This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
The Fish of Good Fortune
By Plot Roach
Betty watched the goldfish zip back and forth in the large aquarium. Its siblings swam or hovered in place, content to munch on the live plants in the tank with them or to stare at the customers who paused to watch them.
I wonder what they are thinking, Betty asked herself. A big group of the goldfish were condensed, almost ball-like in the center of the tank. While the one fast fish continued it rounds, this time bouncing off the glass walls of the tank. Doesn’t that hurt?, she thought. And then a flash followed by a minute “thunk”. the fish had flipped itself out of the tank to land on Betty’s tennis shoe. The right shoe to be precise.
A worker, using a plastic green hand net to scoop out the fatalities of the day looked at Betty and raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t do it, I swear.” was all she could say. She would have backed away from the fish tank and run from the shop, but the goldfish was still flopping on her foot. The pet shop employee merely reached over, plucked the fish from her foot and dumped it back into the tank with its fellow miniature carp.
He sighed, dumped the dead fish from his small green plastic net into a small garbage bin and stood up, gesturing for her to follow. Betty was frozen to the spot, as if the goldfish had sent an invisible nail through her foot the moment it had made contact with her sneaker. “I uh….” she stammered.
“You’re not in trouble.” the man said. “You just need to see something, is all.”
Betty looked around her, wishing that her mother or father had decided to go to the pet store with her, rather than let her go by herself. She had argued earlier with them that she was twelve, and needed her own space. Now she wished that she had not won that argument after all. She finally pried herself loose of the dark brown carpet and followed the man. He paused at the backroom and Betty knew she should not enter it without another adult present, yet she felt sucked behind him as if drawn like a magnet. He left the curtain open to the back room, as if sensing her thoughts. He pointed to the pictures on the walls of the room, some of which she recognized.
“Do you know them?’ he asked.
“Some. Like that one is the president. And that lady’s picture over there… Isn’t she the doctor who found a cure for that weird disease that kills kids?”
He nodded and said: “There’s a reason why their pictures are here. And it has something to do with you. Do you know why?”
Betty merely shook her head, taking a step back to run in case the man got weird.
“Relax” he said. “All these people are very influential to those around them. Some are leaders, some healers and others just lead by example. All of them are making the world a better place. And you will too.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because of the goldfish.”
“The one that landed on my foot?”
“Yes. My grandfather ran this store, before passing it onto my father. He passed it on to me. All the while one thing remained the same: when the goldfish jumps from the tank onto the foot of a person in this shop, that person is destined for greatness.”
“A goldfish? And it landing on my foot means that I’ll be someone special?”
“I have no doubt of it, young lady. It happened with them, didn’t it?”
Betty smiled, blushed a bit and backed away. “Is that all?” she asked.
“The carp is a symbol of prosperity, good fortune and a happy fate. Let it lead you to the path where you belong.”
And with that, the man dismissed her. Her head was still swimming like the goldfish that escaped the tank. I’m supposed to be someone special? She asked herself. Yet somehow, she felt the truth of it deep within her heart. She would carry this memory for the rest of her lifetime and use it to inspire her even in the worst of times.
Meanwhile the man returned back to his task of cleaning the aquariums of dead and dying fish. His grandfather, back from his lunch break, sidled up to the man and clapped him on the back. “I heard what you said to that girl, Lee.”
“And?”
“When a fish jumps from the tank it only means that it’s sick and about to die. What was with all that talk about fate and good luck? You know I only keep those pictures in back because they‘re autographed.”
“Everyone needs a nudge now and again, Grandpa.”
“Just don’t make a habit out of it, boy. The last thing we need are people coming here to wait for suicidal fish to tell them that they’re special.”
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Thinning the Herd
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
Thinning the Herd
By Plot Roach
In the years before the invasion, we thought ourselves alone in the universe. Even the smartest among us proposed that the nearest sentient life forms would be long dead before they could ever make contact with us, much less cross the universe to meet us. They were wrong.
They came swiftly, and with almost no warning. The government failed to warn us, thinking that the mass panic it would cause before the invasion would be worse than was what to come. People with wealth and power were able to escape for a time. But before long, no amount of money or guns could keep you safe from the Hunters.
All modern technology above a basic gun was rendered unusable due to alien control. People tried to leave the cities in dead cars and planes dropped from the sky. At first it was just our fears, and what we did to one another that caused all the chaos. You would be surprised what the most patient and peace loving among us could do when faced with an unknown threat. Churches begged their followers to abandon their communities and live in compounds to serve the lord, promising protection from these “heathens from space”, only to fall into violence as supplies dwindled. Other groups formed suicide pacts. The streets were littered with the bodies of innocents who had gotten in the wrong person’s way.
Then the first reaping began. The creatures, dressed in camouflaged armor, began to take the Earth, city by city. The human residents disappeared -but not without leaving evidence of their predators behind. The first news footage, taken from a civilian’s camcorder, showed one of the Hunters catching a homeless man and gutting him on the street, like one does a prey animal, taking him back to its ship. One by one, the major cities fell, streets were empty of life except for flies feeding on the rotting human offal left behind.
Those of us that were left took to the country, hoping to evade the fate of those who refused to leave the city. It was hard to live in the wild, now trying to survive on what was almost a lost knowledge of the wilderness. Cody, our best hunter, took me out into the winter snows with him, to teach me how to hunt with a crossbow. We brought back anything we could, from rabbit to porcupine. One day we tracked deer into a box canyon. Cody instructed me to only shoot at the bucks, since the does would be pregnant and would provide us with more meat in the future. He told me that he could remember a time as a child when his own father had taken him hunting. “Not because the food was in short supply, but because there were too many deer for the land to support throughout the winter. We had to thin the herd, you see. So that the others could live and prosper later in the year.”
Years passed, and we thought ourselves alone in the world. All radio communication, email and telephone service had ended with the first scout ship’s planet fall. Then there were signs posted along the abandoned highways. Leaflets were dropped from the sky.
Papers written in various languages proclaiming that the world was free from the alien invaders. Yet the wording was off, as if pieced together by someone who didn’t know our language. We still saw the ships pass by overhead. Had the aliens come to know enough about us to try and trick us out of hiding?
We tucked ourselves even further into the mountains, hoping that we could keep ourselves safe. Our lives followed the cycles of nature and it was three more years since the last pamphlet had fallen from the sky, when we ventured out into the open, seeking food for our little village.
We stalked across the land made white with winter’s cold oblivion, a herd of deer in our sights. Cody raised his crossbow, but was unable to let the arrow fly. The deer spooked and ran into the tree line. Meanwhile, Cody was thrown back by the force of a blast. It left a neat, tennis ball sized whole in his chest which was cauterized closed before his body ever hit the snow. Knee deep in the snow, I could only watch as the Hunters approached. I knew that Cody was dead beside me. One of the Hunters raised an arm in my direction, ready to shoot at me and end me like my fallen lover. The other hunter pushed the first alien’s arm into the air and motioned to me. It then gestured to itself, miming a mound over its belly. They moved forward and I backed away into the trees, watching as they gutted Cody like we prepared the deer in order to bring them back to camp. They knew that I was pregnant, or maybe just guessed at it. In either case they spared me for the season. Perhaps they too were only thinning the herd.
Thinning the Herd
By Plot Roach
In the years before the invasion, we thought ourselves alone in the universe. Even the smartest among us proposed that the nearest sentient life forms would be long dead before they could ever make contact with us, much less cross the universe to meet us. They were wrong.
They came swiftly, and with almost no warning. The government failed to warn us, thinking that the mass panic it would cause before the invasion would be worse than was what to come. People with wealth and power were able to escape for a time. But before long, no amount of money or guns could keep you safe from the Hunters.
All modern technology above a basic gun was rendered unusable due to alien control. People tried to leave the cities in dead cars and planes dropped from the sky. At first it was just our fears, and what we did to one another that caused all the chaos. You would be surprised what the most patient and peace loving among us could do when faced with an unknown threat. Churches begged their followers to abandon their communities and live in compounds to serve the lord, promising protection from these “heathens from space”, only to fall into violence as supplies dwindled. Other groups formed suicide pacts. The streets were littered with the bodies of innocents who had gotten in the wrong person’s way.
Then the first reaping began. The creatures, dressed in camouflaged armor, began to take the Earth, city by city. The human residents disappeared -but not without leaving evidence of their predators behind. The first news footage, taken from a civilian’s camcorder, showed one of the Hunters catching a homeless man and gutting him on the street, like one does a prey animal, taking him back to its ship. One by one, the major cities fell, streets were empty of life except for flies feeding on the rotting human offal left behind.
Those of us that were left took to the country, hoping to evade the fate of those who refused to leave the city. It was hard to live in the wild, now trying to survive on what was almost a lost knowledge of the wilderness. Cody, our best hunter, took me out into the winter snows with him, to teach me how to hunt with a crossbow. We brought back anything we could, from rabbit to porcupine. One day we tracked deer into a box canyon. Cody instructed me to only shoot at the bucks, since the does would be pregnant and would provide us with more meat in the future. He told me that he could remember a time as a child when his own father had taken him hunting. “Not because the food was in short supply, but because there were too many deer for the land to support throughout the winter. We had to thin the herd, you see. So that the others could live and prosper later in the year.”
Years passed, and we thought ourselves alone in the world. All radio communication, email and telephone service had ended with the first scout ship’s planet fall. Then there were signs posted along the abandoned highways. Leaflets were dropped from the sky.
Papers written in various languages proclaiming that the world was free from the alien invaders. Yet the wording was off, as if pieced together by someone who didn’t know our language. We still saw the ships pass by overhead. Had the aliens come to know enough about us to try and trick us out of hiding?
We tucked ourselves even further into the mountains, hoping that we could keep ourselves safe. Our lives followed the cycles of nature and it was three more years since the last pamphlet had fallen from the sky, when we ventured out into the open, seeking food for our little village.
We stalked across the land made white with winter’s cold oblivion, a herd of deer in our sights. Cody raised his crossbow, but was unable to let the arrow fly. The deer spooked and ran into the tree line. Meanwhile, Cody was thrown back by the force of a blast. It left a neat, tennis ball sized whole in his chest which was cauterized closed before his body ever hit the snow. Knee deep in the snow, I could only watch as the Hunters approached. I knew that Cody was dead beside me. One of the Hunters raised an arm in my direction, ready to shoot at me and end me like my fallen lover. The other hunter pushed the first alien’s arm into the air and motioned to me. It then gestured to itself, miming a mound over its belly. They moved forward and I backed away into the trees, watching as they gutted Cody like we prepared the deer in order to bring them back to camp. They knew that I was pregnant, or maybe just guessed at it. In either case they spared me for the season. Perhaps they too were only thinning the herd.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Cat Curses and Cricket Farts
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
Cat Curses and Cricket Farts
By Plot Roach
She ran from light pole to light pole, trying to remain in the shadows, should the zombies see her and take chase. The last of five humans to remain alive on the run from the Liberty Mega Mall to a little strip of stores which had been closed and boarded up before the Zombie Apocalypse, she searched the streets for any signs of movement before dashing across the street and breaking the front window of a guns and ammunition shop to look for a means to arm herself.
As luck would have it, the shop had already been pillaged of its goods. Damn rednecks and end of the world extremists, was all she could think as her eyes drifted over the nearly empty shelves and stray bullets that littered the floor. Maybe there’s a back room, she thought. She headed straight for the back of the shop, keeping an ear out for any sounds, should someone or something track her into the derelict building. The back of the shop boasted a steel lined door that looked more at home in a bank than in a dime store ammunitions depot. She reached out to the door handle, testing it to see if it was locked. She met with resistance and sighed. Of course it’s locked, you idiot. She told herself. It’s probably been emptied by the previous occupants long before the zombie outbreak. She turned away from the door, as her options raced through her head. I could stay here for the night. I could move on to the next shop and hope that there are weapons or at least some food and water. Or I could-
That was when the sound of a “snikt” alerted her to the door opening behind her. But how-? She asked herself as a blinding light filled the room and made her turn away until her eyes could adjust.
“I told you that she would come here, Henry. You owe me thirty credits.”
“I’ll pay you only if she walks through the door.”
“Please, young lady. If you would be so kind as to take shelter within our little establishment, and make me a richer man…”
“No bribing her.”
“Did I offer a bribe? No. I was merely asking politely.”
Her eyes finally adjusted to the light and she stood facing two men in suits that reminded her of old time gangster movies. One was lean like a thin tree and the other a small round blob like a human bowling ball. The small man smiled and gestured to the inside of the safe. She hesitated. Who were they and why would they want to help her? She asked herself. Then the sound of breaking glass and the unmistakable sound of shuffling undead feet made up her mind for her as she dashed through the space and jumped into the well lit room, the safe’s door closing behind her.
“Where am I ?” She asked.
“Forgive us for our lack of manners, dear child.” said the Blob. “You are at the Armageddon Armory. We offer a full service package to all post apocalyptic warriors in their search to rid the earth of inhuman hordes."
“Excuse me?"
“Perhaps a better introduction is in order.” said the Stick. “We are travelers from a different world that offer assistance to those who need it. Your world is in chaos by….undead?”
“The dead are back to life, yeah.”
“Were they dead before becoming zombies? Or were they infected with bites and such? Was it a virus? A nuclear bomb? Maybe a cursed artifact?” asked Blob.
“I don’t know… It’s just that I woke up and my neighbor tried to eat my face off. He was human enough last night, though he has a tendency to miss the toilet when he’s drunk, and act like a pig at parties…”
“Did he have any visible wounds?” Stick asked.
“On his shoulder and one side of his neck.”
“Were they flowing freely or had the blood clotted?” Asked Blob.
“Why does it matter? He was a freakin’ zombie!”
“Yes, dear.” said Stick. “But it helps us identify the type of zombie and which weapons would do best against it.”
"Clotted, I think" she sighed, holding herself in her arms, looking for a way out of the safe. That was when she realized that she was no longer in a little safe. She was in a large warehouse filled with shelves upon shelves of weapons, all highlighted by hundreds of banks of florescent lights. She looked about her, wide eyed and open mouthed.
“Ah… She realizes that she’s not in Kansas anymore.” said Blob, poking Stick in the side with an elbow.
“You mean California.” Stick corrected.
“No, I mean…it’s from a movie -oh, never mind!” blurted the Blob.
“Uh, how did I get here?”
“We let you in. We saw what had become of your world and know that you need the right sort of tools to set it to right once again. So we’re here to outfit you for your fight against the undead.” said Stick.
“You want me to fight…those things?”
“No one else will be better suited for the job, pardon the pun, once we are done with you.” said Blob.
“You can’t expect me to-”
“Not dressed like that, you can’t.” said Blob.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Nothing, if you’re going to church group… but fighting the undead requires finesse.” said Stick.
“What do you have in mind?”
The Stick and the Blob smiled at one another, and her heart sank. They ushered her deeper into the warehouse. “Up first is wardrobe.” said Blob. She stepped into a small mirrored chamber and spent several minutes rummaging through the outfits offered to her. She exited the small changing area and exclaimed: “You’ve got to be kidding me! How am I supposed to protect myself dressed like this?”
“The cargo pants will hold all of your weapons. And as for the exposed flesh not covered by the chain-mail bikini, it will only serve to act as a diversion. For you see, the zombies will be too busy studying your flesh to see what you are about to do with your weapons, giving you the upper hand.”
“Now what?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
“Now for the weapons of your trade.” said Stick. They came to a long stainless steel table laden with odd bits and pieces of technology. “This is a called a ‘cat’s curse.’” he said, holding up a small glass orb containing a clear liquid. Etched upon the orb was the silhouette of a Halloween style cat, back arched and spiky furred. She rolled it around in her hand as Stick put a few of the orbs into a utility belt. “When broken upon the ground, they incite a fight between anyone within a ten foot radius. Like a cat fight.”
“It made of actual cat’s breath.” Blob said.
“Cat hisses, specifically.” corrected Stick.
“This” said Blob, holding up a small black ball bearing. “Is a cricket fart.”
“A what?” she asked.
“He means that they are called ‘cricket farts’ in the industry.” said Stick.
“As in, when you roll one of them down a street that you will be traveling, they mute the sound of anything in the immediate area to complete silence. So much so that you can hear a cricket fart from five miles away.”
“Why would I need this?” she asked.
“Because sometimes you need to sneak up on a group of zombies in order to kill them all at once. Or, maybe you need to sneak away before they can find you and do you in.” offered Blob.
“Do you have any Real weapons?” she asked.
“Oh, but of course.” Blob said. And ushered her to one of the copious shelves. She picked up a small handgun as Blob looked askance at her. He quickly took the firearm away from her and gave her a small silver boxlike gun of which she had never seen the likes of before. “Think of it like a futuristic Uzi.” Blob said.
“But where do the bullets go?” she asked.
“You let us worry about that.” said Stick. "It is called the Dragon Fire Overkill 3000. While you fire it, the bullets will automatically refill themselves from a separate location. Your job is to fire at the zombies, not worry about where your ammunition is coming from and if you’re about to run out of bullets.”
“But how is that possible?” she asked.
“Because the bullets are teleported there,” said Stick. He waved a hand against the wall behind them and another door opened. There hanging in neat little piles appeared an endless line of ammunition on long strings of transparent filament. “from here. And while the supply is not ‘endless’, so to speak, you still have quite a bit of bullets before you run out.”
“Wow, what else does it do?”
“It comes with a non jamming repeater, so you need not worry if the gun falls to the ground, is used to incur blunt force trauma, or is dunked into water -it will still work flawlessly. As well as ‘non friendly fire’ option.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“When you encounter other survivors, you have the option of ‘friending’ them, just think of them with a pleasant feeling when holding the gun, and it will not fire upon them in an accidental manner. If, however, these ‘friends’ turn into zombies, you will have to recalibrate the gun before sending them off to their ‘final death.’”
“Wow. What’s all this going to cost me?” she asked. Both men smiled and again she had the unmistakable feeling that there was more going on here than they were letting on.
“We’ll settle up later, my dear.” said Stick. “Once you have vanquished your undead foes. Until then, we’ll send our little tracking device with you. It will let us know when your journey is at an end.” he released a small silver ball which hovered about her head and watched her with half a dozen little camera lenses. She thanked them and headed back outside the safe door, back into the ruined ammo shop, back against the flesh starved zombies. Blob and Stick closed the door behind her and waited for their next customer.
“When her ‘journey is at an end?’” asked Blob. “That’s a creepy way of putting it.”
“You don’t really think she’s going to make it, do you?” asked Stick.
“Not dressed like that… But still, you never know.” said Blob.
“I just hope the footage is good with this one.” said Stick.
“Hey, we sent our best camera with her. I’m sure what it transmits will be better than what we got from that ‘Ash’ guy.” said Blob.
“We’re going to need better than ‘good’ if we’re going to recoup our expenses.” said Stick.
“Relax, you know Hollywood blockbusters always pay off when it comes to summer zombie-killer movies. Look at how much we earned off that Alice chick. And the ‘realistic effects’ off this one will definitely be killer.” said Blob.
They both laughed at the pun as a young girl in a blood stained tank top ran into the room, slamming the door of the safe behind her. Her big blue eyes took in the warehouse, framed by her curly black hair. She panted, out of breath and her bosom proved to be more than ample beneath her soiled shirt.
“Definitely a heartbreaker.” said Blob.
“Let’s hope she breaks the box office as well.” said Stick.
Cat Curses and Cricket Farts
By Plot Roach
She ran from light pole to light pole, trying to remain in the shadows, should the zombies see her and take chase. The last of five humans to remain alive on the run from the Liberty Mega Mall to a little strip of stores which had been closed and boarded up before the Zombie Apocalypse, she searched the streets for any signs of movement before dashing across the street and breaking the front window of a guns and ammunition shop to look for a means to arm herself.
As luck would have it, the shop had already been pillaged of its goods. Damn rednecks and end of the world extremists, was all she could think as her eyes drifted over the nearly empty shelves and stray bullets that littered the floor. Maybe there’s a back room, she thought. She headed straight for the back of the shop, keeping an ear out for any sounds, should someone or something track her into the derelict building. The back of the shop boasted a steel lined door that looked more at home in a bank than in a dime store ammunitions depot. She reached out to the door handle, testing it to see if it was locked. She met with resistance and sighed. Of course it’s locked, you idiot. She told herself. It’s probably been emptied by the previous occupants long before the zombie outbreak. She turned away from the door, as her options raced through her head. I could stay here for the night. I could move on to the next shop and hope that there are weapons or at least some food and water. Or I could-
That was when the sound of a “snikt” alerted her to the door opening behind her. But how-? She asked herself as a blinding light filled the room and made her turn away until her eyes could adjust.
“I told you that she would come here, Henry. You owe me thirty credits.”
“I’ll pay you only if she walks through the door.”
“Please, young lady. If you would be so kind as to take shelter within our little establishment, and make me a richer man…”
“No bribing her.”
“Did I offer a bribe? No. I was merely asking politely.”
Her eyes finally adjusted to the light and she stood facing two men in suits that reminded her of old time gangster movies. One was lean like a thin tree and the other a small round blob like a human bowling ball. The small man smiled and gestured to the inside of the safe. She hesitated. Who were they and why would they want to help her? She asked herself. Then the sound of breaking glass and the unmistakable sound of shuffling undead feet made up her mind for her as she dashed through the space and jumped into the well lit room, the safe’s door closing behind her.
“Where am I ?” She asked.
“Forgive us for our lack of manners, dear child.” said the Blob. “You are at the Armageddon Armory. We offer a full service package to all post apocalyptic warriors in their search to rid the earth of inhuman hordes."
“Excuse me?"
“Perhaps a better introduction is in order.” said the Stick. “We are travelers from a different world that offer assistance to those who need it. Your world is in chaos by….undead?”
“The dead are back to life, yeah.”
“Were they dead before becoming zombies? Or were they infected with bites and such? Was it a virus? A nuclear bomb? Maybe a cursed artifact?” asked Blob.
“I don’t know… It’s just that I woke up and my neighbor tried to eat my face off. He was human enough last night, though he has a tendency to miss the toilet when he’s drunk, and act like a pig at parties…”
“Did he have any visible wounds?” Stick asked.
“On his shoulder and one side of his neck.”
“Were they flowing freely or had the blood clotted?” Asked Blob.
“Why does it matter? He was a freakin’ zombie!”
“Yes, dear.” said Stick. “But it helps us identify the type of zombie and which weapons would do best against it.”
"Clotted, I think" she sighed, holding herself in her arms, looking for a way out of the safe. That was when she realized that she was no longer in a little safe. She was in a large warehouse filled with shelves upon shelves of weapons, all highlighted by hundreds of banks of florescent lights. She looked about her, wide eyed and open mouthed.
“Ah… She realizes that she’s not in Kansas anymore.” said Blob, poking Stick in the side with an elbow.
“You mean California.” Stick corrected.
“No, I mean…it’s from a movie -oh, never mind!” blurted the Blob.
“Uh, how did I get here?”
“We let you in. We saw what had become of your world and know that you need the right sort of tools to set it to right once again. So we’re here to outfit you for your fight against the undead.” said Stick.
“You want me to fight…those things?”
“No one else will be better suited for the job, pardon the pun, once we are done with you.” said Blob.
“You can’t expect me to-”
“Not dressed like that, you can’t.” said Blob.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Nothing, if you’re going to church group… but fighting the undead requires finesse.” said Stick.
“What do you have in mind?”
The Stick and the Blob smiled at one another, and her heart sank. They ushered her deeper into the warehouse. “Up first is wardrobe.” said Blob. She stepped into a small mirrored chamber and spent several minutes rummaging through the outfits offered to her. She exited the small changing area and exclaimed: “You’ve got to be kidding me! How am I supposed to protect myself dressed like this?”
“The cargo pants will hold all of your weapons. And as for the exposed flesh not covered by the chain-mail bikini, it will only serve to act as a diversion. For you see, the zombies will be too busy studying your flesh to see what you are about to do with your weapons, giving you the upper hand.”
“Now what?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
“Now for the weapons of your trade.” said Stick. They came to a long stainless steel table laden with odd bits and pieces of technology. “This is a called a ‘cat’s curse.’” he said, holding up a small glass orb containing a clear liquid. Etched upon the orb was the silhouette of a Halloween style cat, back arched and spiky furred. She rolled it around in her hand as Stick put a few of the orbs into a utility belt. “When broken upon the ground, they incite a fight between anyone within a ten foot radius. Like a cat fight.”
“It made of actual cat’s breath.” Blob said.
“Cat hisses, specifically.” corrected Stick.
“This” said Blob, holding up a small black ball bearing. “Is a cricket fart.”
“A what?” she asked.
“He means that they are called ‘cricket farts’ in the industry.” said Stick.
“As in, when you roll one of them down a street that you will be traveling, they mute the sound of anything in the immediate area to complete silence. So much so that you can hear a cricket fart from five miles away.”
“Why would I need this?” she asked.
“Because sometimes you need to sneak up on a group of zombies in order to kill them all at once. Or, maybe you need to sneak away before they can find you and do you in.” offered Blob.
“Do you have any Real weapons?” she asked.
“Oh, but of course.” Blob said. And ushered her to one of the copious shelves. She picked up a small handgun as Blob looked askance at her. He quickly took the firearm away from her and gave her a small silver boxlike gun of which she had never seen the likes of before. “Think of it like a futuristic Uzi.” Blob said.
“But where do the bullets go?” she asked.
“You let us worry about that.” said Stick. "It is called the Dragon Fire Overkill 3000. While you fire it, the bullets will automatically refill themselves from a separate location. Your job is to fire at the zombies, not worry about where your ammunition is coming from and if you’re about to run out of bullets.”
“But how is that possible?” she asked.
“Because the bullets are teleported there,” said Stick. He waved a hand against the wall behind them and another door opened. There hanging in neat little piles appeared an endless line of ammunition on long strings of transparent filament. “from here. And while the supply is not ‘endless’, so to speak, you still have quite a bit of bullets before you run out.”
“Wow, what else does it do?”
“It comes with a non jamming repeater, so you need not worry if the gun falls to the ground, is used to incur blunt force trauma, or is dunked into water -it will still work flawlessly. As well as ‘non friendly fire’ option.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“When you encounter other survivors, you have the option of ‘friending’ them, just think of them with a pleasant feeling when holding the gun, and it will not fire upon them in an accidental manner. If, however, these ‘friends’ turn into zombies, you will have to recalibrate the gun before sending them off to their ‘final death.’”
“Wow. What’s all this going to cost me?” she asked. Both men smiled and again she had the unmistakable feeling that there was more going on here than they were letting on.
“We’ll settle up later, my dear.” said Stick. “Once you have vanquished your undead foes. Until then, we’ll send our little tracking device with you. It will let us know when your journey is at an end.” he released a small silver ball which hovered about her head and watched her with half a dozen little camera lenses. She thanked them and headed back outside the safe door, back into the ruined ammo shop, back against the flesh starved zombies. Blob and Stick closed the door behind her and waited for their next customer.
“When her ‘journey is at an end?’” asked Blob. “That’s a creepy way of putting it.”
“You don’t really think she’s going to make it, do you?” asked Stick.
“Not dressed like that… But still, you never know.” said Blob.
“I just hope the footage is good with this one.” said Stick.
“Hey, we sent our best camera with her. I’m sure what it transmits will be better than what we got from that ‘Ash’ guy.” said Blob.
“We’re going to need better than ‘good’ if we’re going to recoup our expenses.” said Stick.
“Relax, you know Hollywood blockbusters always pay off when it comes to summer zombie-killer movies. Look at how much we earned off that Alice chick. And the ‘realistic effects’ off this one will definitely be killer.” said Blob.
They both laughed at the pun as a young girl in a blood stained tank top ran into the room, slamming the door of the safe behind her. Her big blue eyes took in the warehouse, framed by her curly black hair. She panted, out of breath and her bosom proved to be more than ample beneath her soiled shirt.
“Definitely a heartbreaker.” said Blob.
“Let’s hope she breaks the box office as well.” said Stick.
Monday, March 28, 2011
How the Cheetah Got His Spots
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
How the Cheetah Got His Spots
By Plot Roach
When the earth was new and the first people came to live on the land, the moon presented herself before them, shining and white. At first they were pleased with her color, for it was not one that they had seen in their wanderings. The moon was a beautiful maiden, as pale as the first rays of sunlight. But soon they began to scorn her, for she did not seem to fit into their world. The grass was green, the sky blue and the mountains the many hues of brown. How could such a white creature live among them? In the eyes of the first people, this paleness was a curse, for if any hunter were to stalk his prey in the wild grasslands, surely the animal would see him and bound away.
The moon was disgusted with herself, being of such an odd color. She grew thin until she was but a sliver of herself. The people grew scared, for if she disappeared entirely, they would be unable to hunt by her light at night.
A man stood up among them, scorned by his own people for he was darker than the night itself. It was said that the night sky, upon seeing him, blushed from embarrassment and bright freckles of light decorated its face. Thus the first stars sprang forth into this new world.
The dark man protested his love for the moon, singing to her of his plight. And how that even if they were cast aside by the first people, they could find companionship and maybe love with one another. The moon soon grew back to her ample size, allowing them to hunt once again by the moon’s light. The first people were grateful to the man and the moon, but still they were not accepted as members of the tribe.
The people complained of the unnatural bond between the dark man and the pale moon to the shaman, and he sought to correct this mistake before the bond between man and moon could bear fruit. For the first people believed nothing good could come of such a union.
So the shaman went to the man during the day, when the moon was asleep, and told him of how the mighty lion had stolen her away for his own. If the man wished to rescue his heavenly bride, and allow the people to continue hunting by her light, he must face this monster to steal her back.
So the dark man took his spear and headed for the lion’s home, vowing to take back his beloved. It was many miles before he would reach the creature, but the shaman was sure that the man would meet his death long before the moon woke from her slumber.
The dark man faced the lion and challenged him to a duel to the death, the winner would take the lion’s bride. The lion, incensed that the man would take his lionesses, rose to the challenge and soon the dusk was painted with their blood.
The moon rose as the last rays of sunlight swept themselves from the land. She searched for her lover among the first people, yet none would tell her where he was at. It was only when she paused at a pool of water to admire her reflection did she hear the gossip of two women and learn the fate of her mortal beloved.
Though she traveled through the night sky, she had no wings to fly or feet to run with, so she asked all of the animals of the land to help her find her man before it was too late. Most turned away from her, believing her to be as much an abomination as the first people saw her. But the cheetah, a swift lean cat the color of the dry sands of the earth pledged himself to her and shot away into the night to find the dark man. The moon reached down from the sky and blessed him with her magic.
The cheetah had been fast before her blessing, but now raced so fast that the color left the tip of his tail because it could not hold on to such a fast creature. But no matter how fast he was, death was faster. By the time the cheetah had come to the battleground of man and lion, it was too late. The lion licked the last of the man’s blood from his fangs and hissed at this new intruder. “Have you come for my wives as well?” he roared.
“No, dear friend. I only came to tell you that the fight was staged by the first people to be rid of the moon’s lover.” the cheetah panted. “But I am too late and now the moon will be without her man.”
The lion was so angry at the peoples’ lie that he vowed forever to be their enemy, killing them when he could and roaring throughout the night when he could not. He became so jealous that he chased his sons out of his pride, and that is why no lion will tolerate a male lion near his wives.
The cheetah waited by the man’s corpse and told the moon what had happened when she was finally able to arrive. He buried the man’s corpse and stood watch over the grave for three days and nights so that the earth would take him completely and he would find peace. The moon in her sadness released the last of her magic, showering the cheetah with her tears. As each drop fell upon his hide, a dark stain appeared.
She wanders the earth, remembering her lover and growing full and beautiful. Then she sees her reflection and thinks of what the people did to trick her and grows thin again. The cheetah still retains his swiftness, though he wears the sorrow of the moon forever upon his coat. And no matter how fast he is, he still cannot outrun death.
How the Cheetah Got His Spots
By Plot Roach
When the earth was new and the first people came to live on the land, the moon presented herself before them, shining and white. At first they were pleased with her color, for it was not one that they had seen in their wanderings. The moon was a beautiful maiden, as pale as the first rays of sunlight. But soon they began to scorn her, for she did not seem to fit into their world. The grass was green, the sky blue and the mountains the many hues of brown. How could such a white creature live among them? In the eyes of the first people, this paleness was a curse, for if any hunter were to stalk his prey in the wild grasslands, surely the animal would see him and bound away.
The moon was disgusted with herself, being of such an odd color. She grew thin until she was but a sliver of herself. The people grew scared, for if she disappeared entirely, they would be unable to hunt by her light at night.
A man stood up among them, scorned by his own people for he was darker than the night itself. It was said that the night sky, upon seeing him, blushed from embarrassment and bright freckles of light decorated its face. Thus the first stars sprang forth into this new world.
The dark man protested his love for the moon, singing to her of his plight. And how that even if they were cast aside by the first people, they could find companionship and maybe love with one another. The moon soon grew back to her ample size, allowing them to hunt once again by the moon’s light. The first people were grateful to the man and the moon, but still they were not accepted as members of the tribe.
The people complained of the unnatural bond between the dark man and the pale moon to the shaman, and he sought to correct this mistake before the bond between man and moon could bear fruit. For the first people believed nothing good could come of such a union.
So the shaman went to the man during the day, when the moon was asleep, and told him of how the mighty lion had stolen her away for his own. If the man wished to rescue his heavenly bride, and allow the people to continue hunting by her light, he must face this monster to steal her back.
So the dark man took his spear and headed for the lion’s home, vowing to take back his beloved. It was many miles before he would reach the creature, but the shaman was sure that the man would meet his death long before the moon woke from her slumber.
The dark man faced the lion and challenged him to a duel to the death, the winner would take the lion’s bride. The lion, incensed that the man would take his lionesses, rose to the challenge and soon the dusk was painted with their blood.
The moon rose as the last rays of sunlight swept themselves from the land. She searched for her lover among the first people, yet none would tell her where he was at. It was only when she paused at a pool of water to admire her reflection did she hear the gossip of two women and learn the fate of her mortal beloved.
Though she traveled through the night sky, she had no wings to fly or feet to run with, so she asked all of the animals of the land to help her find her man before it was too late. Most turned away from her, believing her to be as much an abomination as the first people saw her. But the cheetah, a swift lean cat the color of the dry sands of the earth pledged himself to her and shot away into the night to find the dark man. The moon reached down from the sky and blessed him with her magic.
The cheetah had been fast before her blessing, but now raced so fast that the color left the tip of his tail because it could not hold on to such a fast creature. But no matter how fast he was, death was faster. By the time the cheetah had come to the battleground of man and lion, it was too late. The lion licked the last of the man’s blood from his fangs and hissed at this new intruder. “Have you come for my wives as well?” he roared.
“No, dear friend. I only came to tell you that the fight was staged by the first people to be rid of the moon’s lover.” the cheetah panted. “But I am too late and now the moon will be without her man.”
The lion was so angry at the peoples’ lie that he vowed forever to be their enemy, killing them when he could and roaring throughout the night when he could not. He became so jealous that he chased his sons out of his pride, and that is why no lion will tolerate a male lion near his wives.
The cheetah waited by the man’s corpse and told the moon what had happened when she was finally able to arrive. He buried the man’s corpse and stood watch over the grave for three days and nights so that the earth would take him completely and he would find peace. The moon in her sadness released the last of her magic, showering the cheetah with her tears. As each drop fell upon his hide, a dark stain appeared.
She wanders the earth, remembering her lover and growing full and beautiful. Then she sees her reflection and thinks of what the people did to trick her and grows thin again. The cheetah still retains his swiftness, though he wears the sorrow of the moon forever upon his coat. And no matter how fast he is, he still cannot outrun death.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
A Big Friggin’ Hole
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
A Big Friggin’ Hole
By Plot Roach
Carol looked out on the bright new day and sighed. Finally she had the chance to see the Grand Canyon for herself, but strangely, she was not as impressed as she felt that she should have been. It’s just a big friggin’ hole, she thought. Maybe it looks batter in a certain light, or with live tourists and donkey tours. But for now, it’s just a big hole.
She turned away from the land formation which had wowed travelers for generations, only to walk back inside one of the tourist shops that lined the national monument. She grabbed another few cans of soda from the refrigerator (though the section no longer held power), a bag of teriyaki beef jerky and some ranch flavored Corn Nuts. She had gotten to the site the night before, and in the dark she thought that the canyon had looked only vaguely like a big hole. She had decided to wait until dawn to make her full judgment of the place and found that first impressions really were the strongest. She pulled a folding chair out of the front window display and a pair of sunglasses off of a revolving rack, stepping over the corpse of the cashier as she went. Her purse bobbed by her side, hitting her in the hip in time to her footsteps. She did not know why she kept her purse with her at all times, chalking it up to habit.
She set the chair by the edge of “the big hole”, as she now thought of it, and opened the paperback as she waited for the dawn’s first rays of sunlight to warm this place. I’ll either have to stay another night or else leave before noon if I want to make it through the next road before it overheats the car, she thought. She was leaning more towards staying the night, and maybe raiding some of the local shops for “Authentic Indian Jewelry” as advertised in their windows. She had a thing for turquoise and silver. And now thanks to the end of the world, she could have all that she could find. Her fingers were lined with the stuff and she had pierced her ears a third time just to accommodate a new pair of earrings she had found while traveling through the ruins of Las Vegas. As for her neck, when she looked into a mirror she often felt like one of those Amazon women she saw in her husband’s “National Geographic” magazines with the brass neck rings which made them look like aliens.
Chubby, silver decorated fingers tore open the jerky and corn nut packages as well as popped open the first lukewarm soda of the day. She was a quarter way through the paperback novel, just getting into the good housewife smut that called itself a "romance", when she heard an engine in the distance. Well hell, she thought, it’s been a month since I’ve bumped into another traveler.
She almost missed the sounds of humanity and told herself on a daily basis how much she missed her husband and their two kids, now gone eight months ago thanks to the plague that ravaged the planet. But deep inside her heart she knew that if they had been along for the trip, they would only have been in the way. They would have acted like they had on all their vacations together: her husband, Bill, would have bitched about how much it was all costing them (though paper money now held no value in this world of the dead), and her son and daughter would have bitched and complained about the heat, the lack of videogames and the time taken away from their friends (who were now just as dead as her children). She sighed, she knew that she should have been more “broken up” about the downfall of mankind, knew in her heart that she should have pined away for her dead family. But she had always been the practical sort of woman that as a child had simply flushed her dead goldfish and bought another instead of writing a eulogy and torturing family members with a long drawn out funeral for a dime store pet. When her family had finally succumbed to the deadly flu, she took the car keys and locked the door behind her. They needed no burying, as no one would be breaking into their home anytime soon. She decided to let the family home be their shrine, filled with knickknacks and personal mementos now rendered obsolete with the loss of electricity. She simply walked away, finally finding the time to live her life for herself in this new urban wasteland.
The noise of the engine got closer and Carol pulled herself up from the chair to seek shelter in the tourist shop she had broken into earlier. If the person(s) in question were friendly looking, she would reveal herself. But she knew that when the plague had spared a handful of the survivors, some bad were left to wander the earth alongside the good.
A few minutes later a police car, its front window a spiderweb of broken glass, pulled to a stop in front of the shop. Carol held her breath, as she saw a man more rhesus monkey than human, get out from behind the wheel. He yelled at the dog he had chained to the backseat. It looked like a German Sheppard that had seen the business end of a blender. It snapped and snarled at the man, and Carol knew that there was a very good chance it had been part of the police’s K-9 unit until this excuse of a man had used it as a furry piñata.
The monkey man walked toward the store and carol hid herself behind a partially collapsed display of toilet paper. He made a beeline for the hard liquor before walking down the candy aisle and filling his pockets with enough sweets to kill a convention of diabetics. The dog barked furiously and Carol wondered if the dog was still responding to its training of if the monkey man had broken its spirit and driven it insane. “Shut up, Skidmark!” the man yelled, throwing one of the bottles of alcohol at the car where it shattered and dribbled broken glass and caramel colored fluid down the side of the police cruiser.
All of this hit Carol in such an emotional way that she not thought herself capable of. She stepped out from behind the ruined pyramid of extra-soft, triple-ply tissue and confronted the man.
“That’s not a nice thing to call your dog, mister.”
"Yeah, well. He ain’t my dog.” the man said, taking a step back when he realized that he was not alone in the store after all. “What the hell do you want to do about it?”
“I’ll take him off your hands, if he’s such an albatross.”
“A what?” the man asked. Carol could smell his body odor from five feet away. He had not seen a shower, but had plenty of baths in alcohol since the beginning of the plague, she guessed. “What have you got to trade him for?”
Carol looked about her. Everything in the shop was there for the taking. She simply shrugged. He looked her over, licking his lips and she felt a chill creep up her spine. He looked up into her face and saw her revulsion. “Yeah, like I’d waste my time on you.” he snarled. “I’m only keeping the mutt alive for emergency rations, you know what I mean?”
“What do you need emergency rations for with all this stuff left behind?” she asked.
“What are you, my mother? Just stay the hell out of my way, this town belongs to me now, until I decide to move on.” he said, throwing a bottle at her feet like he had the police cruiser. He sneered and laughed at the destruction before heading out the door, where he paused at the car, tossing a bottle at the dog. He was rewarded with a yelp from the dog and Carol’s heart went out to the beast.
It never fails, she told herself. Some jerk has to come out of the woodwork and ruin everything in his quest to rule the world -even if there are only two people left in it. I should just get out of here now, she told herself. Just go someplace else and pretend that this man doesn’t exist. But even as she was thinking the words, her body was acting of its own accord. She walked up to the front of the store and grabbed an “Authentic Imitation American Indian Arrow”, covered with dyed chicken feathers and gaudy paint and walked out into the heat of the day to confront the man. She walked smoothly up to him, her heart pounding in her chest. She tapped him on the back and he spun on her, wide eyed. He had not heard her approach the car, mainly because the dog had resumed its barking and snarling. “What do you want, you bitc-”
But he never finished his sentence as she plunged the wooden arrow into his left eye. He fell to the ground in a heap, twitching in the dust for a moment or two before finally coming to a stop. She edged him over to “the hole” and rolled his body between two of the safety gates, letting his body fall to the rocks down below.
She then went into the shop, picked up a bottle of water, another package of jerky and a Frisbee she could use as a bowl and went to feed the dog. It stopped barking long enough to down the offering she placed before it. Then it sat in the car seat and panted while regarding her. Carol figured that it would take her a couple of days before she could approach the dog to mend its wounds and set it free from the ruined police cruiser. But she had all the time in the world, and now she had a purpose.
She tossed the empty bottle and food packages over the edge of the canyon. It seemed to carol that it was finally more than a “big hole” after all, it could also rid the world of unwanted garbage -both plastic and human.
A Big Friggin’ Hole
By Plot Roach
Carol looked out on the bright new day and sighed. Finally she had the chance to see the Grand Canyon for herself, but strangely, she was not as impressed as she felt that she should have been. It’s just a big friggin’ hole, she thought. Maybe it looks batter in a certain light, or with live tourists and donkey tours. But for now, it’s just a big hole.
She turned away from the land formation which had wowed travelers for generations, only to walk back inside one of the tourist shops that lined the national monument. She grabbed another few cans of soda from the refrigerator (though the section no longer held power), a bag of teriyaki beef jerky and some ranch flavored Corn Nuts. She had gotten to the site the night before, and in the dark she thought that the canyon had looked only vaguely like a big hole. She had decided to wait until dawn to make her full judgment of the place and found that first impressions really were the strongest. She pulled a folding chair out of the front window display and a pair of sunglasses off of a revolving rack, stepping over the corpse of the cashier as she went. Her purse bobbed by her side, hitting her in the hip in time to her footsteps. She did not know why she kept her purse with her at all times, chalking it up to habit.
She set the chair by the edge of “the big hole”, as she now thought of it, and opened the paperback as she waited for the dawn’s first rays of sunlight to warm this place. I’ll either have to stay another night or else leave before noon if I want to make it through the next road before it overheats the car, she thought. She was leaning more towards staying the night, and maybe raiding some of the local shops for “Authentic Indian Jewelry” as advertised in their windows. She had a thing for turquoise and silver. And now thanks to the end of the world, she could have all that she could find. Her fingers were lined with the stuff and she had pierced her ears a third time just to accommodate a new pair of earrings she had found while traveling through the ruins of Las Vegas. As for her neck, when she looked into a mirror she often felt like one of those Amazon women she saw in her husband’s “National Geographic” magazines with the brass neck rings which made them look like aliens.
Chubby, silver decorated fingers tore open the jerky and corn nut packages as well as popped open the first lukewarm soda of the day. She was a quarter way through the paperback novel, just getting into the good housewife smut that called itself a "romance", when she heard an engine in the distance. Well hell, she thought, it’s been a month since I’ve bumped into another traveler.
She almost missed the sounds of humanity and told herself on a daily basis how much she missed her husband and their two kids, now gone eight months ago thanks to the plague that ravaged the planet. But deep inside her heart she knew that if they had been along for the trip, they would only have been in the way. They would have acted like they had on all their vacations together: her husband, Bill, would have bitched about how much it was all costing them (though paper money now held no value in this world of the dead), and her son and daughter would have bitched and complained about the heat, the lack of videogames and the time taken away from their friends (who were now just as dead as her children). She sighed, she knew that she should have been more “broken up” about the downfall of mankind, knew in her heart that she should have pined away for her dead family. But she had always been the practical sort of woman that as a child had simply flushed her dead goldfish and bought another instead of writing a eulogy and torturing family members with a long drawn out funeral for a dime store pet. When her family had finally succumbed to the deadly flu, she took the car keys and locked the door behind her. They needed no burying, as no one would be breaking into their home anytime soon. She decided to let the family home be their shrine, filled with knickknacks and personal mementos now rendered obsolete with the loss of electricity. She simply walked away, finally finding the time to live her life for herself in this new urban wasteland.
The noise of the engine got closer and Carol pulled herself up from the chair to seek shelter in the tourist shop she had broken into earlier. If the person(s) in question were friendly looking, she would reveal herself. But she knew that when the plague had spared a handful of the survivors, some bad were left to wander the earth alongside the good.
A few minutes later a police car, its front window a spiderweb of broken glass, pulled to a stop in front of the shop. Carol held her breath, as she saw a man more rhesus monkey than human, get out from behind the wheel. He yelled at the dog he had chained to the backseat. It looked like a German Sheppard that had seen the business end of a blender. It snapped and snarled at the man, and Carol knew that there was a very good chance it had been part of the police’s K-9 unit until this excuse of a man had used it as a furry piñata.
The monkey man walked toward the store and carol hid herself behind a partially collapsed display of toilet paper. He made a beeline for the hard liquor before walking down the candy aisle and filling his pockets with enough sweets to kill a convention of diabetics. The dog barked furiously and Carol wondered if the dog was still responding to its training of if the monkey man had broken its spirit and driven it insane. “Shut up, Skidmark!” the man yelled, throwing one of the bottles of alcohol at the car where it shattered and dribbled broken glass and caramel colored fluid down the side of the police cruiser.
All of this hit Carol in such an emotional way that she not thought herself capable of. She stepped out from behind the ruined pyramid of extra-soft, triple-ply tissue and confronted the man.
“That’s not a nice thing to call your dog, mister.”
"Yeah, well. He ain’t my dog.” the man said, taking a step back when he realized that he was not alone in the store after all. “What the hell do you want to do about it?”
“I’ll take him off your hands, if he’s such an albatross.”
“A what?” the man asked. Carol could smell his body odor from five feet away. He had not seen a shower, but had plenty of baths in alcohol since the beginning of the plague, she guessed. “What have you got to trade him for?”
Carol looked about her. Everything in the shop was there for the taking. She simply shrugged. He looked her over, licking his lips and she felt a chill creep up her spine. He looked up into her face and saw her revulsion. “Yeah, like I’d waste my time on you.” he snarled. “I’m only keeping the mutt alive for emergency rations, you know what I mean?”
“What do you need emergency rations for with all this stuff left behind?” she asked.
“What are you, my mother? Just stay the hell out of my way, this town belongs to me now, until I decide to move on.” he said, throwing a bottle at her feet like he had the police cruiser. He sneered and laughed at the destruction before heading out the door, where he paused at the car, tossing a bottle at the dog. He was rewarded with a yelp from the dog and Carol’s heart went out to the beast.
It never fails, she told herself. Some jerk has to come out of the woodwork and ruin everything in his quest to rule the world -even if there are only two people left in it. I should just get out of here now, she told herself. Just go someplace else and pretend that this man doesn’t exist. But even as she was thinking the words, her body was acting of its own accord. She walked up to the front of the store and grabbed an “Authentic Imitation American Indian Arrow”, covered with dyed chicken feathers and gaudy paint and walked out into the heat of the day to confront the man. She walked smoothly up to him, her heart pounding in her chest. She tapped him on the back and he spun on her, wide eyed. He had not heard her approach the car, mainly because the dog had resumed its barking and snarling. “What do you want, you bitc-”
But he never finished his sentence as she plunged the wooden arrow into his left eye. He fell to the ground in a heap, twitching in the dust for a moment or two before finally coming to a stop. She edged him over to “the hole” and rolled his body between two of the safety gates, letting his body fall to the rocks down below.
She then went into the shop, picked up a bottle of water, another package of jerky and a Frisbee she could use as a bowl and went to feed the dog. It stopped barking long enough to down the offering she placed before it. Then it sat in the car seat and panted while regarding her. Carol figured that it would take her a couple of days before she could approach the dog to mend its wounds and set it free from the ruined police cruiser. But she had all the time in the world, and now she had a purpose.
She tossed the empty bottle and food packages over the edge of the canyon. It seemed to carol that it was finally more than a “big hole” after all, it could also rid the world of unwanted garbage -both plastic and human.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
The Voice From on High
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
The Voice From on High
By Plot Roach
Getting a job in this economy is hard. Getting a job that pays all your bills is even harder. And getting a job that does all that plus benefits, is damn near impossible. I’m a single mom, with two kids, trying to reenter the workforce with three years of “mommy” time and little in the way of actual employment experience. So when a friend told me about a job opening that would cover my bills, ask for little in the way of experience and even less as far as credentials, he had my full attention. It seemed like an answer to my prayers.
I heard about it through my friend, Mark. He had his ears to the grapevine as far as jobs went, because he was always looking for a better job. The man changed jobs more often than underwear, and I was surprised when his perspective employers looked past his patchwork resume during the interview and hired him (usually on the spot). He was the king of “the grass is always greener on the other side” mentality, and it showed. He changed his mind often when ordering at restaurants, having a custom suit made or ordering movies on demand. He could just never stick to his choices.
So it was no surprise when he found the job listing, only when he passed it on to me. “Why didn’t you go for it?” I asked one day over lunch.
“I interviewed for it, but they said that I didn’t fit the profile.”
“That’s weird, you always win them over in the interview.”
“Yeah, I know. But they said that they were looking for someone with more stability. Someone with ‘common sense and good people skills.‘”
“So I guess the resume was your death warrant, huh?”
“It seems likely, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t try out for it.”
“I’ve been out of commission for three years, Mark. You know what that says? It says that I’m out of touch with the world.”
“You were taking care of your kids, that says stability and common sense to me, kid.”
The rest of the meal passed in relative silence as Mark ate bits and pieces from three different plates he had ordered, while I ate sparingly from a cheap chef’s salad. I promised him I would put in a resume for the job, but I didn’t think it would be worth the paper. There had to be dozens of people more qualified for the job. What made me so different as to stand out?
But I kept my promise, sent off a resume and a follow up email. Much to my surprise, less than a week later, I was called in. I dressed in something nice, but not too flashy. I had to travel by bus, since the car was in the shop, and didn’t feel like getting mugged just because I had to walk through the bad part of town to get there and back home. I arrived fifteen minutes early, took my time in the restroom checking my reflection and tried to think of what questions that they would ask me and what my answers would be. Interviewing for a job is a lot like participating in a game show from hell. They get to ask you the hard questions, and if you fail, not only do you make a fool out of yourself, but there’s no consolation prize short of hurt feelings and sore feet from stiff, new shoes.
I arrived at the main office, ten minutes to spare, and was told to wait to be called in. I tried not to stare at the clock, pick at the cuticles of my nails or exhibit any other rude behavior that was a sign of tension. Finally I dragged a scrap piece of paper out of my purse along with a pen, and started to make notes of where else to apply and what other errands I should run in the next few days. A few minutes into this, I was called in by a voice from on high. It startled me, until I realized that it came form a speaker positioned right over my head. I smiled at the receptionist, feeling like a fool. And wandered into the back interviewing office.
It was a nice place, filled with a long table and many beige upholstered chairs. The man there was an older gentleman, who gave the appearance of being kindly though not overly unprofessional. He gestured to a seat next to him and I made the long walk down the room, studying the dark carpeting as I walked and hoping the entire time that I would not trip and fall. I reached the chair next to him and sank into it thankfully, my heart thudding in my chest. I had practiced many times, in front of a mirror, the things I would say and how I would say them, but nothing truly prepares you for the real face to face stuff.
“I trust that you found us alright?” he asked, after a moment’s pause to let me get settled.
“Yes, sir. The receptionist gave wonderful directions and I also checked them against an online map.”
“Why did you feel the need to check her introductions against another source?”
Oh, crap I thought. I’ve screwed up this interview already. “Sometimes there are changes that can’t be accounted for from one day to the next. Like, what if one of the streets she told me to use was closed for an emergency. I would like to know an alternate route just in case.” I said.
“That’s good.” he said, nodding and looking over my resume. “It shows initiative and follow through. Now tell me about the span of three years when you didn’t have a job.”
Here we go, I thought. The first cutthroat question. “I was busy raising my children.” I said. “Though I never really left the workforce, as I kept a part time business on the side.”
“And that was?”
“Independent consulting. Those around me sometimes have problems that they can’t fix. Anything from small problems which should have been easily fixed, like when one product has been ordered and something different was shipped. To major mess-ups like when a professional violates his contract and refuses to refund the money or complete his task. It started with close personal friends and then expanded by word of mouth.”
“And why are you no longer doing this?”
“I found that with two swiftly growing boys, that I need more financial resources, sir.”
“I have one more question for you.” He said, pulling out a remote control and turning on a video screen. On the screen it showed me rummaging around in my purse, only to retrieve the pen and paper and start making a list. “What were you doing?”
“Occupying my time by making lists while I was waiting.”
“Why?”
“It seemed like a waste of time to just sit there and stare at the clock, when I could be doing something constructive until I was called in to my interview.”
“Good.” was all he said. He turned off the monitor and set the remote to the side. I was certain he would dismiss me then and there, but was pleasantly surprised when he began talking about the job that I was interviewing for. “I know that you are aware of the pay and benefits, but did anyone let you know about your responsibilities with our little company?”
“No, Sir. I was just told by a friend who found your ad that you were looking for a dependable person with common sense and people skills.”
“And do you think you have what it takes to work in this position?”
“Could you give me an example of what I’ll be facing, sir?”
“Let’s say that a person has contacted our company because they are unhappy with a particular product we offer. How would you handle that?”
“Get the person’s name, address, phone and email. Get the product type or model number. Ask when they purchased it, why they are unsatisfied and any other questions that I can think of to get to the bottom of why they are unhappy with the product and what we, the company, could do to make amends. Like a refund or maybe an exchange.”
“Now what would you do if I told you that we offer no product, yet people come to us with their problems on a daily basis? Some of them quite often.”
“Why are we talking to them if it’s someone else’s product, shouldn’t we reroute their calls to the manufacturer?”
“That’s the problem, the manufacturer cannot be contacted. And to be honest, the customer hasn’t really ‘bought’ anything, but needs our help coping, none the less.”
“Could you give me a better example, sir?”
“In a nutshell: we work for God -or, rather, for a conglomeration of the ‘Big Ones’ (i.e. the ones that still have followers). But they can’t handle all the problems of their mortal followers, so they need us to field their calls -or, prayers.”
“And how do we do that, sir?”
“I’m glad you asked.” he said, pulling out a small device that looked like a black keyboard connected to a screen the size of number ten billing envelope. He turned the screen on, and a message flashed at once: “Why do bad things happen to good people? Why did my Aunt Sarah have to die of cancer?”.
The man hissed and pushed the machine away from himself -and over to me. “This is a hard one. I can’t tell you how many times a day something like this shows up. And it never gets any easier to answer. Would you like to take a crack at it?”
“Well, I would tell the person-”
“Don’t tell me, write it down. This is your first test.”
So I swung the machine into a better position and wrote: “Bad things happen to both the good and the bad people of this world. And sometimes when a person dies there is no real meaning to why we lost them. However, some people live -and die- to show us that things like love, courage and hope can exist no matter how much hardship we must endure in order to teach those around us. And make the world a better place.”
The man swung the machine around and reviewed my message. “A little wordy, but it will do, given the circumstances.” he said before hitting the “send” button.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Now the little girl who just lost her Aunt Sarah will get her response. Though she knelt at her bedside to pray to us, we cannot contact her directly, but do so through a manner of situations. One is through her dreams, another would be through the sympathetic words a friend or family member tells her -your words, placed there in the mind.”
“How can we do all this?”
“A few of the Big Ones got together and swapped magic and technology in order to make it easier on all of them. Now its up to their mortal servants to make sure that the masses are kept happy or else they stop getting worshiped and are left to rot in the sands of time.”
“Who are the Big Ones?”
“I can’t say for sure, mostly because they can change often. But I’m pretty sure that you pray to at least one of them when one of your sons is ill or injured. So they’re closer to you than you think. Are you willing to take on the job -I think you would do wonderfully.”
“How can I be the voice of a god? I’m just and out of work mother!”
“As a mother, you have common sense that has kept yourself and your children alive. People skills you have to have in spades if you’ve gotten this far in life -especially as a single mother. And as for responsibility, I have no doubt that you will fulfill your duties here as you have shown me just now.”
“I’m still not sure… I mean, I’m playing with someone’s life -aren’t I?”
“When someone’s prayer goes wrong, and we can’t help them. It is up to you to make sense out of their loss and help them see the brighter side of things. Nothing more or less.”
“So I end up telling them what they need to hear?”
“No, my dear. You will give them hope.”
The Voice From on High
By Plot Roach
Getting a job in this economy is hard. Getting a job that pays all your bills is even harder. And getting a job that does all that plus benefits, is damn near impossible. I’m a single mom, with two kids, trying to reenter the workforce with three years of “mommy” time and little in the way of actual employment experience. So when a friend told me about a job opening that would cover my bills, ask for little in the way of experience and even less as far as credentials, he had my full attention. It seemed like an answer to my prayers.
I heard about it through my friend, Mark. He had his ears to the grapevine as far as jobs went, because he was always looking for a better job. The man changed jobs more often than underwear, and I was surprised when his perspective employers looked past his patchwork resume during the interview and hired him (usually on the spot). He was the king of “the grass is always greener on the other side” mentality, and it showed. He changed his mind often when ordering at restaurants, having a custom suit made or ordering movies on demand. He could just never stick to his choices.
So it was no surprise when he found the job listing, only when he passed it on to me. “Why didn’t you go for it?” I asked one day over lunch.
“I interviewed for it, but they said that I didn’t fit the profile.”
“That’s weird, you always win them over in the interview.”
“Yeah, I know. But they said that they were looking for someone with more stability. Someone with ‘common sense and good people skills.‘”
“So I guess the resume was your death warrant, huh?”
“It seems likely, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t try out for it.”
“I’ve been out of commission for three years, Mark. You know what that says? It says that I’m out of touch with the world.”
“You were taking care of your kids, that says stability and common sense to me, kid.”
The rest of the meal passed in relative silence as Mark ate bits and pieces from three different plates he had ordered, while I ate sparingly from a cheap chef’s salad. I promised him I would put in a resume for the job, but I didn’t think it would be worth the paper. There had to be dozens of people more qualified for the job. What made me so different as to stand out?
But I kept my promise, sent off a resume and a follow up email. Much to my surprise, less than a week later, I was called in. I dressed in something nice, but not too flashy. I had to travel by bus, since the car was in the shop, and didn’t feel like getting mugged just because I had to walk through the bad part of town to get there and back home. I arrived fifteen minutes early, took my time in the restroom checking my reflection and tried to think of what questions that they would ask me and what my answers would be. Interviewing for a job is a lot like participating in a game show from hell. They get to ask you the hard questions, and if you fail, not only do you make a fool out of yourself, but there’s no consolation prize short of hurt feelings and sore feet from stiff, new shoes.
I arrived at the main office, ten minutes to spare, and was told to wait to be called in. I tried not to stare at the clock, pick at the cuticles of my nails or exhibit any other rude behavior that was a sign of tension. Finally I dragged a scrap piece of paper out of my purse along with a pen, and started to make notes of where else to apply and what other errands I should run in the next few days. A few minutes into this, I was called in by a voice from on high. It startled me, until I realized that it came form a speaker positioned right over my head. I smiled at the receptionist, feeling like a fool. And wandered into the back interviewing office.
It was a nice place, filled with a long table and many beige upholstered chairs. The man there was an older gentleman, who gave the appearance of being kindly though not overly unprofessional. He gestured to a seat next to him and I made the long walk down the room, studying the dark carpeting as I walked and hoping the entire time that I would not trip and fall. I reached the chair next to him and sank into it thankfully, my heart thudding in my chest. I had practiced many times, in front of a mirror, the things I would say and how I would say them, but nothing truly prepares you for the real face to face stuff.
“I trust that you found us alright?” he asked, after a moment’s pause to let me get settled.
“Yes, sir. The receptionist gave wonderful directions and I also checked them against an online map.”
“Why did you feel the need to check her introductions against another source?”
Oh, crap I thought. I’ve screwed up this interview already. “Sometimes there are changes that can’t be accounted for from one day to the next. Like, what if one of the streets she told me to use was closed for an emergency. I would like to know an alternate route just in case.” I said.
“That’s good.” he said, nodding and looking over my resume. “It shows initiative and follow through. Now tell me about the span of three years when you didn’t have a job.”
Here we go, I thought. The first cutthroat question. “I was busy raising my children.” I said. “Though I never really left the workforce, as I kept a part time business on the side.”
“And that was?”
“Independent consulting. Those around me sometimes have problems that they can’t fix. Anything from small problems which should have been easily fixed, like when one product has been ordered and something different was shipped. To major mess-ups like when a professional violates his contract and refuses to refund the money or complete his task. It started with close personal friends and then expanded by word of mouth.”
“And why are you no longer doing this?”
“I found that with two swiftly growing boys, that I need more financial resources, sir.”
“I have one more question for you.” He said, pulling out a remote control and turning on a video screen. On the screen it showed me rummaging around in my purse, only to retrieve the pen and paper and start making a list. “What were you doing?”
“Occupying my time by making lists while I was waiting.”
“Why?”
“It seemed like a waste of time to just sit there and stare at the clock, when I could be doing something constructive until I was called in to my interview.”
“Good.” was all he said. He turned off the monitor and set the remote to the side. I was certain he would dismiss me then and there, but was pleasantly surprised when he began talking about the job that I was interviewing for. “I know that you are aware of the pay and benefits, but did anyone let you know about your responsibilities with our little company?”
“No, Sir. I was just told by a friend who found your ad that you were looking for a dependable person with common sense and people skills.”
“And do you think you have what it takes to work in this position?”
“Could you give me an example of what I’ll be facing, sir?”
“Let’s say that a person has contacted our company because they are unhappy with a particular product we offer. How would you handle that?”
“Get the person’s name, address, phone and email. Get the product type or model number. Ask when they purchased it, why they are unsatisfied and any other questions that I can think of to get to the bottom of why they are unhappy with the product and what we, the company, could do to make amends. Like a refund or maybe an exchange.”
“Now what would you do if I told you that we offer no product, yet people come to us with their problems on a daily basis? Some of them quite often.”
“Why are we talking to them if it’s someone else’s product, shouldn’t we reroute their calls to the manufacturer?”
“That’s the problem, the manufacturer cannot be contacted. And to be honest, the customer hasn’t really ‘bought’ anything, but needs our help coping, none the less.”
“Could you give me a better example, sir?”
“In a nutshell: we work for God -or, rather, for a conglomeration of the ‘Big Ones’ (i.e. the ones that still have followers). But they can’t handle all the problems of their mortal followers, so they need us to field their calls -or, prayers.”
“And how do we do that, sir?”
“I’m glad you asked.” he said, pulling out a small device that looked like a black keyboard connected to a screen the size of number ten billing envelope. He turned the screen on, and a message flashed at once: “Why do bad things happen to good people? Why did my Aunt Sarah have to die of cancer?”.
The man hissed and pushed the machine away from himself -and over to me. “This is a hard one. I can’t tell you how many times a day something like this shows up. And it never gets any easier to answer. Would you like to take a crack at it?”
“Well, I would tell the person-”
“Don’t tell me, write it down. This is your first test.”
So I swung the machine into a better position and wrote: “Bad things happen to both the good and the bad people of this world. And sometimes when a person dies there is no real meaning to why we lost them. However, some people live -and die- to show us that things like love, courage and hope can exist no matter how much hardship we must endure in order to teach those around us. And make the world a better place.”
The man swung the machine around and reviewed my message. “A little wordy, but it will do, given the circumstances.” he said before hitting the “send” button.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Now the little girl who just lost her Aunt Sarah will get her response. Though she knelt at her bedside to pray to us, we cannot contact her directly, but do so through a manner of situations. One is through her dreams, another would be through the sympathetic words a friend or family member tells her -your words, placed there in the mind.”
“How can we do all this?”
“A few of the Big Ones got together and swapped magic and technology in order to make it easier on all of them. Now its up to their mortal servants to make sure that the masses are kept happy or else they stop getting worshiped and are left to rot in the sands of time.”
“Who are the Big Ones?”
“I can’t say for sure, mostly because they can change often. But I’m pretty sure that you pray to at least one of them when one of your sons is ill or injured. So they’re closer to you than you think. Are you willing to take on the job -I think you would do wonderfully.”
“How can I be the voice of a god? I’m just and out of work mother!”
“As a mother, you have common sense that has kept yourself and your children alive. People skills you have to have in spades if you’ve gotten this far in life -especially as a single mother. And as for responsibility, I have no doubt that you will fulfill your duties here as you have shown me just now.”
“I’m still not sure… I mean, I’m playing with someone’s life -aren’t I?”
“When someone’s prayer goes wrong, and we can’t help them. It is up to you to make sense out of their loss and help them see the brighter side of things. Nothing more or less.”
“So I end up telling them what they need to hear?”
“No, my dear. You will give them hope.”
Friday, March 25, 2011
Best Wishes
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
Best Wishes
By Plot Roach
When the old man in apartment number three moved out, Max knew she would find neat things. He had been an anthropologist in his youth and taught at a local university until age had forced him to retire and his kids insisted on putting him in an adult care community. Max had heard his son and daughter fight over the few items they thought were of worth and then plan on dumping the rest the following week in the dumpster behind the apartment complex. Max circled the dumpster on days when it was empty and plunged in when it was full of promise and refuse.
She had been a dumpster diver for most of her life. As a kid she had found that free toys, scratched and abused could be found if one was not picky about the chipped paint job or a few missing pieces. As a teen, she pursued her artistic side by frequenting the garbage bins behind arts and crafts stores as well as checking the recycle bins behind local educational institutions at the end of the school year. Her adult life, and frequent trips to the local colleges at the end of every semester, had gotten her nearly new furniture, slightly scratched electronics and interesting textbooks, knickknacks and clothing she often sold for quite a profit in online auctions. She hoped that the elderly professor’s possessions would garner a few month’s worth of rent and perhaps a keepsake or two.
The day came when the two adult children of the old man tossed his life’s possessions into the dumpster and Max waited with baited breath, durable garbage bags and an industrial strength back brace for them to leave. When the last piece was relegated to the dump and the dust settled, Max threw herself into her work -almost literally, as she scaled the side of the dumpster wall like a rat after a particularly ripe piece of cheese.
She sifted through used coffee grounds and egg shells in order to recover hardbound books she knew would fetch a pretty price on the internet -should she be able to get them cleaned up from their stay in the trash. She found the old man’s clothes, mostly professional attire. She bagged it up and threw it over the edge of the dumpster. After a good wash she might be able to unload it at a local thrift store that specialized in vintage wear. Then came the knickknacks, wall hangings and paperweights that every professor keeps in his office: photos of famous authors, signed and dated. Hand-blown glass ornaments that resembled flowers, towns and animals -all encased in clear glass globes, their bottoms flattened to keep them upright. Sculptures from the indigenous peoples that he studied in his travels.
While bagging these, she came across an old brass lamp, she smiled, thinking of the tale of Aladdin and the Genie and put it with the other items she would lug back into her apartment. Once she had satisfied her curiosity of the contents of the dumpster, she took her bags back to the apartment, dumping them into the bathtub so that she could sort through them properly and dust off any garbage that had hitched a ride so that it would not stink up her apartment.
First out of the bag came the glass items, since they were easiest to clean. Once sprayed with window cleaner and toweled dry, she set them aside in a box she lined with shredded newspaper and put them to the side until she could get good pictures of them to put them up online. Then came the books, which had fared well, given the dampness of the dumpster and its slimy contents. Finally came the sculptures, including the lamp. She rubbed its dingy side with a damp rag, thinking of the magic it would have contained had it been in the hands of an imaginary heroine. But nothing happened. No smoke. No voice from on high to announce her status as mistress of possibilities. She sighed, set it to the side, and retrieved some of the other, now clean, objects to put on her desk until she could look them up on the internet and evaluate their worth.
When she came back, there was a man standing in her bathtub. Upon closer inspection he was not standing, but hovering, as the lower half of his body was composed of blue smoke. He wore gold earrings, a bejeweled turban and nothing else but a serious look upon his face.
“It took you long enough.” was all she could say to him, while waiting for the situation to make sense in her brain.
“My deepest apologies, Mistress. For it has been many a century since my last master summoned me.”
“Well that’s okay, then. I can hardly expect you to ‘jump to’ when you’ve been asleep so long.”
“You are very understanding for a mortal.”
“And you are very naked for a visitor.”
He smiled, taking the hint and waved an arm over his body, summoning a type of tunic to cover him from neck to waist, the bottom edge flapping in the breeze caused by his vaporous lower half. “Better, mistress?”
“Much, thank you.” She looked at the lamp, still half dingy from age. Out of habit she retrieved it from the edge of the bathtub and cleaned it the rest of the way until the brass gleamed in the florescent lights.
“There’s really only one of me that was trapped in that, Mistress. No more will come out no matter how many times you rub it.”
“I know, I just hate to do anything halfway, you know?”
“So what will be your first wish, Mistress? I assume you know how this works, since you rubbed the lamp and all.”
“I think I have the idea: I get three wishes, no wishing for extra wishes, there are some things beyond your power, etc?”
“My limitations include things like producing ’all the money in the world’ -since doing so would bankrupt the entire planet until they produced another form of currency and the old money would be rendered unusable. Eternal life is rarely a good idea, as physical appearance and health do not automatically come with it. And as for love, well… Forcing your intentions upon someone else to take away their free will often ends in negative karma the likes of which even I can’t get you out of.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Under the terms of our current relationship, I cannot lie to you.”
“And are you a good … being?”
“In what matter, Mistress? Since I am merely a tool used to aid in the endeavors of others.”
“If left to your own devices, would you be a force for good or evil?”
“I like helping others, if that is what you mean. But I have been forced to cause harm to innocents, though I never enjoyed it.”
“Good enough.” Max said, pushing the stray hairs that had fallen out of her ponytail away of her eyes. “I wish for your freedom.”
“Even if you are serious, Mistress, as I hope that you are. You still have two more wishes -would you not like to use them first?”
“I don’t need to. I make a living, maybe not a great one -but it’s good enough for me. Riches would just make me snooty. As for the eternal life thing, you said that it wouldn’t keep me healthy. And to be honest, I don’t think that I would want to outlive all my friends and family. I don’t want to conquer foreign nations or kill my enemies. All I want is a friend. So when you are free, if you want to hang out for a while, that’s fine with me.“
The genie, struck by her honest words, performed the only wish she had asked of him. This completed, the lamp which held him for so long crumbled into golden dust and he materialized in his entirety.
“I may want you to wear clothes when you visit, though.” Max added, upon seeing his transformation. The genie again waved a hand, this time clothing himself in something befitting a male of modern day: jeans, tennis shoes and a t shirt. “Better” she said. “Now what?”
If you don’t mind, I think I’ll hang out for a while.” he said, eyeing the objects she had set aside to sell. When she was not looking he waved a hand over them, restoring them to perfect condition, which would thereby bring her more money. Another wave of his hand fixed the minor problems in her apartment like stains on the rug and a dripping faucet. He also made sure that her cupboards were full of her favorite foods and that her refrigerator never ran out of beer. He might not be her servant, but he made up his mind to be a good house guest and friend.
Best Wishes
By Plot Roach
When the old man in apartment number three moved out, Max knew she would find neat things. He had been an anthropologist in his youth and taught at a local university until age had forced him to retire and his kids insisted on putting him in an adult care community. Max had heard his son and daughter fight over the few items they thought were of worth and then plan on dumping the rest the following week in the dumpster behind the apartment complex. Max circled the dumpster on days when it was empty and plunged in when it was full of promise and refuse.
She had been a dumpster diver for most of her life. As a kid she had found that free toys, scratched and abused could be found if one was not picky about the chipped paint job or a few missing pieces. As a teen, she pursued her artistic side by frequenting the garbage bins behind arts and crafts stores as well as checking the recycle bins behind local educational institutions at the end of the school year. Her adult life, and frequent trips to the local colleges at the end of every semester, had gotten her nearly new furniture, slightly scratched electronics and interesting textbooks, knickknacks and clothing she often sold for quite a profit in online auctions. She hoped that the elderly professor’s possessions would garner a few month’s worth of rent and perhaps a keepsake or two.
The day came when the two adult children of the old man tossed his life’s possessions into the dumpster and Max waited with baited breath, durable garbage bags and an industrial strength back brace for them to leave. When the last piece was relegated to the dump and the dust settled, Max threw herself into her work -almost literally, as she scaled the side of the dumpster wall like a rat after a particularly ripe piece of cheese.
She sifted through used coffee grounds and egg shells in order to recover hardbound books she knew would fetch a pretty price on the internet -should she be able to get them cleaned up from their stay in the trash. She found the old man’s clothes, mostly professional attire. She bagged it up and threw it over the edge of the dumpster. After a good wash she might be able to unload it at a local thrift store that specialized in vintage wear. Then came the knickknacks, wall hangings and paperweights that every professor keeps in his office: photos of famous authors, signed and dated. Hand-blown glass ornaments that resembled flowers, towns and animals -all encased in clear glass globes, their bottoms flattened to keep them upright. Sculptures from the indigenous peoples that he studied in his travels.
While bagging these, she came across an old brass lamp, she smiled, thinking of the tale of Aladdin and the Genie and put it with the other items she would lug back into her apartment. Once she had satisfied her curiosity of the contents of the dumpster, she took her bags back to the apartment, dumping them into the bathtub so that she could sort through them properly and dust off any garbage that had hitched a ride so that it would not stink up her apartment.
First out of the bag came the glass items, since they were easiest to clean. Once sprayed with window cleaner and toweled dry, she set them aside in a box she lined with shredded newspaper and put them to the side until she could get good pictures of them to put them up online. Then came the books, which had fared well, given the dampness of the dumpster and its slimy contents. Finally came the sculptures, including the lamp. She rubbed its dingy side with a damp rag, thinking of the magic it would have contained had it been in the hands of an imaginary heroine. But nothing happened. No smoke. No voice from on high to announce her status as mistress of possibilities. She sighed, set it to the side, and retrieved some of the other, now clean, objects to put on her desk until she could look them up on the internet and evaluate their worth.
When she came back, there was a man standing in her bathtub. Upon closer inspection he was not standing, but hovering, as the lower half of his body was composed of blue smoke. He wore gold earrings, a bejeweled turban and nothing else but a serious look upon his face.
“It took you long enough.” was all she could say to him, while waiting for the situation to make sense in her brain.
“My deepest apologies, Mistress. For it has been many a century since my last master summoned me.”
“Well that’s okay, then. I can hardly expect you to ‘jump to’ when you’ve been asleep so long.”
“You are very understanding for a mortal.”
“And you are very naked for a visitor.”
He smiled, taking the hint and waved an arm over his body, summoning a type of tunic to cover him from neck to waist, the bottom edge flapping in the breeze caused by his vaporous lower half. “Better, mistress?”
“Much, thank you.” She looked at the lamp, still half dingy from age. Out of habit she retrieved it from the edge of the bathtub and cleaned it the rest of the way until the brass gleamed in the florescent lights.
“There’s really only one of me that was trapped in that, Mistress. No more will come out no matter how many times you rub it.”
“I know, I just hate to do anything halfway, you know?”
“So what will be your first wish, Mistress? I assume you know how this works, since you rubbed the lamp and all.”
“I think I have the idea: I get three wishes, no wishing for extra wishes, there are some things beyond your power, etc?”
“My limitations include things like producing ’all the money in the world’ -since doing so would bankrupt the entire planet until they produced another form of currency and the old money would be rendered unusable. Eternal life is rarely a good idea, as physical appearance and health do not automatically come with it. And as for love, well… Forcing your intentions upon someone else to take away their free will often ends in negative karma the likes of which even I can’t get you out of.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Under the terms of our current relationship, I cannot lie to you.”
“And are you a good … being?”
“In what matter, Mistress? Since I am merely a tool used to aid in the endeavors of others.”
“If left to your own devices, would you be a force for good or evil?”
“I like helping others, if that is what you mean. But I have been forced to cause harm to innocents, though I never enjoyed it.”
“Good enough.” Max said, pushing the stray hairs that had fallen out of her ponytail away of her eyes. “I wish for your freedom.”
“Even if you are serious, Mistress, as I hope that you are. You still have two more wishes -would you not like to use them first?”
“I don’t need to. I make a living, maybe not a great one -but it’s good enough for me. Riches would just make me snooty. As for the eternal life thing, you said that it wouldn’t keep me healthy. And to be honest, I don’t think that I would want to outlive all my friends and family. I don’t want to conquer foreign nations or kill my enemies. All I want is a friend. So when you are free, if you want to hang out for a while, that’s fine with me.“
The genie, struck by her honest words, performed the only wish she had asked of him. This completed, the lamp which held him for so long crumbled into golden dust and he materialized in his entirety.
“I may want you to wear clothes when you visit, though.” Max added, upon seeing his transformation. The genie again waved a hand, this time clothing himself in something befitting a male of modern day: jeans, tennis shoes and a t shirt. “Better” she said. “Now what?”
If you don’t mind, I think I’ll hang out for a while.” he said, eyeing the objects she had set aside to sell. When she was not looking he waved a hand over them, restoring them to perfect condition, which would thereby bring her more money. Another wave of his hand fixed the minor problems in her apartment like stains on the rug and a dripping faucet. He also made sure that her cupboards were full of her favorite foods and that her refrigerator never ran out of beer. He might not be her servant, but he made up his mind to be a good house guest and friend.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
The Mouse and the Vicar
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
The Mouse and the Vicar
By Plot Roach
It was a beautiful sunny day as the vicar made his rounds around the church. His disciples and servants worked day and night to keep the place shining as though it was Heaven itself. The pews were polished, the floors shined, and all was well within his universe. He checked the supplies in the rooms used to educate the masses, the books were stacked on their shelves, the parchment box was filled with rolls waiting to be used, the feather quills trimmed to fine points and the inkwells filled to the brim.
But when the vicar checked on the food in the pantry, he was greatly displeased. He had expected to find the same perfection in this room as he had all the others in his church. Instead, he found nibbled holes in the cloth that held the rice, the rinds of expensive imported cheeses, and through the loaf of bread that had been set aside to be part of his supper. Then and there the vicar swore to be the enemy of the little mouse that roamed his church.
“I will not have this in my house!” the vicar yelled. He called on his servants to remedy the situation. Day and night they each took turns watching the pantry for signs of the furry thief. But day after day the creature eluded him, while more and more of the food went missing from the pantry. The vicar soon discovered, as he hid one night to watch the pantry from a secret place, that it was not just the mouse that was stealing from him, but his servants as well. He watched as late into the night the mouse made his appearance. But instead of catching the creature and putting it to death, as he was ordered by the vicar, the man simply tore off a chunk of bread and offered the mouse a bite as he finished the rest of the loaf.
The next day the vicar had the man flogged for daring to steal from the Lord’s pantry and for disobeying a direct order. The servant, in his defense, said that “it was only a little mouse, and surely could not do much damage. And was not the food in the pantry for all of the followers of the Lord?”
“Perhaps a cat can do what a man cannot”, the vicar told himself. He set the beast down in the pantry and locked him in. Again, the vicar watched form his hiding place and was happy when the cat set upon the mouse with much ferocity, flinging the little creature up into the air, only to let it fall to the ground and pounce upon it again. He was about to turn away from the scene, sure that the mouse was doomed, when the cat released the mouse entirely and purred. The mouse, it seemed, had made this a playful game with the cat. Attempting to run from the cat, being caught and flipping through the air, and landing a few feet away only to begin the game again. Now, with the cat’s energy spent, the mouse pulled down a link of sausage and chewed into it, dropping chunks to the floor for its playmate, thereby feeding the cat as well as itself.
The next morning the vicar had the cat taken to a far away village, so that it would not return to play with the mouse. The vicar then used poisons which were left untouched. He tried making traps that were found in the morning to be sprung, their contents robbed. The vicar, beside himself with fury over the little mouse, neglected his other duties in order to catch and eradicate this vermin he deemed and insult to the house of the Lord.
One night, after the vicar had exhausted his options, he vowed to sit in the pantry by himself to catch the thief. Late into the night, as he was about to nod off into sleep, the mouse made its appearance. It sat boldly upon the shelf and winked at the vicar, helping itself to a chunk of cheese as the man seethed in hate at the sight. The vicar grabbed up a hoe he had brought with him to end the mouse’s life and swung at the creature, missing it by mere inches. Again and again the vicar swung at the mouse, missing it every time. Before long the pantry and its contents lay in ruins as the mouse ran from the little room to seek shelter elsewhere in the church. Again the vicar chased it, swinging at anything in his path. The mouse and the vicar left a path of destruction throughout the once beautiful building, but the vicar would not cease his chase of the mouse until he had brought it to death.
The mouse ran until it was well past the front doors of the church, pausing only so that the vicar could catch up to it. The vicar lifted the hoe, about to bring it down on the little creature when he noticed that the light of dawn was swiftly approaching -from the west. Knowing that this was wrong, the vicar looked up to see his beautiful church in ruins, burning down and lighting up the night sky with its flames. He dropped the hoe, the mouse almost forgotten as he fell to his knees and cried: “Why, Lord? Why?”
“Does not the great book from which you read tell you that we are all His creatures?” asked the mouse. “You preach the letter of His law, but not the spirit of it. You are to aid those that need help, no matter how trivial the matter. Someone with a stomach as small as mine would not have bankrupted your church, but added to your number of followers. And perhaps if you had shown more compassion and leniency with your servants, He might have shown more with His.”
The Mouse and the Vicar
By Plot Roach
It was a beautiful sunny day as the vicar made his rounds around the church. His disciples and servants worked day and night to keep the place shining as though it was Heaven itself. The pews were polished, the floors shined, and all was well within his universe. He checked the supplies in the rooms used to educate the masses, the books were stacked on their shelves, the parchment box was filled with rolls waiting to be used, the feather quills trimmed to fine points and the inkwells filled to the brim.
But when the vicar checked on the food in the pantry, he was greatly displeased. He had expected to find the same perfection in this room as he had all the others in his church. Instead, he found nibbled holes in the cloth that held the rice, the rinds of expensive imported cheeses, and through the loaf of bread that had been set aside to be part of his supper. Then and there the vicar swore to be the enemy of the little mouse that roamed his church.
“I will not have this in my house!” the vicar yelled. He called on his servants to remedy the situation. Day and night they each took turns watching the pantry for signs of the furry thief. But day after day the creature eluded him, while more and more of the food went missing from the pantry. The vicar soon discovered, as he hid one night to watch the pantry from a secret place, that it was not just the mouse that was stealing from him, but his servants as well. He watched as late into the night the mouse made his appearance. But instead of catching the creature and putting it to death, as he was ordered by the vicar, the man simply tore off a chunk of bread and offered the mouse a bite as he finished the rest of the loaf.
The next day the vicar had the man flogged for daring to steal from the Lord’s pantry and for disobeying a direct order. The servant, in his defense, said that “it was only a little mouse, and surely could not do much damage. And was not the food in the pantry for all of the followers of the Lord?”
“Perhaps a cat can do what a man cannot”, the vicar told himself. He set the beast down in the pantry and locked him in. Again, the vicar watched form his hiding place and was happy when the cat set upon the mouse with much ferocity, flinging the little creature up into the air, only to let it fall to the ground and pounce upon it again. He was about to turn away from the scene, sure that the mouse was doomed, when the cat released the mouse entirely and purred. The mouse, it seemed, had made this a playful game with the cat. Attempting to run from the cat, being caught and flipping through the air, and landing a few feet away only to begin the game again. Now, with the cat’s energy spent, the mouse pulled down a link of sausage and chewed into it, dropping chunks to the floor for its playmate, thereby feeding the cat as well as itself.
The next morning the vicar had the cat taken to a far away village, so that it would not return to play with the mouse. The vicar then used poisons which were left untouched. He tried making traps that were found in the morning to be sprung, their contents robbed. The vicar, beside himself with fury over the little mouse, neglected his other duties in order to catch and eradicate this vermin he deemed and insult to the house of the Lord.
One night, after the vicar had exhausted his options, he vowed to sit in the pantry by himself to catch the thief. Late into the night, as he was about to nod off into sleep, the mouse made its appearance. It sat boldly upon the shelf and winked at the vicar, helping itself to a chunk of cheese as the man seethed in hate at the sight. The vicar grabbed up a hoe he had brought with him to end the mouse’s life and swung at the creature, missing it by mere inches. Again and again the vicar swung at the mouse, missing it every time. Before long the pantry and its contents lay in ruins as the mouse ran from the little room to seek shelter elsewhere in the church. Again the vicar chased it, swinging at anything in his path. The mouse and the vicar left a path of destruction throughout the once beautiful building, but the vicar would not cease his chase of the mouse until he had brought it to death.
The mouse ran until it was well past the front doors of the church, pausing only so that the vicar could catch up to it. The vicar lifted the hoe, about to bring it down on the little creature when he noticed that the light of dawn was swiftly approaching -from the west. Knowing that this was wrong, the vicar looked up to see his beautiful church in ruins, burning down and lighting up the night sky with its flames. He dropped the hoe, the mouse almost forgotten as he fell to his knees and cried: “Why, Lord? Why?”
“Does not the great book from which you read tell you that we are all His creatures?” asked the mouse. “You preach the letter of His law, but not the spirit of it. You are to aid those that need help, no matter how trivial the matter. Someone with a stomach as small as mine would not have bankrupted your church, but added to your number of followers. And perhaps if you had shown more compassion and leniency with your servants, He might have shown more with His.”
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
The Problem with Claudia
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
The Problem with Claudia
By Plot Roach
It always happens to me, like every single time! I’m the good friend who gets everyone else around me out of trouble, yet no one is there to bail me out when I need it. And usually I can take care of my own problems, but when I’m around Claudia, things always take a turn for the worse.
Like the time when she decided to “gift” me with tickets for two to swim with the dolphins. Only she decided to put on her perfume really heavy (even through the brochure told her not to), and it turned the creatures on. It took five animal trainers and a shotgun before they could pull us away from the hormonal chaos she had created. One dolphin had to be shot, and I can’t watch an episode of Flipper or look at a can of dolphin safe tuna without crying. Claudia, however, got the head of the trainers to date her for a month before she left him flopping on the ground like a fish out of water. In the meantime I had to be hospitalized for a month due to internal injuries sustained by horny dolphins.
To make it up to me she took me to my favorite amusement park. I wanted to try out a ride they had just installed. What I didn’t know was that she had bribed the kid running the thing to keep it going for fifteen minutes. But what she hadn’t planned on was the break failing. So we were trapped for an hour and a half until the park could safely cut the power to the system and the fire department could get us down. I ended up with a brain bruise and mega whiplash. Meanwhile, she got a hot date out of one of the firemen.
Last week she wanted us to go skydiving. Oh, Hell no! I could only imagine what could have gone wrong with that. She probably would have replaced my chute with her purse or something, thinking that I could probably survive a “little fall”. And then she would have been too busy nailing the pilot and they would have crashed into the side of a mountain.
So I wasn’t surprised when I left my phone off the hook for a day last week. It was my only day off from work and all I wanted was one drama free moment. And because Claudia can’t reach me by phone, test message or e-mail -she showed up in person and demanded that the landlord open my door for her. And because she is a lady of infinite charm (and bosom), he let her have her way.
“Wake up sleepy head!” she screamed, dousing me with a pitcher of ice cold water, leaving me sputtering on my bed, the landlord staring at my Hello Kitty pajamas. “I’ve got an adventure for us!” And of course I can’t say “no”. I’ve told you about our past, you get an idea of what my relationship with her is like.
I change into something dry as she seduces my landlord. Chances are she’ll break his heart and my rent will be raised as a result. She does this, you know, ruins every little bit of sanity in my life. And still I can’t say no to her -except when I know that the results of her little adventures will be lethal.
So she tells me in the car that she has seen this little ad in the paper about spelunking in a local cave. And I’m thinking, how can there be a cave in the middle of a city? And that’s when it hits me: the earthquake last week. It tore down some of the old buildings and left a crater behind. “Is this safe?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah. Sure. I heard about it from this guy that knows my coworker in Accounting.”
And that’s when the feeling that I should have stayed in bed, soaking wet as she made goo -goo eyes at my landlord set in. I’m not getting out of this alive. So I settle back in the car seat and wait for the carnage. It’s all I can really do at this point. I’ve learned to roll with the chaos and clean up the body count after the fact.
We get to the “City Spelunking Experience”, suit up and sign a waiver that states that we will not hold the company responsible for any injury or deaths which may occur due to their ignorance of physics or our own innate idiocy. I give the worker at the winch my landlord’s phone number and ask him to give him the message to feed my cat if I don’t come back up in twenty four hours. We were slowly lowered into the darkness and it wasn’t even fifteen minutes into the trip that Claudia works her magic. She slips out of her harness, down a dark side tunnel and disappears completely from view. I tug on the lead rope, and yell for the guy at the winch to haul me back up. But he’s either listening to the music on his headphones or was paid to ignore me. Thanks, Claudia, I think before I unsnap my own harness and head down the tunnel to drag her sorry butt back to civilization.
When I find her, she’s already in trouble. Face to face with five guys clad in what look like Lord of the Rings outfits and pointy ears that would put Spock to shame. They have spears aimed at her vital organs and the vapid blonde is trying to flirt with them. They see me and their leader barks out a few commands that sound more like music than any language I’ve ever heard of. We are eventually ushered deeper into the underground tunnel and all I can think of is: she’s done it to me again!
We’re thrown in separate cells, eventually being hauled out and set down in front of what I can only assume is the head honcho of this underground elvish kingdom, for he has as much bling as a pimp and as many ladies surrounding him as Hugh Hefner. I fall to my knees and bow deeply, Claudia just stands her ground and tries to flit. Yeah, like it worked in the cave, I thought. But then the king’s face cracks a smile. And my heart falls to the floor as the guards throw me back into my dark little cell and I hear Claudia’s laughter echoing down the stone hallways.
An indeterminable time later, one of the “elves” comes to my cell. “Do you know why you are here?” he asks in perfect English. I can only assume he learned it from the DVDs that they watched to get their outfits from.
“Trespassing?” I ask.
“No, you’re friend broke our code of conduct by laying hands on a married man.”
“One of the warriors?”
“Yes.”
“And her punishment?”
“Normally she would be either put to death or else given as a permanent slave to the man whose honor she sullied, but…”
“But?”
“She’s so annoying, no one wants her here, not even the king. And to have a lifetime of that... "laughter" would torture all the souls who call this pace home.”
“So you’re going to kill her?”
“Yes, unless you will take her place.”
“You mean die for my friend?” I asked. My mind and heart racing, I just knew that this day would come. I should have gone skydiving with her after all and changed chutes at the last minute, leaving her to feast on high speed dirt.
“No. You have shown honor before the king. You would be deemed a worthy servant for the kingdom. You could stay here for the rest of your life, in our service.”
“Doing what?”
“We were interested in mating with the humans to create a half-breed who could walk among your kind undetected. You could choose with whom you would mate, it would not be forced upon you. But you would be asked to breed as many times and as often as possible. You have my word that with the first man you bed, you will be given eternal protection and you will live out the rest of your days in comfort. ”
“And my friend?”
“She would be released back to her world, but you would never be able to see her again, as we are sealing up the cave as soon as she leaves.”
“Deal!” I say, trying to hold back my glee. No more Claudia. No more drama!
Soon Claudia was shoved back into her harness, aimed at the world above and I was lead to my own private chamber stocked with silks, exotic perfumes and a line of handsome -if pointy eared- men. Perhaps I should have told them that my encounter with the dolphins left me sterile. Oh well, I’m sure they’ll figure it out in time.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Bad Fairy
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
Bad Fairy
By Plot Roach
You have read the fairy tales, no doubt. You know of my kind. We are feared, but never loved. The hero or heroine comes to us with requests of magical aid, yet when the day is saved, we are no closer to being accepted by society than we were before. Some work their magic through herbs, stones, or musical instruments. Some have familiars of other magical creatures, or of mankind’s mundane domestic beasts. Most were gifted with their magic upon reaching adulthood, coming to power under the tutelage of an elder fairy with patience and wisdom to guide their young prodigies through their difficult transformation.
I, however, had no such luck. No kindly old woman to guide me through my tough years. No animal could be immune to my charms, and no human either. All of fairy kind turned its back to me, an outcast among outcasts. I need no spells, no charms or instruments, for I am myself the weapon.
When I was born, my first cry of life sent both my mother and the midwife into a deep sleep. They remained in their permanent state of hibernation, never growing old or infirm, until I released them years later. By then, I was nearly as old as my mother. And though I sorely missed what this woman might have offered to me as I grew up, I knew as an adult that no relationship would have been possible. Not only had I robbed her of the life she should have had with my father and siblings, but anything I could have said to her to ease the pain would have sent her back into her sleeping prison.
When the village realized that I had the gift (or curse) of sending those who heard my voice to sleep, they sent a deaf boy to come into our home to gag my mouth, so that I could do no more harm. He was paid to take me to the ocean, and drop me in. The village wished to be rid of this burden, but the boy found that he could not comply with their instructions. He, too, had been banished, when his infirmity could not be cured by medicine or magic. He was seen as a mistake by nature, and did not fit into their perfect fairy tale kingdom. He tried to raise me as best as he could, but he was still a boy.
I found that I could not live in the forest, for my singing would send the animals to sleep. And though it might make quick work for hunters looking for a day’s kill. Animals that lay sleeping do not repopulate the forest with their own kind, and the forest ran dry of all manner of beasts until more could imported at great cost to the kingdom.
I tried living on the edge of the kingdom, with the deaf boy -now a man, but no matter how much I tried not to speak, the inevitable would happen. I could stub my toe and swear, I could laugh at a joke, or sigh under the weight of a burden, and I would send all those around me into a deep slumber. Through time I learned how to reverse the consequences of my magic, though that was of little consequence to the townsfolk. There are some things that cannot be undone, as when a falling maiden hits her head upon a rock before I can wake her, or when a woodsman strikes himself instead of the log before him because sleep has taken his eyes from his task.
So I returned to the ocean which was once to be my grave. I sang to the waves that crashed at my feet. Fish, sent into sleep by my songs, relinquished their fight with the water. I gathered the creatures that washed ashore and the deaf man went into town daily to sell our bounty. I bid him good luck on these trips, praying that the one gentle soul I could commune with would return safely. “I always do.” he would write in the sand. For a woman who could not speak and a man who could not hear, we had learned over time to bridge the gap between us.
On one of these trips into the nearest town, he learned of a vast army come to claim this kingdom. Their numbers were far superior to our own little land. And far more than I could ever send to sleep with my vocal prowess. Those not killed would be enslaved or sold to other lands. And though these same people had once wanted me dead, I could not let them come to destruction.
Through the deaf man I learned that some had already begun abandoning the smaller villages that skirted the main kingdom. They left with nothing more on their backs than some food and clothing. It was said that these warriors that came to conquer us would not kill those that could not face them in open combat. The peasants that left and carried no weapons would be allowed to cross the borders unmolested. I prayed that these rumors were true.
That night I left my little hut by the sea and wandered throughout the kingdom, traveling as fast as I could by foot as no horse could carry me upon my mission. I sang until I ran out of words. I hummed until my voice left me. And I sighed until my lungs burned like the bright rays of the sun that rose the following morning. Though dawn had come to the land, the people would never rise to see the new day. All sent into a deep slumber. My curse to be their gift. For if the men could not fight, then the army could not invade.
The deaf man met them at the border, telling them of the curse laid upon the kingdom and how no fighters could face them. The leader of the army vowed to keep his men at that very spot until the kingdom could be freed of its spell. And there they have stayed for many years, each generation taking on the duty of the last, though the people of the kingdom have not aged. The oxen sleep in their pens, the peasants in their huts.
And here I stay, in my hut by the sea. The deaf man grows older as each season turns into the next. When he dies, I will be filled with sorrow at his loss. Not because he was anything more than a friend or a guardian, but because he was my last link to a kingdom that ever sleeps. One I hope to keep from harm if it takes my last breath.
Bad Fairy
By Plot Roach
You have read the fairy tales, no doubt. You know of my kind. We are feared, but never loved. The hero or heroine comes to us with requests of magical aid, yet when the day is saved, we are no closer to being accepted by society than we were before. Some work their magic through herbs, stones, or musical instruments. Some have familiars of other magical creatures, or of mankind’s mundane domestic beasts. Most were gifted with their magic upon reaching adulthood, coming to power under the tutelage of an elder fairy with patience and wisdom to guide their young prodigies through their difficult transformation.
I, however, had no such luck. No kindly old woman to guide me through my tough years. No animal could be immune to my charms, and no human either. All of fairy kind turned its back to me, an outcast among outcasts. I need no spells, no charms or instruments, for I am myself the weapon.
When I was born, my first cry of life sent both my mother and the midwife into a deep sleep. They remained in their permanent state of hibernation, never growing old or infirm, until I released them years later. By then, I was nearly as old as my mother. And though I sorely missed what this woman might have offered to me as I grew up, I knew as an adult that no relationship would have been possible. Not only had I robbed her of the life she should have had with my father and siblings, but anything I could have said to her to ease the pain would have sent her back into her sleeping prison.
When the village realized that I had the gift (or curse) of sending those who heard my voice to sleep, they sent a deaf boy to come into our home to gag my mouth, so that I could do no more harm. He was paid to take me to the ocean, and drop me in. The village wished to be rid of this burden, but the boy found that he could not comply with their instructions. He, too, had been banished, when his infirmity could not be cured by medicine or magic. He was seen as a mistake by nature, and did not fit into their perfect fairy tale kingdom. He tried to raise me as best as he could, but he was still a boy.
I found that I could not live in the forest, for my singing would send the animals to sleep. And though it might make quick work for hunters looking for a day’s kill. Animals that lay sleeping do not repopulate the forest with their own kind, and the forest ran dry of all manner of beasts until more could imported at great cost to the kingdom.
I tried living on the edge of the kingdom, with the deaf boy -now a man, but no matter how much I tried not to speak, the inevitable would happen. I could stub my toe and swear, I could laugh at a joke, or sigh under the weight of a burden, and I would send all those around me into a deep slumber. Through time I learned how to reverse the consequences of my magic, though that was of little consequence to the townsfolk. There are some things that cannot be undone, as when a falling maiden hits her head upon a rock before I can wake her, or when a woodsman strikes himself instead of the log before him because sleep has taken his eyes from his task.
So I returned to the ocean which was once to be my grave. I sang to the waves that crashed at my feet. Fish, sent into sleep by my songs, relinquished their fight with the water. I gathered the creatures that washed ashore and the deaf man went into town daily to sell our bounty. I bid him good luck on these trips, praying that the one gentle soul I could commune with would return safely. “I always do.” he would write in the sand. For a woman who could not speak and a man who could not hear, we had learned over time to bridge the gap between us.
On one of these trips into the nearest town, he learned of a vast army come to claim this kingdom. Their numbers were far superior to our own little land. And far more than I could ever send to sleep with my vocal prowess. Those not killed would be enslaved or sold to other lands. And though these same people had once wanted me dead, I could not let them come to destruction.
Through the deaf man I learned that some had already begun abandoning the smaller villages that skirted the main kingdom. They left with nothing more on their backs than some food and clothing. It was said that these warriors that came to conquer us would not kill those that could not face them in open combat. The peasants that left and carried no weapons would be allowed to cross the borders unmolested. I prayed that these rumors were true.
That night I left my little hut by the sea and wandered throughout the kingdom, traveling as fast as I could by foot as no horse could carry me upon my mission. I sang until I ran out of words. I hummed until my voice left me. And I sighed until my lungs burned like the bright rays of the sun that rose the following morning. Though dawn had come to the land, the people would never rise to see the new day. All sent into a deep slumber. My curse to be their gift. For if the men could not fight, then the army could not invade.
The deaf man met them at the border, telling them of the curse laid upon the kingdom and how no fighters could face them. The leader of the army vowed to keep his men at that very spot until the kingdom could be freed of its spell. And there they have stayed for many years, each generation taking on the duty of the last, though the people of the kingdom have not aged. The oxen sleep in their pens, the peasants in their huts.
And here I stay, in my hut by the sea. The deaf man grows older as each season turns into the next. When he dies, I will be filled with sorrow at his loss. Not because he was anything more than a friend or a guardian, but because he was my last link to a kingdom that ever sleeps. One I hope to keep from harm if it takes my last breath.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Acing the Interview
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
Acing the Interview
By Plot Roach
It was a gloomy Monday morning when jack, one of our traveling writers, glided into my office as if on golden wings, depositing a small paper wrapped package on my desk. “Have you talked with Sullivan about my advance yet?’ he asked, a hopeful grin on his impossibly boyish face.
“Mr. Sullivan won’t be back in the office for the next week, but I’ll see what I can wrangle out of Payroll.” I said, never looking up from the glowing mass of data crawling across my computer screen.
“I brought you a gift.” he said, teasingly holding the box up just in my line of vision.
“Yes, I see.”
“Aren’t you wondering what it is?”
“No. I’ll get to it later. right now I’m working through the employee lists, determining who gets a raise and who-”
“Gets the ax” he said.
“Precisely.” I said, though the notes marching across my screen did little to tell me about the people I stood in judgment over. I knew from past experience that those promoted within our little publishing company often did little to deserve it, taking credit for the work of others. The man who stood before me, Jason Leemark, often regaled others at social gatherings with stories about his travels -stories that often came from the autobiographies of other writers. But he was a charming man, and the son of one of the business owners. So everyone looked the other way when he shoveled his exotic manure at dinner parties, weddings and other public events. I wished that there was some way to look into the heart of each employee, and be able to judge them for what they did -not what they took credit for.
“Come on, Jessie.” he teased. “Take a break from the coal mines and open my little gift.”
As if he knew what working in the coal mines was like, I thought. He’d been babied since birth and was likely going to inherit his father’s share of the company. And was even more likely going to drive it into the ground, while blaming the other partner. I sighed, rolled my eyes and decided to humor him. I took the package, cut the cotton string with my letter opener and ripped the paper off of the box. Inside, nestled among shredded bits of an Egyptian newspaper, was a statue of an Egyptian scribe.
“It’s from Egypt.”
“Really?” I asked, trying to keep the sarcasm from my voice.
“I picked it up on my way through ….” his voice droned on about some adventure he allegedly had in Cairo. I smirked while half listening to it, I had already read a similar story five years ago in a travel journal. But I let him keep his illusions as I studied the statue further. The scribe appeared to be carved from obsidian. Instinctively I looked to the bottom of the piece, it may have well been made in Egypt, for it did not have a sticker saying that it was made in China or Mexico. I once had a coworker bring me a mug from her vacation in Hawaii, though the sticker on the bottom declared its origin to be from the Philippines. The scribe smiled up into the air, clutching a roll of papyrus in one hand and a quill in the other. I had seen a number of statues, especially while leafing through some of the books we published, and never recalled one where the subject was happy. They all appeared much too serious or noble to crack a smile under the artist’s observing eye. That, or maybe the artists in question had been threatened by their subjects. Either way, the scribe’s smile made me smile as I sat in on my desk. “And that was how I came into possession of the little guy.”
“Wow.” I said. “What an interesting story”
He saw Janice, a new hire working in Accounting, walk past and quickly excused himself in pursuit of her. Doubtless he had another “gift” to bestow upon her with the same lame story he had given to me. I lifted the scribe and turned it over in my hands, wondering just how many of the things he had bought in some overpriced gift shop on the way home. The little quill fell out of the scribe’s hand and I wasn’t surprised. It was probably made in a foreign country by a four year old in slave labor.
I set it down on my desk and turned away to pick the quill off the ground. When I turned to my desk again, I was face to face with the largest insect I have ever seen. My first thought was that I had read too much Kafka recently. And my second, was that this had to be some sort of joke by Jason. Catch me off guard and slip in some guy in a bug suit.
“Okay, what’s the deal?” I asked. “Who set you up to this?”
“Many thanks unto you, dear lady, for my release.” Said a voice that emanated from the bug, though I could see no visible lip -or mandible- movement.
“Uh-huh, cut the crap. What do you want from me?”
“Only to serve you, mistress. As you have freed me from my prison of many thousands of years.”
“So what? You’re like some genie?”
“Nothing so crass as that.” the bug man said. “I am much better, I am a god.”
“Really?” I asked. “The god of what?”
“I am a minor god, possessing various talents-”
“What’s you name?”
“You could not produce it with your American tongue.”
“Uh-huh.” I said. “Next time tell Jason he’s got to get a better story to get a rise out of me, bug man. Now if you’ll leave my office I can get some work done.”
“’Bug man'?’”
“Well, you are dressed like a big bug.”
“Let me remedy that.” he said. And then in the blink of an eye became a man. No smoke, no flash, no poof of ‘stage magic’. One moment he was a big beetle looking thing and the next he was a dark skinned male with large, dark, almond-shaped eyes. He wore a type of kilt and nothing else. And while he was sitting cross legged on my desk I could see, well… everything.
“Um. Can you put on something a little more befitting this time period?” I asked, averting my eyes.
“Does my appearance still offend you?”
“No, it’s just that men don’t usually flash women their privates when they first meet them. Well… At least the ones “normal” ones don’t.”
Shadows flowed like liquid over his body and formed a suit similar to the one Jason wore. I was suddenly very jealous of his powers if only for the fact that I could never get a good pantsuit to fit me right off the rack at the department store. “Better?” he asked.
“Much, thank you.”
“As for the next task you would have of me-”
“Whoa buddy, what exactly are you? I know that you said that you’re a god and all. But please give me some background, okay?” My Human Resources streak was finally kicking in. Only this time instead of interviewing a pimply faced geek looking for part time work in the mailroom, I was interviewing a god.
“I was a minor god in what your people now call Egypt. I was a liaison between the guild of scribes and the gods of knowledge. It was my job to make certain that the gifts placed into human hands were not being squandered needlessly.”
“And how did you do this?” I asked, leaning back into my chair and crossing my legs.
“When a scribe presents his work before the pharaoh, he also presents it before the gods for judgment. If he does this with a lying heart, I can sense it and take immediate action, to mete out the proper punishment.”
“You could tell when a scribe was taking someone else’s credit?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you do?”
“I could damage the work, causing the scribe to lose face in front of the nobles, his peers and the gods. I could also call forth pests to ruin his supplies so that it would cost him more to replace them than it would the money he received for his lies. I could also wound the man with his own scroll.”
“Wait -what? How could you hurt him with papyrus?”
“A small cut is all that is needed for an infection to spread throughout the body.”
“You killed people with paper cuts?”
“Yes. And for this I was betrayed and held hostage.”
“How?”
“One night, Pharaoh’s scribes held a banquet in my honor. I became inebriated and quickly fell asleep and then…”
“They put you into that statute?”
“Yes. And since you have released me, I now serve you.”
“What about the Egyptian gods? Won’t they need you back?”
“They are sleeping now. Waiting for more followers or the end of time, whichever comes first. Since then, a lot of divine positions have been… downsized.”
“And you’d like to seek employment as my ‘divine assistant’?”
“If you will have me.”
“Can you do the same for me here that you did back in Egypt? I don’t want death or dismemberment or anything like that. But I do want to know who is doing the work and who is trying to take credit for it.”
“You wish to use my skills of judgment? To this I can agree, but how may I show you who is the humble worker and who is the greedy jackal?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way -as long as it’s non-lethal.”
And from that day on, my work became little easier when the time came for employee reviews. Those to be chastised or earmarked for termination were easy to be found, as there was a new rash of toner leaks, paper cuts and broken pens to mark them.
Acing the Interview
By Plot Roach
It was a gloomy Monday morning when jack, one of our traveling writers, glided into my office as if on golden wings, depositing a small paper wrapped package on my desk. “Have you talked with Sullivan about my advance yet?’ he asked, a hopeful grin on his impossibly boyish face.
“Mr. Sullivan won’t be back in the office for the next week, but I’ll see what I can wrangle out of Payroll.” I said, never looking up from the glowing mass of data crawling across my computer screen.
“I brought you a gift.” he said, teasingly holding the box up just in my line of vision.
“Yes, I see.”
“Aren’t you wondering what it is?”
“No. I’ll get to it later. right now I’m working through the employee lists, determining who gets a raise and who-”
“Gets the ax” he said.
“Precisely.” I said, though the notes marching across my screen did little to tell me about the people I stood in judgment over. I knew from past experience that those promoted within our little publishing company often did little to deserve it, taking credit for the work of others. The man who stood before me, Jason Leemark, often regaled others at social gatherings with stories about his travels -stories that often came from the autobiographies of other writers. But he was a charming man, and the son of one of the business owners. So everyone looked the other way when he shoveled his exotic manure at dinner parties, weddings and other public events. I wished that there was some way to look into the heart of each employee, and be able to judge them for what they did -not what they took credit for.
“Come on, Jessie.” he teased. “Take a break from the coal mines and open my little gift.”
As if he knew what working in the coal mines was like, I thought. He’d been babied since birth and was likely going to inherit his father’s share of the company. And was even more likely going to drive it into the ground, while blaming the other partner. I sighed, rolled my eyes and decided to humor him. I took the package, cut the cotton string with my letter opener and ripped the paper off of the box. Inside, nestled among shredded bits of an Egyptian newspaper, was a statue of an Egyptian scribe.
“It’s from Egypt.”
“Really?” I asked, trying to keep the sarcasm from my voice.
“I picked it up on my way through ….” his voice droned on about some adventure he allegedly had in Cairo. I smirked while half listening to it, I had already read a similar story five years ago in a travel journal. But I let him keep his illusions as I studied the statue further. The scribe appeared to be carved from obsidian. Instinctively I looked to the bottom of the piece, it may have well been made in Egypt, for it did not have a sticker saying that it was made in China or Mexico. I once had a coworker bring me a mug from her vacation in Hawaii, though the sticker on the bottom declared its origin to be from the Philippines. The scribe smiled up into the air, clutching a roll of papyrus in one hand and a quill in the other. I had seen a number of statues, especially while leafing through some of the books we published, and never recalled one where the subject was happy. They all appeared much too serious or noble to crack a smile under the artist’s observing eye. That, or maybe the artists in question had been threatened by their subjects. Either way, the scribe’s smile made me smile as I sat in on my desk. “And that was how I came into possession of the little guy.”
“Wow.” I said. “What an interesting story”
He saw Janice, a new hire working in Accounting, walk past and quickly excused himself in pursuit of her. Doubtless he had another “gift” to bestow upon her with the same lame story he had given to me. I lifted the scribe and turned it over in my hands, wondering just how many of the things he had bought in some overpriced gift shop on the way home. The little quill fell out of the scribe’s hand and I wasn’t surprised. It was probably made in a foreign country by a four year old in slave labor.
I set it down on my desk and turned away to pick the quill off the ground. When I turned to my desk again, I was face to face with the largest insect I have ever seen. My first thought was that I had read too much Kafka recently. And my second, was that this had to be some sort of joke by Jason. Catch me off guard and slip in some guy in a bug suit.
“Okay, what’s the deal?” I asked. “Who set you up to this?”
“Many thanks unto you, dear lady, for my release.” Said a voice that emanated from the bug, though I could see no visible lip -or mandible- movement.
“Uh-huh, cut the crap. What do you want from me?”
“Only to serve you, mistress. As you have freed me from my prison of many thousands of years.”
“So what? You’re like some genie?”
“Nothing so crass as that.” the bug man said. “I am much better, I am a god.”
“Really?” I asked. “The god of what?”
“I am a minor god, possessing various talents-”
“What’s you name?”
“You could not produce it with your American tongue.”
“Uh-huh.” I said. “Next time tell Jason he’s got to get a better story to get a rise out of me, bug man. Now if you’ll leave my office I can get some work done.”
“’Bug man'?’”
“Well, you are dressed like a big bug.”
“Let me remedy that.” he said. And then in the blink of an eye became a man. No smoke, no flash, no poof of ‘stage magic’. One moment he was a big beetle looking thing and the next he was a dark skinned male with large, dark, almond-shaped eyes. He wore a type of kilt and nothing else. And while he was sitting cross legged on my desk I could see, well… everything.
“Um. Can you put on something a little more befitting this time period?” I asked, averting my eyes.
“Does my appearance still offend you?”
“No, it’s just that men don’t usually flash women their privates when they first meet them. Well… At least the ones “normal” ones don’t.”
Shadows flowed like liquid over his body and formed a suit similar to the one Jason wore. I was suddenly very jealous of his powers if only for the fact that I could never get a good pantsuit to fit me right off the rack at the department store. “Better?” he asked.
“Much, thank you.”
“As for the next task you would have of me-”
“Whoa buddy, what exactly are you? I know that you said that you’re a god and all. But please give me some background, okay?” My Human Resources streak was finally kicking in. Only this time instead of interviewing a pimply faced geek looking for part time work in the mailroom, I was interviewing a god.
“I was a minor god in what your people now call Egypt. I was a liaison between the guild of scribes and the gods of knowledge. It was my job to make certain that the gifts placed into human hands were not being squandered needlessly.”
“And how did you do this?” I asked, leaning back into my chair and crossing my legs.
“When a scribe presents his work before the pharaoh, he also presents it before the gods for judgment. If he does this with a lying heart, I can sense it and take immediate action, to mete out the proper punishment.”
“You could tell when a scribe was taking someone else’s credit?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you do?”
“I could damage the work, causing the scribe to lose face in front of the nobles, his peers and the gods. I could also call forth pests to ruin his supplies so that it would cost him more to replace them than it would the money he received for his lies. I could also wound the man with his own scroll.”
“Wait -what? How could you hurt him with papyrus?”
“A small cut is all that is needed for an infection to spread throughout the body.”
“You killed people with paper cuts?”
“Yes. And for this I was betrayed and held hostage.”
“How?”
“One night, Pharaoh’s scribes held a banquet in my honor. I became inebriated and quickly fell asleep and then…”
“They put you into that statute?”
“Yes. And since you have released me, I now serve you.”
“What about the Egyptian gods? Won’t they need you back?”
“They are sleeping now. Waiting for more followers or the end of time, whichever comes first. Since then, a lot of divine positions have been… downsized.”
“And you’d like to seek employment as my ‘divine assistant’?”
“If you will have me.”
“Can you do the same for me here that you did back in Egypt? I don’t want death or dismemberment or anything like that. But I do want to know who is doing the work and who is trying to take credit for it.”
“You wish to use my skills of judgment? To this I can agree, but how may I show you who is the humble worker and who is the greedy jackal?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way -as long as it’s non-lethal.”
And from that day on, my work became little easier when the time came for employee reviews. Those to be chastised or earmarked for termination were easy to be found, as there was a new rash of toner leaks, paper cuts and broken pens to mark them.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Take a Number
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
Take a Number
By Plot Roach
“So I’m really dead, huh?” Rachel asked.
“Dead as can be.” answered her personal reaper, a guy who looked like he should be at a cell phone kiosk instead of collecting souls. His dress shirt was cornflower blue and unbuttoned at the top. He wore no tie and his black pants appeared to be perpetually creased down the front. His curly red hair seemed unnatural under the florescent lights of the mall, only his acne made him seem human. My God, she thought, he’s young enough to have been my kid.
Rachel looked past him to the collapsed walkway, through the crumpled rebar and chunks of concrete she could just see her hand poke out from under the debris. There were a few minutes after the collapse where she saw some motion from the uncovered digits and had some hope for her future. But Jacob, her pimple faced reaper, assured her that it was just the last second-synapses in her brain firing and that no true life still existed within her body.
She sighed, as much as any dead soul could, and faced the teen who would be Death. “So where do I go from here?” she asked. He ushered her from the wreckage where three other reapers had their hands full. It was as if he had a harder time dealing with the carnage than she did. They walked to the front of the mall, the sunlight streaming through the windows and highlighted overpriced merchandise.
“Well, you could wait in the head office for your final resting place…”
“My grave?”
“No, that’s just where they dump the flesh. I’m talking about your soul.”
“Well, don’t I go to Heaven?”
“It’s a little full right now.”
“Excuse me? Just how in the Hell does Heaven get full?”
“Exactly.”
“What?”
“Hell got full, and souls were forgiven in order to take up the slack.” Jacob said, wincing. “Except now even Heaven is full and there’s nowhere else to place you except in a holding facility.”
“Well, what’s it like?” she asked, a hopeful tone in her voice.
“Kind of…industrial.”
“Boring?”
“Incredibly.”
“So what else can I do?”
“You can wait by your grave for the second coming -if you’re Christian. You can reincarnate -but there’s still a waiting period for that, and you don’t get to choose where you are placed-”
“So I either wait in the dirt or take a chance on being born a sea slug or something?”
“Kind of… but there are other options as well.”
“Like?”
“You can haunt a place or person for a while.”
“To what end?”
“I’m not sure that I understand your question.”
“Why would I want to haunt someone or someplace? -Unless I get to pick the person or place, that could be neat!”
“Sadly, no. Haunting are assigned at random, otherwise no one who felt cheated by an old lover, former boss or loser family would ever leave the Earth.”
“Then what else do I have to choose from?”
“You can wander the Earth until your number is up.”
“I thought my number was already up. You know… with me being flat as a pancake and all.”
“No, I mean that you wait for your soul to be called up for placement determination. First you are called to see if your case is vital enough to be judged by a representative of your god. Second, they have to have the space to house your soul. And lastly, they have to take the time to rehabilitate your soul from your living form into something that can be both useful and aesthetically pleasing to the rest of those in your specific afterlife.”
“A whole bunch of waiting, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Can I get a job like you?”
“Only if you want to wait for the next four hundred years.”
“So this wandering thing…”
“You can go anywhere, do just about anything-”
“Like what?”
“You were a busy mother in the life, right?”
“Yes.”
“Weren’t there places you wanted to visit? Books you wanted to read? That kind of thing.”
“Just how can I travel if I have no money? And how can I pick up a book if I can’t touch it?”
“Use your imagination.” Jacob said. “Hitch a ride with someone by making a mental connection. You can also hear, see, smell, taste and touch what they experience while you are connected to them.”
“So that woman there” Rachel said. “She eats the chocolate bonbons and I get to taste it without gaining any weight?”
“Try it.”
“How?”
“Just touch her head and imagine being her.”
Rachel leaned forward, touching the blonde woman’s temple. She watched as the woman sneezed and felt a portion of her being drawn into the woman. As the blonde touched the chocolate to her tongue, Rachel felt the sensation, more than ten times better than she had ever experienced in life, wash over her. She let go of the woman and turned back to Jacob. “So how do I travel?”
“Much the same way, just keep a hold of them.”
“And they always sneeze?”
“Every time.”
“So when I sneezed…?”
“Yep.”
“But sometimes that was during sex!”
Jacob only nodded and grinned.
“Freaking pervert ghosts!” Rachel yelled.
“Some people get really bored when they have to wait for a long time.”
“But still… freaking perverts.”
“So what will you choose?” Jacob asked.
“The waiting and wandering thing, definitely." she said, wandering in the direction of the far side of the mall. “First I’m going to catch a movie, then I’m going to eat some REALLY greasy food. And then, maybe I’ll catch a ride to Las Vegas, see some shows…” Rachel said, walking away from Jacob. He merely nodded before checking his watch and the check sheet on his clipboard. He would have to be in the parking lot in the next five minutes if he wanted to make his next appointment. He reached over and touched the temple of a security guard traveling through the mall on his security cart. The man sneezed as Jacob made contact, but otherwise, never felt a thing.
Take a Number
By Plot Roach
“So I’m really dead, huh?” Rachel asked.
“Dead as can be.” answered her personal reaper, a guy who looked like he should be at a cell phone kiosk instead of collecting souls. His dress shirt was cornflower blue and unbuttoned at the top. He wore no tie and his black pants appeared to be perpetually creased down the front. His curly red hair seemed unnatural under the florescent lights of the mall, only his acne made him seem human. My God, she thought, he’s young enough to have been my kid.
Rachel looked past him to the collapsed walkway, through the crumpled rebar and chunks of concrete she could just see her hand poke out from under the debris. There were a few minutes after the collapse where she saw some motion from the uncovered digits and had some hope for her future. But Jacob, her pimple faced reaper, assured her that it was just the last second-synapses in her brain firing and that no true life still existed within her body.
She sighed, as much as any dead soul could, and faced the teen who would be Death. “So where do I go from here?” she asked. He ushered her from the wreckage where three other reapers had their hands full. It was as if he had a harder time dealing with the carnage than she did. They walked to the front of the mall, the sunlight streaming through the windows and highlighted overpriced merchandise.
“Well, you could wait in the head office for your final resting place…”
“My grave?”
“No, that’s just where they dump the flesh. I’m talking about your soul.”
“Well, don’t I go to Heaven?”
“It’s a little full right now.”
“Excuse me? Just how in the Hell does Heaven get full?”
“Exactly.”
“What?”
“Hell got full, and souls were forgiven in order to take up the slack.” Jacob said, wincing. “Except now even Heaven is full and there’s nowhere else to place you except in a holding facility.”
“Well, what’s it like?” she asked, a hopeful tone in her voice.
“Kind of…industrial.”
“Boring?”
“Incredibly.”
“So what else can I do?”
“You can wait by your grave for the second coming -if you’re Christian. You can reincarnate -but there’s still a waiting period for that, and you don’t get to choose where you are placed-”
“So I either wait in the dirt or take a chance on being born a sea slug or something?”
“Kind of… but there are other options as well.”
“Like?”
“You can haunt a place or person for a while.”
“To what end?”
“I’m not sure that I understand your question.”
“Why would I want to haunt someone or someplace? -Unless I get to pick the person or place, that could be neat!”
“Sadly, no. Haunting are assigned at random, otherwise no one who felt cheated by an old lover, former boss or loser family would ever leave the Earth.”
“Then what else do I have to choose from?”
“You can wander the Earth until your number is up.”
“I thought my number was already up. You know… with me being flat as a pancake and all.”
“No, I mean that you wait for your soul to be called up for placement determination. First you are called to see if your case is vital enough to be judged by a representative of your god. Second, they have to have the space to house your soul. And lastly, they have to take the time to rehabilitate your soul from your living form into something that can be both useful and aesthetically pleasing to the rest of those in your specific afterlife.”
“A whole bunch of waiting, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Can I get a job like you?”
“Only if you want to wait for the next four hundred years.”
“So this wandering thing…”
“You can go anywhere, do just about anything-”
“Like what?”
“You were a busy mother in the life, right?”
“Yes.”
“Weren’t there places you wanted to visit? Books you wanted to read? That kind of thing.”
“Just how can I travel if I have no money? And how can I pick up a book if I can’t touch it?”
“Use your imagination.” Jacob said. “Hitch a ride with someone by making a mental connection. You can also hear, see, smell, taste and touch what they experience while you are connected to them.”
“So that woman there” Rachel said. “She eats the chocolate bonbons and I get to taste it without gaining any weight?”
“Try it.”
“How?”
“Just touch her head and imagine being her.”
Rachel leaned forward, touching the blonde woman’s temple. She watched as the woman sneezed and felt a portion of her being drawn into the woman. As the blonde touched the chocolate to her tongue, Rachel felt the sensation, more than ten times better than she had ever experienced in life, wash over her. She let go of the woman and turned back to Jacob. “So how do I travel?”
“Much the same way, just keep a hold of them.”
“And they always sneeze?”
“Every time.”
“So when I sneezed…?”
“Yep.”
“But sometimes that was during sex!”
Jacob only nodded and grinned.
“Freaking pervert ghosts!” Rachel yelled.
“Some people get really bored when they have to wait for a long time.”
“But still… freaking perverts.”
“So what will you choose?” Jacob asked.
“The waiting and wandering thing, definitely." she said, wandering in the direction of the far side of the mall. “First I’m going to catch a movie, then I’m going to eat some REALLY greasy food. And then, maybe I’ll catch a ride to Las Vegas, see some shows…” Rachel said, walking away from Jacob. He merely nodded before checking his watch and the check sheet on his clipboard. He would have to be in the parking lot in the next five minutes if he wanted to make his next appointment. He reached over and touched the temple of a security guard traveling through the mall on his security cart. The man sneezed as Jacob made contact, but otherwise, never felt a thing.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Pest Control
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
Pest Control
By Plot Roach
It all started when I moved into a crappy apartment. No one intentionally moves into one of these places, but somehow you always find yourself trapped in one. It looks nice from the outside with its trimmed trees and manicured lawn. Somehow the management company even arranged to keep interesting and happy people on hand to decorate the place like plastic human flamingoes. The kitchen is scrubbed, the toilet flushes and the walls are newly painted. Then you move in and the apartment’s Mr. Hyde comes out in the night and you are faced with an obnoxious reality: you just moved into a hell hole.
After a month of a dripping faucets, a running toilet and a series of mysterious moans and creeks coming from the walls, I decided that the place was not for me. Though it was in my price range, and in a “historical” part of the city -aka “rundown”. It was not worth the daily hassle of dealing with a shower that spit on me like a lisping epileptic instead of delivering and actual flow of water, the stomping of children’s’ feet as they ran up and down the stairs in their daily play, or the fierce looks I got from the old lady who lived next to me who hoarded cats and their used kitty litter.
The cockroaches were the final straw. I knew that I had a bad bug problem when they pillaged everything in the cupboards the first week I that was there. I asked the landlady to call the pest control guy who bombarded my little apartment with spray, bombs, gels and traps. All of it in vain, as the six legged intruders merely took a vacation another part of the complex before returning with a vengeance less than a week later. I tried borax powder, sticky traps and even live geckos, but while they seemed to thin the insect horde, they never really eliminated it.
Finally, I just plain gave up on the notion of having the apartment to myself. I no longer shuddered at the feeling of one crawling against my skin as it used me as a shortcut from one area of the place to another. I learned to turn the lights on in any room twenty minutes before entering in order to scare them into the shadows. I even managed to trap a few by leaving out half emptied bottles of cheap beer. They would crawl up the long necked bottle, where upon they would enter the container, drink the beer, get drunk and drown, unable to leave the slick-sided glass trap. It kept the poisons out of my home and at least when they died they went the way many a redneck man would envy.
I was at a restaurant with a friend when the most embarrassing act transpired: a roach crawled from my purse onto the table. I shrunk away in guilt as she swiftly crushed the beast with her water glass. Seeing my embarrassment, she simple shrugged saying: “It happens. Everyone’s got a bug problem now and again.”
A man from the next table overheard our conversation and eyed the corpse of my six legged intruder under the water glass. “I couldn’t help but overhearing that you have a ‘pest’ problem?”
If I could have crawled under the table, I would have. Instead I grew an even deeper shade of red. I found that I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t speak, I merely nodded to answer his question. “And you’ve tried all the traps, baits and poisons out there, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Have you tried natural predators?”
“Geckos, mostly.”
“Good for the small infestations, but not the major ones.”
“So what do you suggest?” my friend asked.
“How about a free bit of help.”
“And this will cost me what?” I asked. I knew that nothing comes for free.
“Only the chance to prove my worth as an exterminator.”
“Uh huh” I said skeptically as I took his business card. His name was Dave Ness, his profession was that of naturalistic pest exterminator.
A week later, when a roach hitched a ride to work in my bra, I called him during my lunch break and set up an appointment. I was surprised at lack of tools he brought to my apartment in order to “cleanse” it. He had only a small bag, like that of a doctor. He asked that I leave the room as he set up his “tools“. And though I hid in the kitchen, I could spy through a crack in the door to what he was up to in the living room. First he spread out a small blanket as one would do on a picnic. He lit four candles and placed them at each of the points of the blanket. Then he produced a flute and began to play an odd little song, going from nearly silent warbling to a thundering crescendo of notes that felt as thought they were being ripped from my pounding heart. When he stopped, I noticed an outline of shadows around him. I gasped when I realized that they were not shadows, but the roaches I sought to get rid of. He opened his mouth, laying the flute aside and the roaches crawled up his clothes to his mouth. They entered, looking like a living carpet marching down his throat and making his belly bulge by the moment. Before long, they ceased their great numbers and fell to a trickling few.
I nearly puked in the kitchen as I waited for him to pack up his things. “It’s over now.” he called out, though I waited just a few minutes more to make certain of it. “There might be one or two left in this old place, but I will be back in a few days with your blessing.”
“Uh, sure.” I said. “What can I pay you?”
“Maybe a drink, I’m awful thirsty.” he said. “A beer would be nice.”
I fetched him a beer, one of the ones I kept around to catch the roaches with. He swallowed it in three gulps and I was surprised that he had any room left.
The next few weeks, he came over more and more frequently, until at last he moved himself into my little apartment, never moving from the blanket in the living room. He had grown to roughly the size of a bull, his belly bulging luridly with his six legged prey. A few would escape from time to time, to replenish the reserves and give him another meal in the days to come. He coughed, his voice raspy with his work. “Can you bring me another beer, babe?” he asked, setting his flute bag in his bag as he switched the channels on the television. I sighed, knowing that as bad as I had it, no roaches would be ‘bugging’ me anytime soon. Still, I felt cheated, swapping one beer swilling pest for another.
Pest Control
By Plot Roach
It all started when I moved into a crappy apartment. No one intentionally moves into one of these places, but somehow you always find yourself trapped in one. It looks nice from the outside with its trimmed trees and manicured lawn. Somehow the management company even arranged to keep interesting and happy people on hand to decorate the place like plastic human flamingoes. The kitchen is scrubbed, the toilet flushes and the walls are newly painted. Then you move in and the apartment’s Mr. Hyde comes out in the night and you are faced with an obnoxious reality: you just moved into a hell hole.
After a month of a dripping faucets, a running toilet and a series of mysterious moans and creeks coming from the walls, I decided that the place was not for me. Though it was in my price range, and in a “historical” part of the city -aka “rundown”. It was not worth the daily hassle of dealing with a shower that spit on me like a lisping epileptic instead of delivering and actual flow of water, the stomping of children’s’ feet as they ran up and down the stairs in their daily play, or the fierce looks I got from the old lady who lived next to me who hoarded cats and their used kitty litter.
The cockroaches were the final straw. I knew that I had a bad bug problem when they pillaged everything in the cupboards the first week I that was there. I asked the landlady to call the pest control guy who bombarded my little apartment with spray, bombs, gels and traps. All of it in vain, as the six legged intruders merely took a vacation another part of the complex before returning with a vengeance less than a week later. I tried borax powder, sticky traps and even live geckos, but while they seemed to thin the insect horde, they never really eliminated it.
Finally, I just plain gave up on the notion of having the apartment to myself. I no longer shuddered at the feeling of one crawling against my skin as it used me as a shortcut from one area of the place to another. I learned to turn the lights on in any room twenty minutes before entering in order to scare them into the shadows. I even managed to trap a few by leaving out half emptied bottles of cheap beer. They would crawl up the long necked bottle, where upon they would enter the container, drink the beer, get drunk and drown, unable to leave the slick-sided glass trap. It kept the poisons out of my home and at least when they died they went the way many a redneck man would envy.
I was at a restaurant with a friend when the most embarrassing act transpired: a roach crawled from my purse onto the table. I shrunk away in guilt as she swiftly crushed the beast with her water glass. Seeing my embarrassment, she simple shrugged saying: “It happens. Everyone’s got a bug problem now and again.”
A man from the next table overheard our conversation and eyed the corpse of my six legged intruder under the water glass. “I couldn’t help but overhearing that you have a ‘pest’ problem?”
If I could have crawled under the table, I would have. Instead I grew an even deeper shade of red. I found that I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t speak, I merely nodded to answer his question. “And you’ve tried all the traps, baits and poisons out there, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Have you tried natural predators?”
“Geckos, mostly.”
“Good for the small infestations, but not the major ones.”
“So what do you suggest?” my friend asked.
“How about a free bit of help.”
“And this will cost me what?” I asked. I knew that nothing comes for free.
“Only the chance to prove my worth as an exterminator.”
“Uh huh” I said skeptically as I took his business card. His name was Dave Ness, his profession was that of naturalistic pest exterminator.
A week later, when a roach hitched a ride to work in my bra, I called him during my lunch break and set up an appointment. I was surprised at lack of tools he brought to my apartment in order to “cleanse” it. He had only a small bag, like that of a doctor. He asked that I leave the room as he set up his “tools“. And though I hid in the kitchen, I could spy through a crack in the door to what he was up to in the living room. First he spread out a small blanket as one would do on a picnic. He lit four candles and placed them at each of the points of the blanket. Then he produced a flute and began to play an odd little song, going from nearly silent warbling to a thundering crescendo of notes that felt as thought they were being ripped from my pounding heart. When he stopped, I noticed an outline of shadows around him. I gasped when I realized that they were not shadows, but the roaches I sought to get rid of. He opened his mouth, laying the flute aside and the roaches crawled up his clothes to his mouth. They entered, looking like a living carpet marching down his throat and making his belly bulge by the moment. Before long, they ceased their great numbers and fell to a trickling few.
I nearly puked in the kitchen as I waited for him to pack up his things. “It’s over now.” he called out, though I waited just a few minutes more to make certain of it. “There might be one or two left in this old place, but I will be back in a few days with your blessing.”
“Uh, sure.” I said. “What can I pay you?”
“Maybe a drink, I’m awful thirsty.” he said. “A beer would be nice.”
I fetched him a beer, one of the ones I kept around to catch the roaches with. He swallowed it in three gulps and I was surprised that he had any room left.
The next few weeks, he came over more and more frequently, until at last he moved himself into my little apartment, never moving from the blanket in the living room. He had grown to roughly the size of a bull, his belly bulging luridly with his six legged prey. A few would escape from time to time, to replenish the reserves and give him another meal in the days to come. He coughed, his voice raspy with his work. “Can you bring me another beer, babe?” he asked, setting his flute bag in his bag as he switched the channels on the television. I sighed, knowing that as bad as I had it, no roaches would be ‘bugging’ me anytime soon. Still, I felt cheated, swapping one beer swilling pest for another.
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