Earball

Entry #2: When Hell Holds a BBQ, Politely Decline

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 17:42:00 +0000

Jack held the container tight. He hated carrying anything valuable on the subway, feeling every thieving eye upon him. It was the size of pear, patterned with gaudy faux brick and marked with strangely abbreviated lettering "BAR-B-Q SAUCE." Who could believe something so valuable would fit in a container so small?

A couple of days ago, he'd run into the Devil in a liquor store. Out of principle, he'd refused the prince of darkness' offer, not even bothering to fully hearing what it was. But he remembered the Devil kept repeating six numbers, rhythmically, like a song. Later that night, in a drunken stupor, Jack watched as the lady in a sequin dress pulled lottery numbers from a bin. The numbers sounded familiar, like lyrics from a song. Suddenly, all of the details of the liquor store offer came back to him. Jack swung his front door open and there sat the empty container. He needed only to fill it.

The passing train thumped it's signature duh-duh-duh. As the train faded, Jack heard the signature clomp-clomp of the goateed man approaching him.

"Ah yes, I'm glad you came," said the Devil pleasantly.

Jack handed over the container.

The Devil gently popped the wooden top and touched the tiniest amount of the glowing nectar to his tongue. Like a newly rich man sampling too expensive wine, he closed his eyes and worked his tongue.

"Marvelous. I'm eternally grateful," said the Devil

"And my part of the deal?" Jack asked.

"Ah yes. I believe your luck is already changing," said the Devil and cocked his head at the tall red head seating herself next to Jack.

Taking in the delicious woman, Jack was suddenly filled with doubt and remorse. When he turned back goatee was gone.

The red head touched him lightly on the knee and said, "Excuse me, but I'm on my way to a photoshoot..." But he barely heard her. It was just BBQ sauce. Sure, award winning, secret family recipe, passed on for generations sauce, but still just sauce -- tomatoes, spices and vinegar. Certainly, it was worth it right?

Entry #1: Porcelain

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 19:14:00 +0000

After spending decades motionless, the porcelain figurines finally came alive as they teetered at the edge of the table. I flicked one. A little boy holding a fishing rod dove into the garbage can and shattered. My sister drew a sharp breath. A little girl with an umbrella went to pieces. The last time we'd broken one, I had to sleep on my stomach for a week. Even though the baby Jesus figurine had slipped from Allison's hand, mom drunkenly blamed me for "playing ball in the house." A smiling clown's oversized shoes cracked as they hit the metal. The next few nights, Allison brought me little zip-lock baggies of ice, looking worse than I did.

I pointed at a painted elephant. Allison clumsily flicked. Porcelain exploded. We took turns down the line until all that was left were silhouettes in the dust. I wiped it clean with my hand.

Allison’s husband had offered to help but we’d sent him and my wife to talk to the funeral director and pick up relatives. We were tired of coming up with respectable sounding lies every time they asked if we were OK.

We moved to the kitchen. Sis called dibs on cleaning out the fridge. A good idea, considering mom had never fixed the air conditioner. At Allison's insistence, I'd driven three hours back to fix it but mom had refused to even let me look at the unit. She claimed to like the hundred degree heat.

I presided over the disposal of the pantry, tossing out cans of liver, fetishistic amounts of lard and flour crawling with tiny weevils.

“Wow. These olives expired more three and a half years ago," my sister said. "Ah, you remember this?” She waved a ceramic container at me before aiming for the garbage.

“Wait, wait!” I cried and tugged the small jar from her hand. Brown, with a faux brick pattern and the strangely abbreviated, "BAR-B-Q SAUCE" it was mom's pride and joy, her "sauce taster."

“Is there any chicken in the freezer?” I asked.

“Yeah, some of the frozen stuff looks like it could still be edible.”

I cleared the stove. After quickly grilling the chicken breasts, I popped the wooden cover from the container and with the attached brush slathered the remaining BBQ sauce over the steaming meat.

“Every year, mom won county with the exact same secret sauce,” Allison said, “Remember that time she used all the prize money to buy us bicycles? Dad nearly killed her.”

“She wouldn’t tell anyone the recipe. You know I won a frat cook off by stealing a jug of the stuff? I never even knew what was in it so I had to tell everyone it was a family secret. Mom found out but she was more proud than angry.”

We each took a bite, savoring the peppercorn heat, the vinegar tartness, the copious taste of Bourbon and the hint of sweetness.

Memory

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 03:03:00 +0000

Her mind was like a steel trap. Fluid memories flowed through, rusting it shut.

Dating

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 18:09:00 +0000

Younger, I feared she wouldn't like me. Older, I feared I wouldn't like her. Now, I'm not afraid.

Breaking Up, Breaking Down

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 20:11:00 +0000

There had been bouts before and surely there would be bouts after. But in round one, this fight felt like the only one that mattered. It always felt like this.

She feinted with her right and telegraphed the left from a mile away. Still the gut shot caught him by surprise. He couldn't breath. She had taken the most basic thing from him. Six months of training and the fight ended before it began.

He struggled to stand. What had he learned from previous fights? When he got lucky it went to the judges. Unlucky and it was a knock out in the first round. He fleetingly wondered: Who would be his next opponent? Maybe he would just retire.

Was this fight over? Would he stand, only to be humiliated again? Or would he rise, a glorious phoenix? Right now, he just needed to breath.

Innoculation

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Fri, 27 Apr 2007 16:44:00 +0000

Charlie shoved Cho's head from behind. "You stupid Chink!" Cho wasn't sure what "Chink" meant but his body flashed with anger. He whirled around with fists raised. The dusty metal swing slipped from under him, dropping his body to the ground. Cho sprang to his feet but Charlie had already walked away, laughing loudly with two other boys.

If only he'd learned Taekwondo like his brothers. One swift kick in the head and Charlie would fall screaming, blood pouring from his broken nose.

Someone tapped lightly on Cho's shoulder. He spun around, whispering "Kick him in the head." A girl, his classmate, froze with eyes wide open. She held out half of a cookie and said, "Chips Ahoy?" When Cho didn't take it, she placed it on the swing and ran back to her giggling friends.

Charlie shouted "The Chink likes girl cooties!" but Cho couldn't hear him over the crunch, crunch of chocolate chip cookie in his mouth.

Past Results Do Not Guarantee Future Performance

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Tue, 21 Nov 2006 06:53:00 +0000

Harvey Manning pushed open the door of "Styron's Collectibles." Inside, dust suffocated piles of antique nick knacks, most of which Manning, the only shopper, did not recognize. Bent over a cane, an old woman shuffled forward and shouted, "Welcome!"

"Mrs. Styron, I presume? We spoke on the phone!" Harvey shouted back.

"Ah yes! The collector from San Francisco! I'm afraid my collection is in rather poor shape! But very valuable since they never digitally archived this particular paper!"

Mrs. Styron feebly flipped over the corner of a canvas tarp. Manning stepped over and yanked the cover off with a great flourish. The room darkened gray with dust.

Harvey coughed till he cried. Mrs. Styron giggled.

"Here it is!" the grandmother shouted as she tapped a section marked "2006."

Harvey pulled out the heavy box. Opening it, air rushed into the container. Each page of the newspaper was protected by a vacuum sealed acid free mylar bag. The front page had yellowed to the color of urine but the words were clearly legible: "Mayor Daly Assassinated!" And there was the famous picture of Mrs. Daly dressed in a stunning evening gown her teary eyes barely visible behind her gloved hands.

"How much?" Harvey asked as a mere formality.

"Twelve Hundred!"

"OK." Harvey said even before Mrs. Styron had finished saying the price.

---

Tatsuo Nakata thumbed the safety and cocked the bolt of his jet black submachine gun. It was an angry habit that made his men nervous. Shotaro Kaneda, the old fool, had gone senile. Everyone saw it but nobody said or did anything. It was madness to invest such a large sum of money in a pipe dream venture. What next? Would Tatsuo be asked to hire Momotaro to protect the organization from the Oni? Bah! Kaneda was an old fool. But that's why Tatsuo was here: to make sure nothing went wrong. Nakata-san released the clip, counted the bullets then slid it back into place. The door buzzed open. Tatsuo and his men marched up the stairs.

---

"Please don't touch anything," Harvey begged. A fatter Japanese man with two pistols strapped to his body stopped leaning against a generator. The lab was so packed with gun totting yakuza that Manning couldn't move without bumping into someone.

"Nakata-san, I assure you all of this,” Manning waved his hand around the room, “is not necessary. The plan is foolproof."

Tatsuo Nakata snorted then said, "Manning-san, I have the highest confidence in both your abilities and the judgment of our leader, Kaneda-san. However, he has placed a sizable investment in your idea. He would be foolish not to ensure that everything goes according to plan."

Nakata's habit of flipping the safety on his submachine gun made Manning very nervous.

"Look at this,” Manning said and handed Nakata the old newspaper, “See the back page of the local section? It’s foolproof!" Nakata looked but didn't say anything.

"Ok then, shall we begin?" Manning asked.

The inventor slid into the steel box and pulled out his checklist. He wished he hadn't built a window into the device as Nakata's men all gathered around and stared at him through the glass. One even appeared to be taking notes. Finishing the checklist, he waved at Nakata then felt childish for doing so. Manning said a prayer then pushed the button.

---

Markus Wolf fiddled with his watch. Harvey Manning was late and Markus was afraid the crazy inventor wouldn’t show up at all. The offer sounded too good to be true.

Just as the lawyer was about to give up hope, Manning ran up apologizing for being late.

“Before we go any further, I usually request half the money up front as a … retainer,” Wolf said, trying to sound businesslike.

“Certainly, certainly!” Manning said and produced a check. To Wolf’s relief it was a cashier’s check.

“After you sir!” Wolf said and opened the door to the convenience store. An electronic buzzer announced their entrance to the bored cashier who didn’t bother to look up.

Manning said, “I’d like to buy a lottery ticket, please.”

---

Markus yawned. The sound stage was barren -- all concrete floors and exposed ceilings. The actual set however was well lit and warm. In a way, the sound stage was much like the lottery itself – a pleasant illusion surrounded by stark reality. Wolf looked around at the desperate people, most of whom had probably spent their social security checks for the useless papers they preciously clutched in their hands. The he looked at Manning. He didn’t feel as sorry for Manning as the man obviously had money, but what kind of a whack job hires a lawyer on the assumption they’re going to win the lottery? Certifiably crazy.

“So, when, I mean if, I win you’ll deposit all the money into the account I specified, right?” Manning asked.

“Uh, yes, of course,” Wolf replied. It was the third time Manning had asked essentially the same question. The instructions were pretty damn simple and hard to get wrong.

The lottery host appeared on set, all full of fake joviality. He bantered for a bit and drew nervously laughter from the crowd. A bored looking woman in a glittering, ill-fitting cocktail dress stepped forward. The lottery balls, each printed with a number from one to sixty, started spinning. Manning leaned forward in his seat. Wolf glanced at his client’s lottery ticket: “4-8-15-16-23-42” and wondered if he shouldn’t have bought those same numbers. It would only have been a buck… but too late. The woman in the cocktail dress had her hand over the lever. She was staring off stage waiting for a bald man with a stopwatch to give her a signal. The bald man dropped his hand, mouthed, “Now!” and the woman gave the lever a pull. A ball was sucked into the machine then rolled down a little ramp for everyone to see. The first ball: 56. Then: 58… 12 … 9… 28 ... 59. Wolf congratulated himself for asking for the money upfront as Manning’s numbers were all wrong.

---

Harvey Manning lay sweating in a hotel bed unable to sleep. His head overflowed with hypothesis and theories. What had gone wrong? The only plausible explanation was that the newspaper had printed the wrong numbers. Maybe they had accidentally printed yesterday’s numbers or the day before? Manning kicked himself for not having researched better. The next day’s paper might have had a correction!

The night passed quickly and before he knew it someone was sliding the morning paper into his room. He leapt up and threw open the door, startling the hotel worker who was dropping off the papers.

“Good morning sir. Very sad news – Mayor Daly was assassinated last night,” the woman said. Manning ignored her, flipped past the tragic picture of Mrs. Daly and rifled through the paper to the local section, back page.

The lottery section read: “9-12-28-56-58-59.” They were the same numbers that had been drawn the night before and different from the numbers in his copy of the newspaper. What the hell? He pulled out his lottery ticket and the old mylar bagged newspaper. Both ticket and paper read, “4-8-15-16-23-42.” Comparing the crisp new newspaper to the yellowing one, everything looked exactly the same – the lame front cover story about fishing holes, the printing error on the second page, the misspelling of “business” on page three. Everything was the same except for the lottery numbers. Had Mrs. Styron pulled a fast one on him? Had she given him a fake paper with the wrong numbers? But why would she do that? How could she have known what he was up to? It didn’t make any sense.

---

With his remaining cash, Manning bought drinks, the cheapest available. When his wallet was empty and his head buzzing, he stumbled from the bar and tripped into a bald headed man.

“Whoa there!” the man said, amused by Harvey’s drunken state. A dim light went off in Harvey’s head.

“I know you!” Harvey slurred.

“You do, do you?” the bald man said, laughing.

“You work at the lottery!” Harvey pronounced.

“Why yes I do!” the bald man replied. He paused for a moment. “Say, my friends and I are having a drink. Wanna join us?” he asked then winked to his friends.

Harvey sat at the bar and the bald man, trying to be sly, ordered the most foul tasting drink he could think of. The barman hesitated then poured the drink. But Harvey was no longer interested in drinking.

“What’s your job at the lottery?” Harvey asked.

“Oh, I’m just one of the accountants.”

“Then why were you at the filming last night?”

“Did you see me last night? Was I on TV?”

“No, I was at the live taping. If you’re only an accountant then why were you on set?”

The accountant thought for a bit then he leaned closer to Manning and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone this. This is so crazy I can’t believe I’m telling you. Anyway, my boss is absolutely convinced that in the future some time traveler is going to come back in time to buy a winning lottery ticket. It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard, but the woman is absolutely obsessed with stopping this from happening! So, she came up with this crazy plan. Actually it’s a pretty clever plan when you think about it, except for the whole time travel thing. Anyway, so her plan is to have all of the numbers purchased for any given drawing influence the outcome of that drawing.”

Manning looked puzzled.

The accountant explained, “What I actually do is I take all the lottery numbers purchased and add them up. Then I take the ones place of that sum and wait that many seconds before drawing the first ball. So, if all the lottery numbers purchased add up to15,251, we’d let the balls fly around for 1 second before drawing. If the sum is15,252, we’d wait for 2 seconds. So, any time travelers buying tickets will change the time the balls move around, which changes the numbers that are drawn. Get it? Anyway, can you believe I got a raise for that? I got a raise for stopping time travelers from winning the lottery! Absurd!”

The lottery boss’ trick slowly pushed its way through Manning’s alcohol addled brain. When it arrived, Harvey Manning laughed then wept. Though she would never know it the lottery boss’ plan had worked brilliantly. By buying a lottery ticket, he had changed the outcome of the drawing, making himself lose.

From behind him, Manning heard a familiar voice ask, “Bartender, do you have any sake?” Then he heard the well-oiled click of a submachine gun.

Midnight Doggie

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 03:29:00 +0000

It's past midnight and being in a rush to get to bed, I charge into the elevator and very nearly step on a dog’s tail. “Excuse me!” I say and step aside. The dog, the sole passenger, moves to make room for me. I thank her and say I’ll take the next one. This late at night, I’d never ride an elevator with a strange canine.

When the next car arrives, a man sticks his head out, looks up and down the hall then steps back in. He holds the door open expectantly. Not wanting to be rude I step inside.

He pushes 4, 13, and 21 and offers, “She likes those floors,” as an explanation. I nod politely, push my floor and pray the elevator moves quickly.

At the fourth floor, the man sticks his head out and scans the hall before rejoining me. An empty leash swings from his hand.

“Are you looking for your dog?” I venture not really wanting to start a conversation.

“Yes, have you seen her?”

I tell him I saw his pooch in the other car. The man asks, “If you see her again could you please send her home?”

With no intention of actually following through, I ask him which apartment to bring her to. “Oh,” he scoffs, “she knows the apartment number.”

“Right,” I say.

A dumb look of admiration grows on his face. “You have a beautiful coat,” he offers.

I cringe into the corner of the elevator but there is no escape. His dirty hands are all over me, running up and down my back, under my chin and into the fur on top of my head. Hiss!
After he disembarks, I paw the door close button then meticulously lick myself clean, hawk a furball and wonder how anyone can stand to live in the city, where it’s noisy, smelly and full of overly friendly people who want to pet you.

Elevator guy’s dog is meandering aimlessly around my floor. I tell her to go home and she barks, “Mind your own damn business.”

It’s not bad advice.

In Loving Memory

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Tue, 08 Aug 2006 06:15:00 +0000

Her tongue cooks in coffee. Steam drifts from her nostrils. She chokes coffee-stained mucous into the sink. A spider of phlegm spools spit silk from her chin and lands gently on her white blouse where it blooms into a perfectly round brown dot.

Her son doesn’t look as she strips out of yet another blouse. He doesn’t listen as she intones a familiar mantra “you’re going to be late for school.” Instead, he tucks his school bag, ready half an hour ago and swirls his fingers in grainy milk. On TV, a poker-faced news anchor raises the stakes to fifteen dead soldiers in the past week. “Let’s see the enemy call that,” the reporter seems to say.

Mother freezes as though she can’t remember how to work a button, then erupts, blasting BBs of spittle and vitriol at her child, condemning him for watching “that garbage,” “that shit he knows she doesn’t like.”

Before it can escape, the son mightily vacuums snot deep back into his throat. Big boys don’t cry.

After shutting off the TV, she apologizes and reasons with him, reasons with herself, but the convoluted logic is incomprehensible to either of them. She reaches her arms wide to hug him but he only recoils then clings to her, she a wire mesh monkey mother with only a tiny patch of terry cloth still clinging.

Ding-Dong! The doorbell rings, a slight electric buzz succeeded by two artificial bells. Who the fuck rings this early in the morning? Is he expecting anyone? “Of course not.” She prays whoever is at the door will go away. It rings again. Now, she is crying. A scheduled doorbell visit means homecoming. An unscheduled visit . . .

Mother stumbles to the door, her knees overcooked noodles. Through the blurry mosaic in her eyes, she makes a hint of blue, uniform blue, through the window. She is sobbing now, her shaking hands unstable on the bolt.

The doorbell rings clearly. She is a coward, telling her son to answer the door, but he shakes his head, terrified by whatever frightens his mother. The ringing doorbell becomes a knock. It has a rhythm – bah, bump, bah-dah, bump, bump -- a-shave-and-a-haircut.

Now she is crying and laughing in happy confusion. Her son is having problems with the bolt. The door flies open. The child squeaks, “Daddy!” The uniformed man bellows “Son!”

With his son wrapped around his leg, he effortlessly scoops his wife from the floor. “I’m so sorry, my flight got scheduled earlier and I couldn’t get a hold of you.” Then he recants, “I thought I’d surprise you.”

Mother kisses father hard on the lips. Then she slaps him, left-handed, hard. The wedding band draws a shaving nicks worth of blood.

Their son will be late for school today.

Both Eyes Open

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Fri, 23 Jun 2006 23:08:00 +0000

When I awoke, I found a pamphlet taped to the inside of my front door. I spun around, but the house was empty, the locks were thrown, the windows intact, and the alarm still set. "Have you found God?" the pamphlet asked. That morning, I showered with both eyes open.

Monster Precautions (Revised, Origin)

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Thu, 04 May 2006 06:23:00 +0000

Billy feared monsters. He habitually clutched a flashlight to drive away the camouflaging darkness. To more easily check under it, he propped his bed frame on cinder blocks. He cut holes in his shower curtains to see the empty bathroom before stepping from the tub.

Late one night, Billy heard dead leaves rustling under his bed. He smelled the moss of decaying trees as a dark mass oozed from beneath the box spring.

Billy willed his arms to move, to defend himself with his precious flashlight which lay only inches from his head. He finally grabbed it and pointed it into the darkness. Spotlighted, a fluffy creature with the face of a puppy stood on its hind legs, its tongue hanging from its mouth, its head stooped below the low ceiling. The dog-thing whimpered and shied away from the light. Then it bit off Billy’s hand. The flashlight tumbled under the bed and clicked off.

In the dark, Billy could not see the monster chewing his entrails. But he could clearly hear himself screaming.

Origin:
I attended an exhibit at the New York MoMA which critiqued the design of safety equipment in the post 9/11 world. The majority of the equipment was impractical tongue-in-cheek commentary, such as a purse that had a rubber shoe sole for a bottom, which highlighted how purses tend to be placed on dirty surfaces, such as bathroom floors. A shower curtain with a safety peephole inspired this story. I assume the shower curtain was a paranoid’s response to Psycho. If you’re naked the shower and you know some knife wielding maniac has slipped in, what exactly are you going to do? If the terrorism alert is orange are you going to buy Duct Tape? “We need actionable information!”

Original:
http://societygames.com/earball/2005/12/flash-fiction-monster-precautions.html
Show, not tell.

Revisiting

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Thu, 04 May 2006 06:20:00 +0000

Over the next couple of weeks, I'll revise and repost some of my short stories. Many re-posts will contain a blurb explaining the origin of the story. I may also post some new stories.

Twenty-Six

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Mon, 27 Mar 2006 23:07:00 +0000

Relief! I completed twenty-six stories in under twenty-six weeks. My Daruma Doll now has both eyes... Thanks for reading. May all of your Daruma Dolls be blessed with binocular vision!

Dear NSA: This is a Work of Fiction. Please Do Not Tap My Phones. Thank You.

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Sat, 18 Mar 2006 22:33:00 +0000

My son loves apples. He especially adores green ones but Shabab, the storekeeper, rarely sells them. Today, Shabab’s red apples are very brown and very small. I say to him, “Shabab your apples are very brown and very small. Why are they so expensive?” He finishes talking to a man I have never seen before then says, “If I sold them for less people would think they were no good. I sell them for more and people imagine that maybe there is something special about them.” It makes no sense. But as I said, my son loves apples so I buy some anyway.

Shabab presses the register key and dusted concrete explodes into my eyes like a sandstorm. Thunder claps in my ear. I tumble as a leaf would blow in the fall winds. I look up and see blue sky where the ceiling used to be. I think of my son.

I am blind. No, something is on my face, covering my eyes, in my ears, and up my nostrils. My hands and legs are pinned at the wrists and ankles. I ask where I am, but I am the only one who can answer. I feel that something is going to happen. Nothing happens. I pass time by sleeping but a man can only sleep so much.

After many hours, I hear a metal door sliding, grating open. “Hello?” I say. I sense someone has entered but he does not speak. The hood is lifted from my head. Bloody cotton is pulled from my nostrils and ears. One eye remains taped shut. A man, probably American, probably a doctor, shines a flashlight in my good eye. In English, I ask where I am. He does not answer. Satisfied, the doctor leaves me to two men, one Arab who is leaning against on a table and the other an American who sits casually in a metal chair.

“Are you Abu Karim Muhammad al-Jamil ibn Nidal ibn Abdulaziz al-Filastini?” the seated man asks. The standing man translates.

“No,” I say “I am Abdul Rahman bin Omar al-Ahmad. And I speak English.”

“Do not lie to me,” he warns. The translator keeps translating.

“Why would I lie?” I ask.

“Why wouldn’t you lie?” he replies. The seated man stands and draws a large knife from his boot. He slowly draws the blade across my neck so lightly that it tickles like a paper cut. I can only move my head so far back. The blade suddenly moves downward as he slices off my pants. He asks me if all Arabs have penises like boys. The translator looks uncomfortable saying this. His discomfort gives me strength. The hood is placed on my head and I am left alone.

A mosquito is taped into my ear. I can feel the bones in my ears twitching. I breathe through my mouth until my lips become cracked riverbeds. I talk to myself. I sing to myself until my throat is cardboard then I shake my legs to keep my mind from eating itself.

Hours maybe days later, the American returns holding a banana. I’ve seen enough American TV to know that now he will start eating the banana in front of me and offer me the banana in exchange for information. I am so hungry I try to think of what the American wants to hear.

He unties me and unbinds my feet. This is where he makes me complacent by acting nice.

“Get on your knees,” he orders. I comply. He puts the banana in my hands and says, “Fuck it.” I do not move. He slaps me across the face with rings on his hand. My jaw stiffens, fractured. “Fuck it,” he repeats. I do not move. He slaps me the other way and I hear crack. “Do I need a translator?” he asks.

What is pride? What is pain? I tell myself it is a colonoscopy.

The translator enters with a pad of paper. “Now, you will tell me what I want to know,” the American says.

He has not broken me. I am angry, frustrated at his idiocy. “Ok, ok you’ve got me! I’m big terrorist number one,” I say sarcastically. My jaw hurts.

He writes: “Confesses to being a terrorist.”

“Who do you know that is a member of Al-Quaeda?” he asks.

“I’ve seen Osama Bin Laden five times,” I say, “Three times on Al-Jazeera and twice on CNN.” He writes: “Knows and has seen Osama Bin Laden.”

“Good” he says and pats my head like a child. Idiot. I never see him again.

A couple of days later the doctor returns. He comes with food, Tylenol, and a clean pair of pants. He does not look me in the eye. The doctor hesitates before mumbling, “I’m not supposed to tell you this but our unit found the remains of Abu Karim Muhammad al-Jamil ibn Nidal ibn Abdulaziz al-Filastini buried in the building where you were arrested. He had been killed by the bomb.” Finally he looks me in the eye and says, “You’ll be going home.” With this confession, he leaves quickly.

Three months later, I am back in my home country. A G.I. escorts me to the front gate and gives me $10 for bus fare. I spit on his boots.

I do not go home. Instead, I find Shabab. He knew Abu Karim Muhammad al-Jamil ibn Nidal ibn Abdulaziz al-Filastini. He will know his associates.

Shabab warns me that I don’t want to get involved. Revenge is not the path I want to take. I tell him, “In the 1800’s the British took American sailors and held them against their will. The Americans fought a war against the British. The British burned the American capitol, but eventually the Americans won. Only by fighting did they win respect.”

I’ll Do Anything for You, Dear

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Wed, 08 Mar 2006 19:02:00 +0000

After seven days of rain, the sun finally shines bright and the world comes out to celebrate. The revelers become slaloms and hurdles as I dodge around old couples and jump over dog leashes. A block away, I see a beautiful blonde pigtail, stained dark with sweat, happily swinging to the beat of running feet. I accelerate past the blonde then slow down until she catches up. Like me, she ran everyday in the rain. Stripped of her baggy waterproof jacket and tights she’s even more fabulous than I had imagined.

“Hello,” I say. She looks down my shirtless body and says, “Hello,” with a faint smile and no hint of “good bye.” Her breasts and damp smell are intoxicating. We keep pace.

Three deer bound across our path, flying, obeying gravity only briefly as they touch the ground. “How beautiful,” she murmurs. Before I can agree, a speeding truck impales the third deer and drags it a half block before shrieking to a stop. The two remaining deer gracefully disappear and I imagine this deer standing, shaking its legs, and continuing its journey. But its limbs have become strings and with every attempt to stand it collapses in a froth of blood bubbling from its nose and mouth.

The teenage driver stumbles from the truck, looks at the deer then turns up the street and then turns back down the street, lost in his own neighborhood. The blonde woman jogs toward the thrashing animal and I unconsciously follow. She takes one look and says, “Put him out of his misery. Break his neck.” The kid looks like he’s going to vomit. She looks at me expectantly with shimmering blue eyes. Her gorgeous chest heaves as she pants maybe out of breath but also maybe from excitement. Adrenaline lifts me as I step up and grab the horns, the only part of the animal I dare to touch, and twist. The deer’s neck torques and its body lifts upward. The blonde is close beside me breathing hard into my ear. I step on its neck to keep it from turning and yank as hard as I can. The deer’s wild black eyes stop their frantic darting.

“Good job,” the blonde whispers and pats me on the butt. She runs a half block then turns back, inviting me to follow. But my legs have frozen and I cannot move. The blonde goddess grows impatient and sprints away. The kid throws up into a gutter. A sound is looping in my ears. It goes, “Pop, pop, craaack. Pop, pop, craaack” over and over again.

Empathy for the Devil

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Sun, 26 Feb 2006 06:36:00 +0000

There’s someone at the torture chamber door.
Oh Allah, please don’t let them do this anymore.

A Man and His Rocket

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Fri, 24 Feb 2006 04:34:00 +0000

There are two surefire ways for a government to get people killed. It can declare war. Or it can put a politician in charge of the space program.

Twenty-five hours. Had it been twenty-five hours? Alexii was having problems subtracting. He cursed the twelve hour clock. Then, he cursed the chairman who had demanded extra shifts from his engineers, if only so he could tell the Premier, “Look our men are working double shifts! We’re working as fast as we can!”

Double shifts meant less sleep. Sleepiness meant more mistakes. Alexii had ordered his men to triple check each others’ work. They spent most their time looking over each others' shoulders. Double shifts meant half as much work completed.

Yet, here was Alexii violating his own rules by trying to fix a fuel line by himself. Had he followed the proper channels, the chairman would have chewed him out for half an hour. It was time he could not waste. So he quietly crawled into the tank to fix it himself. He sat in the small supplemental fuel tank, trying to remember the maximum pressure ratings of Class 3 rubber tubing. The tank smelled of new metal and the sun warmed the iron skin from the outside. Alexii leaned against the wall, absorbing the warmth, digging deep into his mind for the PSI calculations. It was dark but out of habit he closed his eyes to think.

Alexii’s bed was very cold. He reached in the darkness for his sheets but instead his hand found metal. He was surrounded by metal. A final hushed conversation with Ivan floated in his brain, “Our calculations show that the new fuel lines may not be able to hold the pressure. We need to replace them.” “I’ll do it. Do not tell the chairman.”

My God. How long had he been asleep? The launch was tomorrow and he had not yet replaced the fuel lines! He fumbled around in the dark for his flashlight. It clicked but nothing happened. He clicked again. Nothing. The batteries must have run down. Shit. The fuel lines must be fixed. Alexii tried to find them in the dark, but each line felt identical. Needing light, he groped blindly for the ladder and climbed the narrow chamber. In the darkness, he banged his head on the top portal. He did not remember closing it. Alexii twisted the latch but it would not turn. He yanked as hard as he could, but it was impossible to generate leverage with one hand. Wrapping his legs around the ladder, he reached up cautiously with both hands and pulled hard, grunting. Alexii felt himself falling backwards. He grabbed desperately at the ladder and caught it. His head spun with adrenaline and vertigo. The fucking hatch could only be opened from the outside. Some idiot had locked him in.

The blueprints of the fuel module flashed through his mind. The only other escape was a single conduit leading to the life support module, but it was filled with sensor cables, no space wasted and no way for man to crawl through.

Although the tank was double hulled, it was possible that someone outside could hear him. He grabbed the dead flashlight and banged it against the wall, uselessly shouting at the same time. The sound was deafening to him. Someone outside must hear him. His voice went hoarse. His right arm fell to his side exhausted, followed by his left. After what felt like hours of banging, he dropped the flashlight, no longer able to lift his arms above his waist.

Alexii would have to use the conduit to escape. He crawled on his hands and knees until he found the panel. He broke the seal and reached in stubbing his fingers against the thick bundle of cables, each pulled taunt against the other. With his small pocket knife, he began sawing. He severed four cables before the knife snapped from the handle. He tried using only the blade to cut the cables but succeeded only in slicing his hand open. He smelled the fresh blood and heard it dripping on the metal floor. No matter how hard clawed and wiggles his fingers, his hand could only reach a couple of inches into the conduit before getting stuck in the tangle of wires.

Alexii sank to the floor. This was stupid. It could not be happening. Someone would eventually notice he was missing, abort the launch, and find him. He would probably lose his job, but they would find him.

But why should he lose his job? He slammed his good hand against the wall. Fucking idiotic chairman! If he hadn’t pushed so hard to accelerate the program Alexii wouldn’t be in this mess. How could his country have been so stupid, so blinded by this idiotic space race, as to endanger their lives? For what? How could he have been so stupid as to try to repair the fuel lines alone? He was the best engineer, the brightest, the most responsible, and now he had gone and done something very stupid. He cried, exhausted, pounding on the metal hull, until his fists hurt and his knuckles were slick with blood.

He would be a better person if he could just get out of this. He would stand up for the rights of his co-workers. Nobody would ever be endangered like this again. He would make the program better. His country would win the space race and be safe at the same time. He would also be a better father. He would spend more time with his wife, kids, and dog. He only needed to get out of this stupid tank.

Alexii thought of his family. He imagined his own funeral. Alexii’s father had died when he was very young. He remembered desperately trying to hold the coffin. His small hands slipped constantly from the handle. His mother had tried to pull him away, but he had shoved her so hard that she fell. His mother had burst out crying and Alexii had looked away in disgust. His son was the same age as he had been when his father had died. Alexii cried for him.

Finally, Alexii had no tears left. He slumped on the floor, listening to his wristwatch tick. The procedure was simple: They would fill the lower tank. When it was full, the fuel would push through the small one way valve between his feet. He would suffocate from the fumes before he drowned. He would die quickly. He said a prayer, though he had not been to church in years.

From the darkness below, Alexii heard a hollow sloshing sound like a man peeing into an empty milk bottle. The sound slowly began to change in pitch until it stopped all together. A valve clanged open. He felt something cold and wet in his shoes and the strong smell of fuel burned his mouth and nose. Using his hands, he tried to push the valve shut. The fuel seeped into his wounds and burned like boiling water. The pressure was too much. The valve remained opened. Instinctively, he climbed the ladder. He held on, sensing the fuel rising below him, until the world spun out of control, so he could not tell if he was falling or not. The black world went silent and the burning in his throat stopped.

***

Five… four… three… two … one… The rocket roared to life. The eight astronauts onboard grinned at each other, giving the thumbs up. Except for a small problem with ground control being unable to locate the lead engineer, the launch had gone off perfectly. The lead engineer was probably off in a broom closet somewhere taking a celebratory and much deserved nap. They had beaten the Americans in the space race.

The g-forces pushed them back into the seats. Though they could not see them, the astronauts faced the stars.

As the craft reached the upper atmosphere, a Class 3 fuel line ruptured unable to handle the pressure. A sensor detected the problem and sent an angry stream of data to the astronauts. But the wire carrying the signal had been cut by a pocket knife. The alarm bell remained silent. The leaking fuel caught fire, depriving the engine of fuel. The flames raced back to the fuel source, back to Alexii’s coffin. “Something’s wro…” one of the astronauts started to say, before his jaw was ripped from his skull by an explosion.

Male Chauvinism

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Sat, 18 Feb 2006 22:04:00 +0000

Ding.

“Can I help you?” There’s something condescending about the way flight attendants hold the back of the seat while they talk to you.

“Yes, my headphones don’t seem to be working.” The middle passenger holds out her headphones. She’s really cute probably eighteen or nineteen years old.

“Try these.” Unfortunately, they don’t work either. The jack on her seat is broken.

I say, “My jack is working. Why don’t we switch seats for the movie? But if you don’t mind, I’d like the aisle back when it’s done.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. I'm tempted to say, “Actually, I’ve changed my mind” but instead she gets, “Certainly, it’s no big deal.”

The older woman in the window seat says, “Who says chauvinism is dead?”

I wonder if she means “chivalry.”

The Good Boy

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Wed, 15 Feb 2006 09:01:00 +0000

Tommy paused and looked both ways before darting across the street. Derek pointed a gun, aimed carefully, and shot him. “Bang!” But instead of falling to the ground dead, Tommy bent over to pick something up from the street. Derek shouted, “I said bang, you’re dead!” Tommy turned something in his hands, his back turned to Derek. The older boy tackled the younger drawing blood as Tommy shaved his knees against the rough concrete. “Ow!” Tommy screamed, twisting and flailing his arms at Derek.

Derek pinned his friend’s arms to the road. Tommy’s left fist unclenched but his right remained tightly squeezed. “What you got?” Derek demanded. Without waiting for a response, he tried to ply Tommy’s fingers open. Tommy clenched harder. Derek’s finger nails dug into Tommy’s flesh leaving three bloody crescent marks across his wrist. His hand opened and from it rolled a gold ring set around an elephantine diamond.

“It’s mine now,” Derek gloated. The ring sparkled blue and green in the Texas sun. An engraving on the inside of the ring read “VM ♥ LE.” “Give it back!” Tommy begged and started to cry.

A car approached and slowed to a stop. The driver worried that the boys might dart in front of the car. Derek pocketed the ring. “Get up the car’s waiting,” Derek said and lifted Tommy by his lapels and pushed him to the sidewalk. Derek waved the car on.

Tears streaked down Tommy’s face as he gingerly touched his knees. “Give it back! I found it!” he said. Derek replied, “No, it’s mine now. And don’t go crying to your mommy about it.” He walked away wanting to admire his treasure in private.

Derek hid the ring in the trunk of his favorite toy car. When no one was around, he twirled it in the sunlight, playing with the refracted light rays. He clumsily hid it whenever his mom walked by, his heart always pounding, afraid she’d see it and take it away.

It must be worth a lot. He dreamed of all things he could buy with the ring. A new bicycle, a remote controlled car, or maybe even an actual car! Over dinner he surreptitiously asked his father how much a gold ring with a diamond might be worth. “Are you thinking of getting engaged?” his father guffawed then went back to eating his chicken.

The next day, Derek formulated a plan. He told his parents he was going to Tommy’s house. Instead, he hopped on his bike and rode a mile and half to the mall. He’d never been to the mall on his own and from his bike the distances seemed vast. Even the parking lot seemed large and foreboding. He found his way to a jewelry store. Not knowing what to say, he waited impatiently for the shopkeeper to acknowledge him. But the store was busy and customers kept flowing in. Finally, after fifteen minutes of standing around looking at his shoes, a sales clerk asked, “Are you lost?” Derek blurted out, “Do you buy rings?” and pushed the ring at her. The sales clerk looked down at him and said, “I don’t think you mother would appreciate it much if you sold her engagement ring. You know, stealing is very bad. You could be sent to jail!”

In a panic, Derek darted from the store, afraid of trouble and jail. He pedaled home as fast as he could and slammed through the front door feeling safe. But his mother was waiting for him at the dinner table. “I just ran into Tommy’s mom. She said Tommy found a ring and that you beat him up and took it from him. Give it here,” she said holding out her hand. “Please let me keep it,” he begged. His mother raised her hand. Her long, red-painted finger nails glittered in the sun. He dug into his pocket and dropped the ring into her hand. “Nice,” she said, “Now get out of here.”

Derek kicked a pebble down the street then into a rain gutter. He wanted to beat Tommy for telling on him but more than that he wanted the ring back. Moping around town, he came upon a flyer posted to a telephone poll, beside a lost dog poster. It read: “Lost Ring! Sentimental value. Reward. If found please call…” Derek didn’t know what “sentimental” meant, but it probably meant “a lot.”

That night, Derek lay awake until he heard his parents go to bed. He waited until he was sure they were asleep then crept into their room. Derek quietly opened his mother’s jewelry box, pausing at every squeak and sound to make sure they weren’t awake. He grabbed the ring, closed the box, and slipped back to bed.

The next day, he used a quarter from his meager allowance to call the number on the flyer. “Hello?” a husky voice smoked through the phone. “I have your ring,” Derek said. “Oh thank god!” the voice said. “What’s your address? Can I come pick it up now? Is it convenient?”

Derek sat at the curb, impatiently poking a stick into the ground. Many cars drove by but none stopped. Finally, a red Porsche parked in front of him. A twenty something blonde woman in high heels wearing a short black cocktail dress with pearls dripping down her neck rose from the car. She wore large sunglasses and her lips were painted redder than the car. A gentle wave of perfume preceded her. Derek thought of his own mother who wore faded jeans and smelled of cigarettes.

When he pulled the ring from his pocket, she smiled with her perfect straight, white teeth and giggled happily. She hugged him tightly and a bit awkwardly given the height difference then kissed him on the cheek. Her lipstick did not smear. She stared lovingly at the ring, picked a piece of lint from it then opened her purse and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. “This is for you for being so honest!” she said and patted him on the head.

Foot in Mouth Disease

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Thu, 09 Feb 2006 08:20:00 +0000

Mark: Oh Hayley! ‘Tis you that I see?
Aren’t you an old colleague from university?

Hayley: Long time no see. I’m shocked you recognize me!

Mark: Some say recognition is flattering.
Seeing you has my heart pattering.

Hayley: I thank you deeply for the flattery.
My husband also speaks so sugary.
I must apologize and say I’m sorry.
Your name’s escaped me most thoroughly.

Mark: Mark Smith. At school I lived a door beyond yours.
If you may recall, it was room one-two-one-four.

Hayley: Of course! You shared a room with Steve and Marty.
If memory is clear, you threw the most kick ass parties!

Mark: Well that was more Marty and Steve than me.
So what is it that brings you here to San Marie?

Hayley: I work the Mayor’s public relations,
selling of bonds for new subway stations,
and addressing the public’s lamentations.
I like to say:
The Mayor works but if we don’t hear ‘bout it,
then whatever he done ain’t worth a shit.

Mark: Huh, that’s a clever saying. May I sit?
My girl’s off taking a hit or getting lit.

Hayley: Sorry, a high school friend is meeting me in a bit.

Mark: It’s cool you keep in touch with such ol’ buddies.

Hayley: You make us sound so much like old fuddies!
She’s not really a friend. She talks, I listen and pretend.
She calls and asks for thoughts about boyfriends,
Should she bring the dating to an end?
Or keep attempting and trying to amend?
Though this newest boy she can’t defend,
He’s a dick; I’m sure her heart he’ll rend.

Mark: Yeah, relationships can be tough.
My current relationship’s pretty rough.
I think I may even have had enough.
She’s a social butterfly. I can not keep the attention of her eye.
But she says the sweetest things and makes me feel so special.
Should I stay or should I go? I’m at the threshold!

Hayley: Hey, my friend is near. I have to go I fear,
A pleasant surprise seeing you unexpectedly here!

Mark: Jenny honey is that you my dear?
I thought you were to meet a friend for beer?

Jennifer: The friend I’m meeting is Hayley.
She’s known me since I was a wee little baby.
She and I attended the same high school.

Mark: No joke? That is really cool.
I went to college with Hayley.

Hayley: The world is small, ain’t it crazy?

Flash Fiction: Two Parables

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Thu, 02 Feb 2006 08:13:00 +0000

One:
A foreman decides to build a house for his homeless friend. But halfway through construction, he finds he cannot finish the project as it’s too costly and it’s hurting his business. The homeless friend is very upset. The foreman asks, “Why are you upset? At least you have half of a house, which is better than no house at all!” The friend says, “You feel guilty over not completing the house. I feel disappointed. Between the two, our friendship will surely end. I wish you had never offered.”

Two:
A poor farmer struggles to walk under the weight of a sack of apples. His strong friend runs up and takes the sack, giving the farmer a break. The friend, being very fit, would have a much easier time carrying the apples the distance, but about halfway to town, he apologizes and says he feels tired. He hands the sack back to the farmer, who struggles mightily but finally makes it to town.

Tensile Strength

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Thu, 02 Feb 2006 08:10:00 +0000

The doctors worried that her father may have suffered brain damage. He was only fifty years old and his family had no history of stroke or anything of the sort. A hotel stairwell had suddenly collapsed dropping him two stories, breaking bones, and cracking his skull. Lying in a hospital bed, he could not speak intelligibly and he could not recognize his own daughter.

After spending two weeks by his side, his daughter, one of my best friends, returned to school at her mother’s request. But her mind remained tethered to her ailing father.

In an effort to keep things normal, we continued our weekly lunches and dinners, but she no longer smiled when she saw me nor did she playfully hook her arm in mine while we walked. Over a series of months, her side of the conversation accelerated downward like a tether ball nearing its pole. It descended from talk about the incomprehensibility of the accident, to apathy and difficult pointlessness of academics, to her desire to take a semester off and finally to the darkness and confusion of her being. I tried to comfort her as best as I could but like her father her brain and heart had swollen leaving her in a fevered nonsensical world. It felt like trying to solve equations with someone who believes zero is greater than one.

A couple of months after the accident, while yet again listening to her dark protestations, I suddenly blurted out that I couldn’t do this anymore. Our time together consisted of depressed, single-minded gloom that I could no longer handle. We had to talk about something else or not talk at all. Looking at me sadly, she must have felt betrayed and alone, but she was not angry or even unkind to me. We parted ways in silence.

I was Atlas, giving up the weight of the world because the world was not mine. I should have felt guilty, weak, puny, and cowardly. But instead, I only felt relief as I escaped back to my world, a world in which my father was healthy, a world in which bad things only happening to bad people. Like a foreign aid worker, I escaped the famine to return to my posh, happy country. For the remaining year and half of college we didn’t talk except when we happened to be in the same room.

A couple of years later, while I was visiting Hong Kong, she got all of our old friends together for Dim Sum and drinks in honor of my visit. Over the years, her father had improved tremendously and she seemed excited about the various future job and love prospects in her life. After the others had excused themselves, we hung out, walking around Hong Kong and talking. She did not hook her arm in mine.

We made grand promises to go to Eastern Europe, to take a trip similar to one we had taken while in college. They were the kind of promises made to be broken, made by sentimental friends who yearn for the past, but know nothing will be the same.

Flash Something: Finding Drama

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Tue, 31 Jan 2006 08:07:00 +0000

My death will be one of the most dramatic moments in my life. Too bad I won't be able to write about it.

A Touch of Heaven, Return to Earth

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Thu, 26 Jan 2006 07:56:00 +0000

“A Touch of Heaven, an Escape from Hell
Or…
Glorious Eden and the Apple of Knowledge
Or…
Icarus and the Sun and the Sea
Or…
Raging Fire, Glass of Water.

It’s all philosophical bullshit. The important thing, the clever thing, if you can call it that, is that it makes you forget. We don’t know what they use to make you forget but we’re trying our best, with what we have, to wipe her mind.”

No. I don’t want to forget. What am I forgetting?

Laura spat a moist wad of medium-rare Kobe beef on the porcelain china. Brown flecks of chewed cow splattered across the white table cloth. She grabbed a glass of ’97 Romanée Conte, rolled it across her tongue, winced visibly then tipped the glass back until wine overflowed her mouth and ran down the veins of her neck. Screaming in frustration, she threw the glass to the ground. The crystal shattered and cut her leg, mixing blood with wine. A busboy automatically appeared with a dustpan. The head waiter followed, bowed deeply, and asked if everything was alright. Laura tossed a bulging wad of psychedelically colored bills on the table and ran barefoot from the restaurant leaving her pumps as a reminder of where she had been.

She ignored the mish mash of unintelligible foreign street signs until she was lost among the drunkenly angled streets. Where had they gone after dinner? Laura had wanted to go back to the hotel and make love. But as always her boyfriend had wanted to drink. They had gone to Club Monaco.

Laura begged passersby for directions. She reached out to get their attention, but they swerved around her, until a bubble formed in the swift moving current of people. They were afraid of her blood stains, her wine stains, her bare feet and her empty, pleading, desperate eyes. Finally a man with brown teeth and a baggy suit stepped beside her. He didn’t speak English and his eyes locked on her breasts, but he kept saying, “Yes, yes, Club Monaco.” He took her hand and led her through the city.

To Laura’s surprise, they were already quite close to the club. Laura grabbed a seat at the bar and her guide sat beside her, openly leering at her crossed legs. Laura pointed at the top shelf. The bartender asked something in Japanese. She simply said, “Hai!,” the limit of her Nipponese, and he poured the drink. She rolled the glass and sipped. Usually her favorite, the top shelf cognac now reminded her of the formaldehyde from dissection lab in high school. She shoved it away, spilling half of it on the bar, and threw a handful of cash after it. Her guide grabbed the glass and finished it in one swallow. A pleased smile danced across his face.

When she felt horny very few straight men could refuse her for long. Her boyfriend was no exception. After the bar, they must have gone back to the hotel and fucked. Laura’s hand found her crotch and rubbed violently. She felt nothing.

The stained tooth man whispered something moist and lewd into her ear. She grabbed his wrist without looking at him, yanked him into a booth and pulled him between her legs. As he lifted her skirt and pushed into her she moaned but only out of habit. His wild pumping felt about as exciting as shoving a stick into mud. Laura hoped that he would finish quickly so she could be on her way. As soon as he filled her, she pushed him aside and ran out the door, leaving her underwear dangling from his fingers and an amused smile on his stupid face.

She wandered desperately, without direction until she found a busy eight lane highway cutting through the middle of town. She was mesmerized by the metallic light-streaked beauty of the Japanese automobiles as they flew dangerously close by. Reaching out she felt a brief electric rush as her fingers brushed the mirror of a truck passing as it sped by at forty miles an hour. She hopped the barrier and stood in front of a taxi cab, its headlights creating halos of the world. Its tires squealed beautifully and the metal bumper just scratched her thighs. Her eyes opened slowly, waiting for the moment. But she saw only a curious passenger and an angry driver cursing her in a language she did not understand. She began crying. Her soul filled with loss. She cried as she had when her father passed away.

Through the kaleidoscope of tears, she saw attached to the taxi an ad depicting a Japanese woman holding an oversized yellow pill. Through the fog of desperation, she remembered one final possibility.

Laura sprinted through back alleys and side streets. Like a homing pigeon she somehow found her way back to the dirty alley filled with shattered glass vials and used condoms. She banged impatiently on a rusted steel door until it opened and large muscular man pulled her inside. “Show me your collection,” she demanded.

Rifling furiously through his drug stash, she grabbed at any pill or plant that she might have taken the night before. The man laughed at the cornucopia of vials and baggies that she clutched in her hands. She grabbed some blue Ecstasy pills and suddenly remembered. “Give me the green pill!” she screamed, clawing at the man’s lapels. He shoved her away and squinted at her. Finally recognizing her, he drove his fist into her face. The world exploded into an array of fireworks, blue, red, yellow, and green arcs of light – but disappointingly, the grand finale, the overwhelming explosion of sights and sound never materialized. There was just darkness.

Her hands and feet were bound. Her mouth tasted like cotton – wait, that was a t-shirt shoved so fully in her mouth she couldn’t spit it out. The contents of her purse were scattered on the floor in front of her. The drug dealer stood over her, glaring angrily. Bah, he was going to waste her time by raping her. How annoying with the green pill, the ticket to bliss, so nearby, somewhere in his shop.

The drug dealer reached down and pulled half of a green pill from her scattered belongings. Fuck. There had been one in her purse all along.

He rolled the pill unevenly between his fingers. “Do you know what the Japanese addicts call this drug?” The dealer spoke like a tour guide describing an ancient statue of Buddha. “Touch of Heaven” he said airily, waving his hand in the air and looking at the ceiling. “And Return to Earth,” he hissed, suddenly shaking the half pill in her face. “You stupid Americans all think ‘What good is pleasure if I can’t remember it?’ You people think you can handle the memory of heaven. So you cut the pill in half. You take the half that grants infinite pleasure. But the half you don’t take, that’s what saves you from Eden. It washes your mind of that infinite ecstasy, so that you can live ignorant of true bliss. The pill must be taken whole or you will be ruined. What is life in the face of perfect pleasure?”

He yanked the t-shirt from her mouth and shoved the half pill in. She spat it out and begged for a whole green pill, for one last touch before she forgot. He roughly pinched her nose, put the pill in, and forced her to swallow. “So much time has passed since you touched Nirvana. For your sake, I hope this still works. I hope you forget,” he mumbled angrily. His fist loomed large and blackness followed.

The next morning, Laura awoke in a hospital, wearing a black eye, owning a broken nose, and bearing the faint memory of a bad dream that she could not remember. Her boyfriend annoyed her by speaking. “I told you not to take that fucked up green pill! It made you go totally ape shit. From what the police say, you ran around town throwing money everywhere. They found you in a gutter with your face all fucked up and you may have been raped. Woman, that fucking trip had better have been real good.”

She wished he would go away. With all that had happened to her, the green pill had been a total disappointment. She couldn’t remember a thing about it.

Laura stared at the ceiling trying hard to remember but her mind drifted. It didn’t help that the doctors had given her codeine to ease the pain in her eye sockets. Usually, she loved the weightlessness of the narcotic, but this time it felt dull, like a feather’s brush when she really yearned for a deep massage.

Scratching at the tubes that tethered her to the hospital bed, Laura knew she was forgetting something, like an errand remembered in the middle of the night. But it was something bigger. There was something out there, something that had happened to her, a faint memory of something grand. But what was it?

When no one was around, she pulled the IV from her veins and slipped quietly from the room. She would find it.

Flash Fiction: Foot, Now with Low Sodium

noreply@blogger.com (DoomGoober) — Sat, 21 Jan 2006 07:53:00 +0000

Mark: Hayley?

Hayley: Oh hi! Long time no see. How are you doing?

Mark: I’m fine, I’m fine. Wow, you look great.

Hayley: Thanks. My husband says the same thing to me every morning, but I don’t know if I believe him anymore... I’m so sorry I’ve completely forgotten your name.

Mark: Mark. Mark Lonergan. I used to live down the hall from you.

Hayley: Of course! Durfee Hall! You lived with, uh, Steve and Jamie. You guys had the best parties.

Mark: Thanks. Thanks. Well, truthfully that was more Jamie and Steven than me… So what are you doing in New York?

Hayley: I’m working at the Mayor’s office doing PR stuff. You know if the mayor does something and nobody hears about it, he hasn’t really done anything, right?

Mark: Yeah, yeah. That’s pretty cool. Hey, do you mind if I sit? My girlfriend, as always, is off doing her thing.

Hayley: Sorry. I’m supposed to be meeting an old high school friend in a couple of minutes.

Mark: Oh OK... Hey, that’s pretty cool that you keep in touch with your high school buddies.

Hayley: Well, this "buddy" only calls me up when she’s got boy troubles. She uses me as free therapy. Though this new guy she’s got he certainly sounds like a piece of work.

Mark: Yeah, relationships can be tough. Sometimes it’s good to just vent. Like, my current girlfriend is this huge social butterfly – I can’t hold her attention for more than fifteen minutes and she’s off pollinating some other flower. But then she comes back and says these things that make me feel all special and I just can’t get rid of her… It’s so frustrating sometimes I feel like shouting and screaming to anyone who will listen. Gosh, I’m sorry, now I’m going all "psychologist’s couch" on you.

Hayley: It’s OK. For some reason I bring that out in people. Hey my friend’s here. Well it was nice seeing you again Mister Mark Lonergan!

Mark: You too, Hayley.

Jennifer: Hayley? Mark? Do you two know each other?

Mark: Jenny honey, what are you doing here? I thought you were off meeting someone?

Jennifer: I am. I’m meeting Hayley. We’re old friends from high school.

Mark: No kidding? I went to college with Hayley.

Hayley: What a small world.