Inspired by the recent accumulates post, and awaiting my next burst of literary chi flow, I have decided to post the yet-to-be-released short stories that I have finished.....in blurbs that really make no sense. Each paragraph is a different story, so take it for what it is worth, and that is very little. As an update of sorts, I have a few more stories to finish, but may opt to hit the main portion of the book very soon. I seem to add to the miscellaneous section every few days. I'll have to re-read SAS, because I tried to post something during the Great Firewall Scandal of 2006.
In the basement, hundreds of snakes are hatching from their eggs as dark brown dwarves reconstruct the stairs leading to the kitchen into a ramp. In the attic, the emaciated forms of angels lay about, neglected and sorry. One, with its face pressed against a small window, keeps sane by lightly mumbling a cherubic hymn upon deaf ears.
Watch the accidental children rumble on into wasted lives on crooked wheels of strollers led from behind by their maternal whores. They are children themselves. Push the strollers off of the bridge and baptize the bastards with unholy waters; the sewers that dissect the city above ground.
Brian sings a song he made up himself about his army doll. He foxtrots behind the couch and into the bathroom, hitting the high note perfectly. Mandy bawls with even more desperation. Their parents begin to kiss, for they are alone.
Nowadays, to be polite is to be seen as submissive, or even worse, deceptive, as those who think that are most assuredly hiding something very close to the surface. Dirty laundry seems to hang in every backyard in town, never drying, even when the strong rays of apology shine strong on forgiving summer days. The cold winds of resentful grudges see to that. People are harsh and seem to always be in a hurry. Patience used to be a virtue, but it has sadly become an inconvenience. Even the daughters of joy walk the streets with elevated chins.
"Adam Ho!" he screams in a white-hot rage. "Christ Almighty!" Adam fires his spent pen across the office without care. Nobody was in any danger, because all of his fellow employees left on time. He is quite punchy at this point, taking no lunch or breaks all day. Adam immediately yanks open the center drawer of his desk and blindly grabs another pen. As he extends the tip outward with a thumb-press on the springy rear of his pen, he realizes that he grabbed a pen containing red ink. "Aaahh! Damn." Adam returns to his drawer, and this time, uses his strained eyes to locate and unearth a pen holding a supply of black ink.
Will you strengthen my soul, Puerto Rican candy thief? By not verbally contesting your heinous act, will I edge closer to celestial bliss? For all of the good deeds exhausted by man, sometimes the most beneficial are those contemplated, but not pursued.
Poor Junior. Even though he never did anything bad in his life, he just made people feel uneasy with his strange words, appearance and overall persona. People would say that he suffered from genitofemoral neuropathy, but in truth, he reveled in it, although it at times made him walk like a woman wearing stiletto heels on a sheet of ice or like the first steps of a newborn giraffe after falling from its mother's womb.
"My dad could probably beat up a bear if he had to," Paul nonchalantly spoke while fanning through his new pack of baseball cards. "He could hit the ball farther than most of these guys, too" he quietly bragged.
"Even Paco Bradley?" his buddy Jack wondered aloud.
At least some cool trucker guy let me pull in front of him. I gave him a wave that said, "You fucking rock, man," and he knew he rocked, because I could see it on his face from the rear view mirror.
Everything has returned to perfection in Emma's mind as she finds herself sitting at the head of the dinner table. She feels important and loved, proud of the fact that at this moment she sees everything as she always dreamed. Together with her loved ones, they prepare to dine.
"Sweet! About time you started making sense. Violence is always the answer! Stab away!" Lloyd cheered.
"I'M the father!" said another voice from the very perimeter of the room. It was Chazz Moneynuts, the mysterious frequenter to Duncan Manor, who always seemed to be up to some sort of skullduggery and adventure. He was no stranger to intrigue, deceit, plot or scheming. He tightened his bolo tie close to his tanned neckline as he crept closer to Blaine and Lance, striding his golden and waxed legs (which were the exact color of his tight shorts) in a fluid, yet stabbing motion.
"Moneynuts! I should have known," Blaine cried as he made it a point to keep his distance from the others.
The tip of a rock stabs out of the wall, next to my face. I often wonder what its true size and form is, if it were to be unearthed and bathed clean. But it remains here, undisturbed. When the rock sweats, or a hint of rain cascades over its smooth surface, it has a faint, salty taste to it. The other rocks nearby are bland to my palate.
Pauline took a playful hop off of the bus and on to the sidewalk. As the door closed behind her with a short, pressurized burst, she smiled as a pair of lanky dogs chased each other down the pavement, under a fruit stand, around the corner and out of sight. Pauline slid the bangs of her hair securely behind her ears, turning herself to face the broad avenue ahead.
Like a turtle upon its back, Douglas rolled all over the living room floor, rubbing his stung eyes and taking deep breaths of pure air. Sweaty and red-faced, Douglas recovered his senses and tossed the can of shaving cream off to the side. He lay on the floor and wiped the tears from his cheeks, but as the toilet was heard flushing from the bathroom, he quickly stood up and took an aggressive karate stance.
A thousand enemies are worth one true friend. Your dreams are my dreams. Replenish your strength through me when failure drains you of your desires. Inspire me, challenge me, hold my hand as not to dictate the way in which I should live, but to stay with me on whichever path I choose to tread. Age with me, yet keep me eternally young.
Swallow a switchblade and jump around, teasing death with every leap. Turpentine helps keep it down. Smirk into the shadows and know that fate is your enemy. Poke it with a broken stick, sting its eyes and chase it away, for every foul breath of life is on your terms. The risks you take are ones of harm, never those to attain. You will do it tomorrow, but tomorrow never comes.
Debridement leaves me scarred. Scoured raw, I am clean, new born, until the scabs return.
The sweet taste of stranger's candy leaves your face sticky. Your pockets are full, but your soul is empty.
But killing yourself never tasted so good. Selling yourself never felt so right.
I sit here in the orchard with my back against a tree, draw in a deep breath and remember. Looking out towards the sunrise, I survey the fluid motions of hawks in search of prey, in search of something more poetic.