Dylan Will One Day Defeat Me (story of the week 14)

I wonder if The Onion takes submissions…

 Dylan Will One Day Defeat Me

An Editorial By Our Dark Lord Kenneth MacAlistair

It’s impossible to raise a child without some expectation of what they’ll be when they grow up. I don’t want to plan out their lives for them but I truly believe my youngest, Dylan, will be the one who defeats me when that time comes while Kenny Jr will probably just follow in my footsteps of tyranny.

Again, I don’t want to pigeon hole the boys in any way. I’ll be perfectly happy if Kenny falls in love with a member of the many groups I’ve decided are beneath me and works to take me down from the inside in hopes of winning justice for the people. If Dylan grows bitter under his brother’s shadow and vows to usurp him and become a better warlord than I could ever be, that’s great! But I’ve been training these kids in the art of combat, subterfuge and weapons design since they were barely out of diapers. I know their strengths and weaknesses and so far, Kenny doesn’t show the kind of initiative it would take to destroy me. It’s not that he’s lazy; he’s just not a leader. Dylan’s a lot more comfortable thinking outside of the box. Kenny likes to work hard on a given task and then just hang out. Neither one is better than the other.

Of course, it’s possible neither of the boys will eventually gather the people together to overthrow my reign of madness once and for all. When I consulted the Oracle woman, all she said was “from the fires of your own victory, a spark shall leap into your throat and lay waste to all your joy when you expect it least.” That could mean anything. Maybe one of my lieutenants wasn’t quite as through as I’d like in purging my enemies. Maybe a plucky youngster managed to survive and watching the slaughter of everyone she knew has filled her heart with vengeance. I don’t know. I had the Oracle publicly executed as an example so I can’t really ask her to clarify. The prophecy might be self fulfilling. Maybe, by focusing on Dylan as the future savior destined to defeat me, I have guaranteed that it’ll be someone I’d never even considered but what Dad doesn’t want great things for his kids?

Whoever ends up defeating me, the important thing is to enjoy the time I have with my children now. When I watch Kenny and Dylan playing by the lava moat, I remember why I took over the world in the first place: to have something chaos torn and downtrodden to pass on to them. I know I won’t live forever, due to the instability in the cloning process, and those kids are the future of this great, mostly on fire, nation. It’s easy to get caught up worrying about the future but I’ve got to remember that the present, and Kenny and Dylan themselves, are a gift.

 

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Where It’s Wetter (Story of The Week 13)

So, this one is slightly NSFW and contains sexual scenarios in honor of (drum roll) MAY: NATIONAL MASTURBATION MONTH! Masturbation: Sex With Someone You Love! Please leave any comments below and any whining about “oh no somebody got pleasure from their fingers” in the trash where they belong.

and now:

Where It’s Wetter

She got home late locking the door behind her. No one waited in the dark, no parent would demand to know where she had been, but even so Ariel didn’t turn on the lights. Even after years of being on her own, she didn’t trust her freedom. She said her keys and purse down and kicked off her shoes. She stripped slowly in the dark. Her silk skirt slipped to the floor, and she stepped over. She unbuttoned the white professional top and pulled it off her slender arms. It too fell to the dining room floor lying crumpled heap. She stopped in front of the refrigerator. Ivory skin looked translucent in Bright light, long sheet of white because interrupted only the pale red pimples and her lacy black underwear. Ariel reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of hard apple cider and a package of cold cuts. She pulled the pins from her hair letting long red locks drop down against her back. Shadow pain code echoed in her skull from where the hairpins had poked her all day long. She had looked good that day. Good enough that no one paid attention to her hands.

 

Ariel eight cold cuts with one hand the other unhooking her bra behind her. She let it fall in the kitchen enjoying the cold air on her breasts. She ran her fingers under the sink, washing off the slime of the cold cuts before pulling of her panties. These she carried with her, using the soft cloth to twist of the cider cap.

She took a long swig as she stumbled into the bed room. Her stomach growled as she plopped down, setting her alarm for the morning. Her phone buzzed in her hand. It was Eric.

Bored. Wanna hang out?

It was after midnight. Arial rolled her eyes and turn her ringer off. There would be another five texts, at least, when she woke up all with progressing degrees of drunkenness spelling errors and swearword. She couldn’t quite bring herself to delete them, to delete him entirely from her life. Eric still made her heart pound when she was stupid enough to see him. He made her forget about the pain in her legs, the cruel jokes from the men that her office when they forgot that mute didn’t mean deaf. When she was stupid enough to see him, Eric made her forget that he was an asshole. She remembered the moment he was out of sight though, when she stalked him on Facebook and noticed a new picture of his daughter or quiet reminder from his wife. She remembered each time she went to the beach and swam out as far as she possibly could before the water began to drag her down, pulling instead of welcoming, and her survival instincts made her run back to shore.

 

 
She took another swig trying to down the entire bottle before she coughed her bed. The liquor made her dizzy, made her forget that Eric and her aching legs and the assholes at work. Her hands slid down the pale body, the body she’d sacrificed so much for. Men told her that her legs were beautiful. She heard it so much it made her skin crawl, made her fantasize about wheelchairs and black tattoos anything to make them avert their eyes. Not that that would work. She hated her beautiful ivory stabbing boring legs. Sometimes in the bath she crossed them so very tightly and held them there, imagining warm green scales sparkling where the stretch ugly skin remained. She still had scars from the bad days after Eric left, when she tried to fillet herself they were faded right now. She didn’t touch them anymore wouldn’t add to their pain because for all the regrets exploding inside her legs were gone and Eric was gone what would be left?

 

 

 

What would her sacrifice be if she lost everything she had sacrificed for?
Ariel finished her bottle. Finger slipped in between her legs gently toying with her own flesh. Her own warmth flew through her aching flesh, replacing the stabbing pain inside her. The ocean inside her rose at the touch, squeaking between her fingers. Ariel gasped, moaning as loud as she dared before the neighbors complained. She never made a sound with Eric, never spoke without the aid of her fingers. Only by herself with her fingers deep inside of her, could she make a sound. No words. Words didn’t have any place here. She didn’t need them to make herself understood not here, not alone. She lost so much trying to understand but now that she did, she wouldn’t trade it. She rolled over pressing her face into the pillow her fingers down gently massaging her insides. A few more moments and she drifted into sleep.

Categories: bodily functions, Kinda Funny?, Literature, Story of The Week, Writing | Tags: , , , , , | 1 Comment

And Now For Something Completely Different (Story of The Week 12

Hi, followers. I’ve been busy lately and am not shaping up to be any less busy in the next week. So I am going to do a pastiche/shout out to one of my favorite webcomics; A Softer World by Joey Comeau and Emily Horne. Most of the comics are two to three sentence stories that I’ve tired to capture the spirit of here. 

 

it could go the other way.

These lovely people are my parents and they gave me permission to post this. Mom has a blog that you should definitely read. It has wonderful essays on aging and aging parents.

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Evelyn (Story of the Week 11)

Okay, just to be clear, I have been writing. It just hasn’t technically been my stuff. I got a paying gig from a friend to doctor her book. More on that as events unfold.

For now:

Evelyn

Evelyn downed her pill with a shot of fire whiskey. In the other room, Liam was crying about something. The little green pills helped her listen to his high pitched wails without the need to strangle her nephew and the fire whiskey gave her the strength to deal with it. She stumbled out of the bathroom and lifted the little boy up into her arms, pressing a kiss into his mess of black curls.

“You smell like shit,” she told him. Liam bawled.

Once Liam was dry and Evelyn was dressed, she strapped the boy onto her back and stepped up to the surface. The city smelled like shit too but with a mix of rotting fruit and death to round out the bouquet.  Evelyn wrapped a clean cloth around Liam’s nose and set to work.

Her work wasn’t easy. Easy jobs didn’t allow for a baby strapped to her back all day. Once Liam learned to walk without stumbling over his own feet, maybe she could get back into whoring, though he’d probably need supervision until he was at least eleven. For now, she lifted bales for farmers, laundry for rich women and coins off stupid men. No one noticed her in the crowd. She passed by them like a ghost, only black and fat, stealing whatever caught her fancy. Liam kept quite, occasionally cooing when he saw something that caught his fancy. Evelyn was well done with her morning larceny by the time he started whining for something to eat. She brought him Drax’s Room, the only pub in town where no one glared at her for bringing in a baby. Several of the dancing girls brought their kids as well and nobody said shit. Of course, most of the patrons were out of their minds on drink and pills so they didn’t really notice anything.

“Evie!” the bartender called, waving her over to the stool. “You’re still here.”

“For now, Bets,” Evelyn said, swinging Liam down onto her lap. She placed her morning earnings on the bar with a clatter. “Milk for the gentleman, bread and fire whiskey for me.”

“Starting with the sweet stuff?” Betsy asked, “how are you gonna have good dreams on nothing but whiskey?”

“I don’t need good dreams,” Evelyn said, shushing Liam, “I just wanna sleep through the night.”

“You’ve got your green men for that,” Betsy said, handing her a bottle of while liquid for Liam, “Hello, baby boy.”

“The green men are so I want to wake up,” Evelyn said. She took the bottle and held it up to Liam, who continued to fuss. “Come on, brat, I know you’re hungry. You haven’t shat since this morning or I’d have felt it so drink up.”

“I can’t see you depressed,” Betsy set her plate of bread and glass of whiskey in front of Evelyn.

“You don’t have to,” she said, finally forcing the bottle into Liam’s mouth. “Thanks to my little green men. Before they showed up, I wasn’t eating myself, let alone caring whether another brat lived or died.”

“If the green men are so sweet to you, why not diversify?” Betsy held a small vial of red and blue pills. “If a little is good, more must be better.”

Evelyn laughed. “Peddle your poison someplace else, Bets.” She pushed the bottle back. “Took me enough experimentation just to get to normal, I don’t want anything else mixed into it.”

Betsy laughed too, putting the bottle back into the pocket of her apron. “Fair enough. I like having someone half sane to talk to anyway. Drax will murder me if I don’t push his men out on everybody.”

“I’ve dealt with worse than Drax,” Evelyn said, biting hard into the bread. It was barely palatable but better than yesterdays. Drax never did a good trade in food, his main business took care of any hunger pangs.

“Speaking of worse than Drax, guess who’s back in town?” Betsy grinned, her smile stretching up to the tip of her cat like eyes.

Evelyn groaned, “Marisol?” she closed her eyes, more exhausted than ever. Liam started to wail. Evelyn patted his head weakly. “I know, baby, I hate her too.”

“Right in one, beautiful,” Betsy said. “She was sniffing around yesterday, just after you left. Looking for the savior.”

“Fine,” Evelyn said. She forced the bottle back into Liam’s mouth, waiting for him to remember he was hungry. “Will this settle up my tab here?” she pulled another bag of cash out of her pocket. Betsy counted it, quick as only a seasoned bartender could be, and handed her a bit of change back.

“Just barely,” she grinned. “Where to next?”

“No idea,” Evelyn slogged back her whiskey. “But we’re gone in an hour.”

“but I’ll miss my baby!” Betsy cooed to Liam. “He’s so big!”

“He’s not your baby,” she groused, picking him up and tying him back on to her back where he squirmed irritably. “You want him, you can deal with the shit and the screaming. Say nothing of Marisol and her fanatics on my ass every second of the day.”

Betsy grimaced, raising her hands in surrender. “No, thank you. I’ll see you both when you’re back in town.”

Evelyn smirked and headed out the door. Her feet still ached from that mornings work and the days ahead only promised more walking. She leaned heavy on the gray stone wall of the steps leading down to her room, ignoring Liam as he fussed in her ear. Her sister’s child, the cause of most of Evelyn’s problems, was in his hair pulling faze, stretching out her curls into long straight lines before allowing them to spring back to their rightful place. She pushed open the steel door and began to pack.

“Hail to The Savior,” a whisper greeted her from the bathroom.

Evelyn groaned. “Fuck off, Marisol.”

The short fanatic stepped out slowly, like a cat sneaking up on a mouth. Her head was bowed, a mess of red curls beneath a gray habit, but her eyes rested on Liam with quiet reverence. Liam blew a spit bubble onto Evelyn’s neck.

“I see your ways haven’t changed, caretaker,” Marisol said, holding aloft the bottle of green pills, “Fire whiskey too? I cannot imagine what else The Savior is subjected to.”

“He’s not a savior,” Evelyn rolled her eyes, “And if Liam can stomach your pious bullshit, he can handle whiskey on my breath. Get out.”

“And Lo, the God of Earth spake through the molten fire and said; I shall give forth a Son from ash and clay and He shall lay low the wicked and raise up the meek, for My Name’s Sake,” Marisol quoted, fire in her dark eyes.

“Too bad Liam came out of a puss like everybody else,” Evelyn said. “Back to the scriptures, I guess.”

“Do you not see how selfish you’re being?” the small woman crossed the room too quickly, reaching out for Liam. “This child may one day save the world and you would keep Him from His destiny?”

“Move that hand, or lose it,” Evelyn warned, taking her knife from her belt. Marisol took a step back, “Liam stays with me.”

“Are you so stepped in sin that you will battle against salvation itself?” she asked. “The Savior will wash the world clean of strife and suffering. He will end our addictions and bring a new light into the darkness.”

“It’s  not Liam,” Evelyn said.

“Not if you continue to thwart His potential,” she said, circling around to block their exit, “You really think you are best for Him? You, who cannot even face the day without your little green men and your whiskey?”

Evelyn reached over her shoulder, trying to calm Liam’s cries without taking her eyes off the other woman. Her fingers pressed into her nephew’s soft curls but he screamed still. Maybe Marisol was right. Liam deserved more than a half crazed former whore to raise him on stolen goods. A life running from town to town, dodging either the soldiers or Marisol’s cult, wasn’t what Bellina wanted for her child.

She should have stayed alive then, Evelyn thought, clenching the knife harder. She’d seen Marisol’s compound, where her followers worshiped Liam like a god. It was clean and safe, with good food all the time. The people there would tend to his every need, every whim. They’d never resent a child for spitting up on them or shitting down their dress. Liam would be taken care of and all they wanted in return was for him to cleanse the world of all its sins. And what happens to him when he can’t?

“Out of the two of us,” she said, “I’m the only one who doesn’t want anything from him. Now get out of my way.”

“No.” Marisol drew her own knife. “I had hoped to end this peacefully. It brings me no pleasure to rob My Lord of His last human relative.”

Evelyn ran for her, slicing hard and fast through the air. Marisol blocked with her arm. The blade sunk into her pale, bronze flesh leaving a thick line of blood to drip on the stone floor. Evelyn didn’t care, stabbing again and again until she fell. She stopped only for a moment to grab her pills before running up the steps.

When Liam’s cries finally reached her ears, they were out of the city. She slumped down on the side of the road and took him into her arms.

“Shush, baby, it’s okay,” she whispered, cradling the little boy close to her chest. “I’m sorry you had to see that but it’s gonna be okay.”

She wondered if Marisol was dead, or only injured. Either way more would come after her. Her tears mixed with Liam’s as Evelyn fumbled for her pills.

***

A Day In The Life of A Desperate Woman

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The Worst That Could Happen (Story of The Week 10)

The Worst That Could Happen

Jennifer sipped her chai tea slowly, listening to her oldest friend talk about the new job she was afraid of applying for. Abigail was afraid of a lot of things. Most of them were abstract concepts like “failure” and “sadness” though some of them were literal like rapists or spiders laying eggs in her ear. Abigail had barely touched her coffee, the cheapest on the menu. Rather she played with her dirty blond hair, as she always did when she was nervous.

“I just want to feel secure, you know?” Abigail said, “I mean, my job now… it’s not bad but it doesn’t pay enough for me to be really independent and I’m exhausted by the end of the day. But if I go for this one, and I get it, what if I’m not good enough? What if they fire me and then I have no job at all. I just got out of my parents house and they’re still paying most of my bills,”

Jennifer sighed. She leaned forward, “Look, Abby, say you apply for this job; what is the actual worst thing that could happen? LIke the worst thing possible?”

Abigail combed her fingers through her hair, thinking. “Just think of the worst thing possible,” Jennifer advised, “and know that whatever it is, you can handle it. If this job doesn’t work out, you’ll get another one. It’ll be hard for a while but you can-“

High above them, a meteor broke through the Earth’s atmosphere, hurtling towards their little coffee shop. Jennifer and Abigail didn’t know about the meteor and the meteor certainly didn’t know about them. The meteor didn’t know about anything. Meteors are rocky or metallic objects that careen through space and aren’t aware of anything that we know of. Sometimes, they crash into the Earth when our atmosphere doesn’t burn them up. Many people believe that a meteor wiped out the dinosaurs though it was actually an asteroid which is like a meteor but much bigger.

Anyway, this meteor  did make it through the atmosphere and all the way down to the coffee shop where Jennifer was just about to tell Abigail that she could “handle anything that comes your way,” The meter long rocky object landed on Abigail’s head, crushing her and the table very effectively. Jennifer survived with first degree burns, massive scarring and minor telekinetic powers. She uses them to get the good china down from the high cabinets.

It was not the worst that could happen.

***

Am I funnier when I’m worried about paying off my student loans?

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Friendship

Oh, you thought you’d just get a story every week and not have to deal with my inane diary entries? WELL THINK AGAIN, SUCKERS!

I was not a popular child. I was a weird little kid as friends, family, teachers and random people were often inclined to point out to me. Difficult to believe now, what with my fancy retail job and upwards of eighty followers on this illustrious blog, but I didn’t make friends easily. Most of the time, I lived inside my own head, more interested in the stories I made up than in other people. The rest of the time, actually all of the time, I was the excessively tall girl who held her head tilted to the side and couldn’t be trusted to dress or brush her hair properly, or bathe with any regularity, unless someone forced me.

In high school and college, I blossomed- which is to say I became less gross and more outgoing. I can’t really say that I changed dramatically except for an increase in showers and wearing clothes that fit as well as not caring that much about what other’s thought. Ironically, not caring what others think always seems to make them like me. I also managed to grow quite a bit of self esteem, because I was making friends which in turn, got me more friends.

Yet, in spite of all this, it still kind of weirds me out when other people, people I’ve only met in the last few months, seem to like me. Intellectually, I know I’m smart, funny and kind, not to mention astoundingly beautiful, but my mind set is still in that awkward 10 year old’s mind. I’m certain that my friends and family don’t really like me but rather put up with me out of habit. If a new person shows platonic or, heaven forbid, romantic interest in me, I’m sure they’re playing some kind of cruel trick. These are emotional certainties; logically I know that those I’m close to don’t keep people they don’t want in their lives and new acquaintances have better things to do than randomly troll me, but logic doesn’t play much part in my thinking processes.

I dreaded my retail job when I first got it. Not because of the hours on my feet or dealing with customers, though it is awful, but because I feared my co-workers. Somehow, I was certain we’d have nothing to relate to in each other and knew that the minute I opened my mouth they’d hate me. Actually, the opposite proved true. The more I talk, the more I share of myself and my passions, the better they seem to like me. In turn, my openness allows them to open up and I learn things I never before would have guessed.

I think we all have moments where we feel like no one likes us, or no one would like us if they’d knew the truth about us. I’m not naive enough to say that everyone likes everyone all the time, or even that I’m never annoying or too strange for anyone. I do think that social interaction gets easier as your trust in yourself and other people grows. I have yet to reach the point where it’s not scary, where I don’t rehearse everything I say to try and find flaws in it, but it does get easier.

I just can’t get used to it.

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The Last Resort (story of the week 9)

I was going to write a serious story this week. It was going to be about family and brainwashing and body image and it would make people think about the world in a different light. 

Then I read this and… um… my hand slipped? 

PS: it’s about 10 times better if you read Obama’s dialogue in his actual voice.  

The Last Resort

Carman Delgado’s feet ached as she walked through the halls of the Oval Office. Sixteen hours standing and walking with her feet in cased in black Jimmy Choos with two inch heels exhausted her physically but her sanity had taken the worst of the blow. Pushing through the double doors, she found the president alone with his head in his hands.

“Sir?” Carman never wanted so badly to turn in her resignation right then and there. She worked hard to get to where she was, graduated Summa Cum Laude from Harvard’s school of Political Science, put her time in on the campaign trail of senators, congressman and finally the president’s, sacrificed her relationships with family, friends and lovers all to get to where she was today. She never wanted this though, to witness an international cataclysm in her own life time. President Obama looked up, his handsome face tired and aged beyond its years.

“Ms. Delgado,” he nodded to her, “is that what I think it is?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.” She stepped forward, hardly even shaking and handed him the slip of paper. “Congress approved, so did the House.”

“Damn it,” he sighed, scanning the paper with a frown. “Damn it all to hell.”

He stood, squaring his shoulders with determination and resolve. Carmen wondered if she should leave, bring in the generals or the secretary of state or something. President Obama smiled softly at her nervousness. “Would you like to witness history, Ms. Delgado?”

She blinked, “Sir?”

“The law requires a witness. John and Joe headed home a while ago,” he shrugged, “I understand if you’d rather not of course but I’d like to get this over with.”

“Yes, Sir,” she swallowed hard, “I can do it.”

“That’s very good. Thank you, Ms. Delgado.”

Neither of them spoke as he walked to the farthest book case and removed a copy of Stephan Colbert’s I Am America and So Can You. He pressed his thumb into a scanner beneath it and the book case flipped around. Lighting the way with his smartphone, President Obama descended the jagged stone staircase, motioning for Camren to follow.

“Sir?” she asked after a long moment.

“Yes, Ms. Delgado?”

“Where are we going?”
The President sighed, gazing deeply into the fire. “Do you know what was on that paper, Ms. Delgado?”

“I know it was authorization for military action against Iran,” she admitted.

“Not quite military,” he said, “Most people, hell most members of congress, don’t realize we have access to what I’m about to use. If certain factions of the population were made aware of it, I’d never have been elected, let alone served out my second term. When I decided to run, I knew this job would be difficult-”

“You’ve done a great job,” she blurted out, “Especially considering what came before. The Affordable Health Care act saved my sister’s life, I-”

“Thank you, Ms. Delgado, but I wasn’t fishing for compliments,” he chuckled. “I thought, up until a few weeks ago, that that would be my legacy. Then it was confirmed, hard evidence from reliable sources, that Iran intended to use nuclear weapons against us. We did a lot of great things in this administration, things I’m proud to have a part in but this, what you and I are about to do, this will outlive all of our grandchildren, alter the entire fate of the world.”

They stopped at a thick metal door. The President entered a quick key code and leaned forward for a retinal scan. The door beeped and a monotone voice thanked him. Gears whirred as the door lifted to reveal a long narrow hallway ending in a black circle. Carmen followed President Obama inside, jumping when the door shut behind them.

“What’s down there?” she asked.

He swallowed and continued his story, “In the 1960’s, a group of American geologists were investigating strange tremors just outside of San Francisco. At first, they thought they were just run of the mill earth quakes but none of their instruments detected any fault activity. Then they found this:”

He held the torch aloft to reveal the contents of the inner sanctum. In the center of the round, cobblestone chamber was a large glass cage. It reminded Carmen of the tanks at the National Aquarium except, instead of water and depressed fish, it was filled with smoke. At first it seemed pink, then purple and green streaks appeared, followed by red and yellow and all the colors of the rainbow. It seemed to be screaming behind the whirr of machinery and she thought she could make out vague, almost human shapes in the mist but with long, curving fingers and small pointy horns.

“What the hell is that?”

“They didn’t know either,” Obama said, “The geologists, the CIA, everyone was stumped until someone brought in an expert on the paranormal.”
“Paranormal?!” her jam dropped and she stared at him, unable to form anything close to coherent thought.

He turned to face, his hazel eyes desperate, almost pleading. “There’s no easy way to say this. There’s no way to make it believable but it’s true. They’ve confirmed it themselves. Those things in there…they’re Homosexual Demons and they’re controlled by the United States’ Government.”

“What,” Carmen blinked and for a moment saw red, “That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Gay people aren’t Demons! Mr. President, I’m Bi and I resent being dragged down here for some stupid-”

“I did not say gay people were Demons, Ms. Delgado!” Obama roared. She stepped back but he immediately calmed himself. “I’m sorry but these are Homosexual Demons. Apparently there are all kind of demons, heterosexual, bisexual, asexual, but these ones are Homosexual and they are our greatest weapon.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He sighed, staring back into the tank. “These demons- in clinical trials they were able to affect a person’s mind, completely alter their personality. Married men left their wives, became obsessed with theatre and the preforming arts. They were better groomed, took greater care with their money, becoming affluent. Men with military careers, football scholarships, every Clint Eastwood bullshit stereotype suddenly dropped everything for fancy dinners and manicures. Somehow, our scientists managed to harness them, to make the specifically work towards American interests.”

“The Gay Bomb?” Carmen stared.

Obama nodded. “Not the destructive power of the Atom at least, but comparable in that the world has never seen anything like it. In one act, I’ll be confirming the existence of demons and some will see it as proof of their own bigotry. There’s bound to be collateral damage, at the very least families will be ripped apart, personalities rewritten.”

“But no one will die,” she argued, “Speaking from experience, sudden attraction to the same gender isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a person.”

“There’s always collateral damage,” he repeated, “and this isn’t a case of coming out, Ms. Delgado. These creatures embody every random stereotype surrounding people who are homosexual. They’ve never been unleashed on a population even a fraction of the size of Iran. Believe me, I am only doing this because there is no other option.”

He stared at her, seemingly begging for absolution. Carmen nodded, “I know, Sir.”

President Obama nodded and stepped forward to the machine. He placed his hands in two golden manacles and recited something in a language she couldn’t understand. The rainbow mist began to swirl rapidly and the high pitched howling grew louder. The President’s eyes went white and his mouth opened in a silent scream. The colors rushed to the top of the tank and Carmen thought she heard something giggle. Then they disappeared, leaving only the empty glass chamber.

President Obama slumped to the ground, his hands sliding from the manacles. Carmen only just managed to catch him before his head knocked against the stone floor. His breathing was ragged and too thin. She swallowed hard, wondering if she could get him back up the stairs or even if they could leave the chamber.

His eyes fluttered and closed again. “May God have mercy on my soul,”

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Those Damned Kids (story of the week 8)

This is very loosely inspired by a favor I did for my cousin, who teaches high school English. Hopefully it’s more funny than depressing… it kinda took a turn.

Those Damned Kids

by Kate R Canter

Dichotomy had a two bowls of candy at her desk. The bowl of discount hard candies, the kind everyone’s grandmother stocked in bulk, was reserved for guests or anyone who happened to pass though Mr. Liah’s office. The second hid in her bottom drawer, filled with Skittles and M&Ms, and was reserved for her and her alone. Dichotomy liked an element of danger in her life.

As the clock tick backwards, every second taking her closer to seven in the morning, she reached into her secret stash for a handful of S&Ms. She needed the rush of sugar to deal with students. A tall boy pushed through the double doors, his red t-shirt ripped and drenched with sweat. Dichotomy consulted her list. “Kevin Tran?”

He nodded, rubbing a large black bruise marring otherwise flawless brown skin. “Alright,” Dichotomy said, “I’ll need your backpack and your cell phone.”

He handed them across the desk. “Sorry,” he panted in a strained voice, “What- um what am I supposed to be doing?”

Dichotomy leaned forward and spread ten manila file folders across her desk. “You get ten options to choose from. You can look at two but you have to use the second. No takesies backsies. Then you’ll get twenty minutes to prepare before giving your oral report to Mr. Liah.”

“Oral report?” Kevin Tran repeated, looking slightly dazed. A trickle of blood leaked out of his open mouth. She rolled her eyes. These damned kids never knew what they were doing. She gestured to the stack of folders in front of her.

“You have to pick a passage and analyze it,” she said.

He selected a folder with shaking hands and opened it. He read single spaced print off with wide worried eyes. “Th-this is the night my dad left,” he said, looking up at Dichotomy, “I never told anyone about this- how did you-?”

“Do you want to keep it?” Dichotomy interrupted, tired of listening to the same old oh no, this is impossible speech that every original sixteen year old came up with.

Kevin Tran shook his head, sliding the worst night of his childhood back into its folder with shaking hands. “What is this?” he asked in a small lost voice.

“You need to pick another passage,” she said, gesturing to the folders in front of her. He took his time, spreading his fingers out over the crisp, clean paper as if he could somehow tell what would be written by touch alone. Dichotomy rolled her eyes. The papers changed to fit the reader. Whichever one he chose would be a memory infinitely worse than the night his father left. The kid must have had a hard life for something to top that, but kids with easy lives never ended up in Liah’s office. Finally, Kevin Tran selected another folder. Dichotomy leaned forward to see what it was.

He didn’t speak, paling so much she thought he might pass out. “You’re stuck with that one,” she said, glancing down at the paper. Only a few words stuck out to her: love and blood covering his hands most of all. “You get fifteen minutes of prep time in this room here,” she had to take him by the shoulder, leading him to the small study room next to Mr. Liah’s office. “Then I’ll come get you when the buzzer rings. Good luck.” She set the timer and closed the door behind her. Mr. Liah’s students never had good luck.

A few seconds clicked by faster than regular time should have. Mr. Liah’s office generally screwed with perception. The timer would tick out fifteen minutes as promised but it would feel like an instant to the student. Dichotomy was just glad time moved forward when someone was in the prep room. Mr. Liah’s door popped open and a young blonde girl walked out, mascara running down her bruised face. Danielle Walker had to analyze the worst night of her life, when her uncle stuck into the room she shared with her little sister and she just pretended to be asleep. Mr. Liah walked out with her, frowning and closing the door behind her. She didn’t meet Dichotomy’s eyes as she took her cellphone and backpack back and stumbled out into the hallway. Dichotomy sighed, shoving her hands into her back pockets. She hated feeling sympathy for the students. They chose to be there after all.

Mr. Liah leaned up against the wall. “That was atrocious,” he groaned. “Kevin Tran in prep?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered.

“With any luck, he’ll have a better grasp of character motivation than Miss Walker did,”  he trudged over to her desk and stole a candy from the bowl. Mr. Liah was the only one who actually enjoyed her reject grandma candy. “Do you know she couldn’t answer whether she hated her sister or not? Just broke down, blubbering. Water all over my table. Honestly, it’s like they’re here to punish me.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“Kevin Tran should be the last one before lunch,” she said, scratching behind her head with long, black nails. Lunch meant going down the cafeteria to eat boiling soup and rotten maggots while the students had their own food spilled on their outfits, and their book bags stolen. Not interesting by any stretch of the imagination but at least it was a change of pace.

“You’re quiet,” Mr. Liah remarked.

Dichotomy sighed, pulling a handful of S&Ms from the bowl in her drawer. “Do you ever want to do something else?” she asked, knowing the answer even before he spoke.

“No,” he smiled, “Teenagers are more fun than the big ones. You literally have to hit them over the head before they get it. These ones are nice and confused all the time.”

As if on cue, the timer beeped and Dichotomy went to collect Kevin Tran. Tears stained his face. His paper was absolutely blank. Mr. Liah closed the door behind him with a smile.

Categories: Kinda Funny?, Literature, Story of The Week, Writing | Tags: , | 1 Comment

Clitora: Queen of the Desert Warrior Women (story of the week 7)

Yes, I missed last weeks update. Sweet, gentle, naive reader, I am going to miss a lot of updates. Do not weep for them, because you will drown in your own tears.

Anyways;

Clitora:

Queen of the Desert Warrior Women

Black white walls surrounded him. The room was empty except for the desk, the typewriter and the chair he sat in. More accurately the chair he was chained to.

No, active tense: Someone chained him to a chair. Someone was the noun, chained the verb and he, Albert Mendlebaun; author of Clitora: Queen of The Desert Warrior Women: the bestselling fantasy adventure novel series of the last decade for whatever that was worth and a puissant little art novella worth even less, was the object.

Someone chained him to the chair. A good opening sentence, Albert thought shakily. A sentence like that kept the reader guessing. Who chained Albert Mendlebaum to a chair? Why? What did they want from him?

They definitely wanted something. People rarely employed chains for quiet, social chats.

“You are awake,” a soft voice spoke behind him. Albert strained to see her but the chains around his chest kept him facing front. “Good.”

“Who are you?” Albert demanded, trying to keep the fear from his voice, “What do you want?”

“I am surprised you do not recognize my voice,” she said, heels clacking on hard wood. She steeped in front of the desk, swinging her long red curls behind her tanned shoulders. Albert gapped. “But you never cared much for what I had to say,” Clitora, Queen of the Desert Warrior Women said.

This had to be some kind of dream or bad trip. Albert swallowed hard, his brain fumbling over itself for an explanation. He hadn’t done acid since ’86. He was going insane then. Hereditary dementia was the only logical reason for seeing a character, one he’d made up on a dare, to be standing in front of him, complete with broad sword.

“Y-you’re not real,” he managed to squeak.

“I am as you made me,” she said, pressing the tip of her blade to his Adam’s apple. The point felt very real. Albert knew about physical hallucinations but they weren’t supposed to manifest until the very final stages. Whether he was crazy or not; Clitora definitely was. Hallucinations clearly didn’t appreciate being told they weren’t real.

“What do you want?” he croaked. Either he was hallucinating or she was a severely deranged fan girl but he was undeniably chained to a chair and she had a sword at his throat.

“At first I wanted you dead,” she said, exactly as he would have written it. “And if you continue to stare at my breasts, krafnak, I will return to my original plan.”

She wore the traditional armor of the Women Warriors, which amounted to a bright red chainmail bikini. Albert couldn’t remember coming up with a rationalization for the non existant protection but the red was the blood of Clitora’s enemies, which apparently included him. His eyes snapped back to her face.

“Then I realized your death would mean my death, as well as the deaths of all my allies and enemies. The whole world,” she said, withdrawing her sword from his neck, “You created us but you are not a god. You are weak.”

Albert nodded. Clitora’s green eyes lit up with victory, “So I have decided you will live, provided you give me a new story.”

“What?” Albert squeaked, staring at her, “What kind of story?”

“Every terror I’ve lived through,” she said through gritted teeth, “every atrocity I’ve witness and each vile act I’ve committed has been your doing. You forced me to live that life.” She bent forward over the desk, so close he could see bags beneath her eyes, lines of worry across her cheeks. Alert couldn’t remember describing Clitora’s face in that kind of detail; just that she was white with green eyes and full red lips. “I want you to write a new story for me and my warriors. Give us happiness and make it true.”

“But happiness isn’t true!” He blurted before he could help himself. Clitora growled, unsheathing her sword again. His heart pounding, Albert stammered to try and save himself. “I-I mean, think about it- no one’s really happy. Everybody has to have problems. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a story. It wouldn’t be realistic.”

“Why?” she demanded, “Why should this-“ she gestured down at her huge bouncing breasts, shoved tight into the chain mail, the scars of battle littered across her taut abdomen, “be real and not the other? Why should I sleep with the nightmares? Why should I battle just to survive? Why must I lose what I love just for your story? Give me happiness, Albert Mendlebaum. Make it real or I will end you.” She growled through her teeth.

“Alright!” he shouted, raising his shackled hands in surrender, “What do you want? I’ll write it I promise!” Whatever it took to get out of the chains and that damned white room.

“I want peace,” she said, “a lasting happiness with my friends. I want to get out of that damned desert.”

“But you’re Queen of the Desert Warrior Women, you can’t leave the desert!” Albert sputtered, “What the hell would you do with peace time?”

“Live,” she said with a wide smile, displaying her prominent teeth, sharpened into fangs. “Give my warriors peace, you pathetic excuse for a god, or I will send you and every world you’ve created into darkness.” She crossed behind him and pressed the cold of her blade, forged by the frost elves in their icy fires. That blade never missed its mark. Albert knew because he’d wrote it that way. Even if he was crazy, or she was, it was too close to miss now. “I am not afraid.”

Albert Mendlebaum was. It wouldn’t be the first time I pandered to an audience, he thought. Lifting his shaking fingers to the typewriter, he gave Clitora a new world.

***

I just want you all to know, I came up with the title entirely on my own. No one ever dares me to write stories like this. I just do it. 

Categories: Feminism, funny, Literature, Story of The Week, Writing | Tags: , , , , | 1 Comment

Armor (Story of The Week 6)

Well, this went on longer than I think anyone thought it would. Stay tuned after the tale for a note on my process.

Armor

Gina wore her glasses in the shower. She said it saved time, that the water and steam could be wiped away and clean her glasses quickly. Allison said she didn’t need to see her lumps of fat and stretch marks that early in the morning, that she looked better blurry. When she said that, Gina grinned and snuck behind her, spreading her arms around said love handles to squeeze her lover tight, and kissed her pale pink neck. Allison shivered and carried that touch with her for the rest of the day.

Gina’s touch rested on her shoulders as she pulled on her boring work clothes, the designer skirts and jackets to cover her tattoos and make her acceptable.  As she ate her sandwich, alone at her desk, listening to her skinny coworkers laugh and trying to remind herself they weren’t in high school and therefore not laughing at her, she thought of Gina’s lips pressed against her skin.  Gina’s made soft phantom armor that protected her from angry callers and patronizing bosses. She wasn’t allowed to keep a picture of Gina on her desk. The bosses said it wouldn’t reflect the “family values” of the company if clients came in. With Gina’s black skin and enormous afro, no one would believe they were sisters. She couldn’t afford health insurance without the job so she went home, exhausted from swallowing too many complaints. She cooked dinner, waiting for Gina to come home and renew her armor.

***

And now a word on my writing process. This is not the story I started after finishing Clarabelle in Town. This is one I wrote in the course of two hours when I realized that the original story would either not be done on time or be poorly written. I’m not a fan of poor writing, nor do I enjoy beating my head against a wall when the words just aren’t coming for a particular piece. Fortunately Armor had been in my head for a while.

Thus far in my career the most successful stories have been ones I’ve thought of for a long time before hand. This makes the Story of The Week project difficult as there’s not a lot of time for thoughtful chewing on of a plot and characters, especially since I tend to write longer stories.  Long stories are dying anyway, especially for magazine and web fiction. I am a big believer in Strunk and White’s gospel of “No Unnecessary Words.” My goal with Armor was to tell the shortest love story possible and I did so entirely on my cell phone. Whether I succeeded or not is a matter of opinion.

So, followers and readers, do you think Story of The Week is going well? Do you prefer long or short stories? Basically, I am fishing for comments.

Peace!

Categories: Literature, Story of The Week, Writing | Tags: , , , , | 1 Comment

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