minutes, even with reading the instructions on the side of the cart to get the hang of things. And with a little shaky maneuvering Mandy managed to get the cart from the front of the store down the main aisle and into the baked goods section. Immediately she was surrounded by glares from other shoppers looking at her like she was a seven year old child playing with a tank.
“Sarah, I have a bad feeling about this…” she said, trying to look inconspicuous as she pulled the cart to a stop.
“Why? You could give birth any time if you stress your body out. This just ensures that the child has a little longer in the womb.” Sarah rationalized.
A man standing to one side, looking at the filled pies turned and laughed. “You really don’t have anything to feel guilty for. My wife used the same thing her last few months of pregnancy. And it’s not like you’re like them.” He said, pointing to a couple who sagged over each end of the scooters that they were using. Each person alone made the electric scooter whine beneath his or her girth. Mandy was afraid of what their combined weight could do to a freight elevator.
“Maybe they have a thyroid problem?” Mandy reasoned.
“And maybe they never met a hamburger that they didn’t like.” Sarah mused.
Mandy ducked her head and traveled down another aisle or two, getting the hang of the electric cart. Before twenty minutes were out, she could handle the device like a pro, backing up, making u turns and being able to stop on a dime.
More stares followed her, riddling her with guilt from one aisle to the next. A few aisles later she found the source of the ill tempers of fellow shoppers. The ‘big’ couple was causing trouble, blocking some aisles entirely or rudely bumping into people, shopping carts or knocking over merchandise and driving off without so much as an apology.
Well, hell. Mandy thought. Even I can drive better than THAT. Sarah had traded places with her for a few minutes and found the cart dangerous and unwieldy at best. She announced to Mandy that she was going to try on a few things in the ladies changing room and asked if she would be okay alone.
“Sure thing. I’m just going to burn some rubber.” she smiled before taking off into the aisles of the market.
First she tested how little of a space she could get the cart through. Then came the obstacle course of small display stands which she wove in and out of like a racecar driver. She tested her speed and reflexes as children, playing in the toy aisle appeared from seemingly nowhere. And as much as her friend had joked that pedestrians on the road were extra ‘bonus’ points, she dared not test the theory as their parents might not agree.
She pulled off a khaki cotton bucket hat and a pair of reflective sunglasses from a display shelf and put them on, hunching over the electric scooter and she passes aisle after aisle. She spied a young man stocking a display of Hostess baked goods, scowling like he was trapped in a never ending torture in Hell. She pulled up next to him, scowling to match his mood and then announced: “We can’t stop here, it’s bat country!” before pulling away into another section of the store. His laughter followed her like a chorus of butterflies. She repeated the same stunt for Sarah, once her friend had left the ladies changing room.
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s from ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’” Mandy said.
“Huh?”
“Never mind, I guess you had to be there.”
“Are we ready to go yet?”
“I guess. Though I really am going to miss this thing.”
Mandy parked the scooter while Sarah paid for the merchandise. Patting the handle of the machine lovingly before she headed to the car, humming the song ‘Born To Be Wild’ as she left the store.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Good Food Brings a Family Together
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Good Food Brings a Family Together
By Plot Roach
So it wasn’t by chance that I was invited to my boyfriend’s family reunion, I kind of knew what he was up to, but was hoping that he wouldn’t do it just the same. He said that he had a big surprise for me, and I’m pretty sure it was one of those sparkling rings that comes with a question of would I like to cook his meals, bring him a beer and watch the kids for every day of the rest of my life. So I guess that you know my view of marriage.
I thought that he would pop the question to me in a small, quiet setting. Like when we were out at a little romantic restaurant. Which never happens, because we never go anywhere where you can’t refill your own drink and the plastic trays aren’t lined with paper advertisements or a bar graph of how unhealthy the food that you’re eating is for you.
But no, he would probably ask me in front of the whole Dock clan, and embarrass me into saying yes. Or I could say no and have thirty people after me, from the five year old twins banned from scout camp for skinning a live squirrel to Nana Mary, a woman so old and ornery that I think Hades may have patterned the vultures that eat Prometheus’ liver on a daily basis after her. If I dared to say no, I doubted that I would get out alive. And even if I did, I’d have to move out of town, since the clan made up the majority of the population of our small country town.
So I bided my time, hoped that Jack Jr. would get cold feet or that one of his many kin would talk some sense into him. After all, I was literate, had a mind of my own and definitely believed in the miracles of science. It was a combination that would not do well in a small, inbred family that still believed that pregnant women belonged in the kitchen. And that you didn’t need to tell a woman with two black eyes her place, because you had already told her -twice.
We started the day with a pledge of allegiance to the flag, not the norm in most family circles. But I didn’t feel too bad about it, since their flag was missing a few stars and I don’t recall the official pledge having anything to do with ‘keeping them damned liberals out of the White House’.
Then the children of the clan got together and sang a wonderful country song about freedom, love of country and honorable death. They sang in every key but the right one, much to the chagrin of the neighborhood dogs.
The barbeques, I say this because there were five, were all fired up, each having its own type of dead beast to be charred to perfection. Vegetables? The Dock clan believed that vegetables were what their food ate and had no place on a table unless it was in a can holding down the napkins to keep them from flying away on the breeze. They celebrated every event with the sacrifice of some animal in a roast, stew or grill and used PETA fliers to start the fire.
With the fires at full blaze, children running after each other and adults arguing political and religious views (often one in the same), Jack Jr. decided to take the moment to get the clan’s attention, making sure all eyes were on us, before he knelt before me on bended knee. I should have enjoyed it while it lasted, since this would be the first and only time he would ever debase himself in public on my account.
“Megan, I love you. Will you be mine?” he said, producing a tattered velvet box that probably held a vintage ring pried off of some great aunt’s finger not two minutes after her death. Be diplomatic, I told myself. And if you can’t hold your tongue, then run as fast as your feet will take you. I opened my mouth, but didn’t have time to say a word...
Since a twenty foot spaceship crash landed right there in the backyard. It took out the picnic table, which was a shame since I was looking forward to another glass of heavily spiked sweet tea. Part of the ship came loose and plowed through the earth, stopping a few inches from my feet, but not before reducing Jack Jr. into something we might have thrown on the barbeque.
Aliens swarmed from the hull breach, looking like silver cockroaches wearing broken kitchen gadgets. They pointed guns and made a circle around us. But for all of their intimidating looks and fancy gizmos, they were as dumb as ducks. They just stood there, clicking and posing as if they meant to scare us to death. But Rob, Jack’s uncle, had a gut full of it and decided to upend a barbeque onto one of the creatures. The rest of the family grabbed whatever weapons came to hand as the aliens watched as one of their own snapped and crackled in the flames -smelling vaguely like stale movie theater popcorn.
And you wouldn’t believe how much damage a handful of kids can do with plastic pink flamingos and where Nana Mary decided to bury her gardening trowel. The aliens were dispatched in a good old fashioned redneck way, with brute force and small explosions of gunfire. By the time their ship cooled down, all of them were dead or dying, Jack Jr. being our only real casualty (unless you counted the pot roast that had been on the upturned barbeque). Already the clan was pulling off parts of the alien craft to make into new sheds, flower pots and I’m sure a bong or two.
The dogs started cleaning up the alien corpses before we could. And when it was discovered that none of them suffered any negative effects from eating the alien meat, a few of us became adventurous and popped some bug parts onto one of the still burning barbeques. I’ll admit that I was as curious as the others and tried a bite or two. They weren’t like chicken, as everyone had assumed, but tasted more like imitation crab meat. It was a little odd and dry at first, but with a good dollop of mayonnaise, it went down just fine with beer bread biscuits and a glass of sweet tea. Toward the end of the feast, Nana Mary signaled that she wanted to make an announcement.
“We know that Jack Jr. wasn’t quite the catch you wanted and all. But we’d still like you to be part of the family, if you’ll have us." Nana Mary said, handing me the ring that Jack had used to propose to me, his blood still staining the band.
What can I say? Aside from the political, religious and personal views of these people and how they differ drastically from my own… They really are my kind of people.
Good Food Brings a Family Together
By Plot Roach
So it wasn’t by chance that I was invited to my boyfriend’s family reunion, I kind of knew what he was up to, but was hoping that he wouldn’t do it just the same. He said that he had a big surprise for me, and I’m pretty sure it was one of those sparkling rings that comes with a question of would I like to cook his meals, bring him a beer and watch the kids for every day of the rest of my life. So I guess that you know my view of marriage.
I thought that he would pop the question to me in a small, quiet setting. Like when we were out at a little romantic restaurant. Which never happens, because we never go anywhere where you can’t refill your own drink and the plastic trays aren’t lined with paper advertisements or a bar graph of how unhealthy the food that you’re eating is for you.
But no, he would probably ask me in front of the whole Dock clan, and embarrass me into saying yes. Or I could say no and have thirty people after me, from the five year old twins banned from scout camp for skinning a live squirrel to Nana Mary, a woman so old and ornery that I think Hades may have patterned the vultures that eat Prometheus’ liver on a daily basis after her. If I dared to say no, I doubted that I would get out alive. And even if I did, I’d have to move out of town, since the clan made up the majority of the population of our small country town.
So I bided my time, hoped that Jack Jr. would get cold feet or that one of his many kin would talk some sense into him. After all, I was literate, had a mind of my own and definitely believed in the miracles of science. It was a combination that would not do well in a small, inbred family that still believed that pregnant women belonged in the kitchen. And that you didn’t need to tell a woman with two black eyes her place, because you had already told her -twice.
We started the day with a pledge of allegiance to the flag, not the norm in most family circles. But I didn’t feel too bad about it, since their flag was missing a few stars and I don’t recall the official pledge having anything to do with ‘keeping them damned liberals out of the White House’.
Then the children of the clan got together and sang a wonderful country song about freedom, love of country and honorable death. They sang in every key but the right one, much to the chagrin of the neighborhood dogs.
The barbeques, I say this because there were five, were all fired up, each having its own type of dead beast to be charred to perfection. Vegetables? The Dock clan believed that vegetables were what their food ate and had no place on a table unless it was in a can holding down the napkins to keep them from flying away on the breeze. They celebrated every event with the sacrifice of some animal in a roast, stew or grill and used PETA fliers to start the fire.
With the fires at full blaze, children running after each other and adults arguing political and religious views (often one in the same), Jack Jr. decided to take the moment to get the clan’s attention, making sure all eyes were on us, before he knelt before me on bended knee. I should have enjoyed it while it lasted, since this would be the first and only time he would ever debase himself in public on my account.
“Megan, I love you. Will you be mine?” he said, producing a tattered velvet box that probably held a vintage ring pried off of some great aunt’s finger not two minutes after her death. Be diplomatic, I told myself. And if you can’t hold your tongue, then run as fast as your feet will take you. I opened my mouth, but didn’t have time to say a word...
Since a twenty foot spaceship crash landed right there in the backyard. It took out the picnic table, which was a shame since I was looking forward to another glass of heavily spiked sweet tea. Part of the ship came loose and plowed through the earth, stopping a few inches from my feet, but not before reducing Jack Jr. into something we might have thrown on the barbeque.
Aliens swarmed from the hull breach, looking like silver cockroaches wearing broken kitchen gadgets. They pointed guns and made a circle around us. But for all of their intimidating looks and fancy gizmos, they were as dumb as ducks. They just stood there, clicking and posing as if they meant to scare us to death. But Rob, Jack’s uncle, had a gut full of it and decided to upend a barbeque onto one of the creatures. The rest of the family grabbed whatever weapons came to hand as the aliens watched as one of their own snapped and crackled in the flames -smelling vaguely like stale movie theater popcorn.
And you wouldn’t believe how much damage a handful of kids can do with plastic pink flamingos and where Nana Mary decided to bury her gardening trowel. The aliens were dispatched in a good old fashioned redneck way, with brute force and small explosions of gunfire. By the time their ship cooled down, all of them were dead or dying, Jack Jr. being our only real casualty (unless you counted the pot roast that had been on the upturned barbeque). Already the clan was pulling off parts of the alien craft to make into new sheds, flower pots and I’m sure a bong or two.
The dogs started cleaning up the alien corpses before we could. And when it was discovered that none of them suffered any negative effects from eating the alien meat, a few of us became adventurous and popped some bug parts onto one of the still burning barbeques. I’ll admit that I was as curious as the others and tried a bite or two. They weren’t like chicken, as everyone had assumed, but tasted more like imitation crab meat. It was a little odd and dry at first, but with a good dollop of mayonnaise, it went down just fine with beer bread biscuits and a glass of sweet tea. Toward the end of the feast, Nana Mary signaled that she wanted to make an announcement.
“We know that Jack Jr. wasn’t quite the catch you wanted and all. But we’d still like you to be part of the family, if you’ll have us." Nana Mary said, handing me the ring that Jack had used to propose to me, his blood still staining the band.
What can I say? Aside from the political, religious and personal views of these people and how they differ drastically from my own… They really are my kind of people.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The Fourth Magic Shell
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Fourth Magic Shell
By Plot Roach
Audra snuck away from the healer’s tent and sat in the marketplace, next to the storyteller. She was supposed to be studying with Madame Lilly, but much preferred the fantastical tales the old man wove from words to the smelly elixirs and pounding of roots which she was sentenced to. She took a shaded spot next to a jewelry dealer, since the sun was at its height and scorched any who lingered under its punishment for too long. The marketplace dealers did not mind children sitting in the shade of their tents, since the hot midday sun often made shopping intolerable for those who had money to shop with. Neither a nobleman nor his servants would allow themselves to suffer a sweat and ruin their fine clothes.
The young girl set out a cloth to sit upon, cross legged and twisting herself for the maximum amount of shade to be had. The old man had just begun one of the origin stories of the First People, the ones who had come from the lands near the ocean in order to tame the desert. She loved this tale the best, for while adults told her it was just a myth, she often imagined herself as one of these first settlers, and of experiencing the hardships that they had endured.
She smiled as the old man spoke of the Spirit of the Ocean having been caught in a net by a strong young man. How in exchange for her freedom, she promised that a better place could be made from the desert, and the magical tools she would give to him for her release. When her feet once again touched the currents of the ocean floor, she sent three shells to the shore, each containing a gift for the one who had freed her. The first shell, when broken, released the first camels that ever walked upon the land. They were slower than horses, but much heartier and much more likely to make it to the haven that was to be their desert home, since they did not have to drink water. The second shell produced a sound that only one among the First People could hear. The voice shifted to that person, burrowing itself in his ear, and he became the first story teller. The third shell produced a rock that leaked water when placed into a jar, so that the First People would not have to travel in constant thirst.
So with these gifts, they set off across the burning desert sands in order to find their new home. It was a journey that lasted many months and tried the people’s patience. But each step of the way, the storyteller was with them. His words were to enchant, as well as give directions to the new land, with stories. With each new story came a clue as to how to thrive in their new home. And though the journey was fraught with hazards and hardships, not a man nor beast died along the way.
Once they had reached their new city, where their homes had been built and pens for the animals had been constructed. Someone dumped the water from the jar into the camels’ trough and the stone tumbled out unseen. It was not until the trough was empty that the stone was discovered, but by then the stone had been emptied by these thirsty beasts. The camels, now having had a taste of water, refused to go without it. And thus, two of the three gifts of the ocean spirit were lost to the First People. But the Storyteller remained, and told his stories for those who would listen and learn. And who continues to until this day.
The audience disbursed, some leaving money in the storyteller’s offering bowl, and some merely heading back to their homes to wait out the rest of the day’s heat. Audra reached into her pocket for a small paper envelope that held a powdered medicine she had been working upon before she crept out of the healer’s tent. She tossed it into his bowl and turned with a sigh. She needed to go back to Madame Lilly’s to resume her work, but knew that she would be punished for running away as soon as her foot entered the door.
“Why are you so sad, child?” the storyteller asked.
“I must return to my master and continue my training.”
“And why do you not rejoice, for at least you have found your calling, when so many are turned away from apprenticeship?”
“My heart is not in it, Storyteller.”
“Do you not wear the token of a healer about your neck?” he asked.
Audra stroked the shell that hung on a thin string about her neck. Shells were precious out here in the desert. And were often used in the healer’s elixirs. Some were worth more than their weight in gold. During her naming ceremony at the age of four, she had been presented with a plate filled with various items, each with their own meaning for her career. She had chosen the shell, the healer’s charm, and was apprenticed as soon as she was able.
“But what if it was wrong?” she asked the man, who had stood now and was rolling his mat up in order to seek shelter in a cooler spot of the marketplace.
“Well then, what do you think the shell means?”
“Like in the story, it might have held a gift once.”
“And what might that be?”
“I don’t know…People say I’m being silly. But I just don’t feel like a healer.”
“Then who do you feel like?”
“I don’t know, I was never given a choice other than healer.”
“Think back over your life, dear one. Can you not think of one other thing that you were good at?”
“When I was younger, and I heard the other storytellers in the marketplace, I would come home and tell my younger siblings about what I had learned. And when anyone was sick, I would sit beside them and comfort them with their favorite stories. Sometimes I even make them up, though I know it’s silly…”
“When do you make them up?”
“When I get bored. Like when I’m grinding herbs or working in the garden. Something catches my eye and I have to tell a story about it, even if it is one I have never heard.”
“When does this happen?”
“Almost everyday, Storyteller.”
The man studied her, rubbing his chin. Audra felt even more ashamed, now that she had dragged him into her life. “I think we need to have a talk with this master of yours. You may be misplaced after all.”
“Then where do I belong?”
“Perhaps with the Storytellers Guild, dear one.”
“Oh no!”
“What’s wrong?”
“My parents will never approve. Because you don’t… well..”
“Make a lot of money? Have high status?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not to worry, dear child.” the Storyteller said. “It may be looked down upon, telling stories in the marketplace for your daily bread. But ours is the most necessary job in the city.”
“How?”
“We remind people of the past. We teach them what they need to know in order to be good citizens. And without us the world would cease to be.”
“Really?” Audra asked, her eyes big with panic.
“If the Storytellers stopped their talking, even for a minute, our world would end.” the old man said with a straight face. “The sun would still race about in the sky, the rain would still fall, and the creatures that walk upon the land would still be born, live and die. But our people, descendants of the First People, would forget our place in this world. We would cease to be and live no better than the creatures we tend. That is why we need as many voices as possible -maybe even that of a young girl- to remind us of who we were and who we have yet to become.”
“I still don’t think that my family will approve.”
“You leave the arguing to me, little one. No one yet has been able to out speak this storyteller.” he smiled to her, and she smiled back. “It seems we shall have to amend the Origin stories after all.”
“How so?” Audra asked.
“It seems that there was a fourth magic shell, and it brought you to me.”
The Fourth Magic Shell
By Plot Roach
Audra snuck away from the healer’s tent and sat in the marketplace, next to the storyteller. She was supposed to be studying with Madame Lilly, but much preferred the fantastical tales the old man wove from words to the smelly elixirs and pounding of roots which she was sentenced to. She took a shaded spot next to a jewelry dealer, since the sun was at its height and scorched any who lingered under its punishment for too long. The marketplace dealers did not mind children sitting in the shade of their tents, since the hot midday sun often made shopping intolerable for those who had money to shop with. Neither a nobleman nor his servants would allow themselves to suffer a sweat and ruin their fine clothes.
The young girl set out a cloth to sit upon, cross legged and twisting herself for the maximum amount of shade to be had. The old man had just begun one of the origin stories of the First People, the ones who had come from the lands near the ocean in order to tame the desert. She loved this tale the best, for while adults told her it was just a myth, she often imagined herself as one of these first settlers, and of experiencing the hardships that they had endured.
She smiled as the old man spoke of the Spirit of the Ocean having been caught in a net by a strong young man. How in exchange for her freedom, she promised that a better place could be made from the desert, and the magical tools she would give to him for her release. When her feet once again touched the currents of the ocean floor, she sent three shells to the shore, each containing a gift for the one who had freed her. The first shell, when broken, released the first camels that ever walked upon the land. They were slower than horses, but much heartier and much more likely to make it to the haven that was to be their desert home, since they did not have to drink water. The second shell produced a sound that only one among the First People could hear. The voice shifted to that person, burrowing itself in his ear, and he became the first story teller. The third shell produced a rock that leaked water when placed into a jar, so that the First People would not have to travel in constant thirst.
So with these gifts, they set off across the burning desert sands in order to find their new home. It was a journey that lasted many months and tried the people’s patience. But each step of the way, the storyteller was with them. His words were to enchant, as well as give directions to the new land, with stories. With each new story came a clue as to how to thrive in their new home. And though the journey was fraught with hazards and hardships, not a man nor beast died along the way.
Once they had reached their new city, where their homes had been built and pens for the animals had been constructed. Someone dumped the water from the jar into the camels’ trough and the stone tumbled out unseen. It was not until the trough was empty that the stone was discovered, but by then the stone had been emptied by these thirsty beasts. The camels, now having had a taste of water, refused to go without it. And thus, two of the three gifts of the ocean spirit were lost to the First People. But the Storyteller remained, and told his stories for those who would listen and learn. And who continues to until this day.
The audience disbursed, some leaving money in the storyteller’s offering bowl, and some merely heading back to their homes to wait out the rest of the day’s heat. Audra reached into her pocket for a small paper envelope that held a powdered medicine she had been working upon before she crept out of the healer’s tent. She tossed it into his bowl and turned with a sigh. She needed to go back to Madame Lilly’s to resume her work, but knew that she would be punished for running away as soon as her foot entered the door.
“Why are you so sad, child?” the storyteller asked.
“I must return to my master and continue my training.”
“And why do you not rejoice, for at least you have found your calling, when so many are turned away from apprenticeship?”
“My heart is not in it, Storyteller.”
“Do you not wear the token of a healer about your neck?” he asked.
Audra stroked the shell that hung on a thin string about her neck. Shells were precious out here in the desert. And were often used in the healer’s elixirs. Some were worth more than their weight in gold. During her naming ceremony at the age of four, she had been presented with a plate filled with various items, each with their own meaning for her career. She had chosen the shell, the healer’s charm, and was apprenticed as soon as she was able.
“But what if it was wrong?” she asked the man, who had stood now and was rolling his mat up in order to seek shelter in a cooler spot of the marketplace.
“Well then, what do you think the shell means?”
“Like in the story, it might have held a gift once.”
“And what might that be?”
“I don’t know…People say I’m being silly. But I just don’t feel like a healer.”
“Then who do you feel like?”
“I don’t know, I was never given a choice other than healer.”
“Think back over your life, dear one. Can you not think of one other thing that you were good at?”
“When I was younger, and I heard the other storytellers in the marketplace, I would come home and tell my younger siblings about what I had learned. And when anyone was sick, I would sit beside them and comfort them with their favorite stories. Sometimes I even make them up, though I know it’s silly…”
“When do you make them up?”
“When I get bored. Like when I’m grinding herbs or working in the garden. Something catches my eye and I have to tell a story about it, even if it is one I have never heard.”
“When does this happen?”
“Almost everyday, Storyteller.”
The man studied her, rubbing his chin. Audra felt even more ashamed, now that she had dragged him into her life. “I think we need to have a talk with this master of yours. You may be misplaced after all.”
“Then where do I belong?”
“Perhaps with the Storytellers Guild, dear one.”
“Oh no!”
“What’s wrong?”
“My parents will never approve. Because you don’t… well..”
“Make a lot of money? Have high status?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not to worry, dear child.” the Storyteller said. “It may be looked down upon, telling stories in the marketplace for your daily bread. But ours is the most necessary job in the city.”
“How?”
“We remind people of the past. We teach them what they need to know in order to be good citizens. And without us the world would cease to be.”
“Really?” Audra asked, her eyes big with panic.
“If the Storytellers stopped their talking, even for a minute, our world would end.” the old man said with a straight face. “The sun would still race about in the sky, the rain would still fall, and the creatures that walk upon the land would still be born, live and die. But our people, descendants of the First People, would forget our place in this world. We would cease to be and live no better than the creatures we tend. That is why we need as many voices as possible -maybe even that of a young girl- to remind us of who we were and who we have yet to become.”
“I still don’t think that my family will approve.”
“You leave the arguing to me, little one. No one yet has been able to out speak this storyteller.” he smiled to her, and she smiled back. “It seems we shall have to amend the Origin stories after all.”
“How so?” Audra asked.
“It seems that there was a fourth magic shell, and it brought you to me.”
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Retro Tech
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Retro Tech
By Plot Roach
Alyssa switched the videotapes in the VCR, putting on a new movie for Junior while setting the finished one in the rewinder. It was old, and screeched unless she held the lid down, but it worked all the same. The DVD player had died their third week out in the desert, sand had gotten into the works and scratched the delicate crystal. She preferred the graininess of the old videotapes anyway, they somehow made the experience more real than the crisp, clear images from the discs.
She got the toddler another bottle of milk from the refrigerator, also a dinosaur not yet extinct. It runs on more energy than a small town, I’ll bet. She thought, opening the door not with a fixed handle, but with a type of latch to keep the old thing closed. She had rigged most of the things in the house this way, working with the pieces of old technology that still worked and trying to mesh it with the existing technology of the day. Danny had brought her a couple of solar panels, which she used to power the house, they seemed the only really ‘new’ things in their lifestyle, everything else having been scrounged from second hand stores, pawn shops and the city dump.
They heated their food over an old woodstove, which kept them warm in the winter. They heated their bathwater in a makeshift camping shower that was heated by the sun itself. What didn’t run on electricity from the solar power panels, ran on gasoline or wood. They learned much of their technology from books written by those that survived harder times in harsher climates, or by old timers passing through their little makeshift village who remembered growing up on farms during the Depression, and other places that had to be self sufficient. They hauled in their water from town, cut up the dead trees that died during the summer heat, and traded for any other fuel that they needed throughout the year.
Danny was good at bringing home parts and pieces of things that the others in their encampment needed for their own use, like parts for cars and engines for generators. He worked at the same junkyard where most of their home had been assembled piece by piece. It was not a beautiful life, but it was theirs. Living this far away from the cities meant that they had to police themselves, but it also meant more privacy and less taxes. They lived for free in what they could build, but sometimes the price of daily survival was a little too much for some to bear. They left behind their makeshift homes like hermit crabs, and scuttled back to the 'civilization'.
She heard the rumble of an engine and looked out the cracked and taped window out of the front of the house, Danny should be home anytime now, and he would want her help unloading the truck. She put another bowl of dry cereal in with Danny Junior and retrieved her heavy cotton gloves from the box next to the door. She pulled them on, not wanting to get grease under her fingernails, since it was hard to get out without soaking in hot water that was too precious to use this time of day.
She left the house, secure in the knowledge that Junior was fine in his playpen, dazzled by the television, with his bottle and his food to keep him company. A small whirlwind of sand danced about her and she made a mental note to have Danny put up the screen door as soon as possible. Maybe it will cut down on some of the dirt getting in, she thought. A large shadow passed in front of her and she squinted against the sand to get a better look. God I hope it’s not the police again, she thought. They had done a raid a few months back, arresting anyone growing marijuana. And while she and Danny had nothing to hide, they were still treated as criminals just the same.
But what landed in front of her was no police helicopter. Though it was streamlined and looked like polished silver, it did not look like anything Alyssa had seen before. It was about the size of a school bus, but shaped like a peach pit laying on its side. It came to rest in the sand, the humming of what could only be its engine stopped and Alyssa held her breath. A door in its side slid open and a staircase emerged.
About that time, Danny pulled up in his truck and parked by the far side of the house, as he always did. She heard him slam the truck door closed and yell for her to help him unload from the day’s pickings at the junkyard.
“Uh, Danny. You gotta come see this.” She yelled back at him.
He was in such a dither at having to wait to unload that he almost missed the ship in front of their home. His mouth was still open, his question unasked, when three beings climbed down the stairs and exited the craft. They shielded their eyes from the sun as they viewed the little ramshackle village in the middle of the desert. Two of the beings, looking like a cross between a small person and a shaved hyena, left to peruse the rest of the village while the third waited with the craft.
“Um, hello?” Alyssa said tentatively.
The creature pulled out what looked to be a small silver pad, the size of a cell phone, and began to type on it with a long claw.
“Greetings/ hello/ salutations fellow sentient being. We have come here to buy/ shop / trade/ barter. Do you have any good that you are willing to part with?”
Danny nodded absently and showed the creature around back to the shed where they kept the parts he hauled home until they could be used or traded to the neighbors. They creature pawed through the parts, taking a handful of them back to his ship. Then he returned to the front of their home and motioned that he (at least Alyssa assumed that it was a he) would like to look inside their home.
“Sure, dude.” Danny said. “But somehow I don’t think you’ll want what’s inside.”
They followed the creature as he inspected every item on the shelves, the tables and in the cupboards. He pointed to a few things, including the television, VCR and the refrigerator and handed Danny a small silver box, tapping the top button. Danny pushed the button and watched as all the appliances the creature had chosen were sucked into the box, replaced by something similar.
Their new refrigerator was three times as large and now held the groceries that had been stored in the old Frigidaire. When Alyssa pulled out the gallon jug of milk to test its freshness, another one materialized in its place. She tried the same thing with one of Danny’s beers, and the same thing happened, as many times as she pulled out the bottle.
Junior cried once the television and VCR had disappeared, but was now elated when he viewed what had taken their place. It took up the whole of the wall it had been placed against, and appeared to send out three dimensional images without the need for glasses. It was currently showing a nature movie based on the animals of Africa. And it looked to Alyssa as if the wildebeest drinking at the water hole was actually standing in their living room.
The creature made a soft click and tilted his head to the side. He tapped a nail on the silver translator and asked, “Are you happy with the trade?”
Danny looked behind the new television and the refrigerator. “There’s no power plugs. How can these things be running?”
“Maybe they're nuclear, or maybe they perfected fission?” Alyssa offered.
Danny looked to he creature and nodded. Alyssa and Danny followed him out the door. He had wandered around to the back of the house once again and tapped a nail against Danny’s truck. By then the other two creatures had returned to the ship, each carrying items that they had traded from Danny and Alyssa’s neighbors.
Their creature looked up and whooped at the other two. They spoke for a while in snaps, clicks and whines. Finally coming to an agreement on Danny’s truck. Their creature snapped its fingers and a silver orb flew from the inside of the ship to its paw. He set it on the ground and whistled, where it grew in size to the exact shape and likeness of Danny’s truck. He motioned to Danny to get behind the wheel. And as soon as the door was closed, the truck whisked itself away and back in the blink of an eye.
“What the hell happened, Danny?” Alyssa asked.
“I was thinking about my job at the junkyard and how I needed the truck to get there and back. And then this thing just ‘appeared’ there. Then I got worried about you and the boy here alone with them, and it brought me back. If it moves this fast normally, I’ll never be late for work again.”
Their creature tilted its head as if to ask if they approved of the trade. “Hell yes I’ll take it!” Danny said, tossing the creature the truck’s keys. The creature pointed a device at the tuck and it was sucked away as had the refrigerator and other various things that had been traded. It smiled, a rather toothy grin that would have been unnerving if they had not already been sure of its intentions. All thee walked up the stairs back into their ship, where the engine powered up and was gone in almost a blink of an eye, leaving a whirlwind of sand in its wake.
Danny smiled and patted his new vehicle. Alyssa thought of all the money that they would now be saving on groceries. Eventually they wandered back into the house, where the toddler was attempting to pull the beard on the wildebeest hologram.
“But why would they trade all that for my truck and the other useless junk when they can get jets and things from the government?” Danny asked.
“Maybe they like retro tech too.” Alyssa said.
Retro Tech
By Plot Roach
Alyssa switched the videotapes in the VCR, putting on a new movie for Junior while setting the finished one in the rewinder. It was old, and screeched unless she held the lid down, but it worked all the same. The DVD player had died their third week out in the desert, sand had gotten into the works and scratched the delicate crystal. She preferred the graininess of the old videotapes anyway, they somehow made the experience more real than the crisp, clear images from the discs.
She got the toddler another bottle of milk from the refrigerator, also a dinosaur not yet extinct. It runs on more energy than a small town, I’ll bet. She thought, opening the door not with a fixed handle, but with a type of latch to keep the old thing closed. She had rigged most of the things in the house this way, working with the pieces of old technology that still worked and trying to mesh it with the existing technology of the day. Danny had brought her a couple of solar panels, which she used to power the house, they seemed the only really ‘new’ things in their lifestyle, everything else having been scrounged from second hand stores, pawn shops and the city dump.
They heated their food over an old woodstove, which kept them warm in the winter. They heated their bathwater in a makeshift camping shower that was heated by the sun itself. What didn’t run on electricity from the solar power panels, ran on gasoline or wood. They learned much of their technology from books written by those that survived harder times in harsher climates, or by old timers passing through their little makeshift village who remembered growing up on farms during the Depression, and other places that had to be self sufficient. They hauled in their water from town, cut up the dead trees that died during the summer heat, and traded for any other fuel that they needed throughout the year.
Danny was good at bringing home parts and pieces of things that the others in their encampment needed for their own use, like parts for cars and engines for generators. He worked at the same junkyard where most of their home had been assembled piece by piece. It was not a beautiful life, but it was theirs. Living this far away from the cities meant that they had to police themselves, but it also meant more privacy and less taxes. They lived for free in what they could build, but sometimes the price of daily survival was a little too much for some to bear. They left behind their makeshift homes like hermit crabs, and scuttled back to the 'civilization'.
She heard the rumble of an engine and looked out the cracked and taped window out of the front of the house, Danny should be home anytime now, and he would want her help unloading the truck. She put another bowl of dry cereal in with Danny Junior and retrieved her heavy cotton gloves from the box next to the door. She pulled them on, not wanting to get grease under her fingernails, since it was hard to get out without soaking in hot water that was too precious to use this time of day.
She left the house, secure in the knowledge that Junior was fine in his playpen, dazzled by the television, with his bottle and his food to keep him company. A small whirlwind of sand danced about her and she made a mental note to have Danny put up the screen door as soon as possible. Maybe it will cut down on some of the dirt getting in, she thought. A large shadow passed in front of her and she squinted against the sand to get a better look. God I hope it’s not the police again, she thought. They had done a raid a few months back, arresting anyone growing marijuana. And while she and Danny had nothing to hide, they were still treated as criminals just the same.
But what landed in front of her was no police helicopter. Though it was streamlined and looked like polished silver, it did not look like anything Alyssa had seen before. It was about the size of a school bus, but shaped like a peach pit laying on its side. It came to rest in the sand, the humming of what could only be its engine stopped and Alyssa held her breath. A door in its side slid open and a staircase emerged.
About that time, Danny pulled up in his truck and parked by the far side of the house, as he always did. She heard him slam the truck door closed and yell for her to help him unload from the day’s pickings at the junkyard.
“Uh, Danny. You gotta come see this.” She yelled back at him.
He was in such a dither at having to wait to unload that he almost missed the ship in front of their home. His mouth was still open, his question unasked, when three beings climbed down the stairs and exited the craft. They shielded their eyes from the sun as they viewed the little ramshackle village in the middle of the desert. Two of the beings, looking like a cross between a small person and a shaved hyena, left to peruse the rest of the village while the third waited with the craft.
“Um, hello?” Alyssa said tentatively.
The creature pulled out what looked to be a small silver pad, the size of a cell phone, and began to type on it with a long claw.
“Greetings/ hello/ salutations fellow sentient being. We have come here to buy/ shop / trade/ barter. Do you have any good that you are willing to part with?”
Danny nodded absently and showed the creature around back to the shed where they kept the parts he hauled home until they could be used or traded to the neighbors. They creature pawed through the parts, taking a handful of them back to his ship. Then he returned to the front of their home and motioned that he (at least Alyssa assumed that it was a he) would like to look inside their home.
“Sure, dude.” Danny said. “But somehow I don’t think you’ll want what’s inside.”
They followed the creature as he inspected every item on the shelves, the tables and in the cupboards. He pointed to a few things, including the television, VCR and the refrigerator and handed Danny a small silver box, tapping the top button. Danny pushed the button and watched as all the appliances the creature had chosen were sucked into the box, replaced by something similar.
Their new refrigerator was three times as large and now held the groceries that had been stored in the old Frigidaire. When Alyssa pulled out the gallon jug of milk to test its freshness, another one materialized in its place. She tried the same thing with one of Danny’s beers, and the same thing happened, as many times as she pulled out the bottle.
Junior cried once the television and VCR had disappeared, but was now elated when he viewed what had taken their place. It took up the whole of the wall it had been placed against, and appeared to send out three dimensional images without the need for glasses. It was currently showing a nature movie based on the animals of Africa. And it looked to Alyssa as if the wildebeest drinking at the water hole was actually standing in their living room.
The creature made a soft click and tilted his head to the side. He tapped a nail on the silver translator and asked, “Are you happy with the trade?”
Danny looked behind the new television and the refrigerator. “There’s no power plugs. How can these things be running?”
“Maybe they're nuclear, or maybe they perfected fission?” Alyssa offered.
Danny looked to he creature and nodded. Alyssa and Danny followed him out the door. He had wandered around to the back of the house once again and tapped a nail against Danny’s truck. By then the other two creatures had returned to the ship, each carrying items that they had traded from Danny and Alyssa’s neighbors.
Their creature looked up and whooped at the other two. They spoke for a while in snaps, clicks and whines. Finally coming to an agreement on Danny’s truck. Their creature snapped its fingers and a silver orb flew from the inside of the ship to its paw. He set it on the ground and whistled, where it grew in size to the exact shape and likeness of Danny’s truck. He motioned to Danny to get behind the wheel. And as soon as the door was closed, the truck whisked itself away and back in the blink of an eye.
“What the hell happened, Danny?” Alyssa asked.
“I was thinking about my job at the junkyard and how I needed the truck to get there and back. And then this thing just ‘appeared’ there. Then I got worried about you and the boy here alone with them, and it brought me back. If it moves this fast normally, I’ll never be late for work again.”
Their creature tilted its head as if to ask if they approved of the trade. “Hell yes I’ll take it!” Danny said, tossing the creature the truck’s keys. The creature pointed a device at the tuck and it was sucked away as had the refrigerator and other various things that had been traded. It smiled, a rather toothy grin that would have been unnerving if they had not already been sure of its intentions. All thee walked up the stairs back into their ship, where the engine powered up and was gone in almost a blink of an eye, leaving a whirlwind of sand in its wake.
Danny smiled and patted his new vehicle. Alyssa thought of all the money that they would now be saving on groceries. Eventually they wandered back into the house, where the toddler was attempting to pull the beard on the wildebeest hologram.
“But why would they trade all that for my truck and the other useless junk when they can get jets and things from the government?” Danny asked.
“Maybe they like retro tech too.” Alyssa said.
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