This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Welcome to the Neighborhood
By Plot Roach
The bear awoke from his chemical slumber, his head still filled with the image of an animal control officer shooting him with a tranquilizer dart. He growled and pulled himself to his feet. There was an odd smell to the air. The smog he was so accustomed to was no longer there. There were small pinpricks in the sky as opposed to the large city lights that had flooded the night. No rumbling of cars on the highway. No smell of rotting food from the dump. He wandered about on sluggish paws, a thick carpet of dead needles beneath his paws. Somewhere in the tree above him and animal cleared its throat.
“Where am I ?” the bear asked.
“What is left of the old world.” said a squirrel. “It’s what humans call a ‘wilderness preserve’. So… Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Why would they bring me here?”
“What do you remember?” asked the squirrel.
“I was eating some lovely garbage, then a dog barked at me from a human home. Then a van came and a man shot me. But I’m still alive -aren’t I?”
“You must have caused a ruckus in the city, my friend.” said the squirrel. “You got into someone’s garbage can and they made you sleep until they could bring you here.”
“But why? All I see is leaves and stuff. Where am I supposed to sleep? My cement overpass is gone. What am I supposed to eat? There are no garbage cans or dumps around here.”
“Whoa there Buddy, you are a bear. You are supposed to be out here. You sleep in a cave, you eat berries. Get it?”
“My name isn’t Buddy.”
“It’s just a term. Like ‘friend’” the squirrel said. “Bye the way, what is your name? I’m Acorn.”
“I’m Hubcap.”
“That’s an unusual name. How did you get it?”
“When we bears are young, our mothers do not name us right away. When we are old enough, we are told to go out into the world on our own and make our first kill, then we are given names.”
“And?”
“My first prey was a car.”
“You killed a car?!”
“No, not really. I was chasing a deer and it ran into the road. The car killed the deer, and the people driving it decided to take the deer with them. But it banged up their car, and parts of it were left behind. And let’s face it, a hubcap is easier to carry than a bumper.”
“Wow.” said the squirrel. “I was just named after what my mother was craving the most when she was pregnant with me.”
“I thought that squirrels gave birth in litters, how could she tell which was going to be you?”
“She didn’t. There are four of us named ‘Acorn’.”
“Must make family reunions interesting…”
“Tell me about it, I have seventeen cousins named ‘Hazel’.”
“Well…Now what?” the bear asked.
“Get some sleep, Hubcap. I’ll show you around in the morning.” said the squirrel. “Oh, and you will get the meet your new girlfriend.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, the bears like you have all but died out in these woods, so the humans brought you here to help perpetuate the species.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be much of a helping that matter.” the bear said.
“Why is that?”
“I’m not a ‘bear’ kind of guy. I’m more into badgers.”
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Easy Bake Ovens, Barbie Dolls and Bombs
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Easy Bake Ovens, Barbie Dolls and Bombs
By Plot Roach
It’s never a good idea to fill kids’ toys with explosives…
So there I was, working the graveyard shift with Emily and trying to get our section inventoried before the end of our shift, when we heard a noise coming from the back gate. Now you have to understand that the graveyard shift is usually very quiet. The worst thing that you have to worry about is snoozing when the boss walks in. Too many people have been caught doing this, or worse, on their shifts. So now the boss not only has us clean up the place, he makes us inventory it as well. Not that the inventory actually does any good. Between what the customers walk off with and what the people working register fail to ring through right… well, you get the idea.
So Emily and I were working the toy section, halfway through the count we starting making up totals just to mess with the boss’ head. I mean, who really has five thousand Barbie rodeo costumes on a single shelf? Besides, Emily and I were bemoaning the fact that they were changing the Easy bake Oven from a light bulb to an actual heating element. I never had one as a kid, my parents thought that it was too dangerous and I told Emily as much.
“I burned myself a couple of times.” she said, showing me a as mall crescent shape scar on her thumb. “But if you don’t learn to be careful as a kid, you end up being a stupid adult. I mean, look at all those people they have to air lift out of state parks because someone had a midlife crisis and decided to find God while walking around in nature. They don’t take any classes, they don’t stay on the trail. Half the time they don’t even take enough water. And if they get attacked by a bear, it’s the bear that gets shot. So the poor thing just wakes up in the morning, smells the candy wrapper from some idiot that he left on the trail and decides that littering isn’t cool in his hood…”
“From kid’s toys to thug bears. You have a talent, Emily.”
“I try.” she said. “But in all honesty, we had fun with it. I had revenge on my brother when he barbequed my Barbies.”
“How?” I asked, almost afraid of the response.
“I used to turn his green army men into plastic hockey pucks. And then there was the time I actually made a mud pie out of mud, mixed it right in with the brownies and he never knew it until his molars came down on a rock.”
We were deep into reminiscing about childhood toys when the back door rattled. It sounded like someone was pulling real hard on the handle. But it was an emergency door, so it would only open from the inside.
“Should we open it you think?” Emily asked.
“Won’t the alarm go off?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I think that maybe we could go to security and see from the camera who it is.” So we dropped out clipboard of false inventory and headed down to see Sam in Security. When we got there, he was already watching the footage from the camera above the back emergency door.
“It’s a bear.” he said, with apathy. It was almost as if he said, ‘It’s the pizza delivery guy.’
“What kind of bear?” Emily asked.
“A bear, kind of bear.”
“No, I mean. Is it a grizzly, a brown bear, a polar bear?”
“Polar? Here?” Sam asked.
“It could happen.” Emily said.
“Yeah.” I said. “Didn’t you even see that show ‘Lost’, they sent one to Tunisia.”
Both of them glared at me for that comment. Okay, maybe I deserved it.
“It’s smallish and dark.” Sam finally said. We watched it pound against the outside door. We laughed, thinking ourselves safe against it. Then it walked to a nearby window and broke through it. “Oh crap!” Sam yelled, locking the door to the security office. And much to our amusement, the bear did not go to the food aisle, as any hungry bear who had just broken into a store would have, it went down the toy aisle, where Emily and I had been just moments earlier.
It made a quick perusal of the shelves, sniffing at the dolls and little girls’ makeup. It batted at the tubes of bubbles and chewed experimentally on a stuffed animal rabbit that was supposed to smell like strawberries. And I can tell you from experience, it did not. When you are surrounded by a dozen of the synthetic beasts, all you smell is a bad chemical residue that reminds one of overly sweet bathroom deodorizers.
The bear shared my opinion, having dropped the rabbit in favor of another toy. What had now caught its interest was a plush horse that made whinnying sounds when you touched it. But when the bear knocked it down off the shelf, it also knocked down a jewelry box.
A tinkling tune was caught on the camera, as was the dance of the small dark bear. That’s right, it stood upright, steadied itself upon a nearby shelf, causing even more toys to fall, and then began to turn in a lazy spiral, waving its upper paws in the air.
“Is that?-”
“It couldn’t be.”
“It’s dancing.” I said.
Again, I received glares from Emily and Sam.
“What do we do now?” Sam asked.
“You’re the security guy” Emily said. “What did they train you to do?”
“Uh…”
“Try calling animal control and the police.” I offered. Twenty minutes later we were still on the phone with animal control. They said that they didn’t want to trap the bear inside the store, just in case it should harm an employee. I still think it’s because they didn’t want a lawsuit from the store. So they told us to try an ‘shoo’ it out by making loud noises.
Air horns were in the fishing department, on the other side of toys. So we would have to travel past the bear to get to them.
“What about noisemakers from the party supply department? Emily asked.
“Unless it is deathly afraid of confetti, I doubt it would work.” Sam said.
“So what do we try?” Emily asked.
“We need to get to sporting goods…” Sam said.
Ten minutes last we were holed up once again in the security office. But this time with a box cutter, black powder, clothesline and rubber balls. “I read about this online in one of the survival forums.” Sam said, putting together an assembly line of handmade grenades.
“If we were going to kill the bear, why didn’t we just get the shotgun?” Emily asked.
“We’re not going to kill the bear.” Sam said. “It’s an endangered species here.”
“If it’s so endangered, then why is it in the city?” Emily asked.
“It’s probably here looking for food because someone built a mall on its home.” I said.
“Spoken like a liberal.” Sam sighed, "The animal control guys think that it was the one that they confiscated from a circus a while back and was released into the woods a mile from here to repopulate the species." he said, pouring black powder into a rubber ball that he had cut open with the box cutter. “Now don’t fill the ball too much, or it really will explode and hurt him.” He stuffed a section of rope into the opening on the ball, lit it and threw it at the bear.
And then there was nothing. Absolute nothing. The bear was still there, and we were still crouched around the corner. But the ‘grenade’ didn’t explode. Sam threw the others, and none of them exploded. So we grabbed a few more balls, this time from the kids’ section (since we were already there).
Sam kept an eye on the bear while Emily and I made the next grenades. “I think this is stupid.” Emily said, pouring the black powder into the ball and filling it up.
“Isn’t that too much?” I asked.
“The last ones didn’t catch fire and go off.” Emily said. “I’m betting Sammy boy didn’t put in enough stuff.”
I shrugged and stood back. It seemed the safest thing to do under the circumstances. Emily handed one of her super filled balls to Sam who lit the fuse and launched it at the bear. But this time, the bear decided to send it back.
The ball went flying over our heads and into the kitchen wares department. “Don’t worry” said Sam. “If it’s anything like the others, it’s a dud.”
But it wasn’t.
It exploded with a ferocity like the cherry bombs Emily’s brother allegedly flushed down toilets in his youth, according to the stories she told later of the ‘bear incident’. It knocked over an entire aisle of appliances and sent bits of broken ceramics into the air to land everywhere between pool supplies to electronics.
But it did chase the bear out.
When the boss asked us the next day what had happened, we blamed it on kids who were trying to form a protest on foreign made toys. The ball bombs were confiscated by Sam at an earlier date and he was going to dispose of them. But then there was this bear invasion and we feared for our lives. Thus we were forced to use them…
In response, we were sentenced to three more shifts of inventory. ACTUAL inventory.
Easy Bake Ovens, Barbie Dolls and Bombs
By Plot Roach
It’s never a good idea to fill kids’ toys with explosives…
So there I was, working the graveyard shift with Emily and trying to get our section inventoried before the end of our shift, when we heard a noise coming from the back gate. Now you have to understand that the graveyard shift is usually very quiet. The worst thing that you have to worry about is snoozing when the boss walks in. Too many people have been caught doing this, or worse, on their shifts. So now the boss not only has us clean up the place, he makes us inventory it as well. Not that the inventory actually does any good. Between what the customers walk off with and what the people working register fail to ring through right… well, you get the idea.
So Emily and I were working the toy section, halfway through the count we starting making up totals just to mess with the boss’ head. I mean, who really has five thousand Barbie rodeo costumes on a single shelf? Besides, Emily and I were bemoaning the fact that they were changing the Easy bake Oven from a light bulb to an actual heating element. I never had one as a kid, my parents thought that it was too dangerous and I told Emily as much.
“I burned myself a couple of times.” she said, showing me a as mall crescent shape scar on her thumb. “But if you don’t learn to be careful as a kid, you end up being a stupid adult. I mean, look at all those people they have to air lift out of state parks because someone had a midlife crisis and decided to find God while walking around in nature. They don’t take any classes, they don’t stay on the trail. Half the time they don’t even take enough water. And if they get attacked by a bear, it’s the bear that gets shot. So the poor thing just wakes up in the morning, smells the candy wrapper from some idiot that he left on the trail and decides that littering isn’t cool in his hood…”
“From kid’s toys to thug bears. You have a talent, Emily.”
“I try.” she said. “But in all honesty, we had fun with it. I had revenge on my brother when he barbequed my Barbies.”
“How?” I asked, almost afraid of the response.
“I used to turn his green army men into plastic hockey pucks. And then there was the time I actually made a mud pie out of mud, mixed it right in with the brownies and he never knew it until his molars came down on a rock.”
We were deep into reminiscing about childhood toys when the back door rattled. It sounded like someone was pulling real hard on the handle. But it was an emergency door, so it would only open from the inside.
“Should we open it you think?” Emily asked.
“Won’t the alarm go off?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I think that maybe we could go to security and see from the camera who it is.” So we dropped out clipboard of false inventory and headed down to see Sam in Security. When we got there, he was already watching the footage from the camera above the back emergency door.
“It’s a bear.” he said, with apathy. It was almost as if he said, ‘It’s the pizza delivery guy.’
“What kind of bear?” Emily asked.
“A bear, kind of bear.”
“No, I mean. Is it a grizzly, a brown bear, a polar bear?”
“Polar? Here?” Sam asked.
“It could happen.” Emily said.
“Yeah.” I said. “Didn’t you even see that show ‘Lost’, they sent one to Tunisia.”
Both of them glared at me for that comment. Okay, maybe I deserved it.
“It’s smallish and dark.” Sam finally said. We watched it pound against the outside door. We laughed, thinking ourselves safe against it. Then it walked to a nearby window and broke through it. “Oh crap!” Sam yelled, locking the door to the security office. And much to our amusement, the bear did not go to the food aisle, as any hungry bear who had just broken into a store would have, it went down the toy aisle, where Emily and I had been just moments earlier.
It made a quick perusal of the shelves, sniffing at the dolls and little girls’ makeup. It batted at the tubes of bubbles and chewed experimentally on a stuffed animal rabbit that was supposed to smell like strawberries. And I can tell you from experience, it did not. When you are surrounded by a dozen of the synthetic beasts, all you smell is a bad chemical residue that reminds one of overly sweet bathroom deodorizers.
The bear shared my opinion, having dropped the rabbit in favor of another toy. What had now caught its interest was a plush horse that made whinnying sounds when you touched it. But when the bear knocked it down off the shelf, it also knocked down a jewelry box.
A tinkling tune was caught on the camera, as was the dance of the small dark bear. That’s right, it stood upright, steadied itself upon a nearby shelf, causing even more toys to fall, and then began to turn in a lazy spiral, waving its upper paws in the air.
“Is that?-”
“It couldn’t be.”
“It’s dancing.” I said.
Again, I received glares from Emily and Sam.
“What do we do now?” Sam asked.
“You’re the security guy” Emily said. “What did they train you to do?”
“Uh…”
“Try calling animal control and the police.” I offered. Twenty minutes later we were still on the phone with animal control. They said that they didn’t want to trap the bear inside the store, just in case it should harm an employee. I still think it’s because they didn’t want a lawsuit from the store. So they told us to try an ‘shoo’ it out by making loud noises.
Air horns were in the fishing department, on the other side of toys. So we would have to travel past the bear to get to them.
“What about noisemakers from the party supply department? Emily asked.
“Unless it is deathly afraid of confetti, I doubt it would work.” Sam said.
“So what do we try?” Emily asked.
“We need to get to sporting goods…” Sam said.
Ten minutes last we were holed up once again in the security office. But this time with a box cutter, black powder, clothesline and rubber balls. “I read about this online in one of the survival forums.” Sam said, putting together an assembly line of handmade grenades.
“If we were going to kill the bear, why didn’t we just get the shotgun?” Emily asked.
“We’re not going to kill the bear.” Sam said. “It’s an endangered species here.”
“If it’s so endangered, then why is it in the city?” Emily asked.
“It’s probably here looking for food because someone built a mall on its home.” I said.
“Spoken like a liberal.” Sam sighed, "The animal control guys think that it was the one that they confiscated from a circus a while back and was released into the woods a mile from here to repopulate the species." he said, pouring black powder into a rubber ball that he had cut open with the box cutter. “Now don’t fill the ball too much, or it really will explode and hurt him.” He stuffed a section of rope into the opening on the ball, lit it and threw it at the bear.
And then there was nothing. Absolute nothing. The bear was still there, and we were still crouched around the corner. But the ‘grenade’ didn’t explode. Sam threw the others, and none of them exploded. So we grabbed a few more balls, this time from the kids’ section (since we were already there).
Sam kept an eye on the bear while Emily and I made the next grenades. “I think this is stupid.” Emily said, pouring the black powder into the ball and filling it up.
“Isn’t that too much?” I asked.
“The last ones didn’t catch fire and go off.” Emily said. “I’m betting Sammy boy didn’t put in enough stuff.”
I shrugged and stood back. It seemed the safest thing to do under the circumstances. Emily handed one of her super filled balls to Sam who lit the fuse and launched it at the bear. But this time, the bear decided to send it back.
The ball went flying over our heads and into the kitchen wares department. “Don’t worry” said Sam. “If it’s anything like the others, it’s a dud.”
But it wasn’t.
It exploded with a ferocity like the cherry bombs Emily’s brother allegedly flushed down toilets in his youth, according to the stories she told later of the ‘bear incident’. It knocked over an entire aisle of appliances and sent bits of broken ceramics into the air to land everywhere between pool supplies to electronics.
But it did chase the bear out.
When the boss asked us the next day what had happened, we blamed it on kids who were trying to form a protest on foreign made toys. The ball bombs were confiscated by Sam at an earlier date and he was going to dispose of them. But then there was this bear invasion and we feared for our lives. Thus we were forced to use them…
In response, we were sentenced to three more shifts of inventory. ACTUAL inventory.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
The Fruit Club
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Fruit Club
By Plot Roach
“I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir.” said the man wearing the banana costume.
“I’m not a ’sir.”” said Carole. “And why would I have to leave?”
“You are not dressed as a fruit, mister.”
“I’m not dressed as a fruit, and I’m not a ‘mister’, either.”
“Then you really can’t stay.”
“But why?” Carole asked, looking at the members of the club walk in past her. This man was the only one dressed as a fruit. Everyone else seemed to be dressed in their usual casual clothing. What was the big fuss about? “Why must I be dressed as a fruit?”
“You have to be a fruit and you have to be male.” the bouncer corrected her. “sorry,” he said. “The haircut threw me at first.”
Carole touched the ends of her short hair, wishing this was the first time she had been confused for a male. “But why? You seem to be the only one here dressed as a fruit. What about everyone else?” she asked.
“It’s the Founder’s Day Fruit Parade here at the club. All new members must be dressed as fruit, all older members may come dressed however they may wish.”
“Well, what if I’m already a member here?” Carole asked.
“Then you would have already known about the parade, and you would be MALE.”
“There’s that penis thing again.” Carole sighed. She looked around the room, there was a group of men next to the bar, she called out “Hey James, I’m here!” hoping that she could catch someone off guard and bluff her way in.
“Nice try.” the banana said when no one responded. “but ‘lady friends’ aren’t allowed in there either.”
“Isn’t that against the law, or something? I thought ‘cigar clubs’ went out of style anyway.”
“Not if you have the cigar.” he said, leering at her. “You don’t do you?” he asked.
Carole blushed a moment at the sexual remark and then pulled herself together. This was her chance! “Well, I have been through some ‘changes’ lately. Which is the reason why my friends didn’t recognize me at the bar. I used to be a she, really I was.”
“Prove it.”
“Well I don’t have my ‘thing’ anymore.”
“What did you name it?”
“What?”
“Your thing.” he said. “Every guy names his thing.”
Carole blushed again. Was it really worth getting into the club for an interview this badly? “Twinkie.” she said proudly.
“No dice.” the man said. “First, you paused, which gave it away. You had to think about it. Second, no man names it something cutesy unless it’s also manly. I would have taken something like the Spaghetti Monster, the Happy Tickler or Dong Johnson for example.”
“God, this is hard.”
“That’s what she said.” the banana man said.
“Oh shut up and let me think!” Carole yelled.
“Why do you want to get into this joint anyway?”
“I’m writing an article for the local paper on the owner and he said to meet him inside. Which I thought was great, because the man never gives interviews. But-”
“You can’t get the interview because you can’t get in.” the banana man finished. “I understand.”
“So you’ll let me in?” she asked.
“Oh hell no, that would cost me my new membership.” he said. “Now move aside. We have a new member coming through.”
Carole stepped aside and watched a large red orb weave past her and into the entrance of the club. She squinted, recognizing another reporter from the newspaper where she worked. “Holland? Is that you?”
“Yep.” he smiled, his face painted red to go with his outfit. “The boss says that I’ll get a raise if I can get the interview that you couldn’t.”
Carole watched him coast into the room. A bell rang and the other new members, all dressed as fruit, came waddling from the back to face their audience. Carole tried one last shot at gaining entry into the club.
“Hey, that guy is dressed as a tomato, and you let him in!” Carole yelled, pointing to the man who just shoved his way past her.
“A tomato is technically a fruit.” the banana man said before closing the door on her.
The Fruit Club
By Plot Roach
“I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir.” said the man wearing the banana costume.
“I’m not a ’sir.”” said Carole. “And why would I have to leave?”
“You are not dressed as a fruit, mister.”
“I’m not dressed as a fruit, and I’m not a ‘mister’, either.”
“Then you really can’t stay.”
“But why?” Carole asked, looking at the members of the club walk in past her. This man was the only one dressed as a fruit. Everyone else seemed to be dressed in their usual casual clothing. What was the big fuss about? “Why must I be dressed as a fruit?”
“You have to be a fruit and you have to be male.” the bouncer corrected her. “sorry,” he said. “The haircut threw me at first.”
Carole touched the ends of her short hair, wishing this was the first time she had been confused for a male. “But why? You seem to be the only one here dressed as a fruit. What about everyone else?” she asked.
“It’s the Founder’s Day Fruit Parade here at the club. All new members must be dressed as fruit, all older members may come dressed however they may wish.”
“Well, what if I’m already a member here?” Carole asked.
“Then you would have already known about the parade, and you would be MALE.”
“There’s that penis thing again.” Carole sighed. She looked around the room, there was a group of men next to the bar, she called out “Hey James, I’m here!” hoping that she could catch someone off guard and bluff her way in.
“Nice try.” the banana said when no one responded. “but ‘lady friends’ aren’t allowed in there either.”
“Isn’t that against the law, or something? I thought ‘cigar clubs’ went out of style anyway.”
“Not if you have the cigar.” he said, leering at her. “You don’t do you?” he asked.
Carole blushed a moment at the sexual remark and then pulled herself together. This was her chance! “Well, I have been through some ‘changes’ lately. Which is the reason why my friends didn’t recognize me at the bar. I used to be a she, really I was.”
“Prove it.”
“Well I don’t have my ‘thing’ anymore.”
“What did you name it?”
“What?”
“Your thing.” he said. “Every guy names his thing.”
Carole blushed again. Was it really worth getting into the club for an interview this badly? “Twinkie.” she said proudly.
“No dice.” the man said. “First, you paused, which gave it away. You had to think about it. Second, no man names it something cutesy unless it’s also manly. I would have taken something like the Spaghetti Monster, the Happy Tickler or Dong Johnson for example.”
“God, this is hard.”
“That’s what she said.” the banana man said.
“Oh shut up and let me think!” Carole yelled.
“Why do you want to get into this joint anyway?”
“I’m writing an article for the local paper on the owner and he said to meet him inside. Which I thought was great, because the man never gives interviews. But-”
“You can’t get the interview because you can’t get in.” the banana man finished. “I understand.”
“So you’ll let me in?” she asked.
“Oh hell no, that would cost me my new membership.” he said. “Now move aside. We have a new member coming through.”
Carole stepped aside and watched a large red orb weave past her and into the entrance of the club. She squinted, recognizing another reporter from the newspaper where she worked. “Holland? Is that you?”
“Yep.” he smiled, his face painted red to go with his outfit. “The boss says that I’ll get a raise if I can get the interview that you couldn’t.”
Carole watched him coast into the room. A bell rang and the other new members, all dressed as fruit, came waddling from the back to face their audience. Carole tried one last shot at gaining entry into the club.
“Hey, that guy is dressed as a tomato, and you let him in!” Carole yelled, pointing to the man who just shoved his way past her.
“A tomato is technically a fruit.” the banana man said before closing the door on her.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Enough!
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Enough!
By Plot Roach
The day had started well enough. Though it had started with the three month old crying at five in the morning. Mother picked him up and began to nurse him, while she looked over at the toddler in the playpen on the other side of the room. Their father, Charlie, was still snoring away and would be for another half hour until Jacob, the child in her arms, would wake his older brother by yelling. And sure enough, as the time clicked by, Jacob screamed and Max woke with a start. His cries in turn waking his father. But Charlie merely rolled over, pulling the covers over his head and pretended to be asleep. They played this game every day.
Mother changed the diapers of both boys, set them in their respective seats in the kitchen and went to work. By the time their father came into the room, he was dressed and ready for work. Both boys paused in their screaming long enough to shoot smiles at their father as he kissed cheeks already grubby with food and dirt.
“How do they get so dirty so fast?” Charlie asked.
“Don’t you know?” Mother asked. “Little boys are made from dirt. No matter how much you wash them, more oozes out.”
About that time, Max threw a bagel at his younger brother, making Jacob yell at the top of his lungs. Mother stooped to pick it up, a spasm traveling through her back like lightning. She gasped and held her hand out to the kitchen table to keep from falling. Both boys were yelling now, their father babbling at them to make them laugh. It didn’t work, as the boys only yelled louder. In the meantime Mother was trying to pull herself upright and get enough air into her lungs to call for help from her husband.
Then the phone rang. “Hello?” Charlie asked over the din his sons were making. “No, we paid that already.” he said into the phone. A brief pause. “No I’m quite sure of it. I’ll check with my wife, hold on.” He looked into the kitchen and upon seeing her doubled over asked: “Honey, what’s wrong? Is it your back? I told you that you needed more exercise. And the phone company is on the line saying that we didn’t pay the bill. Didn’t you pay it earlier this week?”
Anger, pain and frustration brewed in the heart of the Mother. She had paid the bill. Just as she had every month. But with the boys’ screams, the pain that raced through her body, and her husband’s ‘I told you so’ echoing in her brain, she lost her temper. A great and mighty power flowed through her, from the bottom of her toes to the tip of her head.
“Enough!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. She dried her eyes and looked around her once she realized that everything was quiet. Almost too quiet…
Everything had frozen in place. Her son Jacob in mid yell, the older child in the process of spilling his juice onto the floor. Even Charlie, a hand on the phone and his face frozen in the question he was asking. The clock behind them was frozen in place. She took a deep breath before taking the dropped bagel, dusting off the hair that had clung to it, and took a big bite as she enjoyed the first bit of silence that she received in longer than she cared to admit. She slipped into the chair next to her and waited for the spasm to release her.
“If I had more help around here I COULD exercise and not be in pain, you enormous prick!” she yelled at her frozen husband.
“And you two” she yelled at her sons. “Maybe if you didn’t wear me out every morning, I could make you laugh like your dad tries to.”
She finished the bagel, adding a scrambled egg and a cup of coffee to it before she uttered a sigh and ended the frozen moment. The juice spilled to the floor, her husband stood there with his question still unanswered. “Yes, I paid the bill online two days ago. I have the confirmation number written down on the calendar.” Mother said, dropping a kitchen towel onto the spilled juice.
Within a few minutes Charlie was out the door and both children were cleaned and sent into the living room where their eyes were glued to the television screen.
“My lunch?” Charlie asked. Mother simply handed it to him along with his briefcase, cell phone and car keys.
“I don’t know how you do it all.” he said, and then kissed her as he left for work.
Mother simply smiled and closed the door. Screaming was already coming from the living room as the toddler was pulling Jacob’s hair in retaliation for the baby puking on him. Mother took a deep breath and forced herself not to freeze time again. This was just a little mess, after all. There was no need to overuse the Mommy Voice, or she might be tempted to leave her family stuck in time forever.
Enough!
By Plot Roach
The day had started well enough. Though it had started with the three month old crying at five in the morning. Mother picked him up and began to nurse him, while she looked over at the toddler in the playpen on the other side of the room. Their father, Charlie, was still snoring away and would be for another half hour until Jacob, the child in her arms, would wake his older brother by yelling. And sure enough, as the time clicked by, Jacob screamed and Max woke with a start. His cries in turn waking his father. But Charlie merely rolled over, pulling the covers over his head and pretended to be asleep. They played this game every day.
Mother changed the diapers of both boys, set them in their respective seats in the kitchen and went to work. By the time their father came into the room, he was dressed and ready for work. Both boys paused in their screaming long enough to shoot smiles at their father as he kissed cheeks already grubby with food and dirt.
“How do they get so dirty so fast?” Charlie asked.
“Don’t you know?” Mother asked. “Little boys are made from dirt. No matter how much you wash them, more oozes out.”
About that time, Max threw a bagel at his younger brother, making Jacob yell at the top of his lungs. Mother stooped to pick it up, a spasm traveling through her back like lightning. She gasped and held her hand out to the kitchen table to keep from falling. Both boys were yelling now, their father babbling at them to make them laugh. It didn’t work, as the boys only yelled louder. In the meantime Mother was trying to pull herself upright and get enough air into her lungs to call for help from her husband.
Then the phone rang. “Hello?” Charlie asked over the din his sons were making. “No, we paid that already.” he said into the phone. A brief pause. “No I’m quite sure of it. I’ll check with my wife, hold on.” He looked into the kitchen and upon seeing her doubled over asked: “Honey, what’s wrong? Is it your back? I told you that you needed more exercise. And the phone company is on the line saying that we didn’t pay the bill. Didn’t you pay it earlier this week?”
Anger, pain and frustration brewed in the heart of the Mother. She had paid the bill. Just as she had every month. But with the boys’ screams, the pain that raced through her body, and her husband’s ‘I told you so’ echoing in her brain, she lost her temper. A great and mighty power flowed through her, from the bottom of her toes to the tip of her head.
“Enough!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. She dried her eyes and looked around her once she realized that everything was quiet. Almost too quiet…
Everything had frozen in place. Her son Jacob in mid yell, the older child in the process of spilling his juice onto the floor. Even Charlie, a hand on the phone and his face frozen in the question he was asking. The clock behind them was frozen in place. She took a deep breath before taking the dropped bagel, dusting off the hair that had clung to it, and took a big bite as she enjoyed the first bit of silence that she received in longer than she cared to admit. She slipped into the chair next to her and waited for the spasm to release her.
“If I had more help around here I COULD exercise and not be in pain, you enormous prick!” she yelled at her frozen husband.
“And you two” she yelled at her sons. “Maybe if you didn’t wear me out every morning, I could make you laugh like your dad tries to.”
She finished the bagel, adding a scrambled egg and a cup of coffee to it before she uttered a sigh and ended the frozen moment. The juice spilled to the floor, her husband stood there with his question still unanswered. “Yes, I paid the bill online two days ago. I have the confirmation number written down on the calendar.” Mother said, dropping a kitchen towel onto the spilled juice.
Within a few minutes Charlie was out the door and both children were cleaned and sent into the living room where their eyes were glued to the television screen.
“My lunch?” Charlie asked. Mother simply handed it to him along with his briefcase, cell phone and car keys.
“I don’t know how you do it all.” he said, and then kissed her as he left for work.
Mother simply smiled and closed the door. Screaming was already coming from the living room as the toddler was pulling Jacob’s hair in retaliation for the baby puking on him. Mother took a deep breath and forced herself not to freeze time again. This was just a little mess, after all. There was no need to overuse the Mommy Voice, or she might be tempted to leave her family stuck in time forever.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Killing Off the Bad Guy
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Killing Off the Bad Guy
By Plot Roach
“Hello?”
“Sorry to call so early, Jessie. But we have some bad news to tell you.”
Jessie pulled himself up in bed, and turned on the light beside his bed. He spoke softly, trying not to wake his wife. “What happened?”
“Alexander Deman just killed off Ripper-Man.”
Ripper-Man was the enemy of Adam Valiant in the comic books published by Seedy Underbelly Press. They made small graphic novels as well, but they had not caught on with the fans as of yet. Maybe this is Deman’s way of sparking that interest, Jessie thought. Kill off the bad guy and then bring him back in a graphic novel that you would have to read in order to get what was happening in the comic books. Jessie hoped that he would get some of the action, since he was hired to clean up the art on Deman’s graphics. The artist was getting old and his hands were not as steady as they had once been. The fact that he had the ability to create an issue of the comic on his own was a miracle. “What’s new? The Ripper has been dead half a dozen times before, and we’ve always found a way to bring him back.”
“He’s gone this time -for good.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because Deman locked himself away after the latest issue hit the stands. In the storyline, he kills the bad guy off completely.”
“And Cooper agreed to this?”
“Cooper didn’t know. It seems that Deman bypassed everyone and got it to the printer before anyone caught wind of it. We only found out about it when the police called.”
“How were the police involved? Wait -let me guess. Deman was having one of his ‘fits’ again, right?”
“It seems he killed himself over it, Jessie.”
“He can always take a break-”
“No, Jessie. He actually killed himself after killing of Ripper-Man. Ripper was his creation and he had drawn the guy for forty years. He said in the note that he got tired of ‘being the bad guy’ and that he had to end it once and for all.”
“Do we know if the note is real? Did someone kill him and stage it?”
“It’s real, alright. There’s a miniature sketch of Ripper-Man in the corner of the paper he used. And the creepy thing is that he pulled it from the Bible in the dresser drawer of the motel room.”
“Wow.” Jessie said, a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. If Deman was gone, chances were that his job was on the line. “I guess they won’t need me then, huh?”
“Not unless you can bring back the Ripper.”
“Well, hey. We’ve done it before. How hard can it be?”
“He really killed him, Jessie. Like really DEAD. Like Valiant decapitated him, cut the body into pieces, burned the pieces separately, nuked the ashes from orbit, put those ashes in holy water and buried them in opposite poles of the Earth.”
“It was all a dream?”
“No good, Valiant pinched himself at the end to make sure that he was awake.”
“Voodoo resurrection?”
“Nope. The holy water and scattered ashes took care of that.”
“Cloning?”
"Too easy. In the last section, where Valiant is giving his soliloquy on his rival, he says that Ripper-Man is from an alien race and that his genetics can’t be cloned.”
“An alien race, you say?”
“You have an idea?”
“If it will save Ripper-Man and my job.”
“Buddy, I hope you can pull it off. The fans are ripping us a new one on the website for letting this happen. And if Valiant has no one to fight what good is he? They’ll cut the entire staff loose over this.”
A week later the next installment of Valiant vs. Ripper was out on the market. It debuted a very tired looking Valiant, who had walked away from the world he knew in order to contemplate his existence without his arch enemy. Alone on a mountaintop, the hero’s slumber was interrupted by the sound of a rocket crashing down to earth. He gasped and stood wide eyed as the dead villain dashed from the craft and lunged at him. As soon as he dispatched the evil doer, another took his place. It seemed that there was not just one Ripper-Man, there was a whole planet full of them. And all of them were coming to Earth to battle Adam Valiant. Jessie and the rest of the artist team that brought the comic to life would have their imaginations full for a long time as they sought new and interesting was of
Killing Off the Bad Guy
By Plot Roach
“Hello?”
“Sorry to call so early, Jessie. But we have some bad news to tell you.”
Jessie pulled himself up in bed, and turned on the light beside his bed. He spoke softly, trying not to wake his wife. “What happened?”
“Alexander Deman just killed off Ripper-Man.”
Ripper-Man was the enemy of Adam Valiant in the comic books published by Seedy Underbelly Press. They made small graphic novels as well, but they had not caught on with the fans as of yet. Maybe this is Deman’s way of sparking that interest, Jessie thought. Kill off the bad guy and then bring him back in a graphic novel that you would have to read in order to get what was happening in the comic books. Jessie hoped that he would get some of the action, since he was hired to clean up the art on Deman’s graphics. The artist was getting old and his hands were not as steady as they had once been. The fact that he had the ability to create an issue of the comic on his own was a miracle. “What’s new? The Ripper has been dead half a dozen times before, and we’ve always found a way to bring him back.”
“He’s gone this time -for good.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because Deman locked himself away after the latest issue hit the stands. In the storyline, he kills the bad guy off completely.”
“And Cooper agreed to this?”
“Cooper didn’t know. It seems that Deman bypassed everyone and got it to the printer before anyone caught wind of it. We only found out about it when the police called.”
“How were the police involved? Wait -let me guess. Deman was having one of his ‘fits’ again, right?”
“It seems he killed himself over it, Jessie.”
“He can always take a break-”
“No, Jessie. He actually killed himself after killing of Ripper-Man. Ripper was his creation and he had drawn the guy for forty years. He said in the note that he got tired of ‘being the bad guy’ and that he had to end it once and for all.”
“Do we know if the note is real? Did someone kill him and stage it?”
“It’s real, alright. There’s a miniature sketch of Ripper-Man in the corner of the paper he used. And the creepy thing is that he pulled it from the Bible in the dresser drawer of the motel room.”
“Wow.” Jessie said, a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. If Deman was gone, chances were that his job was on the line. “I guess they won’t need me then, huh?”
“Not unless you can bring back the Ripper.”
“Well, hey. We’ve done it before. How hard can it be?”
“He really killed him, Jessie. Like really DEAD. Like Valiant decapitated him, cut the body into pieces, burned the pieces separately, nuked the ashes from orbit, put those ashes in holy water and buried them in opposite poles of the Earth.”
“It was all a dream?”
“No good, Valiant pinched himself at the end to make sure that he was awake.”
“Voodoo resurrection?”
“Nope. The holy water and scattered ashes took care of that.”
“Cloning?”
"Too easy. In the last section, where Valiant is giving his soliloquy on his rival, he says that Ripper-Man is from an alien race and that his genetics can’t be cloned.”
“An alien race, you say?”
“You have an idea?”
“If it will save Ripper-Man and my job.”
“Buddy, I hope you can pull it off. The fans are ripping us a new one on the website for letting this happen. And if Valiant has no one to fight what good is he? They’ll cut the entire staff loose over this.”
A week later the next installment of Valiant vs. Ripper was out on the market. It debuted a very tired looking Valiant, who had walked away from the world he knew in order to contemplate his existence without his arch enemy. Alone on a mountaintop, the hero’s slumber was interrupted by the sound of a rocket crashing down to earth. He gasped and stood wide eyed as the dead villain dashed from the craft and lunged at him. As soon as he dispatched the evil doer, another took his place. It seemed that there was not just one Ripper-Man, there was a whole planet full of them. And all of them were coming to Earth to battle Adam Valiant. Jessie and the rest of the artist team that brought the comic to life would have their imaginations full for a long time as they sought new and interesting was of
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Master List
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Master List
By Plot Roach
I’m a list maker. I make them as far in advance of the event that they are helping me to plan as I can. One of my favorite lists to make is planning for vacations. Sometimes I think that I enjoy the planning of a vacation far more than I do the actual vacation itself. There is something to be said for neat little words lined up across a paper like soldiers ready for battle. But like all battles, no matter how much you plan, it can fall apart within minutes of the first move.
So I was busily arranging the pack of some last minute supplies when my husband interrupted me. “Honey?” he asked. “Did you remember to pack Jason’s asthma medication?”
“If it’s on the list, then it will be in the bag.” I said.
“Which bag?” he asked.
“My purple carry-on.”
“The roller bag?”
“No, honey, my carry-on backpack.” I explained. “That way if they decide that the plane’s overhead compartment is too full and ask to check our bags, I still have it with me just in case.”
“Would they really do that?” he asked.
“Did you forget the mess that happened with your sister’s kid?” I asked. Poor little Donovan had an allergic reaction and they could not get him any children’s antihistamine until the plane landed because it was packed away in the belly of the plane.
“Well,” he said. “If you have it all worked out on your master list…”
He likes to tease me about my list making fetish. But let me tell you that it has saved us many times when we are out and about. He put his hands up in the air and rolled his eyes, but it did not save him from my lecture.
“My carry-on backpack contains the tickets, directions, medical information and medications needed by each member of this household. Your carry-on backpack has all the electrical things we need like the laptop, digital camera and extra batteries. The kids’ backpacks have things that they will need on the trip there, like snacks, books and toys to keep their minds occupied so that they don’t kill one another or annoy strangers on the plane. Each of our roller bags contains what we need for clothes, what we will use for daily grooming, what we might need in the way of fixing things that might break, things we might need in an emergency and with all the liquid items held in a separate plastic baggie for airport security to inspect.”
By the time that my lecture finally ended, all three of the boys were in the living room, their rolling bags and backpacks already in the car. It was my turn to roll my eyes at my husband as I grabbed the bag of food off of the counter and rolled our bags out to the car. Once everything was packed I told the kids to make one last visit to the bathroom. We would be getting to the airport early enough, but sometimes the place was packed and the lines were long, both for boarding the plane and using the restroom.
A few minutes later the boys piled back into the car and we were on the road. The noise from the backseat quieted down as the boys dug into their backpacks for travel goodies that I had packed earlier in the week.
“I have this feeling that I’ve forgotten something.” I said. I dug through the bag of food and started to distribute sandwiches and drinks to everyone so that we would not arrive at the plane hungry.
“And it wasn’t on your master list?” my husband joked.
I gave him THE LOOK and glanced over my list once again. There was something I had forgotten, I just knew it. And then I realized that the car was too quiet, I turned around and saw Jacob and Oliver. But not Jason.
“David?” I asked. “Where’s our youngest son?”
Suddenly it became apparent that there was another thing to add to the master list.
Master List
By Plot Roach
I’m a list maker. I make them as far in advance of the event that they are helping me to plan as I can. One of my favorite lists to make is planning for vacations. Sometimes I think that I enjoy the planning of a vacation far more than I do the actual vacation itself. There is something to be said for neat little words lined up across a paper like soldiers ready for battle. But like all battles, no matter how much you plan, it can fall apart within minutes of the first move.
So I was busily arranging the pack of some last minute supplies when my husband interrupted me. “Honey?” he asked. “Did you remember to pack Jason’s asthma medication?”
“If it’s on the list, then it will be in the bag.” I said.
“Which bag?” he asked.
“My purple carry-on.”
“The roller bag?”
“No, honey, my carry-on backpack.” I explained. “That way if they decide that the plane’s overhead compartment is too full and ask to check our bags, I still have it with me just in case.”
“Would they really do that?” he asked.
“Did you forget the mess that happened with your sister’s kid?” I asked. Poor little Donovan had an allergic reaction and they could not get him any children’s antihistamine until the plane landed because it was packed away in the belly of the plane.
“Well,” he said. “If you have it all worked out on your master list…”
He likes to tease me about my list making fetish. But let me tell you that it has saved us many times when we are out and about. He put his hands up in the air and rolled his eyes, but it did not save him from my lecture.
“My carry-on backpack contains the tickets, directions, medical information and medications needed by each member of this household. Your carry-on backpack has all the electrical things we need like the laptop, digital camera and extra batteries. The kids’ backpacks have things that they will need on the trip there, like snacks, books and toys to keep their minds occupied so that they don’t kill one another or annoy strangers on the plane. Each of our roller bags contains what we need for clothes, what we will use for daily grooming, what we might need in the way of fixing things that might break, things we might need in an emergency and with all the liquid items held in a separate plastic baggie for airport security to inspect.”
By the time that my lecture finally ended, all three of the boys were in the living room, their rolling bags and backpacks already in the car. It was my turn to roll my eyes at my husband as I grabbed the bag of food off of the counter and rolled our bags out to the car. Once everything was packed I told the kids to make one last visit to the bathroom. We would be getting to the airport early enough, but sometimes the place was packed and the lines were long, both for boarding the plane and using the restroom.
A few minutes later the boys piled back into the car and we were on the road. The noise from the backseat quieted down as the boys dug into their backpacks for travel goodies that I had packed earlier in the week.
“I have this feeling that I’ve forgotten something.” I said. I dug through the bag of food and started to distribute sandwiches and drinks to everyone so that we would not arrive at the plane hungry.
“And it wasn’t on your master list?” my husband joked.
I gave him THE LOOK and glanced over my list once again. There was something I had forgotten, I just knew it. And then I realized that the car was too quiet, I turned around and saw Jacob and Oliver. But not Jason.
“David?” I asked. “Where’s our youngest son?”
Suddenly it became apparent that there was another thing to add to the master list.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Simple Minded Beast
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Simple Minded Beast
By Plot Roach
A wolf bitch, alone and tired, paused for the night where the forest and the world of man met. There she spent the night with a farmer’s hound and knew love, if only for the moment. For the following day the farmer chased her back into the forest and she never saw the hound again.
Not long after, the woods rang with the howls of her children, still pups, that chased after her learning the ways of the wild ones. A prince, in search of a trophy to add to his collection, hunted those woods. One day he chanced upon the wolf and her children and killed them in their sleep, all but one. The last pup looked more of a hound to him than of the rest of the wolves. He thought it rather unusual and thought to keep it alive, to teach it to be loyal to him alone and to hunt alongside him and keep him safe.
So he took the pup and raised it as his own, and it stayed by his side no matter where he went. And when the time came for the kingdom to go to war, the dog followed and kept the prince company on the lonely marches as well as protecting him from enemies in battle.
But a blow landed upon the prince that the dog could not block and its master was taken from the battlefield and sent to the healer’s tent. The prince’s wounds were bandaged and he was left alone to recover, his trusted hound at his side. “You are such a simple minded beast.” the prince said. “And yet you are more loyal to me than any soldier in my army.”
No sooner had these words left the prince’s mouth then the beast leaped up upon the cot where the prince rested and tore out his throat.
For there were two things the prince had forgotten: the first being that a simple creature can be trained in any manner of tricks, but true loyalty must be earned through deed or by blood. And the last: it does not matter if one is simple or smart, for pain is felt forever in the heart, as is the thirst for revenge.
Simple Minded Beast
By Plot Roach
A wolf bitch, alone and tired, paused for the night where the forest and the world of man met. There she spent the night with a farmer’s hound and knew love, if only for the moment. For the following day the farmer chased her back into the forest and she never saw the hound again.
Not long after, the woods rang with the howls of her children, still pups, that chased after her learning the ways of the wild ones. A prince, in search of a trophy to add to his collection, hunted those woods. One day he chanced upon the wolf and her children and killed them in their sleep, all but one. The last pup looked more of a hound to him than of the rest of the wolves. He thought it rather unusual and thought to keep it alive, to teach it to be loyal to him alone and to hunt alongside him and keep him safe.
So he took the pup and raised it as his own, and it stayed by his side no matter where he went. And when the time came for the kingdom to go to war, the dog followed and kept the prince company on the lonely marches as well as protecting him from enemies in battle.
But a blow landed upon the prince that the dog could not block and its master was taken from the battlefield and sent to the healer’s tent. The prince’s wounds were bandaged and he was left alone to recover, his trusted hound at his side. “You are such a simple minded beast.” the prince said. “And yet you are more loyal to me than any soldier in my army.”
No sooner had these words left the prince’s mouth then the beast leaped up upon the cot where the prince rested and tore out his throat.
For there were two things the prince had forgotten: the first being that a simple creature can be trained in any manner of tricks, but true loyalty must be earned through deed or by blood. And the last: it does not matter if one is simple or smart, for pain is felt forever in the heart, as is the thirst for revenge.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Youth
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Youth
By Plot Roach
When Peg came into the office the other day, I thought she was on drugs. Not the legal and over the counter kind, but something that her stepson might have slipped into her brownies. As it turns out, she was on drugs -just not the type that are easy to get.
“It’s all thanks to Dr. Donaldson.” she said. “I went to see him after work with the worst depression I have had in years, and it all disappeared with the first pill.
“What pill?” I asked..
“It’s some proprietary blend he had made for him.” she said. “I don’t even think it’s been approved by the FDA.”
So naturally I plagued her like and irate debt collector until she gave me the address and phone number of his clinic. A few days later I found myself sitting in the waiting area as one patient after another burst from the back office with grins as wide as their faces. It has to be something pumped into the air, I told myself. No one can be that depressed going in and that happy coming out, no matter how good the doctor is.
Finally it was my turn to enter happy land, and I told myself it had to be worth it for the three hundred dollars that they charged for a fifteen minute session with the guy. The door closed behind me with a muffled thud, and the doctor was facing away from me, looking out through the window.
“It’s a little rude to not greet your next patient.” I said.
“That presumes that I want you as my next patient.” he said. “The process might not work for you as it had your coworker. This might all be a waste of time. What would you do if I could not help you?” he asked, finally turning away from the window to face me. A thick brush of beard and mustache hid the lower half of his face. He might have been twenty or forty years old, except that his eyes twinkled with a life all their own which reminded me of the laugher of a small child.
“So…How do we figure this out then?”
“I want to ask you a series of questions and I need you to be completely honest with me in order for this to work.” he said.
“Okay. Start asking already.”
“Are you unhappy now?”
“Yes.”
“Do you find that as you get older, it becomes harder and harder for you to become happy or hold any happiness for an extended period.”
“Um…maybe. I never really noticed before.”
“Birthdays. Do they fill you with dread? Knowing that you will get older, be even closer to death and still worry that you have not tapped your full potential?”
“Um, I think everybody feels that way every now and again.”
“Do you feel that way now?”
“Well now that you brought it up…”
He pulled an item out from his desk drawer. It looked like a snow globe, but there was nothing in it. “What do you see?” he asked me.
“Is this one of those ‘the glass is half empty’ kind of things, or is this ‘the emperor’s new snow globe‘?”
“Just tell me what you see.” he said.
“Nothing. There’s nothing in it.” I said. “Obviously there’s air in it, but nothing else that I can see.”
“You’ll do.” he said and tossed me a bottle of pills. “Take the first one now. You’ll need to sit and wait here while it works, then you can leave.” He pointed to a chair next to his desk. I poured a cup of water for myself from a water cooler in the corner. I swallowed one of the pills, a small sphere that swirled with the primary colors of blue, red and yellow. For all the world it reminded me of a child’s cat’s-eye marble as I popped it into my mouth and swallowed it with cold water. I took the chair the doctor had pointed out for me to use and waited as he turned back around to face the window.
“Um, don’t I need to tell you about my childhood or something?”
“I can tell you, dear, that I am neither interested nor will it help the current situation. Now please be quiet, you are distracting me.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Watch the orb and tell me when you see something different.”
So, like an idiot, I sat and watched the orb. Ten minutes into it I felt like a fool and was about to rush back out into the waiting room and demand my money back from the receptionist when the orb changed. it filled with ribbons of color, like the ones that had been in the pill. They swirled and danced as if in the wind. I couldn’t help myself, I giggled.
“I see that the pills work for you.” Dr. Donaldson said. “You may go now, but be back in a week if you want more.”
I got to my feet, breaking my eyes away from the orb to find that the office had changed as well. The room seemed brighter, the smells were more pronounced and it seemed that anything was possible. I went out into the lobby and waited for the receptionist to fill out an appointment card for the following week. “Are there any side effects?” I asked. I noticed that the threads of her sweater were alive with a sub color that I had not noticed upon entering the room. The music from the speakers in the hallway was louder, and had an almost primal beat to it.
“Not for you.” she said, handing me the appointment card.
I left the room in a new appreciation of the world that I was in. It wasn’t until I was out of pills and the grayness of my old life began to haunt me that I remembered her words and wondered what she meant by them. The next day I was at my appointment, all but begging for the pills and the release that they provided from the pain of my dreary little life.
Once in the office, Dr. Donaldson was again looking out the window and ignoring his patients. I popped a pill into my mouth, not waiting for a glass of water, in order to speed up the process. Almost from the beginning I saw the blandness of reality pushed away and replaced by the vivid colors life had to offer.
“Doctor Donaldson?” I asked. “What did the receptionist mean that there were not side effects for me?”
He sighed and turned slightly in his chair, he pulled a remote control out of his desk drawer and aimed it at a nearby monitor. When it came to life it showed a room where a little boy was surrounded by toys, but sat listlessly among them, barely looking up into the camera.
“Hello Adam, don’t you want to play?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I’m too tired and I don’t feel like it.”
“Can you smile for the camera?”
“Do I have to?”
“Well… If you don’t want to cooperate, then I guess you’ll have to go into the other room to give blood again.”
The boy on the screen started crying. He was lead away by a lab technician. Dr. Donaldson turned off the video and turned to me. “We get the drug from the veins of children.” he said. “We filter it out of them through a process similar to dialysis. We tried many times to duplicate the hormones that we found with other chemicals, but it cannot replace the real thing. For each pill that you take, a child looses one day of happiness.”
“Oh my god.” I gasped. “Is this legal? How can you do this to young children?”
“My dear, you have heard the saying that ‘youth is wasted on the young?’” he asked. “Well, there are those that would see that loss invested in other people. A paying customer like yourself being one of them.”
“But you can’t do this. It’s wrong.” I said
“You don’t seem to be fighting it very hard.” he said and turned back to his window. And I could see that he was right, as I had already slipped the pills into my purse and had no intention of facing another day without them.
Youth
By Plot Roach
When Peg came into the office the other day, I thought she was on drugs. Not the legal and over the counter kind, but something that her stepson might have slipped into her brownies. As it turns out, she was on drugs -just not the type that are easy to get.
“It’s all thanks to Dr. Donaldson.” she said. “I went to see him after work with the worst depression I have had in years, and it all disappeared with the first pill.
“What pill?” I asked..
“It’s some proprietary blend he had made for him.” she said. “I don’t even think it’s been approved by the FDA.”
So naturally I plagued her like and irate debt collector until she gave me the address and phone number of his clinic. A few days later I found myself sitting in the waiting area as one patient after another burst from the back office with grins as wide as their faces. It has to be something pumped into the air, I told myself. No one can be that depressed going in and that happy coming out, no matter how good the doctor is.
Finally it was my turn to enter happy land, and I told myself it had to be worth it for the three hundred dollars that they charged for a fifteen minute session with the guy. The door closed behind me with a muffled thud, and the doctor was facing away from me, looking out through the window.
“It’s a little rude to not greet your next patient.” I said.
“That presumes that I want you as my next patient.” he said. “The process might not work for you as it had your coworker. This might all be a waste of time. What would you do if I could not help you?” he asked, finally turning away from the window to face me. A thick brush of beard and mustache hid the lower half of his face. He might have been twenty or forty years old, except that his eyes twinkled with a life all their own which reminded me of the laugher of a small child.
“So…How do we figure this out then?”
“I want to ask you a series of questions and I need you to be completely honest with me in order for this to work.” he said.
“Okay. Start asking already.”
“Are you unhappy now?”
“Yes.”
“Do you find that as you get older, it becomes harder and harder for you to become happy or hold any happiness for an extended period.”
“Um…maybe. I never really noticed before.”
“Birthdays. Do they fill you with dread? Knowing that you will get older, be even closer to death and still worry that you have not tapped your full potential?”
“Um, I think everybody feels that way every now and again.”
“Do you feel that way now?”
“Well now that you brought it up…”
He pulled an item out from his desk drawer. It looked like a snow globe, but there was nothing in it. “What do you see?” he asked me.
“Is this one of those ‘the glass is half empty’ kind of things, or is this ‘the emperor’s new snow globe‘?”
“Just tell me what you see.” he said.
“Nothing. There’s nothing in it.” I said. “Obviously there’s air in it, but nothing else that I can see.”
“You’ll do.” he said and tossed me a bottle of pills. “Take the first one now. You’ll need to sit and wait here while it works, then you can leave.” He pointed to a chair next to his desk. I poured a cup of water for myself from a water cooler in the corner. I swallowed one of the pills, a small sphere that swirled with the primary colors of blue, red and yellow. For all the world it reminded me of a child’s cat’s-eye marble as I popped it into my mouth and swallowed it with cold water. I took the chair the doctor had pointed out for me to use and waited as he turned back around to face the window.
“Um, don’t I need to tell you about my childhood or something?”
“I can tell you, dear, that I am neither interested nor will it help the current situation. Now please be quiet, you are distracting me.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Watch the orb and tell me when you see something different.”
So, like an idiot, I sat and watched the orb. Ten minutes into it I felt like a fool and was about to rush back out into the waiting room and demand my money back from the receptionist when the orb changed. it filled with ribbons of color, like the ones that had been in the pill. They swirled and danced as if in the wind. I couldn’t help myself, I giggled.
“I see that the pills work for you.” Dr. Donaldson said. “You may go now, but be back in a week if you want more.”
I got to my feet, breaking my eyes away from the orb to find that the office had changed as well. The room seemed brighter, the smells were more pronounced and it seemed that anything was possible. I went out into the lobby and waited for the receptionist to fill out an appointment card for the following week. “Are there any side effects?” I asked. I noticed that the threads of her sweater were alive with a sub color that I had not noticed upon entering the room. The music from the speakers in the hallway was louder, and had an almost primal beat to it.
“Not for you.” she said, handing me the appointment card.
I left the room in a new appreciation of the world that I was in. It wasn’t until I was out of pills and the grayness of my old life began to haunt me that I remembered her words and wondered what she meant by them. The next day I was at my appointment, all but begging for the pills and the release that they provided from the pain of my dreary little life.
Once in the office, Dr. Donaldson was again looking out the window and ignoring his patients. I popped a pill into my mouth, not waiting for a glass of water, in order to speed up the process. Almost from the beginning I saw the blandness of reality pushed away and replaced by the vivid colors life had to offer.
“Doctor Donaldson?” I asked. “What did the receptionist mean that there were not side effects for me?”
He sighed and turned slightly in his chair, he pulled a remote control out of his desk drawer and aimed it at a nearby monitor. When it came to life it showed a room where a little boy was surrounded by toys, but sat listlessly among them, barely looking up into the camera.
“Hello Adam, don’t you want to play?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I’m too tired and I don’t feel like it.”
“Can you smile for the camera?”
“Do I have to?”
“Well… If you don’t want to cooperate, then I guess you’ll have to go into the other room to give blood again.”
The boy on the screen started crying. He was lead away by a lab technician. Dr. Donaldson turned off the video and turned to me. “We get the drug from the veins of children.” he said. “We filter it out of them through a process similar to dialysis. We tried many times to duplicate the hormones that we found with other chemicals, but it cannot replace the real thing. For each pill that you take, a child looses one day of happiness.”
“Oh my god.” I gasped. “Is this legal? How can you do this to young children?”
“My dear, you have heard the saying that ‘youth is wasted on the young?’” he asked. “Well, there are those that would see that loss invested in other people. A paying customer like yourself being one of them.”
“But you can’t do this. It’s wrong.” I said
“You don’t seem to be fighting it very hard.” he said and turned back to his window. And I could see that he was right, as I had already slipped the pills into my purse and had no intention of facing another day without them.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
My Alien Friend
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
My Alien Friend
By Plot Roach
So it turns out that my friend, Markus, is an alien. I didn’t find this out right away, in fact I’ve known him for five years now. I guess he wanted to make sure that I would be ‘cool’ with it, or something. Or at least wouldn’t go running off into the street screaming for help from the men in black or whatever.
I only found out about it at my birthday party. It was an informal affair, just a handful of friends at my apartment watching some crappy eighties horror movies and eating some takeout fried chicken.
I really didn’t think much of my thirty seventh birthday. I mean, it’s not a ‘big one’ as far as birthdays go. At eighteen you can vote, at twenty one you can drink, at thirty you tend to drink more, at fifty you are ‘over the hill’ and everything after that you never want to keep track of again. So what do you do when you’re thirty seven? You sit on the couch with your loser friends, also as sad and old as yourself, and eat fried chicken and make fun of bad movies.
Melissa came over with a bottle of wine, telling me that it was her gift to me only after she had already drank the last of its contents. Jim Jr. decided that I needed more excitement in my life because he gave me a couple of tickets to a hockey game the following month, hinting that I could take him with me if I wanted. I’ve never liked hockey, and I doubted that I will start an obsession with it now. Martha brought me a plant that I don’t need to water -which is good because I have a reputation for killing plastic plants. It’s supposed to pull moisture from the air or something, but I noticed that it was already brown around the edges, so I doubt it will be around long. And when Markus dropped by his face fell when he discovered that he had forgotten my birthday.
“Not a problem.” I told him.
“But it’s a big thing with your people.”
“You mean Americans or just weird people who are old enough to know that they should act better but don’t?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t worry about it.” I said. “You can make it up to me later.”
After the fried chicken and movies we decided to go bowling. What can I say? When you’re bored and don’t want to drink yourself to sleep, it beats watching infomercials about hair plugs and power fitness exercise equipment. So we loaded ourselves up into Martha’s van and within minutes found ourselves wrapped around a telephone pole. It turns out that dear old Martha had a few glasses of my birthday wine and shouldn’t have been driving, but no one noticed until it was too late.
So I was standing a few feet away from the van, looking at our mangled bodies when I noticed that Markus wasn’t among them. All the other spirits of my friends had moved on by then, after wishing me happy birthday yet again.
Finally Markus walked up, lit a cigarette and tossed the match on the already burning pile that was my last living moment on earth. “Ready for your present now?” he asked.
“Can you actually see and hear me?” I asked.
“Who else would I be talking to?”
“And why weren’t you mangled like the rest of us?” I asked.
“I bailed.”
“Yeah, I get that -but how? And why didn’t you take us with you?”
“First, I am an alien. We have the technology. In fact, it was a gift from my mother and father for graduating college. A gizmo permanently attached to me to save me even if I’m not aware that I’m in trouble. And don’t ask me how it works, because I’m not at liberty to tell you.”
“You went to college?”
“I got a PhD in Human Psychology. It came in handy when studying your people.”
“I bet it did.” I said.
“Now, I have a gift for you.” he said and then snapped his fingers. We were in a small room, furnished sparingly except for an ornate stainless steel table and matching chairs. “Are we on your mothership?” I asked.
“Don’t be daft, we’re in my apartment.”
“Oh.”
“Now let me show you some options that you have open to you…” There was a trunk in the other room -also steel, he pulled out of it several orbs which he set up on the table. “I couldn’t save you and the others because I’m not supposed to interfere with the natural selection of this planet. But now that you’re dead, we can have a little fun.”
“I’m a little more worried about that last statement that anything else that has happened tonight, Markus.” I said.
“Relax, you’ll love it.” he told me. I’m going to put you back in a body.”
“My body?” I asked.
“The one that’s burned to a cinder?”
“Oh yeah, huh…”
“Now you have three options.” he said, standing back after he had activated the three orbs on the table. Each showed a different picture in a hologram that floated above it. The first was a world bathed in golden light that radiated peace and hope. The second a world of silver that felt cold but protected. And the last showed a green world, like Earth before all the cities and smog.
“The first orb shows you where you are headed when you die. It’s where we all go, it doesn’t matter which planet or religion you are from. And since you are going there anyway, I thought that I could give you a side trip in the meantime.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“The second orb shows a planet in Cygnus 12, the people there are born into machines that are like suits of armor. They nurture you , protect you from all harm and let you go anywhere and do anything until you die of natural causes.”
“But I’m always in the suit?”
“Yes, that is the drawback. All the things that your senses would experience first have to be routed through the computer which degrades the experience, I fear.”
“And the last one?”
“It’s a planet like Earth used to be.”
“-I knew it!”
“Intelligent, humanoid life is just starting out up there.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
“People like you, who are given second chances by people like me.” he said. “Who knows, I might even go there myself one day…”
“What can I take?”
“Nothing, you’re dead. You can’t carry anything, even if you tried. You’ll just wake up in a body that has been set aside.”
“What do they wear there? Who will I be? What is it like there? Is it dangerous?”
“Yes, there are dangers there. Animals, natural forces and poisonous plants are at the top of the list. If you want protecting, you’re better off in the second world that I showed to you. As for clothes, you’ll be naked -just as you would have been in the second world covered by the armor. In the third world, the weather is always warm, so clothes are not needed.”
“But I’ll be naked!”
“So will everyone else. And trust me, I’ve been told that it gets old really fast.” he said, winking at me. “Now as for anything else, you’ll just have to go there and see for yourself.”
I nodded, smiling. Even if I was naked, it would beat being dead. In one place I could soar like an eagle above the clouds and swim to the bottom of the ocean to see underwater volcanoes, though I would only be able to smell a rose if it was digitized and sent through a computer. On the other hand, a place unspoiled by modern technology and populated with others like myself seemed like a good choice. And the place where my soul would go to would be waiting for me for when I was ready. So I pointed to an orb and waited while he pressed a few buttons.
A few minutes later I woke on the beach. Blue water to one side of me, a rainforest on the other. I held out my hand and waved my naked fingers in front of me. Then again, it wasn’t the only naked part of me by far.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY” was written in the sand next to me before the tide rose up and washed it away.
My Alien Friend
By Plot Roach
So it turns out that my friend, Markus, is an alien. I didn’t find this out right away, in fact I’ve known him for five years now. I guess he wanted to make sure that I would be ‘cool’ with it, or something. Or at least wouldn’t go running off into the street screaming for help from the men in black or whatever.
I only found out about it at my birthday party. It was an informal affair, just a handful of friends at my apartment watching some crappy eighties horror movies and eating some takeout fried chicken.
I really didn’t think much of my thirty seventh birthday. I mean, it’s not a ‘big one’ as far as birthdays go. At eighteen you can vote, at twenty one you can drink, at thirty you tend to drink more, at fifty you are ‘over the hill’ and everything after that you never want to keep track of again. So what do you do when you’re thirty seven? You sit on the couch with your loser friends, also as sad and old as yourself, and eat fried chicken and make fun of bad movies.
Melissa came over with a bottle of wine, telling me that it was her gift to me only after she had already drank the last of its contents. Jim Jr. decided that I needed more excitement in my life because he gave me a couple of tickets to a hockey game the following month, hinting that I could take him with me if I wanted. I’ve never liked hockey, and I doubted that I will start an obsession with it now. Martha brought me a plant that I don’t need to water -which is good because I have a reputation for killing plastic plants. It’s supposed to pull moisture from the air or something, but I noticed that it was already brown around the edges, so I doubt it will be around long. And when Markus dropped by his face fell when he discovered that he had forgotten my birthday.
“Not a problem.” I told him.
“But it’s a big thing with your people.”
“You mean Americans or just weird people who are old enough to know that they should act better but don’t?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t worry about it.” I said. “You can make it up to me later.”
After the fried chicken and movies we decided to go bowling. What can I say? When you’re bored and don’t want to drink yourself to sleep, it beats watching infomercials about hair plugs and power fitness exercise equipment. So we loaded ourselves up into Martha’s van and within minutes found ourselves wrapped around a telephone pole. It turns out that dear old Martha had a few glasses of my birthday wine and shouldn’t have been driving, but no one noticed until it was too late.
So I was standing a few feet away from the van, looking at our mangled bodies when I noticed that Markus wasn’t among them. All the other spirits of my friends had moved on by then, after wishing me happy birthday yet again.
Finally Markus walked up, lit a cigarette and tossed the match on the already burning pile that was my last living moment on earth. “Ready for your present now?” he asked.
“Can you actually see and hear me?” I asked.
“Who else would I be talking to?”
“And why weren’t you mangled like the rest of us?” I asked.
“I bailed.”
“Yeah, I get that -but how? And why didn’t you take us with you?”
“First, I am an alien. We have the technology. In fact, it was a gift from my mother and father for graduating college. A gizmo permanently attached to me to save me even if I’m not aware that I’m in trouble. And don’t ask me how it works, because I’m not at liberty to tell you.”
“You went to college?”
“I got a PhD in Human Psychology. It came in handy when studying your people.”
“I bet it did.” I said.
“Now, I have a gift for you.” he said and then snapped his fingers. We were in a small room, furnished sparingly except for an ornate stainless steel table and matching chairs. “Are we on your mothership?” I asked.
“Don’t be daft, we’re in my apartment.”
“Oh.”
“Now let me show you some options that you have open to you…” There was a trunk in the other room -also steel, he pulled out of it several orbs which he set up on the table. “I couldn’t save you and the others because I’m not supposed to interfere with the natural selection of this planet. But now that you’re dead, we can have a little fun.”
“I’m a little more worried about that last statement that anything else that has happened tonight, Markus.” I said.
“Relax, you’ll love it.” he told me. I’m going to put you back in a body.”
“My body?” I asked.
“The one that’s burned to a cinder?”
“Oh yeah, huh…”
“Now you have three options.” he said, standing back after he had activated the three orbs on the table. Each showed a different picture in a hologram that floated above it. The first was a world bathed in golden light that radiated peace and hope. The second a world of silver that felt cold but protected. And the last showed a green world, like Earth before all the cities and smog.
“The first orb shows you where you are headed when you die. It’s where we all go, it doesn’t matter which planet or religion you are from. And since you are going there anyway, I thought that I could give you a side trip in the meantime.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“The second orb shows a planet in Cygnus 12, the people there are born into machines that are like suits of armor. They nurture you , protect you from all harm and let you go anywhere and do anything until you die of natural causes.”
“But I’m always in the suit?”
“Yes, that is the drawback. All the things that your senses would experience first have to be routed through the computer which degrades the experience, I fear.”
“And the last one?”
“It’s a planet like Earth used to be.”
“-I knew it!”
“Intelligent, humanoid life is just starting out up there.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
“People like you, who are given second chances by people like me.” he said. “Who knows, I might even go there myself one day…”
“What can I take?”
“Nothing, you’re dead. You can’t carry anything, even if you tried. You’ll just wake up in a body that has been set aside.”
“What do they wear there? Who will I be? What is it like there? Is it dangerous?”
“Yes, there are dangers there. Animals, natural forces and poisonous plants are at the top of the list. If you want protecting, you’re better off in the second world that I showed to you. As for clothes, you’ll be naked -just as you would have been in the second world covered by the armor. In the third world, the weather is always warm, so clothes are not needed.”
“But I’ll be naked!”
“So will everyone else. And trust me, I’ve been told that it gets old really fast.” he said, winking at me. “Now as for anything else, you’ll just have to go there and see for yourself.”
I nodded, smiling. Even if I was naked, it would beat being dead. In one place I could soar like an eagle above the clouds and swim to the bottom of the ocean to see underwater volcanoes, though I would only be able to smell a rose if it was digitized and sent through a computer. On the other hand, a place unspoiled by modern technology and populated with others like myself seemed like a good choice. And the place where my soul would go to would be waiting for me for when I was ready. So I pointed to an orb and waited while he pressed a few buttons.
A few minutes later I woke on the beach. Blue water to one side of me, a rainforest on the other. I held out my hand and waved my naked fingers in front of me. Then again, it wasn’t the only naked part of me by far.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY” was written in the sand next to me before the tide rose up and washed it away.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
The Excuse for Not Writing (Number 8)
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Excuse for Not Writing (Number 8)
By Plot Roach
Here is my excuse for not writing today:
I had a creative writing prompt picked out and ready to go. The story was really going to be something awesome, outlandish and just a little bit heartwarming.
And then lemurs stole my laptop.
I can explain, really.
You see, I started off the day in my neighbor’s kitchen. I had been sleeping there since the night before. She had been hosting a really long party and I felt that I couldn’t leave before I saw the elephant walk a fiery tightrope-
No, really. It was an elephant walking a tightrope and it was on fire.
Nooooo! Not IN her apartment, but on cable in her apartment. As in cable TV, not the cable that the elephant walked on… Anyway. It was some sort of circus special to raise awareness of abused llamas or some such.
I don’t know how llamas get ’abused’, they didn’t really go into it. They just showed some sad eyed looking creatures and I guess everyone assumed that they were abused, though that could be the way llamas look everyday for all I know.
Anyway, After another five minute sob story of poor Peruvian llamas, the elephant came on. And the act went pretty well until the elephant fell. It’s okay, it just got a few scratches. But the trainer has seen better days, let me tell you.
That's because the elephant fell on the trainer...
And if you ask me, they should have seen that coming. No one expects a big thing like an elephant to walk across a tightrope -much less one on fire- without it falling. And the net would have caught it better too, but they didn’t factor in the right weight of the beast. And how could they? No one has ever seen an elephant fall that far -much lesson one fire.
No, the elephant wasn’t burned. It just had it’s outfit on fire. It was dressed up like a ballerina.
No, I don’t think the elephant enjoyed it either. The fall was pretty high up for a beast like that. And the tutu wasn’t flattering, either.
So I fell asleep in the kitchen because the bathtub was already taken by her brother in law, Samson.
Why was he there?
Well, she was trying -again- to fix me up with him. But I’ve told her like a million times that I don’t like people who smell like cheese. It’s not that I’m prejudiced, I’m just lactose intolerant.
I wanted to know what happened with the elephant, so I decided to wait at her apartment (since I don’t have cable of my own). I went into the kitchen to get another beer when she told me to help myself to whatever I wanted. Then I saw the leftovers from a turkey casserole and you can guess the rest. A full belly of turkey and beer and I fell asleep on the kitchen floor like a narcoleptic chef.
When I woke up I could hear the trumpet of the elephant and I thought that the show was still running. So imagine my surprise when I saw the slightly wounded pachyderm tiptoeing through the flowers of the yard in front of our apartment complex. The poor thing was still trying to do its ballerina act!
It turned out that the circus was being filmed at a local park, just up the street. And after the elephant fell, all hell broke loose and half the animal entertainment made a break for it. There were giraffes dressed like bride and groom, a tiger dressed like Elvis and a couple of monkeys dressed like mob hit men. When a lion dressed as a sequined ice skater roared his displeasure at me, I ran back to my apartment. Samson tried to run in with me, but I locked him out. I just can’t get past that cheese thing. I’ve tried, but I can’t help but feel bloated and gassy around him. He’s a nice man, but think of the kids!
Anyway, when I got inside there was a seal in my bed and two spider monkeys were trying to switch the channel on the radio. Maybe they were interested to see if they were on the news, as I’m sure that I was.
And then a crash from the living room caught my attention. It turns out that lemurs, dressed like Swiss dancing girls, were trying to steal my laptop. And they would have gotten away with it too, if they hadn’t been so greedy. They were almost out of the window when the cord leading from the computer to the printer caught on the windowsill. When I yelled, I startled them into dropping the loot. The printer hanging on the inside of the apartment, the computer hanging on the outside.
I still never found out who filled the bowling ball with cheese wiz and left in in the stove -or why.
And to top it all off, I wasted all my time in this little fiasco. So now I can’t write on my creative writing prompt.
Sigh.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Sleepless in Pompeii
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Sleepless in Pompeii
By Plot Roach
There were problems in the museum almost from the first day the exhibit opened. Setting up the glass cases and lights had been the easy part, but getting the bodies loaded into them had been an abysmal task. Once the security vans had unloaded their cargo, Vincent could see that they had no easy task before them as one stone body after another were taken out of their cargo crates and brought into the main exhibit room.
Vincent, a part time employee of the museum ‘Naturale’, had been charged with the safety of the bodies from Pompeii. Granted they were really only the plaster casts of those found under the ash, but they were bodies nonetheless. Several had already suffered greatly by the hands of the public, some travelers seeking “souvenirs” had broken off parts of the bodies. The original museum which had once housed them, no longer wanted the broken plaster corpses. And the Naturale had gotten them for pennies on the pound. Thus the poor abused corpses came to America.
The first day that the exhibit opened, the electricity in the building failed. The following four days the water kept shutting off in the restrooms and every night since the bodies had been unloaded, the security sensors picked up movement.
There had been so many false alarms that the museum had decided to turn off the movement sensors and hire a human guard to patrol during the evenings. But in two weeks they had gone through three guards. No one wanted to stay with the corpses overnight, stating odd noises like a dog barking, a pig squealing and a couple arguing echoed throughout the building, but that no one could be found.
When the last guard quit, Vincent had been forced to take the night shift to watch over the building. He heard the noises himself, but knew better than to investigate. He knew that he would not find anything living amongst the displays and did not wish to find what else might be making the noises.
After a week of no sleep, and more damage to the museum (this time the ceiling tiles were falling down on the glass cases, shattering them), Vincent was at his wit’s end. The owner of the museum refused to admit that there might be a supernatural answer behind the ‘accidents’, and told Vincent to find a solution or to find another job.
Five different handymen, three investigators and several insurance claims later, he was no closer to an answer than he was before. He sat on the steps of the museum, his head in his hands, wondering how he would update his resume for the next job search when the answer that he had been praying for crept up the stairs of the museum and through the front door, dressed in a thick Victorian style dress that reeked of patchouli.
He only noticed her when she stopped and began talking to the bodies, even pausing to jump over the red velvet security rope to scratch behind the stone dog’s ears.
“Oh great” he told himself. “We have another crazy needing to be tossed out.” And while the local homeless had been a problem on occasion, usually trying to steal something they thought could be pawned, none of them had actually spoken to a display, much less argued with it. And yet here she was, shaking her hand at one of the stone corpses while patting the dog on the head.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“No, it is I who will help you.” she said. Vincent noticed the tumble of red curls that had fallen from under the hat on her head and how they stood out from the thick green velvet of her dress. Eyes, green as emeralds, sparkled with a mirth that had no measure.
“Excuse me?”
“You have been having problems with them, haven’t you?” she asked.
“No. We’ve been having problems with the electrical, the water pipes, the-”
“Security cameras at night?” she asked
“How do you know about that?” he asked.
“They’ve been keeping me up at night as well.” she said. “I live about a block away from here and between the barking, squealing and arguing…” she sighed. “So I thought that I might come over to see if I could help.”
“And just how do you think that you can help?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve learned a lot about them already.”
“You have?” he asked skeptically.
“All you have to do is listen, silly.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“You are not listening!” she said, stamping her foot down like a small child who was just told that fairies do not exist. “Just listen to me, if you can’t hear them.”
“Alright then” he said. “Impress me.”
“Those two over there” she said, pointing to a couple in a corner case. “They are not man and wife.”
“But the paperwork said that they were found together.” Vincent argued.
“They were found together, yes. But they are not man and wife.” she said. “There is her husband” she said, pointing to a lone man across the room. “They had had an argument and she slept with his brother to get even. And she’s been stuck with him ever since the night of the eruption.”
“So if we put her back with him all this will stop?” Vincent asked.
“Not by a long shot.”
“But you said-”
“She belongs with him, but he won’t be happy until he gets his penis back.”
“And where is it now?”
“On a coffee table in New Jersey, I think. He said that the tourist who snapped it off definitely had a Jersey accent.”
“And he knows this how?”
“They’ve been around a long time, Vincent.”
“And how do you know my name?”
“I’m not psychic, it’s on the nametag pinned to your shirt.”
“Oh.” he said. “But if you’re not psychic, how do you know what’s going on?”
“Like I said, all you have to do is listen.” she said. “Now, I think he’ll take a replacement penis. Something stone, about the same color will do. It’s just for show, he knows. It’s not like it’s going to see any use…”
“And where do we get something like that from?” Vincent asked.
“I know a few places.” she said, winking at him. “But in the meantime, your biggest problem is with them.” she said, pointing to the next case. Both occupants wore sneers of anguish on their stone faces. “They are still mad at one another, even after all these years.”
“Another love spat?”
“No, they don’t belong together. They weren’t lovers, they were neighbors.” she said. “And they hated one another fiercely. So how did they end up in the same coffin?”
“Glass case.” he corrected. “The case he was in was shattered by a falling ceiling tile, so we had to put him into hers.”
“Well, you’re just going to have to get another case for him or things are going to get… interesting.”
“Define ‘interesting’.”
“Are you all paid up on your fire insurance?”
“Okay, I’ll get right on it.” he said. “But why are they so mad after all these years?”
“He killed her dog.”
“But the dog was found in his yard.”
“Just listen, okay?” she said. “He killed her dog, he fed it hemlock and pottery shards that had been mixed in with ground up meat. It was a nasty way to go. But instead of burying it and letting it go, she kept throwing the body in his yard so that his neighbors would know what he had done.”
“Why would he do something like that?”
“Her dog ate his pig.”
“The pig over there?” Vincent asked, pointing to half a stone pig laying in the display of “Life Among the People of Pompeii”.
“Yep. She sent the dog on the pig and when it killed it, she cut off the half that had been chewed and was going to butcher the other half when her neighbor found out.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“So what do we do?”
“First, get them separate cases. And then, get them to apologize.”
“And just how do we do that?”
“I have an idea” she said.
Later that night, after Vincent locked the doors to the museum, the woman waited in the Pompeii exhibit with a large paper bag. “Okay, now what?” Vincent asked.
“Dear sir” the woman said. “The woman in the case over there is sorry for stealing your pig and would like to make it up to you. So she asked me to give you this.” The woman produced a can of Spam from the bag. “Now I know it doesn’t look like the pig that you lost, but in a way it’s much better. It has already been slaughtered, so there’s no need to feed or clean up after it. And better yet, it’s already been butchered, cooked and taken off the bones. It’s filled with delicious spices and ready to eat right out of the can.” She then slipped the can of Spam into the case and under the body where no one would see it.
“Now madam” she said, walking across the room to the woman’s display. “That gentleman over there is sorry about how he treated your dog and would like to make amends.” She pulled out several dog biscuits and put them under the stone woman’s hand. “He now forgives you for stealing his pig.”
“Are we done?” Vincent asked.
“Not yet.” the woman said and headed to the case where the long separated couple was once again together. “I couldn’t find one in plaster or cement, but I thought that you might like this instead.” She pulled the last item from the bag and showed it to Vincent before putting it in the case. It was an eight inch stone phallus, clear quartz and in a state of erection. “If it’s only going to be for looks, it should be something worth looking at, don’t you think?”
“I think that I’m going to have to remove it during normal business hours.” Vincent said.
“I think that he can live with that -so to speak.”
“You never told me your name or how you figured this all out.”
“Oh” she said, blushing. “My name is Crystal. I’m a jeweler, and it really is the truth: if you listen to stones, they will tell you everything.”
“But the spirits of the dead are trapped in plaster...”
“It’s not much different than flesh, really. But they do tend to get a little more ‘hard headed’ with time.” With that Crystal and Vincent left the museum. There were fewer problems with the displays since her visit. The only problem being the sound of a dog whining when it appeared that its owner had run out of dog biscuits.
Sleepless in Pompeii
By Plot Roach
There were problems in the museum almost from the first day the exhibit opened. Setting up the glass cases and lights had been the easy part, but getting the bodies loaded into them had been an abysmal task. Once the security vans had unloaded their cargo, Vincent could see that they had no easy task before them as one stone body after another were taken out of their cargo crates and brought into the main exhibit room.
Vincent, a part time employee of the museum ‘Naturale’, had been charged with the safety of the bodies from Pompeii. Granted they were really only the plaster casts of those found under the ash, but they were bodies nonetheless. Several had already suffered greatly by the hands of the public, some travelers seeking “souvenirs” had broken off parts of the bodies. The original museum which had once housed them, no longer wanted the broken plaster corpses. And the Naturale had gotten them for pennies on the pound. Thus the poor abused corpses came to America.
The first day that the exhibit opened, the electricity in the building failed. The following four days the water kept shutting off in the restrooms and every night since the bodies had been unloaded, the security sensors picked up movement.
There had been so many false alarms that the museum had decided to turn off the movement sensors and hire a human guard to patrol during the evenings. But in two weeks they had gone through three guards. No one wanted to stay with the corpses overnight, stating odd noises like a dog barking, a pig squealing and a couple arguing echoed throughout the building, but that no one could be found.
When the last guard quit, Vincent had been forced to take the night shift to watch over the building. He heard the noises himself, but knew better than to investigate. He knew that he would not find anything living amongst the displays and did not wish to find what else might be making the noises.
After a week of no sleep, and more damage to the museum (this time the ceiling tiles were falling down on the glass cases, shattering them), Vincent was at his wit’s end. The owner of the museum refused to admit that there might be a supernatural answer behind the ‘accidents’, and told Vincent to find a solution or to find another job.
Five different handymen, three investigators and several insurance claims later, he was no closer to an answer than he was before. He sat on the steps of the museum, his head in his hands, wondering how he would update his resume for the next job search when the answer that he had been praying for crept up the stairs of the museum and through the front door, dressed in a thick Victorian style dress that reeked of patchouli.
He only noticed her when she stopped and began talking to the bodies, even pausing to jump over the red velvet security rope to scratch behind the stone dog’s ears.
“Oh great” he told himself. “We have another crazy needing to be tossed out.” And while the local homeless had been a problem on occasion, usually trying to steal something they thought could be pawned, none of them had actually spoken to a display, much less argued with it. And yet here she was, shaking her hand at one of the stone corpses while patting the dog on the head.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“No, it is I who will help you.” she said. Vincent noticed the tumble of red curls that had fallen from under the hat on her head and how they stood out from the thick green velvet of her dress. Eyes, green as emeralds, sparkled with a mirth that had no measure.
“Excuse me?”
“You have been having problems with them, haven’t you?” she asked.
“No. We’ve been having problems with the electrical, the water pipes, the-”
“Security cameras at night?” she asked
“How do you know about that?” he asked.
“They’ve been keeping me up at night as well.” she said. “I live about a block away from here and between the barking, squealing and arguing…” she sighed. “So I thought that I might come over to see if I could help.”
“And just how do you think that you can help?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve learned a lot about them already.”
“You have?” he asked skeptically.
“All you have to do is listen, silly.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“You are not listening!” she said, stamping her foot down like a small child who was just told that fairies do not exist. “Just listen to me, if you can’t hear them.”
“Alright then” he said. “Impress me.”
“Those two over there” she said, pointing to a couple in a corner case. “They are not man and wife.”
“But the paperwork said that they were found together.” Vincent argued.
“They were found together, yes. But they are not man and wife.” she said. “There is her husband” she said, pointing to a lone man across the room. “They had had an argument and she slept with his brother to get even. And she’s been stuck with him ever since the night of the eruption.”
“So if we put her back with him all this will stop?” Vincent asked.
“Not by a long shot.”
“But you said-”
“She belongs with him, but he won’t be happy until he gets his penis back.”
“And where is it now?”
“On a coffee table in New Jersey, I think. He said that the tourist who snapped it off definitely had a Jersey accent.”
“And he knows this how?”
“They’ve been around a long time, Vincent.”
“And how do you know my name?”
“I’m not psychic, it’s on the nametag pinned to your shirt.”
“Oh.” he said. “But if you’re not psychic, how do you know what’s going on?”
“Like I said, all you have to do is listen.” she said. “Now, I think he’ll take a replacement penis. Something stone, about the same color will do. It’s just for show, he knows. It’s not like it’s going to see any use…”
“And where do we get something like that from?” Vincent asked.
“I know a few places.” she said, winking at him. “But in the meantime, your biggest problem is with them.” she said, pointing to the next case. Both occupants wore sneers of anguish on their stone faces. “They are still mad at one another, even after all these years.”
“Another love spat?”
“No, they don’t belong together. They weren’t lovers, they were neighbors.” she said. “And they hated one another fiercely. So how did they end up in the same coffin?”
“Glass case.” he corrected. “The case he was in was shattered by a falling ceiling tile, so we had to put him into hers.”
“Well, you’re just going to have to get another case for him or things are going to get… interesting.”
“Define ‘interesting’.”
“Are you all paid up on your fire insurance?”
“Okay, I’ll get right on it.” he said. “But why are they so mad after all these years?”
“He killed her dog.”
“But the dog was found in his yard.”
“Just listen, okay?” she said. “He killed her dog, he fed it hemlock and pottery shards that had been mixed in with ground up meat. It was a nasty way to go. But instead of burying it and letting it go, she kept throwing the body in his yard so that his neighbors would know what he had done.”
“Why would he do something like that?”
“Her dog ate his pig.”
“The pig over there?” Vincent asked, pointing to half a stone pig laying in the display of “Life Among the People of Pompeii”.
“Yep. She sent the dog on the pig and when it killed it, she cut off the half that had been chewed and was going to butcher the other half when her neighbor found out.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“So what do we do?”
“First, get them separate cases. And then, get them to apologize.”
“And just how do we do that?”
“I have an idea” she said.
Later that night, after Vincent locked the doors to the museum, the woman waited in the Pompeii exhibit with a large paper bag. “Okay, now what?” Vincent asked.
“Dear sir” the woman said. “The woman in the case over there is sorry for stealing your pig and would like to make it up to you. So she asked me to give you this.” The woman produced a can of Spam from the bag. “Now I know it doesn’t look like the pig that you lost, but in a way it’s much better. It has already been slaughtered, so there’s no need to feed or clean up after it. And better yet, it’s already been butchered, cooked and taken off the bones. It’s filled with delicious spices and ready to eat right out of the can.” She then slipped the can of Spam into the case and under the body where no one would see it.
“Now madam” she said, walking across the room to the woman’s display. “That gentleman over there is sorry about how he treated your dog and would like to make amends.” She pulled out several dog biscuits and put them under the stone woman’s hand. “He now forgives you for stealing his pig.”
“Are we done?” Vincent asked.
“Not yet.” the woman said and headed to the case where the long separated couple was once again together. “I couldn’t find one in plaster or cement, but I thought that you might like this instead.” She pulled the last item from the bag and showed it to Vincent before putting it in the case. It was an eight inch stone phallus, clear quartz and in a state of erection. “If it’s only going to be for looks, it should be something worth looking at, don’t you think?”
“I think that I’m going to have to remove it during normal business hours.” Vincent said.
“I think that he can live with that -so to speak.”
“You never told me your name or how you figured this all out.”
“Oh” she said, blushing. “My name is Crystal. I’m a jeweler, and it really is the truth: if you listen to stones, they will tell you everything.”
“But the spirits of the dead are trapped in plaster...”
“It’s not much different than flesh, really. But they do tend to get a little more ‘hard headed’ with time.” With that Crystal and Vincent left the museum. There were fewer problems with the displays since her visit. The only problem being the sound of a dog whining when it appeared that its owner had run out of dog biscuits.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Lucky Dice
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Lucky Dice
By Plot Roach
I like to role-play. And by that I don’t mean whips and chains, but polyhedral dice. I’m one of those freaks that you made fun of in school, sitting in dark rooms, pretending to be a half elf wizard with a lawful good alignment. The only thing worse then my acne was my ability to socialize with others, unless the dice were in my hand. Then I could conquer the bad guy, save the world and tell my tale at the local tavern. Granted that tavern was usually the local gaming shop and the patrons were just as lost to reality as I was.
We would get some poser from time to time, people who wandered in to listen to our stories and make fun of us when they left. We could usually root them out by asking what level their game master was or asking them if they preferred Dungeons and Dragon 8.0 over 9.0.
We may be freaks, but we are loyal to one another. You pick on one of us, you face all of our wrath. Though mostly that’s just a bunch of people in t-shirts with sarcastic remarks written on them, standing around eating junk food, living fantasy lives in between shifts of manual labor and counting the days until the next supplemental book in our games graces the book shelves.
I was waiting at my favorite game shop, Player Killers, listening to the same tales I heard every day that I came here. To listen to our tales, you would swear that we fought in wars, real ones. And then someone says something like ‘hits points’ or ‘constitution‘, and you get that what we’re talking about isn’t real at all. But in our heads it is. So isn’t that what counts? What keeps us happy is what keeps us from spitting in your food when you make fun of us at work. While you were scoring a touchdown and pulling a tendon that will never work right for the rest of your life, we were pillaging dungeons, and adding a few extra experience points to our characters) as well as a few pounds to our waistlines (with all the inactivity and the aforementioned junk food).
So I was listening to Sam (aka ‘Cryptkeeper’, the litch necromancer) talk about the early days of D&D when someone walked in and I knew that he didn’t belong here. He was built like a bull and twitchy as all hell. The laughter of our group as Cryptkeeper finished his last tale made him jump like a cat in a room of pit bulls. So I asked myself what could put this guy on edge? I walked up closer to the front counter, wanting a better look. I was creeping along silently. Hell, I’ve played rogue characters long enough I should know how to move like one -right?
He never heard me coming, but I could hear what he was saying to Michael, the owner of the shop. He was threatening to shoot him if he didn’t give the man everything in the register.
Michael kept his eyes down, not wanting to alert any of us and get us killed, was my thought.
What could I do? I asked myself. I was built like a twig compared to this oak of a man robbing the place. The only weapons at my disposal were hardback books and a rack of paint your own pewter figures.
Michael handed over the bag of cash and the man backed away from the counter. He hadn’t seen me yet and I crouched low to the ground, not wanting to get shot for spooking him. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my bag of polyhedral dice. I scattered them across the ground and prayed. Sure enough, the man wasn’t looking where he stepped and his right foot came down on a twenty sided Chessex Blue Vortex. He went down harder than a horde of drunken trolls and Michael was on him in an instant.
He had pulled ‘Excalibur’, a beat up wooden baseball bat from behind the front counter and started beating the would be thief like a gold filled piñata.
Eventually we called the police. But not until everyone had a turn. We may be freaks and nerds. But when you mess with one of us, you face all of us. When the police came, the thief was more than willing to go to jail, rather than face us for one more minute. I colleted my dice from the floor, glad the police didn’t need to confiscate them.
I kissed the twenty sided before slipping it back into my bag. In the past it had helped me to defeat a litch king, a fire dragon and a basilisk. Now I had one more tale to tell, thanks to my lucky dice.
Lucky Dice
By Plot Roach
I like to role-play. And by that I don’t mean whips and chains, but polyhedral dice. I’m one of those freaks that you made fun of in school, sitting in dark rooms, pretending to be a half elf wizard with a lawful good alignment. The only thing worse then my acne was my ability to socialize with others, unless the dice were in my hand. Then I could conquer the bad guy, save the world and tell my tale at the local tavern. Granted that tavern was usually the local gaming shop and the patrons were just as lost to reality as I was.
We would get some poser from time to time, people who wandered in to listen to our stories and make fun of us when they left. We could usually root them out by asking what level their game master was or asking them if they preferred Dungeons and Dragon 8.0 over 9.0.
We may be freaks, but we are loyal to one another. You pick on one of us, you face all of our wrath. Though mostly that’s just a bunch of people in t-shirts with sarcastic remarks written on them, standing around eating junk food, living fantasy lives in between shifts of manual labor and counting the days until the next supplemental book in our games graces the book shelves.
I was waiting at my favorite game shop, Player Killers, listening to the same tales I heard every day that I came here. To listen to our tales, you would swear that we fought in wars, real ones. And then someone says something like ‘hits points’ or ‘constitution‘, and you get that what we’re talking about isn’t real at all. But in our heads it is. So isn’t that what counts? What keeps us happy is what keeps us from spitting in your food when you make fun of us at work. While you were scoring a touchdown and pulling a tendon that will never work right for the rest of your life, we were pillaging dungeons, and adding a few extra experience points to our characters) as well as a few pounds to our waistlines (with all the inactivity and the aforementioned junk food).
So I was listening to Sam (aka ‘Cryptkeeper’, the litch necromancer) talk about the early days of D&D when someone walked in and I knew that he didn’t belong here. He was built like a bull and twitchy as all hell. The laughter of our group as Cryptkeeper finished his last tale made him jump like a cat in a room of pit bulls. So I asked myself what could put this guy on edge? I walked up closer to the front counter, wanting a better look. I was creeping along silently. Hell, I’ve played rogue characters long enough I should know how to move like one -right?
He never heard me coming, but I could hear what he was saying to Michael, the owner of the shop. He was threatening to shoot him if he didn’t give the man everything in the register.
Michael kept his eyes down, not wanting to alert any of us and get us killed, was my thought.
What could I do? I asked myself. I was built like a twig compared to this oak of a man robbing the place. The only weapons at my disposal were hardback books and a rack of paint your own pewter figures.
Michael handed over the bag of cash and the man backed away from the counter. He hadn’t seen me yet and I crouched low to the ground, not wanting to get shot for spooking him. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my bag of polyhedral dice. I scattered them across the ground and prayed. Sure enough, the man wasn’t looking where he stepped and his right foot came down on a twenty sided Chessex Blue Vortex. He went down harder than a horde of drunken trolls and Michael was on him in an instant.
He had pulled ‘Excalibur’, a beat up wooden baseball bat from behind the front counter and started beating the would be thief like a gold filled piñata.
Eventually we called the police. But not until everyone had a turn. We may be freaks and nerds. But when you mess with one of us, you face all of us. When the police came, the thief was more than willing to go to jail, rather than face us for one more minute. I colleted my dice from the floor, glad the police didn’t need to confiscate them.
I kissed the twenty sided before slipping it back into my bag. In the past it had helped me to defeat a litch king, a fire dragon and a basilisk. Now I had one more tale to tell, thanks to my lucky dice.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Fallen Angel
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Fallen Angel
By Plot Roach
The little white ceramic angel stood silently on the counter as the mourners wandered the house around her. They murmured condolences while shoveling food from paper plates into their mouths. Sandra, already numb with the loss of her grandmother, stood nearest the door while men and women wandered up to her, shaking her hand and conveying their condolences. And while each second surrounded by these people seemed to be torture, the day moved too fast into night. The last guest left and Sandra began to collect the plastic cups and paper plates, scraping the food into a plastic bin before throwing the rest into the trashcan.
For all their kind words and false smiles, not one of them had offered to stay and help clean up the mess left behind.
I should have known what they were like before they smelled the free food, she thought to herself. When her grandmother lay dying in the hospital, none had come to see her or send her flowers. When she died, none of her so-called friends had offered to help plan the funeral or add a bit of their own money to cover the expenses And now that the last crumb of food had been consumed, the last sad story told, the last hand shook, they passed away into the night like ghosts of the past.
Sandra looked to the sad walls of her grandmother’s home. In her lifetime she had given birth to five children, three of which were still alive. And when Sandra’s parents had died in a car accident, her grandmother stepped up to claim her grandchild, never once shirking her duties, though she was already old and frail. She raised Sandra as if she were her own daughter, never once making her feel like a burden. But out of all the family that had been left, none had taken care of her grandmother like she had taken care of them. None except for Sandra.
The walls were lined with peeling wallpaper, cracked ceiling tiles and pictures of all who had graced her grandmother’s life. She remembered sitting on her grandmother’s knee as a girl, when on hot summer nights they sat in the kitchen drinking ice cold lemonade and sitting in front of the fan. Her grandmother telling her stories of all the people in the pictures. Most she remembered, but had never met, until the funeral. And despite the stories of love and laughter that her grandmother had told her about them, none seemed as vibrant in life as their stories from her grandmother’s lips.
The bin of food she emptied onto the compost heap. No sooner the back door closed and the light turned off, then she could hear the raccoons digging through the trash of the heap looking for their own food for the night. Her grandmother had fed the ’bandits’ well over the years, claiming that they were as much kin to her as much as any that had stepped foot in her house.
Sandra listened to them scamper across the back patio, drink from the birdbath and fight one another over the best scraps of food. Her mood sobered as she realized that another fight would be breaking out all too soon as her grandmother’s things would be divided amongst her surviving relatives. Her grandmother not yet cold in the ground, some had even had the nerve to approach her during the wake to ask for her grandmother’s jewelry. Some had expressed interest in the will and what she had left them. Sandra would have given everything to the slavering beasts, hungry for anything to pawn, if he could only hug her grandmother one more time.
She knew that the home she had lived in would go to her Uncle Dennis, though he had only spent is childhood in it and nothing more. As soon as he was of legal age he enlisted in the Army and never looked back, only sending flowers on mother’s day and calling her on her birthday. Sandra’s Aunt Mildred had been just as bad, only expressing an interest in the old woman’s life when it seemed that she had fallen ill and might pass away. Aunt Mildred would get the car, most of the furniture and the collectables that sat on the mantle piece.
Various odd bits were to be given to one family member or another. And as for Sandra? She would be given her grandmother’s bureau and the ceramic angel that stood guard in the living room. Her grandmother had always said that there was a special angel watching over her that would care for her for the rest of her days. But as Sandra wiped clean the table and counters of her grandmother’s home, she felt more alone than ever.
Tears flooded her vision and she felt as abandoned as she had the night that the police had told her that her parents had died. Now she had lost the only person who had ever loved her as much as her own parents and she could find no end to her sadness. In her grief, she tossed the towel onto the table, inadvertently knocking the ceramic angel off of its pedestal and onto the floor, shattering it in the process.
“No!” she yelled, falling to her knees to pick up the pieces. “Why now?” she yelled. “What else are you going to take from me!” With bleary eyes she scooped the shards into a box and went to the junk drawer to get the superglue.
Maybe I can put it back together again, she thought. Maybe I can fix it and it will all be fine in the end.
She laid the pieces out before her on the kitchen counter, and pulled the top off the tube of glue. The first piece, the base, weighted heavier by far than the rest of the pieces, and when she fitted the first broken bit to it, she saw what had made it so heavy. An envelope had been curled up and shoved into the bottom of the angel. She pulled it out and opened it up.
“My angel, watch over me and mine. And as I set this aside, let it keep my girl, Sandra, safe. I have asked forgiveness for my past, but know that I can never ask forgiveness from Sandra should she find out about my ‘indiscretions’. Watch over her and keep her safe and I will abandon my life of sin.”
It was in her grandmother’s handwriting and came with a key. Sandra tried it on every lock she thought would fit in the house, finally finding its match in the bureau drawer in her grandmother’s bedroom. A drawer that her grandmother had said had been locked long ago, the key lost forever.
Inside the drawer were sets of old passports, at least a dozen or more, all bearing a photo of the same woman at various ages. In the bottom of the drawer was a batch of bank books in a box accompanied by a journal listing the account numbers, places and names under which a small fortune had been deposited. The second half of the journal contained a note.
“Sandra, if you are reading this, I am dead. The rest of this journal will tell you why I did what I did. As for why I stopped. Well, child, it was because of the night that your parents died. I knew that I couldn’t take anymore chances if I was going to raise you. If I got caught, you’d be in a foster home faster than I could blink. And I wasn’t about to let that happen to you. So I locked everything away the day that you came to live with me. I’m sure that you have some questions, and those will be answered in time. But first you’ll want to contact the banks listed in this book. They’ll know that you are going to collect the money that I left you. I only hope that it makes you happier than it did me.”
Fallen Angel
By Plot Roach
The little white ceramic angel stood silently on the counter as the mourners wandered the house around her. They murmured condolences while shoveling food from paper plates into their mouths. Sandra, already numb with the loss of her grandmother, stood nearest the door while men and women wandered up to her, shaking her hand and conveying their condolences. And while each second surrounded by these people seemed to be torture, the day moved too fast into night. The last guest left and Sandra began to collect the plastic cups and paper plates, scraping the food into a plastic bin before throwing the rest into the trashcan.
For all their kind words and false smiles, not one of them had offered to stay and help clean up the mess left behind.
I should have known what they were like before they smelled the free food, she thought to herself. When her grandmother lay dying in the hospital, none had come to see her or send her flowers. When she died, none of her so-called friends had offered to help plan the funeral or add a bit of their own money to cover the expenses And now that the last crumb of food had been consumed, the last sad story told, the last hand shook, they passed away into the night like ghosts of the past.
Sandra looked to the sad walls of her grandmother’s home. In her lifetime she had given birth to five children, three of which were still alive. And when Sandra’s parents had died in a car accident, her grandmother stepped up to claim her grandchild, never once shirking her duties, though she was already old and frail. She raised Sandra as if she were her own daughter, never once making her feel like a burden. But out of all the family that had been left, none had taken care of her grandmother like she had taken care of them. None except for Sandra.
The walls were lined with peeling wallpaper, cracked ceiling tiles and pictures of all who had graced her grandmother’s life. She remembered sitting on her grandmother’s knee as a girl, when on hot summer nights they sat in the kitchen drinking ice cold lemonade and sitting in front of the fan. Her grandmother telling her stories of all the people in the pictures. Most she remembered, but had never met, until the funeral. And despite the stories of love and laughter that her grandmother had told her about them, none seemed as vibrant in life as their stories from her grandmother’s lips.
The bin of food she emptied onto the compost heap. No sooner the back door closed and the light turned off, then she could hear the raccoons digging through the trash of the heap looking for their own food for the night. Her grandmother had fed the ’bandits’ well over the years, claiming that they were as much kin to her as much as any that had stepped foot in her house.
Sandra listened to them scamper across the back patio, drink from the birdbath and fight one another over the best scraps of food. Her mood sobered as she realized that another fight would be breaking out all too soon as her grandmother’s things would be divided amongst her surviving relatives. Her grandmother not yet cold in the ground, some had even had the nerve to approach her during the wake to ask for her grandmother’s jewelry. Some had expressed interest in the will and what she had left them. Sandra would have given everything to the slavering beasts, hungry for anything to pawn, if he could only hug her grandmother one more time.
She knew that the home she had lived in would go to her Uncle Dennis, though he had only spent is childhood in it and nothing more. As soon as he was of legal age he enlisted in the Army and never looked back, only sending flowers on mother’s day and calling her on her birthday. Sandra’s Aunt Mildred had been just as bad, only expressing an interest in the old woman’s life when it seemed that she had fallen ill and might pass away. Aunt Mildred would get the car, most of the furniture and the collectables that sat on the mantle piece.
Various odd bits were to be given to one family member or another. And as for Sandra? She would be given her grandmother’s bureau and the ceramic angel that stood guard in the living room. Her grandmother had always said that there was a special angel watching over her that would care for her for the rest of her days. But as Sandra wiped clean the table and counters of her grandmother’s home, she felt more alone than ever.
Tears flooded her vision and she felt as abandoned as she had the night that the police had told her that her parents had died. Now she had lost the only person who had ever loved her as much as her own parents and she could find no end to her sadness. In her grief, she tossed the towel onto the table, inadvertently knocking the ceramic angel off of its pedestal and onto the floor, shattering it in the process.
“No!” she yelled, falling to her knees to pick up the pieces. “Why now?” she yelled. “What else are you going to take from me!” With bleary eyes she scooped the shards into a box and went to the junk drawer to get the superglue.
Maybe I can put it back together again, she thought. Maybe I can fix it and it will all be fine in the end.
She laid the pieces out before her on the kitchen counter, and pulled the top off the tube of glue. The first piece, the base, weighted heavier by far than the rest of the pieces, and when she fitted the first broken bit to it, she saw what had made it so heavy. An envelope had been curled up and shoved into the bottom of the angel. She pulled it out and opened it up.
“My angel, watch over me and mine. And as I set this aside, let it keep my girl, Sandra, safe. I have asked forgiveness for my past, but know that I can never ask forgiveness from Sandra should she find out about my ‘indiscretions’. Watch over her and keep her safe and I will abandon my life of sin.”
It was in her grandmother’s handwriting and came with a key. Sandra tried it on every lock she thought would fit in the house, finally finding its match in the bureau drawer in her grandmother’s bedroom. A drawer that her grandmother had said had been locked long ago, the key lost forever.
Inside the drawer were sets of old passports, at least a dozen or more, all bearing a photo of the same woman at various ages. In the bottom of the drawer was a batch of bank books in a box accompanied by a journal listing the account numbers, places and names under which a small fortune had been deposited. The second half of the journal contained a note.
“Sandra, if you are reading this, I am dead. The rest of this journal will tell you why I did what I did. As for why I stopped. Well, child, it was because of the night that your parents died. I knew that I couldn’t take anymore chances if I was going to raise you. If I got caught, you’d be in a foster home faster than I could blink. And I wasn’t about to let that happen to you. So I locked everything away the day that you came to live with me. I’m sure that you have some questions, and those will be answered in time. But first you’ll want to contact the banks listed in this book. They’ll know that you are going to collect the money that I left you. I only hope that it makes you happier than it did me.”
Friday, September 2, 2011
Sisterhood of the Light
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Sisterhood of the Light
By Plot Roach
The first thing that she saw when she broke free of the egg was the blinding light that enveloped her. The struggle that had taken her hours to begin was accomplished within the final few seconds as she was spilled out onto the dirt amongst a mass of her own kind. She was surrounded by hatchlings like herself, miniature versions of the behemoths they would grow into, provided that they survived. Slinking among the shadows was death. Predators dashed across the field of hatchlings, snatching up a few here and there. Instinct told the baby to run for the dense undergrowth of a nearby forest. And within minutes she and the remainder of her kind were safe -at least for the moment.
There, in the thickly wooded realm, she and the other survivors grew large upon the vegetation. There were still creatures to be feared, but very few of them could take on a beast of her bulk. One had only to be quick enough to outrun the larger predators and stay within the herd for safety. Soon she and her kind became too large for their forest home and moved again by instinct, made a trek across the great grassy plains. They traveled in a tight formation, the males on the outside and the females grouped in the center. They were preyed upon by predators along the way, losing half their number before they found their kin.
Her mother, aunts and others called out to her. She recognized them by smell, each bearing a portion of her pheromones. But they were huge compared to the newcomers. Their bodies were like large hills and their longs necks stretched across the sky. To the young female it seemed as thought they could feast upon the clouds. And that is what she called them, the Cloud Grazers. The females were greeted warmly, the males were kept at a distance. It was mating time and the older males jousted for the best mates, chasing off the newcomers if they got too close to a receptive female.
The young female watched the fights and ensuing courtship. The mating dance became burned into her brain as she breathed deeply of the scents of her clan. She traveled with the group, as did all the other females, the young males having been driven off to form their own bachelor group which followed at a distance.
In the years that followed, the young female grew again in size, and learned many things. She traveled to where her kind laid their eggs, learned which plants would grow during the seasons, and which predators to now avoid.
Among these were the Thunder Lords, loud of roar and sharp of tooth. And while they were only a third the size of her kind, they hunted in packs. They could wound a creature and wait for it to bleed to death or die of infection. She had seen it happen in the older ones too slow to keep up with the herd.
Soon came the time when she took a mate, laid her eggs and took her turn leading the herd to new grazing lands that had been visited by her grandmother, mother and sisters. She had many good years, laid many eggs and even recognized a few that joined her group as her own offspring.
The predators followed them like shadows, and she watched as those she called grandmother, mother, aunt and sister fell before those sharp teeth.
One summer, as she lead the Cloud Grazers to one of the few watering holes that could be had during the drought, she was ambushed by a Thunder Lord pack. And while bitten in several places, and suffering from a twisted ankle, she walked, albeit slowly, away from the fight and back into the protection of the herd, her sisters pressed against her on either side to protect her from further onslaught. But she knew that they could not protect her for long, as she felt the blood run down her hide and felt the fever that came with one of the bites. If she did not fall from fatigue, she would succumb to illness. But still her foot marched onward as if to say: I will not fall today. Soon the predators fell back, dusk painted the land bloody colors and the Thunder Lords knew that they could wait until dawn to make their kill. The stars shifted in the night sky and the old one, which was now matriarch, looked overhead. Among these lights was one that grew brighter, until it filled the darkness with daylight. Once again she was enveloped in a blinding light, as was all her kind. And the old one was no more.
Sisterhood of the Light
By Plot Roach
The first thing that she saw when she broke free of the egg was the blinding light that enveloped her. The struggle that had taken her hours to begin was accomplished within the final few seconds as she was spilled out onto the dirt amongst a mass of her own kind. She was surrounded by hatchlings like herself, miniature versions of the behemoths they would grow into, provided that they survived. Slinking among the shadows was death. Predators dashed across the field of hatchlings, snatching up a few here and there. Instinct told the baby to run for the dense undergrowth of a nearby forest. And within minutes she and the remainder of her kind were safe -at least for the moment.
There, in the thickly wooded realm, she and the other survivors grew large upon the vegetation. There were still creatures to be feared, but very few of them could take on a beast of her bulk. One had only to be quick enough to outrun the larger predators and stay within the herd for safety. Soon she and her kind became too large for their forest home and moved again by instinct, made a trek across the great grassy plains. They traveled in a tight formation, the males on the outside and the females grouped in the center. They were preyed upon by predators along the way, losing half their number before they found their kin.
Her mother, aunts and others called out to her. She recognized them by smell, each bearing a portion of her pheromones. But they were huge compared to the newcomers. Their bodies were like large hills and their longs necks stretched across the sky. To the young female it seemed as thought they could feast upon the clouds. And that is what she called them, the Cloud Grazers. The females were greeted warmly, the males were kept at a distance. It was mating time and the older males jousted for the best mates, chasing off the newcomers if they got too close to a receptive female.
The young female watched the fights and ensuing courtship. The mating dance became burned into her brain as she breathed deeply of the scents of her clan. She traveled with the group, as did all the other females, the young males having been driven off to form their own bachelor group which followed at a distance.
In the years that followed, the young female grew again in size, and learned many things. She traveled to where her kind laid their eggs, learned which plants would grow during the seasons, and which predators to now avoid.
Among these were the Thunder Lords, loud of roar and sharp of tooth. And while they were only a third the size of her kind, they hunted in packs. They could wound a creature and wait for it to bleed to death or die of infection. She had seen it happen in the older ones too slow to keep up with the herd.
Soon came the time when she took a mate, laid her eggs and took her turn leading the herd to new grazing lands that had been visited by her grandmother, mother and sisters. She had many good years, laid many eggs and even recognized a few that joined her group as her own offspring.
The predators followed them like shadows, and she watched as those she called grandmother, mother, aunt and sister fell before those sharp teeth.
One summer, as she lead the Cloud Grazers to one of the few watering holes that could be had during the drought, she was ambushed by a Thunder Lord pack. And while bitten in several places, and suffering from a twisted ankle, she walked, albeit slowly, away from the fight and back into the protection of the herd, her sisters pressed against her on either side to protect her from further onslaught. But she knew that they could not protect her for long, as she felt the blood run down her hide and felt the fever that came with one of the bites. If she did not fall from fatigue, she would succumb to illness. But still her foot marched onward as if to say: I will not fall today. Soon the predators fell back, dusk painted the land bloody colors and the Thunder Lords knew that they could wait until dawn to make their kill. The stars shifted in the night sky and the old one, which was now matriarch, looked overhead. Among these lights was one that grew brighter, until it filled the darkness with daylight. Once again she was enveloped in a blinding light, as was all her kind. And the old one was no more.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Enlightenment and Hotdogs
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Enlightenment and Hotdogs
By Plot Roach
Harry watched the Buddhist monk munch happily upon his hotdog. The man seemed as content as could be, his robes vibrant with the sun’s rays as the bustle of the crowd parted to flow around him. In the meantime Harry had to repeatedly dodge pedestrians while trying to get a bite of his own hotdog. In the process he dribbled mustard on his work shirt and managed to bite the inside of his cheek twice, tainting the taste of the dog with a coppery tang.
He had had a horrible morning, what with a traffic accident making him late for work, spilling coffee on an important report for his boss and a phone call from his mother in which she chided him over not calling her the day before -on her birthday.
And now here was this foreigner, standing in his city and acting as if eating a crappy hotdog was the greatest pleasure in all the world. The more he saw the serene man’s face and the world part to accommodate him, the more irate Harry felt.
Harry tossed the rest of his hotdog into the garbage bin next to the hot dog cart and approached the monk, anger nipping at his heels like an unruly mutt. “I thought Buddhists weren’t allowed to eat meat.” he snapped at the man.
The young monk turned to Harry, as if suddenly aware that he was not the only person left on the planet. “Well…that depends.”
“Depends on what?” Harry demanded.
“Some believe that to eat meat adds to the pain of the world because an animal must die for it to be consumed.”
“Yeah, and?”
“Others believe that it is an even greater loss to the world for the meat of an animal, which is already dead, to rot away unconsumed and without purpose. If the animal has already been killed for its meat and the flesh is donated in return for my services, then it is not considered sinful.”
“But you’re eating a hotdog from a food cart, not consuming leftovers from some sacred temple.”
“I would beg to differ. Is this not a place where many come to congregate, to consume ideas as well as sustenance?”
The monk pointed to the clash of people moving in all directions, talking over cell phones and to one another as they crossed the streets. There were preachers, performers and purveyors of goods lining the walkway. The throng of citizens turned from a mishmash of chaos to a symphony of organized humanity. Harry shook his head, he would not let the monk ‘zen’ his way out of this argument.
“And someone ’donated’ the hotdog to you?” Harry asked.
“I did.” said the food stand worker. “He deserved it after the joke he told me.”
“What joke?” Harry asked.
“Did you hear about the time a hotdog became Buddhist? It wanted to be ‘one with everything.’”
Enlightenment and Hotdogs
By Plot Roach
Harry watched the Buddhist monk munch happily upon his hotdog. The man seemed as content as could be, his robes vibrant with the sun’s rays as the bustle of the crowd parted to flow around him. In the meantime Harry had to repeatedly dodge pedestrians while trying to get a bite of his own hotdog. In the process he dribbled mustard on his work shirt and managed to bite the inside of his cheek twice, tainting the taste of the dog with a coppery tang.
He had had a horrible morning, what with a traffic accident making him late for work, spilling coffee on an important report for his boss and a phone call from his mother in which she chided him over not calling her the day before -on her birthday.
And now here was this foreigner, standing in his city and acting as if eating a crappy hotdog was the greatest pleasure in all the world. The more he saw the serene man’s face and the world part to accommodate him, the more irate Harry felt.
Harry tossed the rest of his hotdog into the garbage bin next to the hot dog cart and approached the monk, anger nipping at his heels like an unruly mutt. “I thought Buddhists weren’t allowed to eat meat.” he snapped at the man.
The young monk turned to Harry, as if suddenly aware that he was not the only person left on the planet. “Well…that depends.”
“Depends on what?” Harry demanded.
“Some believe that to eat meat adds to the pain of the world because an animal must die for it to be consumed.”
“Yeah, and?”
“Others believe that it is an even greater loss to the world for the meat of an animal, which is already dead, to rot away unconsumed and without purpose. If the animal has already been killed for its meat and the flesh is donated in return for my services, then it is not considered sinful.”
“But you’re eating a hotdog from a food cart, not consuming leftovers from some sacred temple.”
“I would beg to differ. Is this not a place where many come to congregate, to consume ideas as well as sustenance?”
The monk pointed to the clash of people moving in all directions, talking over cell phones and to one another as they crossed the streets. There were preachers, performers and purveyors of goods lining the walkway. The throng of citizens turned from a mishmash of chaos to a symphony of organized humanity. Harry shook his head, he would not let the monk ‘zen’ his way out of this argument.
“And someone ’donated’ the hotdog to you?” Harry asked.
“I did.” said the food stand worker. “He deserved it after the joke he told me.”
“What joke?” Harry asked.
“Did you hear about the time a hotdog became Buddhist? It wanted to be ‘one with everything.’”
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