This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach
The Fox and the Coyote
By Plot Roach
She stumbled through the sands of the desert, still hot from the day’s sun. She arranged her path by the light of the stars, and found her hideaway before the first rays of dawn. She dumped her pack of scavenged goods, noting that things had been disturbed in her absence. Though the shack contained little more than some old mining equipment and desert brush she used to start her campfires, it disguised the entrance to the cave where she made her home, away from prying eyes and lecherous minds.
And who has been in my home? She asked herself, carefully pacing the land around her makeshift home. That was when she saw him: a bloated corpse whose only companions were the flies buzzing about his mouth and eyes. Cautiously, should the man be less near death than the flies promised, she edged her way to the fallen man and kicked at his outstretched leg. When he made no response, she took a stick and prodded him in a half opened eye, knowing that no matter how good an actor he could be, that it would elicit a response from even the best of opossums. She wiped her hands on her Fox Racing t-shirt, though she had not touched the corpse directly. Still, her hands felt as though covered with his filth.
Satisfied that the man was dead, she rolled his corpse over in the sand, her head wreathed with flies as she disturbed them from their labor. She pulled the pack from his back, pulled off what clothes had not been spoiled by his demise and checked the pockets of his uniform for anything of use. He was dressed in a military outfit that was too large for him, a patch sewn onto the right front pocket declared him Boarder Patrol. She knew the uniform and patch to be fake, having seen the real patrol a few months back. She was rewarded for her efforts with matches, a few protein bars, a wad of cash and assorted bits of jewelry. A gun lay beside him, empty of bullets. She followed a trail in the sand and found six more bodies, all shot in the back. More tracks, betraying those who ran on foot as well as those who followed by vehicle, lead further into the desert, but she would travel no further today, with the sun climbing in the sky and making the heat unbearable. She would follow the tracks come sunset, and find either survivors or more supplies.
She knew what had happened, had seen it far too many times to feel any anger or pity for the players in this act. She had to be as hard as the rocks that decorated the land, her heart as dry as the sand itself. Though the faces of the dead would later haunt her in her dreams, their meager supplies would get her through another day. She stripped what clothes she could use, took what possessions would come in handy and left the bodies for the scavengers of her desert home.
The man in uniform played the part of a ‘coyote‘, taking the desperate through the desert to the ‘promised land’ for a price. But midway through the desert he had turned upon them and killed them in cold blood to take their money and any other valuables that they might possess. The coyote had died of dehydration, not bothering to save a bullet for himself. Perhaps his friends had abandoned him, she thought. Maybe their plan went awry if the real Boarder Patrol had made an appearance. But would they have left the bodies here to rot in the sun? It would be less paperwork to fill out when they got back to the office. And less resources wasted in the meantime.
She took what she could use and left the rest to lie forever in the sand of the desert. She covered her tracks as she returned to her home, checking her water traps along the way. Tangles of plastic covered limbs of desert scrub stubborn enough to thrive in this waste land. As the sun beat down upon them, the plants would sweat their moisture into the plastic folds, where it could be collected into her water bottle and taken back to the cave. The uniformed coyote had died mere feet from one of these water traps, not knowing that his salvation was so near.
Predator or scavenger, both needed to learn the ways of the desert in order to safely traverse it. She nodded to the eyes glowing under the light of the desert moon as they watched her pace around the corpse of the fallen man. Once she was gone from the scene, the coyote lead his pack to feed upon the man who had planned to profit from the deaths of others. They made short work of the body, stopping only to add a bit of urine to mark him as their territory. Then they paced further into the desert to feast upon the corpses of his victims. In death, all meals were equal to the scavengers of the desert.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Little Green Men
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
Little Green Men
By Plot Roach
“Hello, this is 9-1-1, please state your emergency.”
“There’s someone in my house.”
“Have you seen the intruder, ma’am? Can you give me a description? Is he armed?”
“I know someone is here, because I can hear him -or maybe them. It sounds like two or more different voices. It’s like they’re chatting away like friends watching a ball game, but I can’t see them.”
“Have you moved closer to the vicinity of the voices to get a better look?”
“The voices are all around me, but I can’t see who is talking.”
“Have you been on any medication recently or taken any illegal substances?”
“Damn it! I’m not stoned or having a hallucination. There are voices in my apartment, and I can’t see who they are coming from.”
“Ma’am, please stay calm. If you continue to use profanity or escalate in tone, I may have to hang up on you.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m in my home, with unseen attackers and you’re going to just hang up on me?”
“Have any of them actually ‘attacked' you?”
“Well, not specifically, but they have destroyed my property. And they refuse to leave, even after I’ve told them to get out.”
“Did they speak with you?”
“No, they just got silent and then laughed. That’s when I ran into the bedroom and called you. Can you send the police?”
“Are you sure that there is someone in the house with you?”
“Hold on, maybe I can get closer and you can hear them.”
“Don’ be botherin’ wit’ polishin’ tha gold on tha lamp, Shamus. Tis naught real.”
“By the luv o the emeral’ isle! Why bother havin’ it then?”
The conversation was followed by the sound of a heavy thud and the tinkling of breaking glass.
“Did you hear that? I’m not making it up. They’re here. There’re real. I didn’t invite them in and I want them to leave!”
“I’m not sure what I heard ma’am. Just stay calm and I will send the police.”
“Please tell them to hurry!”
Then the sounds of laughter filled the phone line just before it went dead.
When the police showed up, they found the occupant of the house sitting in the front yard drinking a Long Island Ice Tea and jerking visibly when a sound of breaking glass emanated from the house.
“You called for us ma’am?”
“Oh, yeah. But I don’t think you’ll be able to help. In fact, I think you better just turn around and go on to the next call. You don’t want to have to file the paperwork from this one, you really don’t.”
“But if your home has been invaded and you feel threatened…”
“Threatened, not so much. As for my house, they can have it as long as they want it.”
“But-”
“It was all my fault. Don’t worry about it. Everything will be fine when the clock strikes midnight.”
“Why is that?”
“Because then it will be march 18th and not ‘today.’”
“’Today?’”
“St. Patrick’s day.”
“But shouldn’t we check it out?”
“No, it was a false alarm. Everything will work itself out in time. No need to be concerned. Thanks for stopping by.”
The sounds of laughter and singing threaded out of the broken front window and onto the street. The officers left at the woman’s request, warning her that they might be back if the noise continued past ten that evening.
“Do what you feel you need to officers, but I won’t be here if you show up.”
“Where will you be?”
“At a nearby hotel until my ‘guests’ decide to leave.”
Once again alone on the front porch, she poured herself another drink. She winced as she heard what could only be the antique Tiffany lamp her great Aunt Beatrice had left her in her will crashed against the front door of the house. It’s all okay, she told herself. She emptied the glass and dialed a number on her cell phone, making arrangements for a cab to take her to a hotel. By morning her place would be back to normal, spotless even. That’s what Patrick, leader of the Green Clean Troop had told her when she finally caught him in a pillowcase.
It seems that her mother’s advice of leaving out milk, honey and bread in a bowl on her back porch had attracted their attention. They saw her as one of the last ‘true believers‘, and as such thought of her home as a good place to spend a night of frivolity before returning to their daily lives as woodland protectors, cobblers and emissaries of good fortune. Patrick promised that every item smashed would be repaired before morning to better than new condition and that she would be given more than ample compensation for her time, stress and possessions. Then she released the small man from her grip, trusted him to his word and left the forty or more miniature marauders to their destructive revelry.
So she sighed and poured herself another drink, waiting for the cab and chuckling to herself. She smiled, even as her hands would not stop shaking. It was not everyday she was witness to a Leprechaun rave.
Little Green Men
By Plot Roach
“Hello, this is 9-1-1, please state your emergency.”
“There’s someone in my house.”
“Have you seen the intruder, ma’am? Can you give me a description? Is he armed?”
“I know someone is here, because I can hear him -or maybe them. It sounds like two or more different voices. It’s like they’re chatting away like friends watching a ball game, but I can’t see them.”
“Have you moved closer to the vicinity of the voices to get a better look?”
“The voices are all around me, but I can’t see who is talking.”
“Have you been on any medication recently or taken any illegal substances?”
“Damn it! I’m not stoned or having a hallucination. There are voices in my apartment, and I can’t see who they are coming from.”
“Ma’am, please stay calm. If you continue to use profanity or escalate in tone, I may have to hang up on you.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m in my home, with unseen attackers and you’re going to just hang up on me?”
“Have any of them actually ‘attacked' you?”
“Well, not specifically, but they have destroyed my property. And they refuse to leave, even after I’ve told them to get out.”
“Did they speak with you?”
“No, they just got silent and then laughed. That’s when I ran into the bedroom and called you. Can you send the police?”
“Are you sure that there is someone in the house with you?”
“Hold on, maybe I can get closer and you can hear them.”
“Don’ be botherin’ wit’ polishin’ tha gold on tha lamp, Shamus. Tis naught real.”
“By the luv o the emeral’ isle! Why bother havin’ it then?”
The conversation was followed by the sound of a heavy thud and the tinkling of breaking glass.
“Did you hear that? I’m not making it up. They’re here. There’re real. I didn’t invite them in and I want them to leave!”
“I’m not sure what I heard ma’am. Just stay calm and I will send the police.”
“Please tell them to hurry!”
Then the sounds of laughter filled the phone line just before it went dead.
When the police showed up, they found the occupant of the house sitting in the front yard drinking a Long Island Ice Tea and jerking visibly when a sound of breaking glass emanated from the house.
“You called for us ma’am?”
“Oh, yeah. But I don’t think you’ll be able to help. In fact, I think you better just turn around and go on to the next call. You don’t want to have to file the paperwork from this one, you really don’t.”
“But if your home has been invaded and you feel threatened…”
“Threatened, not so much. As for my house, they can have it as long as they want it.”
“But-”
“It was all my fault. Don’t worry about it. Everything will be fine when the clock strikes midnight.”
“Why is that?”
“Because then it will be march 18th and not ‘today.’”
“’Today?’”
“St. Patrick’s day.”
“But shouldn’t we check it out?”
“No, it was a false alarm. Everything will work itself out in time. No need to be concerned. Thanks for stopping by.”
The sounds of laughter and singing threaded out of the broken front window and onto the street. The officers left at the woman’s request, warning her that they might be back if the noise continued past ten that evening.
“Do what you feel you need to officers, but I won’t be here if you show up.”
“Where will you be?”
“At a nearby hotel until my ‘guests’ decide to leave.”
Once again alone on the front porch, she poured herself another drink. She winced as she heard what could only be the antique Tiffany lamp her great Aunt Beatrice had left her in her will crashed against the front door of the house. It’s all okay, she told herself. She emptied the glass and dialed a number on her cell phone, making arrangements for a cab to take her to a hotel. By morning her place would be back to normal, spotless even. That’s what Patrick, leader of the Green Clean Troop had told her when she finally caught him in a pillowcase.
It seems that her mother’s advice of leaving out milk, honey and bread in a bowl on her back porch had attracted their attention. They saw her as one of the last ‘true believers‘, and as such thought of her home as a good place to spend a night of frivolity before returning to their daily lives as woodland protectors, cobblers and emissaries of good fortune. Patrick promised that every item smashed would be repaired before morning to better than new condition and that she would be given more than ample compensation for her time, stress and possessions. Then she released the small man from her grip, trusted him to his word and left the forty or more miniature marauders to their destructive revelry.
So she sighed and poured herself another drink, waiting for the cab and chuckling to herself. She smiled, even as her hands would not stop shaking. It was not everyday she was witness to a Leprechaun rave.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Glass Slipper
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
Glass Slipper
By Plot Roach
The sunset painted beautiful colors across the sky as the world ended for Ashley Williams. She had just lost her job, her home and her lover in one fell swoop. To be honest, all three were linked together as she was sleeping with a co-worker and had moved in with him recently to get away from her parents. Then, within the span of a week, he had fallen head over heels in love with a temporary filing clerk on the third floor of the business where they worked. He asked her to leave while they were both out on a coffee break.
“But you said that you loved me.” She cried into her dark roast blend with two creams and one sugar.
“That was last week. This is NOW.” he said over a cinnamon-vanilla gourmet instant blend, not bothering to look up from the frothy concoction.
Ten minutes passed in relative silence as each contemplated his or her future in the sugary, caffeinated beverages sitting in front of them.
“Well, that’s it then.” Paul said, pushing himself away from the table and dumping the rest of his drink down the sink, not bothering to rinse his coffee mug.
When he left, Ashley reached into the sink and rinsed out the mug for him, setting it into the strainer to air dry. The “Night Rider” logo standing out in red on the black background of the cup. She had almost left the kitchen when she felt the anger well up within her demanding: No! He will not get away with this.
What am I going to do? She asked herself. And in a moment of odd passion, she took his mug from the rack and slipped it into her purse. She asked her supervisor for the rest of the day off, complaining of a migraine. She got to their apartment in record time, taking all of her things and throwing them into the backseat of her car. She tried calling her parents to see if they would let her stay at their home for a while, and found out that they were off on a cruise and wouldn’t be back for three weeks.
While going through her personal phonebook to call any friends that might be of help, her boss called to let her know that she was fired. Paul had been stealing money from work and had used her personal identification card to go to the business when everyone else had left to go home, setting her up to take the blame. No charges would be filed against her, but she would be unable to use them as a reference and unable to claim unemployment. He refused to hear her side of the story, as Paul had already procured several witnesses testifying to her sketchy behavior as of late.
When she hung up the phone, she left their apartment for the last time, handing off her keys to a homeless man she saw walking less than a block from the front door of their complex. “Take what you can of value and smash the rest.” she told him, pulling the keys off her key ring and telling him when Paul would be returning home from work.
She drove to White Park, a spot she loved since early childhood. She would come here anytime something in her life bothered her, sitting for hours in front of the fountain and imagining her problems being sucked down through the water and disappearing into the drain, never again to plague her.
She parked her car, taking her purse with her. She opened the small, brown bag and removed a plastic baggie of birdseed, scattering it around the fountain and waiting for the multicolored songbirds and the plain brown sparrows to visit for a quick meal. Once she had emptied the bag, she reached into her purse to pull out a stick of gum only to have her hand brush Paul’s mug.
She pulled it out, setting it on the rim of the fountain. Now what am I going to do with you? She thought. Shall I go back to the apartment, kill the homeless man by smashing him over the head with you, little mug, and then leave the bits as crime scene evidence to implicate my rat of an ex-boyfriend. She smiled at the thought, envisioning him being lead away in handcuffs. But no, he would find a way to weasel out of it and blame it on me. Maybe I should throw you into the air and let you smash into a million pieces, or leave you by the trashcan for a bum in need of a good coffee mug.
Just as she was deep into her thoughts, contemplating the fate of Paul’ coffee mug a man walked by. “Do you have the time?” he asked, startling her out of her self misery.
“Four fifteen.” she answered, squinting against the sunlight to see him. He was tall, not model material, but definitely not something to scoff at. Blonde hair, blue eyes and a surfer’s physique.
“Thanks then.” he said, preparing to walk away. Her heart sank. There goes prince charming-for-now, and all he wanted from me was the time of day. She almost laughed at the thought. But then, low and behold, he stopped in his tracks, eyeing the mug she had left on the rim of the fountain.
“Is this yours?” he asked.
“I’m the one who put it there.” she answered. “Why?”
“It’s just that... Well, my father was into this show when I was a kid and I used to sit with him for hours and watch it. It was one of the best memories I have of him.”
“Watching ‘Night Rider’?” She asked.
“Yeah, I know it’s silly. But I was thinking of him today, and was really missing him. It’s almost like a sign, you know.”
“I’m glad I could be of help.” she said. “Would you like the mug?”
“Sure, if it’s okay with you.” he said, picking the mug up from the edge of the fountain.
“I only have one request in exchange.”
“Sure, what’s that?”
“We go have coffee together so you can test it out.” She said, smiling at him.
He agreed, smiling back and the two walked arm in arm to the nearest coffee shop. Along the way, Ashley found that she had a lot more in common with this perfect stranger than she had had with most of the men in her life. And definitely more than with Paul, she thought.
She looked at the mug in his hands. It might not be a glass slipper, she thought. But is sure is the perfect fit.
Glass Slipper
By Plot Roach
The sunset painted beautiful colors across the sky as the world ended for Ashley Williams. She had just lost her job, her home and her lover in one fell swoop. To be honest, all three were linked together as she was sleeping with a co-worker and had moved in with him recently to get away from her parents. Then, within the span of a week, he had fallen head over heels in love with a temporary filing clerk on the third floor of the business where they worked. He asked her to leave while they were both out on a coffee break.
“But you said that you loved me.” She cried into her dark roast blend with two creams and one sugar.
“That was last week. This is NOW.” he said over a cinnamon-vanilla gourmet instant blend, not bothering to look up from the frothy concoction.
Ten minutes passed in relative silence as each contemplated his or her future in the sugary, caffeinated beverages sitting in front of them.
“Well, that’s it then.” Paul said, pushing himself away from the table and dumping the rest of his drink down the sink, not bothering to rinse his coffee mug.
When he left, Ashley reached into the sink and rinsed out the mug for him, setting it into the strainer to air dry. The “Night Rider” logo standing out in red on the black background of the cup. She had almost left the kitchen when she felt the anger well up within her demanding: No! He will not get away with this.
What am I going to do? She asked herself. And in a moment of odd passion, she took his mug from the rack and slipped it into her purse. She asked her supervisor for the rest of the day off, complaining of a migraine. She got to their apartment in record time, taking all of her things and throwing them into the backseat of her car. She tried calling her parents to see if they would let her stay at their home for a while, and found out that they were off on a cruise and wouldn’t be back for three weeks.
While going through her personal phonebook to call any friends that might be of help, her boss called to let her know that she was fired. Paul had been stealing money from work and had used her personal identification card to go to the business when everyone else had left to go home, setting her up to take the blame. No charges would be filed against her, but she would be unable to use them as a reference and unable to claim unemployment. He refused to hear her side of the story, as Paul had already procured several witnesses testifying to her sketchy behavior as of late.
When she hung up the phone, she left their apartment for the last time, handing off her keys to a homeless man she saw walking less than a block from the front door of their complex. “Take what you can of value and smash the rest.” she told him, pulling the keys off her key ring and telling him when Paul would be returning home from work.
She drove to White Park, a spot she loved since early childhood. She would come here anytime something in her life bothered her, sitting for hours in front of the fountain and imagining her problems being sucked down through the water and disappearing into the drain, never again to plague her.
She parked her car, taking her purse with her. She opened the small, brown bag and removed a plastic baggie of birdseed, scattering it around the fountain and waiting for the multicolored songbirds and the plain brown sparrows to visit for a quick meal. Once she had emptied the bag, she reached into her purse to pull out a stick of gum only to have her hand brush Paul’s mug.
She pulled it out, setting it on the rim of the fountain. Now what am I going to do with you? She thought. Shall I go back to the apartment, kill the homeless man by smashing him over the head with you, little mug, and then leave the bits as crime scene evidence to implicate my rat of an ex-boyfriend. She smiled at the thought, envisioning him being lead away in handcuffs. But no, he would find a way to weasel out of it and blame it on me. Maybe I should throw you into the air and let you smash into a million pieces, or leave you by the trashcan for a bum in need of a good coffee mug.
Just as she was deep into her thoughts, contemplating the fate of Paul’ coffee mug a man walked by. “Do you have the time?” he asked, startling her out of her self misery.
“Four fifteen.” she answered, squinting against the sunlight to see him. He was tall, not model material, but definitely not something to scoff at. Blonde hair, blue eyes and a surfer’s physique.
“Thanks then.” he said, preparing to walk away. Her heart sank. There goes prince charming-for-now, and all he wanted from me was the time of day. She almost laughed at the thought. But then, low and behold, he stopped in his tracks, eyeing the mug she had left on the rim of the fountain.
“Is this yours?” he asked.
“I’m the one who put it there.” she answered. “Why?”
“It’s just that... Well, my father was into this show when I was a kid and I used to sit with him for hours and watch it. It was one of the best memories I have of him.”
“Watching ‘Night Rider’?” She asked.
“Yeah, I know it’s silly. But I was thinking of him today, and was really missing him. It’s almost like a sign, you know.”
“I’m glad I could be of help.” she said. “Would you like the mug?”
“Sure, if it’s okay with you.” he said, picking the mug up from the edge of the fountain.
“I only have one request in exchange.”
“Sure, what’s that?”
“We go have coffee together so you can test it out.” She said, smiling at him.
He agreed, smiling back and the two walked arm in arm to the nearest coffee shop. Along the way, Ashley found that she had a lot more in common with this perfect stranger than she had had with most of the men in her life. And definitely more than with Paul, she thought.
She looked at the mug in his hands. It might not be a glass slipper, she thought. But is sure is the perfect fit.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
They’ve Got to Learn Sometime
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
They’ve Got to Learn Sometime
By Plot Roach
Stanley’s bad day turned worse when the elephant at the kids’ petting zoo sucker punched him in the eye. He was laughing along with his daughter and the rest of her Girl Scout troop and other assorted parents (while fighting a rather bad migraine) when the pachyderm turned 180 degrees with the grace and speed of a cheetah and swung its trunk into Stanley’s face.
He honestly did not think that the thing could move so fast, what with the twenty minutes it took the zoo handler to get it out of the containment pen and onto an area where the girls could come up close and pet it. “Charlene!” yelled the elephant’s trainer, a slim young thing named Willow that looked only about twenty pounds heavier than his ten year-old daughter. How can such a small woman handle such a large beast?, he had asked himself as she ushered the creature out of its “habitat”. And, as it turned out, she could not. For Charlene did not stop there.
Stanley was knocked to the ground by the elephant’s trunk and had not yet recovered when the creature began to trumpet at him and kick dust in his direction with its large feet. He scrambled away to the edge of the enclosure, thankfully away from the rest of the group should the elephant continue its punishment of the man -which it did.
Parents, elephant trainer and children watched in horror as the elephant began to turn and, showing its rump to him, began to spray him with urine.“Oh, gahh!” Stanley choked out, covered in a foul smelling stream. He tried to wipe it out of his eyes and away from his mouth, but only succeeded in spreading the substance further around his face.
He barely heard the trainer yell: “Oh, my god, she’s actually doing it!”
“Doing what, exactly?” asked one of the parents. It was Sarah, a tough as nails mother who babied her girl as if no other child in the world existed.
“She’s actually ready to mate!” yelled the elephant trainer. “She’s come into season before, but all attempts to mate her to the males here were -difficult at best.”
“Why, what happened?”
“She often beat the males that attempted to mount her.”
“So she’s going to beat Stanley to a pulp?” asked Sarah. The girls in the troop began wailing wildly with the news. Stanley was not doing so well either, thinking that he would be crushed to death by a horny elephant.
“Oh, no. Nothing like that.” Willow the trainer said. “Just let her present herself for a while.” she called out to Stanley, still trapped behind the elephant. “When she realizes that you’re not interested in her sexually, she’ll move back to her habitat and we can get you cleaned up.”
“Yeah, Stanley.” Sarah called out laughing: “Don’t make a move on her and you’ll be okay.”
“I’m a married man for chistsakes!” he choked out. “And this is an elephant. Just what in the hell do you think I’m gonna do?”
“Just let her ride it out, sir. She’s the one in control.” The elephant trainer yelled out.
At that moment, Charlene showed just how much she was in control of the situation. She maneuvered Stanley into a corner of the pen and pressed him up against the chain link fence using her butt cheeks to hold him in place.
“Yahhh….Uhhhh….Fuhhh!” Stanley said, trying not to gag at the sight of eager elephant vagina inches from his face. Could this get any worse? He asked himself. And then found out immediately that yes, things could get much worse and that one should never even think questions such as this since Fate enjoys a challenge as well as a good joke.
The elephant began to moan and rock her hips, pressing harder against Stanley and knocking the wind from him. All through the experience, Stanley tried not to look at the creature’s genitals, but like a traffic accident on the highway, his eyes returned again and again. It reminded him of a mutated alien oyster or an embarrassed manatee. The creature’s gyrating produced a reaction from his lower extremities which he tried to battle mentally. Think about baseball, he told himself. Or grandma when you had to wash her back as a kid. Or even the time you had to sift through the dog’s crap in order to retrieve that ring he ate. But despite all his mental defenses, nature had its way. He was done before Charlene let up, and he was certain that the pressure against his lower regions would provide him with the worst rug burn he could ever imagine, or geld him entirely.
Then Charlene moved away, evidently done with her fantasy. But not before she deposited a fresh chunk of manure on his shoes for good measure.
“You should be honored sir, not everyone gets a chance to be the object of an elephant’s attention.” Willow said. She was immediately silenced by a look from Stanley.
Sarah piped up with her own positive spin on the event, saying: “Yeah, Stanley, you turned this into a true educational event for the girls.”
“How so?” he asked, toweling elephant urine out of his eyes.
“We were wondering how to let them earn their ‘Birds and Bees badge.’” She laughed. “And it is true what they say: they’ve got to learn sometime.”
“Thanks… really…” He hissed as another trainer, this one from the tiger enclosure, proceeded to wash him from head to toe with a cold stream of water from the hose usually reserved for cleaning the vaginal and anal cavities of the larger beasts in the zoo.
With ruined clothes, bruised ribs and a stench that he knew would never leave him for a week, Stanley tried to see the upside of the situation and settled on the fact that at least his migraine was gone. But it’s not a remedy I ever want to try again, he told himself.
They’ve Got to Learn Sometime
By Plot Roach
Stanley’s bad day turned worse when the elephant at the kids’ petting zoo sucker punched him in the eye. He was laughing along with his daughter and the rest of her Girl Scout troop and other assorted parents (while fighting a rather bad migraine) when the pachyderm turned 180 degrees with the grace and speed of a cheetah and swung its trunk into Stanley’s face.
He honestly did not think that the thing could move so fast, what with the twenty minutes it took the zoo handler to get it out of the containment pen and onto an area where the girls could come up close and pet it. “Charlene!” yelled the elephant’s trainer, a slim young thing named Willow that looked only about twenty pounds heavier than his ten year-old daughter. How can such a small woman handle such a large beast?, he had asked himself as she ushered the creature out of its “habitat”. And, as it turned out, she could not. For Charlene did not stop there.
Stanley was knocked to the ground by the elephant’s trunk and had not yet recovered when the creature began to trumpet at him and kick dust in his direction with its large feet. He scrambled away to the edge of the enclosure, thankfully away from the rest of the group should the elephant continue its punishment of the man -which it did.
Parents, elephant trainer and children watched in horror as the elephant began to turn and, showing its rump to him, began to spray him with urine.“Oh, gahh!” Stanley choked out, covered in a foul smelling stream. He tried to wipe it out of his eyes and away from his mouth, but only succeeded in spreading the substance further around his face.
He barely heard the trainer yell: “Oh, my god, she’s actually doing it!”
“Doing what, exactly?” asked one of the parents. It was Sarah, a tough as nails mother who babied her girl as if no other child in the world existed.
“She’s actually ready to mate!” yelled the elephant trainer. “She’s come into season before, but all attempts to mate her to the males here were -difficult at best.”
“Why, what happened?”
“She often beat the males that attempted to mount her.”
“So she’s going to beat Stanley to a pulp?” asked Sarah. The girls in the troop began wailing wildly with the news. Stanley was not doing so well either, thinking that he would be crushed to death by a horny elephant.
“Oh, no. Nothing like that.” Willow the trainer said. “Just let her present herself for a while.” she called out to Stanley, still trapped behind the elephant. “When she realizes that you’re not interested in her sexually, she’ll move back to her habitat and we can get you cleaned up.”
“Yeah, Stanley.” Sarah called out laughing: “Don’t make a move on her and you’ll be okay.”
“I’m a married man for chistsakes!” he choked out. “And this is an elephant. Just what in the hell do you think I’m gonna do?”
“Just let her ride it out, sir. She’s the one in control.” The elephant trainer yelled out.
At that moment, Charlene showed just how much she was in control of the situation. She maneuvered Stanley into a corner of the pen and pressed him up against the chain link fence using her butt cheeks to hold him in place.
“Yahhh….Uhhhh….Fuhhh!” Stanley said, trying not to gag at the sight of eager elephant vagina inches from his face. Could this get any worse? He asked himself. And then found out immediately that yes, things could get much worse and that one should never even think questions such as this since Fate enjoys a challenge as well as a good joke.
The elephant began to moan and rock her hips, pressing harder against Stanley and knocking the wind from him. All through the experience, Stanley tried not to look at the creature’s genitals, but like a traffic accident on the highway, his eyes returned again and again. It reminded him of a mutated alien oyster or an embarrassed manatee. The creature’s gyrating produced a reaction from his lower extremities which he tried to battle mentally. Think about baseball, he told himself. Or grandma when you had to wash her back as a kid. Or even the time you had to sift through the dog’s crap in order to retrieve that ring he ate. But despite all his mental defenses, nature had its way. He was done before Charlene let up, and he was certain that the pressure against his lower regions would provide him with the worst rug burn he could ever imagine, or geld him entirely.
Then Charlene moved away, evidently done with her fantasy. But not before she deposited a fresh chunk of manure on his shoes for good measure.
“You should be honored sir, not everyone gets a chance to be the object of an elephant’s attention.” Willow said. She was immediately silenced by a look from Stanley.
Sarah piped up with her own positive spin on the event, saying: “Yeah, Stanley, you turned this into a true educational event for the girls.”
“How so?” he asked, toweling elephant urine out of his eyes.
“We were wondering how to let them earn their ‘Birds and Bees badge.’” She laughed. “And it is true what they say: they’ve got to learn sometime.”
“Thanks… really…” He hissed as another trainer, this one from the tiger enclosure, proceeded to wash him from head to toe with a cold stream of water from the hose usually reserved for cleaning the vaginal and anal cavities of the larger beasts in the zoo.
With ruined clothes, bruised ribs and a stench that he knew would never leave him for a week, Stanley tried to see the upside of the situation and settled on the fact that at least his migraine was gone. But it’s not a remedy I ever want to try again, he told himself.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Orange You Glad?
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 plot Roach.
Orange You Glad?
By Plot Roach
“There are no oranges.” read the sign in the grocery store window. It was one of many signs going up throughout town that day, as well across the state. Seemingly overnight, the entire crop grown in California and most of Florida disappeared. No trace of the fruit could be found, and the police had no suspects. Everyone from the owners of the fields, the shipping companies that handled the crops, to the migrant workers who tended the fruit were questioned. But there were no leads.
Those who had oranges, hoarded them until more could be found or grown. They became a commodity all their own, almost worth their weight in gold. With such a small supply left, those that were able to purchase the orbicular treat were limited to quantity of one per household. Orange juice rapidly disappeared off the grocery store shelves as did orange popsicles and any other orange based item left in production. Pregnant women craving the sweet fruit were left with no other alternative but to seek those items that they could find through black market dealers, paying a high price for their brightly colored treasure.
News spread across the globe of America’s issue with its lack of oranges. Though lemons, limes and other fruits of the citrus family seemed immune to the shortage, only oranges seemed to be in short supply.The fruit itself was declared an endangered species and all plants on domestic soil were kept under guard twenty-four hours a day. All attempts to import the fruit from foreign countries were in vain, as the oranges disappeared from cargo containers once they reached American ports. Any attempts at cloning orange plants and forcing them to produce their fruit faster lead to hybrid plants giving off a sickly reddish thing that tasted nothing like the fruit of the parent plant.
The news featured stories of the extremes some would go to obtain the fruit, including a man who held thirty people in a hospital hostage, demanding a payment of three ten-pound bags of oranges for their safe release. Home invasions became frequent, as burglars went in search not of jewelry or electronics to pawn, but raided refrigerators and pantries of anything orange related that they might contain.
Orange fabric, never really having had its time under the sun, with the exception of biohazard clothing and jumpers for correctional facilities, now became the rage in fashion. Everyone who was anyone would not be caught out and about without wearing at least one piece of clothing in the color. There was so much of it on the street, that cameras had to be specially augmented so that their color filters were not sent askew. And at least one new mental disease was attributed to the over saturation of the color orange seen on a daily basis.
New drugs were released to the general public, to combat both the depression and lack of vitamin c. But nothing seemed to lift the spirit of the nation as the trees under guard ceased to provide new fruit the following year. All hopes were lost to those who lived in the United States and scientists were at a loss to explain the phenomenon, much less find a cure for it. Meanwhile, tours of foreign countries promising a taste of the endangered fruit were at record levels. A series of movies, television series and books flooded the market in the absence of the brightly colored snack. Support groups were overrun by those unable to face life without an orange.
Then, as swiftly as it had begun, it was over. Trees began to produce their precious fruit once again. Orange based foods imported from foreign lands made it through customs with nothing more serious than a slight bruise. All items related to the shortage were quickly forgotten. Thrift stores and second hand outlets had massive sales on products featuring the bright color, no longer in the peoples' hearts. Everything went back to normal without any of it being explained. The Earth revolved in the heavens, and the news turned to the next big crisis, pretending that the Great Orange Shortage had never occurred.
That was when Italy began to run out of tomatoes.
Orange You Glad?
By Plot Roach
“There are no oranges.” read the sign in the grocery store window. It was one of many signs going up throughout town that day, as well across the state. Seemingly overnight, the entire crop grown in California and most of Florida disappeared. No trace of the fruit could be found, and the police had no suspects. Everyone from the owners of the fields, the shipping companies that handled the crops, to the migrant workers who tended the fruit were questioned. But there were no leads.
Those who had oranges, hoarded them until more could be found or grown. They became a commodity all their own, almost worth their weight in gold. With such a small supply left, those that were able to purchase the orbicular treat were limited to quantity of one per household. Orange juice rapidly disappeared off the grocery store shelves as did orange popsicles and any other orange based item left in production. Pregnant women craving the sweet fruit were left with no other alternative but to seek those items that they could find through black market dealers, paying a high price for their brightly colored treasure.
News spread across the globe of America’s issue with its lack of oranges. Though lemons, limes and other fruits of the citrus family seemed immune to the shortage, only oranges seemed to be in short supply.The fruit itself was declared an endangered species and all plants on domestic soil were kept under guard twenty-four hours a day. All attempts to import the fruit from foreign countries were in vain, as the oranges disappeared from cargo containers once they reached American ports. Any attempts at cloning orange plants and forcing them to produce their fruit faster lead to hybrid plants giving off a sickly reddish thing that tasted nothing like the fruit of the parent plant.
The news featured stories of the extremes some would go to obtain the fruit, including a man who held thirty people in a hospital hostage, demanding a payment of three ten-pound bags of oranges for their safe release. Home invasions became frequent, as burglars went in search not of jewelry or electronics to pawn, but raided refrigerators and pantries of anything orange related that they might contain.
Orange fabric, never really having had its time under the sun, with the exception of biohazard clothing and jumpers for correctional facilities, now became the rage in fashion. Everyone who was anyone would not be caught out and about without wearing at least one piece of clothing in the color. There was so much of it on the street, that cameras had to be specially augmented so that their color filters were not sent askew. And at least one new mental disease was attributed to the over saturation of the color orange seen on a daily basis.
New drugs were released to the general public, to combat both the depression and lack of vitamin c. But nothing seemed to lift the spirit of the nation as the trees under guard ceased to provide new fruit the following year. All hopes were lost to those who lived in the United States and scientists were at a loss to explain the phenomenon, much less find a cure for it. Meanwhile, tours of foreign countries promising a taste of the endangered fruit were at record levels. A series of movies, television series and books flooded the market in the absence of the brightly colored snack. Support groups were overrun by those unable to face life without an orange.
Then, as swiftly as it had begun, it was over. Trees began to produce their precious fruit once again. Orange based foods imported from foreign lands made it through customs with nothing more serious than a slight bruise. All items related to the shortage were quickly forgotten. Thrift stores and second hand outlets had massive sales on products featuring the bright color, no longer in the peoples' hearts. Everything went back to normal without any of it being explained. The Earth revolved in the heavens, and the news turned to the next big crisis, pretending that the Great Orange Shortage had never occurred.
That was when Italy began to run out of tomatoes.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
A Different Kind of Birthday
This is a work of fiction. No people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach
A Different Kind of Birthday
By Plot Roach
It is not everyday that you get to watch ducks catch fire while they are flying South. At first I really could not believe my eyes. But there they were, quacking and smoking as they flew past. The smell that followed them in the air was what cinched it for me. I simply stood on the bank of the manmade pond, wondering what to make of such a sign, when all those around me ran back to their cars and drove from the park like all of Armageddon was on their tails.
With the exception of a floating singed feather landing in my direction, I felt relatively safe. I was not the one on fire. And I did not think that the ducks were capable of kamikaze attacks, so I stayed where I stood. I did not think it was one of the signs of the Apocalypse. I remembered something mentioned about four horsemen, angels with trumpets and flaming swords. Maybe even the beast of hell. But I very much doubted that flaming ducks were on the menu -except that soon they would be on someone’s menu. Soon only the park’s caretaker and I were at the scene. “Did you see that?” he asked, as he put his little golf cart into park.
“It was kind of hard not to.” I said. I searched the rest of the park. There were no signs of the other fowl that called the place home and I assumed the worst. “Do you think that the geese and the swans are okay, or…?” I did not want to finish the sentence, as if it would keep those creatures from harm.
“I haven’t seen a feather of them for over three days.” the caretaker said.
“Where would they have gone?”
“Damned if I know. But I ain’t gonna stay to see what happens next.” He put the cart into gear and drove like a bat out of Hell, at all of five miles per hour.
The park, for once, was oddly silent. I took a bench nearest the center of the place and unpacked my lunch. The smell of roasted duck had made me hungry, despite it still being a vulgar image in my brain. Sadly, there was no one to share the scraps of bread and crumbs of potato chips, now with all my feathered friends gone. I sighed and crumbled my potato chip bag into a ball, aiming at the nearest trashcan and missing it by a foot. Once I got up to retrieve my garbage I realized that I was not alone. A small fledgling bird hopped over to the can to investigate the foil ball, pecking at it eagerly.
“Well hello, little fella.” I said. Tossing some of the crumbs from my sandwich in its direction. It scrambled off a short distance when I moved. It was probably more feral than the ducks and geese had been. It was a horrible drab color, like a mixture of dead wood and ash. Its limbs were stubby and barely covered in feathers. But wild, red eyes gazed up at me in a mixture of fear and curiosity.
“It’s okay now." I said, as low as I could to keep from scaring the little thing. “I only want to help you." On closer inspection, it appeared to be a young bird, maybe something along the lines of a pheasant or a peacock. It would have a wonderful wingspan once it reached adulthood. But for now, its tiny little wings kept it close to the ground.
I tossed a few more crumbs and watched it snap them up in a beak fringed with whiskers, almost like a cat. I slowly followed it as it returned to what I could only think had been its nest. Oh no! I thought, for this is where the fire must have started. A big black hole was what was left of the site. A few charred trees stood as sentinels to this atrocity. What kind of person sets a nest on fire? I asked myself, creeping up on the damaged spot. And that was when I saw it, a long graceful neck, coiled back on itself in death. A body that was at once both graceful and plump. A scattering of feathers still chasing the wind showed the color of the mother bird. I snatched one out of the air as the chick attempted to nest under the corpse of the mother bird, now stiff in death.
I studied the feather under the sunlight, not believing my eyes. It was like liquid gold encased by gossamer, with flecks of a rainbow caught between the filaments that formed the feather. I felt a tingle creep up my arm as my brain finally recognized the bird for what it was.
No wonder the poor little thing is alone, I thought. I scattered the rest of my lunch nearby, knowing that none of its kin would be able to care for it, as it was the only one of its kind. The ducks had been the last to see its mother alive as she set her nest aflame to gave birth to a baby phoenix.
A Different Kind of Birthday
By Plot Roach
It is not everyday that you get to watch ducks catch fire while they are flying South. At first I really could not believe my eyes. But there they were, quacking and smoking as they flew past. The smell that followed them in the air was what cinched it for me. I simply stood on the bank of the manmade pond, wondering what to make of such a sign, when all those around me ran back to their cars and drove from the park like all of Armageddon was on their tails.
With the exception of a floating singed feather landing in my direction, I felt relatively safe. I was not the one on fire. And I did not think that the ducks were capable of kamikaze attacks, so I stayed where I stood. I did not think it was one of the signs of the Apocalypse. I remembered something mentioned about four horsemen, angels with trumpets and flaming swords. Maybe even the beast of hell. But I very much doubted that flaming ducks were on the menu -except that soon they would be on someone’s menu. Soon only the park’s caretaker and I were at the scene. “Did you see that?” he asked, as he put his little golf cart into park.
“It was kind of hard not to.” I said. I searched the rest of the park. There were no signs of the other fowl that called the place home and I assumed the worst. “Do you think that the geese and the swans are okay, or…?” I did not want to finish the sentence, as if it would keep those creatures from harm.
“I haven’t seen a feather of them for over three days.” the caretaker said.
“Where would they have gone?”
“Damned if I know. But I ain’t gonna stay to see what happens next.” He put the cart into gear and drove like a bat out of Hell, at all of five miles per hour.
The park, for once, was oddly silent. I took a bench nearest the center of the place and unpacked my lunch. The smell of roasted duck had made me hungry, despite it still being a vulgar image in my brain. Sadly, there was no one to share the scraps of bread and crumbs of potato chips, now with all my feathered friends gone. I sighed and crumbled my potato chip bag into a ball, aiming at the nearest trashcan and missing it by a foot. Once I got up to retrieve my garbage I realized that I was not alone. A small fledgling bird hopped over to the can to investigate the foil ball, pecking at it eagerly.
“Well hello, little fella.” I said. Tossing some of the crumbs from my sandwich in its direction. It scrambled off a short distance when I moved. It was probably more feral than the ducks and geese had been. It was a horrible drab color, like a mixture of dead wood and ash. Its limbs were stubby and barely covered in feathers. But wild, red eyes gazed up at me in a mixture of fear and curiosity.
“It’s okay now." I said, as low as I could to keep from scaring the little thing. “I only want to help you." On closer inspection, it appeared to be a young bird, maybe something along the lines of a pheasant or a peacock. It would have a wonderful wingspan once it reached adulthood. But for now, its tiny little wings kept it close to the ground.
I tossed a few more crumbs and watched it snap them up in a beak fringed with whiskers, almost like a cat. I slowly followed it as it returned to what I could only think had been its nest. Oh no! I thought, for this is where the fire must have started. A big black hole was what was left of the site. A few charred trees stood as sentinels to this atrocity. What kind of person sets a nest on fire? I asked myself, creeping up on the damaged spot. And that was when I saw it, a long graceful neck, coiled back on itself in death. A body that was at once both graceful and plump. A scattering of feathers still chasing the wind showed the color of the mother bird. I snatched one out of the air as the chick attempted to nest under the corpse of the mother bird, now stiff in death.
I studied the feather under the sunlight, not believing my eyes. It was like liquid gold encased by gossamer, with flecks of a rainbow caught between the filaments that formed the feather. I felt a tingle creep up my arm as my brain finally recognized the bird for what it was.
No wonder the poor little thing is alone, I thought. I scattered the rest of my lunch nearby, knowing that none of its kin would be able to care for it, as it was the only one of its kind. The ducks had been the last to see its mother alive as she set her nest aflame to gave birth to a baby phoenix.
Happy Birthday
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
Happy Birthday
By Plot Roach
It was Harry’s second birthday, and Mom and Dad had been up all night putting together toys and getting the apartment ready for his party. Relatives were flying in from all over the country to wish the little guy a happy birthday, sending gifts ahead of time so that he could play with them as soon as he woke that day.
“Is the cake ready?” Dad asked.
“It’s already frosted,” Mom said. “Candles ready to light and waiting on the kitchen counter.
“Do mini tricycles always have to be so hard to put together?”
“Yes. Ever since the invention of the wheel and the first toddler’s birthday, I would assume.”
Dad gave Mom a sour face and went back to the instructions that came with the bike. “I swear these things are in a different language, but I can see clearly that it’s in English.”
“Maybe you would be better off trying the section in French, dear.”
“Ha ha. Hand me that screwdriver, please.”
“Giving up on the bike?” She asked.
“Yeah, I’m trying the Big Boy Potty Seat next.”
“Don’t get pooped before you finish.” Mom snickered.
All through the night, the two made preparations for their son’s party. Relatives began arriving at five that morning, tip toeing around the place and helping where they could.
“I see the new toy.” Uncle Daniel said, pointing to the big screen television on the wall.
“Yeah. We couldn’t resist it.” Dad said. "We thought we’d get ourselves a little something while we stocked up on things for Harry.”
At last the time came, when Mom went into the Harry’s room. She dressed him as he slowly warmed to consciousness. “It’s time, my little guy.” she whispered. “It’s your big day.” She took him by the hand and lead him to the living room where everyone waited for him.
“Happy Birthday!” they all yelled in unison. Harry’s eyes lit up, traveling from one relative to the other. The candles lit, the cake was presented, but Dad had to help the little guy blow them all out. “Hope it was a good wish, son.” He said to Harry, as he let the squiggly little toddler off his lap and onto the floor. Harry made a beeline for the pile of presents and each relative waited with baited breath to see which one he would go to first.
“He’s got his parents’ good taste” said uncle Daniel as the group laughed, leaving Mom and Dad red-faced with embarrassment as Harry stood in the living room, television remote in his mouth. He was too busy smiling and changing the channels on the television by chewing on the buttons to notice the rest of his presents.
Happy Birthday
By Plot Roach
It was Harry’s second birthday, and Mom and Dad had been up all night putting together toys and getting the apartment ready for his party. Relatives were flying in from all over the country to wish the little guy a happy birthday, sending gifts ahead of time so that he could play with them as soon as he woke that day.
“Is the cake ready?” Dad asked.
“It’s already frosted,” Mom said. “Candles ready to light and waiting on the kitchen counter.
“Do mini tricycles always have to be so hard to put together?”
“Yes. Ever since the invention of the wheel and the first toddler’s birthday, I would assume.”
Dad gave Mom a sour face and went back to the instructions that came with the bike. “I swear these things are in a different language, but I can see clearly that it’s in English.”
“Maybe you would be better off trying the section in French, dear.”
“Ha ha. Hand me that screwdriver, please.”
“Giving up on the bike?” She asked.
“Yeah, I’m trying the Big Boy Potty Seat next.”
“Don’t get pooped before you finish.” Mom snickered.
All through the night, the two made preparations for their son’s party. Relatives began arriving at five that morning, tip toeing around the place and helping where they could.
“I see the new toy.” Uncle Daniel said, pointing to the big screen television on the wall.
“Yeah. We couldn’t resist it.” Dad said. "We thought we’d get ourselves a little something while we stocked up on things for Harry.”
At last the time came, when Mom went into the Harry’s room. She dressed him as he slowly warmed to consciousness. “It’s time, my little guy.” she whispered. “It’s your big day.” She took him by the hand and lead him to the living room where everyone waited for him.
“Happy Birthday!” they all yelled in unison. Harry’s eyes lit up, traveling from one relative to the other. The candles lit, the cake was presented, but Dad had to help the little guy blow them all out. “Hope it was a good wish, son.” He said to Harry, as he let the squiggly little toddler off his lap and onto the floor. Harry made a beeline for the pile of presents and each relative waited with baited breath to see which one he would go to first.
“He’s got his parents’ good taste” said uncle Daniel as the group laughed, leaving Mom and Dad red-faced with embarrassment as Harry stood in the living room, television remote in his mouth. He was too busy smiling and changing the channels on the television by chewing on the buttons to notice the rest of his presents.
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