afmayo/junkbox.fiction

The dare

2009-11-15T22:31:00.000-08:00

She was no longer a little girl. It was horrible.

“I hate you. I hate you so much.”

All those conversations I had with random people through the years about this magical age suddenly came back to me all at once. “You’ll wish you could turn back the clock”. “You’ll wish you could speed up the clock.” “Dark thoughts will cross your mind.” “You’ll loose faith in humankind.” I had brushed them off. After all, I hadn’t been so bad at that age. Had I?

“Are you evening listening to me? I hate you!”

She had always been a beautiful child. But god damn it was hard to find anything beautiful about her anymore. I breathed. My therapist told me to breathe. My therapist told me that if I let her get the best of me I would only regret it later. One breath. Two. Three.

“I want to go to the concert with Lucy! Why do you have to be such a bitch! It’s just a stupid concert! I don’t know anybody that has such a bitch of a mom, you know?!”

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. I dare you to let me get to twenty. I double dare you. I triple dare you to get the best of me.

“Mom… Mommy… Can I pretty please go to the concert?”

As if that wasn’t enough she waited a beat and then leaned in very close and looked as if she just lost her ipod.

“I love you.”

Twenty. Fuck my therapist.

“You’re adopted.”

It was the first time in months she’d kept her mouth shut for more than a minute. I could see a million thoughts crossing her head. And then… A realization. I could kill myself.

“Hey… Look… Here’s fifty bucks. Why don’t you go to the concert with Lucy?”

She stared at me. She stared at the fifty bucks. She stared at me again.

“I think I’ll need a hundred.”

And the little devil smiled.

Pie

2008-12-08T12:28:00.001-08:00

The fly had been standing on the freshly baked cherry pie for about a minute, not believing it’s incredible luck. It salivated as it rubbed it’s hairy feet. A whole cherry pie.

That entire minute, just feet away, the old lady had been staring at the fly, not believing her own incredible bad luck. She had left her beautiful pie alone for all of ten seconds, the time it took her to fetch the pie cover.

The fly finally got down to business and walked all over the crispy crust, looking for the perfect place to launch its attack on the creamy cherry filling.

The old lady had seen that fly before. It had waddled in her oatmeal at breakfast and sipped from her soup at lunch, both times narrowly escaping death by the old lady’s skilled swatting. And she had a feeling it was the same fly she’d seen on the steaming turd of her neighbor’s schnauzer this morning. It had looked up at her then, just as it was looking up at her now.

The fly stared at the old lady and calculated her distance by the speed at which she was known to travel and then decided that it had plenty of time. And then it stuffed it’s face with pie.

The old lady watched the big green dirty fly infect her beautiful creation but still she didn’t move. There was something strange about watching that fly enjoy her cherry pie. Something oddly… Satisfying.

The fly looked up just as the old lady slammed the pie cover over it. The fly’s calculations had been all off. At least it would have the satisfaction of gorging itself before the old lady finished it off. But time passed and the old lady didn’t come. So the fly pressed it’s thousands of eyes against the translucent pie cover and saw the old lady… Baking?

The old lady took the fresh apple pie out of the oven and laid it on the table. She stared at the fly, who looked at her through the pie cover, confused. She had baked the apple pie just for the fly. That fly was the only real company she’d had in years. And it liked her pies. She lifted the cover but the fly didn’t move. Somehow… it knew.

Old lady and fly stared at each other, comfortable. Then the fly dug it’s hairy legs out of the cherry pie and jumped on to the apple pie, and the old lady smiled.

The call

2008-11-30T22:00:00.001-08:00

I got the call last Wednesday at 3:16AM. I had been waiting for it for almost a year, making sure I didn’t stray too far from reach, but thoroughly enjoying every moment without it. And then it was 3:16AM last Wednesday.

“Danny, it’s you’re father.”

It didn’t take long to drive there, but the short distance hadn’t done anything to help our relationship through the years. I saw him every so often during childhood. Even less through adolescence. Until we lost track completely during college. It wasn’t hard.

I parked my car outside his run down single-story and let myself in. I found him in the bathroom, sitting in the toilet, unable to get up, his cell phone tied to his neck, his body nearly wasted away.

“I’m sorry, Danny.”

I helped him up as I pulled his underwear on and did my best to avoid his shamed face. He had been crying. I gave him a bath. I could tell he hadn’t had one in months. Then I changed him into clean clothes and put him in bed. We didn’t exchange a single word for hours. We just stared out the window, waiting for morning to come.

It had been 15 years since I last saw him when I got his call almost a year ago. He had missed every single important moment in my life, he hadn’t even met his two grandsons, but for some reason we got to talking. We talked like I’ve never talked to anybody before or since.

“You’re going to do it, right?”

“Yes, Dad.”

He nodded as he looked away. His body seemed like a child’s in the bed. There was a long moment where I wished I hadn’t gotten the call today. That it would have waited one more day. Then he looked at me again and I took the gun from my pocket and aimed. The sun was rising. It was beautiful.

“Thank you, Danny.”

The search

2008-11-20T15:24:00.001-08:00

The old man stared at his shiny new laptop and waited as the fat tech guy gathered his belongings. The laptop’s box and packing materials littered the room and filled the air with a fresh plastic smell that was completely intoxicating to the old man. It was his first computer and he was dying to use it.

“Well, that’s it. Are you sure you’ll be fine, sir?”

“I think I got the hang of it. I appreciate your patience though. You’ve been very kind.”

All the old man could think about was being alone with the machine. His wife had died several months before and it had taken him that long to sort out everything and run up the courage to buy it. She had always scoffed at the expense. But he had dreamt of this day since the moment his neighbor told him the secret that would keep him up some nights. Wondering. His wife just didn’t understand.

“You’re sure? You’re really sure you don’t need more help?”

“Yes. Very much so. But I do appreciate it.”

“You know, sir, I do this for a living. And I’ve run across more than one widower like yourself. I could get you up and video-chatting with your sons and granddaughters in no time. I could even point you to dating sites that specialize in retirees. What, with a good snapshot and my profile writing skills you’ll have the ladies clogging up your phone line!”

“Oh… Oh, no… I’ll be fine. Really. But thank you.”

The old man pushed the tech guy out and slammed the door shut. He had never been so openly rude before in his life, but he didn’t care. The old man used his index fingers to type as he fumbled his way through the instructions he had burned in his memory for years. He logged in. He opened the web browser. It was all working!

His excitement turned to nervousness as he slowly typed the name of his search. The website loaded. It was full of flashing signs and so many filthy pictures and strange advertisements that he had to shade his eyes so he could move the mouse to the little box inside the site where he had to click. Why did it have to be so complicated! He felt like looking everywhere! But he knew he shouldn’t. He clicked.

And then he waited as two giant animated breasts rubbed into each other as they circled on his screen while the video loaded. Finally it stopped, and the video played.

“It’s not so bad… I’ve seen much worse in my days… Oh… Wait a minute… Is that?… Oh my God… Is she?… No! Don’t do it!… Oh my holy lord Christ! You sick bastards! Oh…”

The old man looked away. But then slowly, looked back. He could look away no more. And after a long silence, he smiled. It was even worse than his neighbor had said.

1992

2008-11-11T20:16:00.001-08:00

The young CEO was driving his brand new European sports car home from a conference he had headlined one city away when he was faced with a choice: take the highway and be home in no time or take the side-roads and give his car a real spin. He had driven this way before but had never thought about the choice, always opting for the highway. Today was different, though. The conference had been a resounding success and his new car seemed to beg to be tested on those curvy bendy hilly side roads. The man chose the scenic route.

As the man and his precision vehicle snaked and thrust their way through an impossibly beautiful landscape, and the sun began to set in the distance, the man felt like he was in one of those silly car commercials he despised, and loved every minute of it. He thought of the beautiful wife he was going home to, the young daughter, the designer home… He couldn’t stop smiling. The man had made it. Then he did something he hadn’t done in 15 years. The man turned on the radio to a hits station. He had hoped that he would find the perfect soundtrack to his car commercial moment: an upbeat late 80’s hard rock sing-along or even one of those tearjerkers that became such good prom themes. Instead he got that song from 1992.

He immediately went for the dial but it was stuck. He went for the power button but it didn’t work. The volume knob was irresponsive. He was in a nightmare. This stupid song that he knew every single lyric to was the reason he avoided FM radio, and even TV since a couple of years ago it became “retro cool” again. His brand new sports car was laughing in his face. He hit the dashboard hard, the steering wheel harder, he screamed, but the volume only seemed to grow louder.

“Di di ba di,
dip di di ba di di dip di dip ba deedlee di ba du ba du ba du ba du ba du ba.”

And as the song continued and the colors of the impossibly beautiful landscape seemed about to burst from the sky, the man was flooded with thoughts of 1992. Of love. Of heartache. Of heartache. Of god damn heartache. And that song. The man cried like a little girl. He couldn’t help himself and began to sing along. He hated every second of it but his singing grew louder and louder. He had been a dork, he was still a dork, and he would always be a god damn dork. He could deceive everyone, but he could not lie to a $100,000 European sports car.

The ending

2008-11-03T21:20:00.001-08:00

Every single thing about my novel is perfect. Except that it doesn’t want to end. I’ve pondered the fact that 1,000 single spaced double sided pages may not be long enough to tell the story I set out to tell - that a book should be as long as it needs to be - that if the ending comes at page 10,000 then let it! But my downstairs neighbor (a very respected local cook-book author and my only “in” to the publishing world), happens to have a mailbox that will only, just barely and with a great deal of effort, fit a 1,001 page manuscript. And since, regretfully, my neighbor still refuses to speak to me about our shared craft, or the weather or the traffic (I’ve even tried sports!), handing it to him is still not an option. Hence my growing desperation: I have but one page to masterfully finish my masterpiece. One empty single spaced double sided page which I’ve been staring at non-stop for over a week. But nothing has happened and the last five minutes have brought about a new and disturbing development: there is a loud, persistent knocking at the door. I think of all the people it could be. My boss, who I left high and dry two months ago after I discovered my ending problem. The credit card collector, who just didn’t understand that it’s only a matter of time until I become rich and famous. The owner of the bar across the street that I had an incident in the week before last. Or god forbid my violent landlord here to collect the last 2 months rent. But that wasn’t a violent knock. Could my downstairs neighbor have finally read the advance I sent him last year? How was I going to end it?

“Hey, Charlie.”

It was my wife. With our child.

“Hi.”

“You doing okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

She stood there and stared at me. So did my child.

“How about you come with us for a while? You need some rest, Charlie. I’ll cook your favorite food. What do you say?”

I hesitated. I looked at my word processor. At the empty page.

“What the hell’s wrong with you, Dad?”

I looked at him. He was so big. I was a stranger to him.

“I guess I could eat something.”

Turbulence

2008-10-27T14:38:00.001-07:00

The pilot stared at the altimeter, it marked 33 thousand feet, cruising altitude. He flipped a couple switches and soon the 747 was in complete auto-pilot. There was only one more thing to do before he could take a much needed break. The co-pilot handed him the intercom. But just as he was about to make the announcement he saw it. The whole plane could hear his sigh of surprise. And his next words.

“There it is again.”

The co-pilot turned the intercom off and waited for the pilot’s brain-fart to end. But it didn’t. He just kept staring at a group of cumulus clouds in the distance. At one in particular.

“Sir, we have to make the announcement. If the refreshments are delayed it will cause a backup with the dinner and may also disrupt the bathroom traffic. We don’t want a repeat of the Frankfurt flight. Remember the smell, sir?”

But the pilot was gone to the world. His eyes were transfixed on that one cumulus cloud in the distance. A million thoughts suddenly darted through his tired brain. Only one mattered though.

“It’s a donut.”

The co-pilot was in the middle of making the announcement himself when the whole plane heard the pilot’s words. The co-pilot just spoke faster, as if that would make the pilot's ramblings less obvious.

“…The seatbelt sign will now be turned off so you can be free to move about the cabin, but if you are in your seat, please…”

“It’s a god damn donut!”

And it was calling him. The pilot’s eyes suddenly sparkled, as if the meaning of the universe had suddenly been revealed to him, and all those thoughts dashing through his brain stopped. He calmly disengaged the auto-pilot, pointed the 747’s nose down straight towards the donut and accelerated.

People screamed and babies cried but the pilot just smiled. It was a wonderful smile. And his eyes grew wider and wider until the moment came, and he sighed. Then the plane stabilized and began climbing back to cruising altitude. The co-pilot’s pants were completely soiled.

“That pesky turbulence... Right, Henry?”

The pilot knew this was his last flight. Early retirement. He just hoped somebody had taken a picture somewhere down there. Maybe he’d get it forwarded from his mom in a month or two. That would be cool.

Panda bear

2008-10-22T03:28:00.001-07:00

I don’t have a name. But I’ve decided not to dwell on that. You can call me “Panda Bear” for the time being because that’s what I am: a stuffed Panda from China. I’ve had a rough life. I won’t go into the conditions of the factory where I was made, or the months I spent traveling at sea, but the humiliation of becoming a recycled baby shower gift in no less than 5 occasions… It’s enough to break a Panda’s spirit. But I’ve decided not to dwell on that.

My new home is not the biggest or smallest I’ve ever been in, but the crib is nice, the mattress looks firm and there’s thingamajigs hanging all over the place. Which is good. Babies like that. The one thing that worries me is how these parents have decided to arrange the toy shelf. You see, I’m used to competition, it goes with the territory, but this toy shelf is 5 layers deep of stuffed animals alone. Penguins, dogs, tigers, birds, you name it. The truth is I am dead last in the back and fearing for my life. But I’ve decided not to dwell on that. Besides, baby just arrived. All I can do now is wait, right?

Wrong. I’m not sure if you’re aware but stuffed animals can move a millimeter a week. It’s true. And every single animal here is leaning in, stretching it’s neck and doing all it can to get the tiniest of glimpses of the little one below, hoping they will make any sort of impression. All except me. When the day came that baby looked up in our direction, I swear that some animals moved at twice their usual pace to gain the little one’s attention. But not me. And as the weeks and months went by I got left further and further in the back of the shelf, until all I could see was some duck’s big behind.

And then the really big day finally came. The parents picked up baby and took him to our shelf. He would take his pick. I could feel the other stuffed animals moving about, breaking all stuffed animal speed records, and I could feel baby’s prying eyes all about the shelf. I waited. And when I saw his shaky baby hand reaching towards a Teddy (a fucking Teddy?!), I let go of the screw I had spent months loosening (at a millimeter a week) and the whole shelf fell apart, throwing all the stuffed animals to the floor. All but me. Could that crying baby see me smile? Maybe he could because I was soon in his arms. And he held me tight. So tight. And he drooled. Shit.

A bad day

2008-10-18T01:14:00.000-07:00

The man woke up in a bad mood, sensing the type of day that lay ahead. For a moment he contemplated not moving from bed. It was a long, beautiful moment. Then, lacking any self-control, the man put both feet on the ground and stood. For a split second he got the feeling that he was being way too pessimistic, that today would be a good day. Then it started raining outside. Pouring.

“Yup.”

He burned his toast. He dropped his egg on the floor. He slipped in the shower and bruised both his shins. He stained his shirt. He couldn’t find matching socks. He was just about to pop a blood vessel from the pent-up rage and he hadn’t even left the house yet. Then he did. And it got much worse.

By the time the man was halfway through his workday he had run into every asshole in his office twice and had received 20+ angry phone calls from clients who had mistaken his extension for one of the assholes he had met earlier. Then his boss called him in to talk about his performance. And that was it.

“The next person that messes with me is getting it!”

Everybody took notice, even his phone seemed to steer clear. But the man stayed on edge. His eyes dared to be messed with. Now he wanted it. But nothing happened. He left work madder than ever. He was about to get on the bus when he remembered he had to go to the post office to mail a check. It was 20 minutes before closing time on a Friday. He smiled.

He stood in an impossibly long line as everybody around him had the same look that he had sported all day. There was only one teller and she was in one hell of a mood. It was perfect. Finally it was the man’s turn. He walked slowly to the counter. He could feel the teller’s eyes ripping his head off and throwing it in the mail sorter as he took his time.

“Hurry the hell up, mister! The whole world can’t wait for you to walk up here!”

The man smiled so hard the postal worker noticed something was wrong, but it was already too late. And then he did it.

“Waaaaaaah… Wahhhhhhh!”

The man ripped off his clothes and jumped up and down like a retarded ape. He ran from one side of the post office to another, squealing as he began to throw his shit. And deep inside, he laughed.

The campaign promise

2008-10-14T01:11:00.001-07:00

The politician looked around the crowd, they had been carefully handpicked but still were painfullly unresponsive. He could feel the television cameras picking out the most pathetic of his so-called supporters. But he remained confident. He had one last trick up his sleeve. Then he gave the crowd his most trustworthy of smiles. His signature. It was so damn trustworthy.

“I know I’ve made a lot of promises tonight. But if you only take one with you after you leave today, let it be this final one.”

The politician’s wife stood next to him. She was the definition of loyalty and class. She looked at his eyes as he was about to speak and she was the first to see it. Was it… Desperation?

“I promise… To suck-off anybody that votes for me. And not just any regular suck-off, I mean to please. Let me explain to you how this suck-off for votes exchange system will work. First, you vote for me. Then, I suck you off.”

His wife smiled. It was her bestest fakest smile. She had mastered it. But deep inside she was worried. She had feared even her husband’s newest latest promise just wouldn’t be enough to sway the election. What would they do? Then she saw it again in his eyes. It was desperation.

“Some people have asked me: how can I be sure you will suck me off after you win? What if you just promise to suck me off and then don’t actually suck me off? Well, look at my smile. Isn’t it trustworthy? Don’t you feel like trusting me?”

The crowd was just about to trust him when some guy in the back spoke up.

“Not really.”

And just as fast as the crowd had turned in his favor it had turned against him. They just didn’t trust him anymore. And suddenly his wife’s bestest fakest smile started to crack. She could no longer hold it together and she grew a small frown. She immediately covered it up, so ashamed.

“Just vote for me god damn it! What’s it to you idiots anyway?! Vote for me! Do it!”

The guy in the back left. Everybody stared. The politician was so angry he was turning purple. His wife covered her whole face. It was too embarassing.

“Vote for me! Blah blah blah blah!”

Then the politician turned into a goat. And before his wife could scream in horror she was a pig. The television cameras cut to commercials and somebody called animal control.

Flying

2008-10-10T16:02:00.001-07:00

“I want to fly somewhere."

She says it like she's said it a million times before, as we watch the plane cross the sky, as she smiles and I can’t help smiling with her.

"I want to fly somewhere."

“Where to?”

“Anywhere. Wherever that plane is going. I want to go there.”

I wish I could be in her mind that very second, see what her eyes were seeing and feel the rush of excitement that would soon be gone.

“Don’t you feel like flying?”

“Someday, I guess.”

She stares at me. Who could resist that stare?

“Of course I want to fly.”

“Close your eyes. Fly with me.”

I close my eyes. And open them two seconds later, one second after I knew she would have closed hers. She was already flying.

“Are you ready?”

“Say when.”

“We’re in the plane, sipping a cocktail, watching a movie, thinking of the amazing places we’re about to go to, and suddenly we look out and see this great big shit hole below us. Who the hell would want to live there?, we think…”

She laughs. She’s so beautiful when she laughs.

“Poor idiots…”

Then she stops laughing. She opens her eyes and looks at the sky. The plane is gone. I get anxious. I know what’s coming.

“Where are we going? Come on. We’re on the plane, drinking and…”

“But it’s already gone.”

And then it happens. Her smile disappears. I can’t bear to watch. I wish that plane would change it's mind and turn around. I wish I could hold her tight and promise her one day we'd both be out of this shit hole, and we'd fly in a million different planes to a million different places.

"Walk me home."

I wish I never saw another plane again.

A father’s smile

2008-10-09T12:25:00.001-07:00

I’ve heard it said that the first time a father looks at his newborn son something special happens. A love that can’t be explained. A feeling of inner peace that will never be equaled. Happiness.

Well, I’m there. Right this very second. And I’m not feeling it. Maybe it’s coming. Wait a second, I have to cut this cord thing… Blood in my face, great… Now my wife is being stitched up where no stitch should ever go. That image is burned in… Do I want to hold the baby? Let me think. Is it the time to ask my wife if it really is mine? I would but that little monster doesn’t really look like her either… Ok, I’ll hold the baby. Don’t want to piss off the nurse.

I’ve heard it said that the first time a father holds his newborn son all his hopes and dreams for the future flash by. In that first touch a promise is made. This is his life now. And he smiles like he’s never…

That’s just bull. You want to know what’s really going through my head? How about the “out-of-network” doctor we decided to go with? Look at that asshole smile all the way to the bank. Or how about the crap mortgage we took out to buy the house with the extra room? I’m hyperventilating as I look at the little monster’s face just inches from mine, screaming at me, begging to go back inside his mother, and suddenly all I can think of is…

“I hope to god you’re not gay.”

Did I say that out loud? Did he hear me? And for the first time I really look at him, and he stops crying and looks right back. And I smile like the biggest idiot the world has ever known. Yes, it’s that feeling. And it’s great.

Margaret’s numbers

2008-10-06T10:28:00.000-07:00

It had been one hell of a week and Margaret was tired. Thoughts she had kept hidden her whole life raced through her head as she walked the steps towards her 9 o’clock class.

She had been dumb to major in English in college. An idiot for deciding teaching could be a good career move. A moron for keeping her virtue for marriage. And then an absolute imbecile for still being faithful to her half-wit cheater of a husband even after 20 years of complete misery.

But most of all she though about why the hell she hadn’t bought the Powerball on Wednesday. 256 million. They were her numbers. She could have shared the prize with that retired mechanic, slept with him and convinced him to kill off her half-wit of a husband and keep the whole pot to themselves. Her numbers. Hers.

“Shit!”

Margaret never used profanity and the dozens of eyes in front of her in class brought the point home. In her walk from the sidewalk, up the stairs and to the classroom, Margaret had changed.

“Good morning, class.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Margaret!”

God damn kindergartners. She felt like telling them exactly why she was still here and not frolicking naked in a pile of money with a retired mechanic in some Caribbean island. How every Wednesday she kept 5 dollars for five Powerball tickets but how she had to give that money to ungrateful little Jimmy, who’s irresponsible parents had forgotten his lunch for the third time that week. But especially she wanted to share with them how since she hadn’t won the Powerball and had her husband killed, last night she had to have sex with him again, and how deeply that had troubled her.

“Jimmy.”

“Yes, Mrs. Margaret?”

“Go see the Principal.”

“Why, Mrs. Margaret?”

Little Jimmy was about to cry. Margaret had never been so evil. And she never would again. After today.

“Tell him you’re a god damn troublemaker.”

Diane

2008-10-02T11:14:00.000-07:00

“Hello, my name is Diane. Welcome to CableSource, your source for cable, internet and a lot more. Now just say a couple of words describing where you’d like me to direct you.”

My mouth was wide open as my mind tried madly to catch up with the words I had just heard spoken by the new voice. Diane was light years from the middle aged synthesized android I had grown accustomed to skipping through impatiently for years. Diane sounded… Human. And most definitely… Hot.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you. How would you like me to help you today?”

My palms sweated on the handset. My cheeks flushed red. I could feel myself transforming into the blithering idiot I always become when confronted with a gorgeous woman.

“I’m sorry, I still didn’t understand you.”

“Pay-per-view. Please.”

“Excellent. I can help you with accessing your pay-per-view options. Now just listen to the following categories…”

And then it hit me. How was I going to tell Diane that I wanted to sign up for another 3 day marathon of “Crazzy Sexxy Amateurs”? What would she think of me?

“Have you made up your mind yet?”

“I’m still thinking. Thank you.”

“Let me make a recommendation you might like. Since you subscribed to “College Sluts” recently, maybe you’d be interested in “Crazzy Sexxy Amateurs.”

Then an impulse like I’ve never had before took hold of me. I knew what I had to do.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you.”

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and held the sweaty phone close to my lips. As I breathed I swear I could hear her breathe along with me.

“I’m sorry I still didn’t understand you.”

“Diane… You have the most wonderful, delicious, god damn sexy voice I have ever heard in my life. Has anyone ever told you that?”

There was silence on the line. The tension was making me insane.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you. I’m passing you over to one of our qualified representatives…”

I hung up before the magic was completely destroyed. It was okay, Diane and I would speak again. Would 5 minutes be too soon?

Those big black eyes

2008-09-30T11:18:00.000-07:00

I had just finished slitting the old man’s throat when I saw him. He was standing in the doorway looking at me with those big black eyes. I still had to kill the old woman and dispose of the bodies (a good night’s work) but my mind was already racing about what to do with him. Where had he come from? Why wasn’t he reacting?

His big black eyes kept staring at me.

I was off my game and the old woman proved to be quite a fighter. All I can say is she suffered. I had the truck pulled up to the driveway so it was easier to load the bodies but it was still backbreaking work. And the whole time he was there. Why didn’t he run away?

His big black eyes watched my every move.

At last the truck was loaded and the house was clean. I felt a little better about my poor performance earlier in the evening. Then I looked at him. What was going through his head?

His big black eyes seemed to mirror my own.

I didn’t ask but he got in the truck next to me. I waited a long enough moment for him to change his mind but it never happened and we departed. He looked at the world passing by outside as if for the first time. And then he slept. I smiled. I had always wanted to be a father.

About the junk

2008-09-29T09:00:00.000-07:00

There’s a lot of waste in the creation of fiction: story-lines that dead end, characters that don’t fit, dialogues with no home. Junk. Most of the time it’s best to leave these bastard junk-children for dead but every once in a while one peeks it’s head out, begging for a second chance.

Whenever this happened I use to take the wooden bat that I kept by my computer at all times (just for these moments) and hit the bastard as hard as I could as I screamed: “The story is better off without you and I’m better off without you! Leave me alone! Ahhggg!”

But recently these long forgotten bastard junk-children started piling up in my head. They began talking to each other, finding common hobbies, watching youtube and having unprotected sex at an alarming rate. Soon an army of them and their offspring was gnawing noisily at my brain.

Junkbox fiction is my way of purging these voices into short works about the size of this text, give or take. Here they don’t have to overact aimlessly to get my attention or pretend to be something they’re not to fit in the bigger picture. Here they get their own little stage.

I hope the voices appreciate the effort.

Sincerely,

The Writer.