Chapter-XXX: Self respect
The 4 travelers went through a village, they saw a man fighting fiercely with a group of people, the man was holding just a stick, yet he was able to over power a group of 20 against him. The travelers were shocked to see such a simply dressed man being such a great warrior. He looked like a commoner , but his skills were definitely amazing. The 20 men started backing and he shouted at them,"i..i..if a..a..I see you ag..ag..again a..a..I will k..k..kill you". The travelers were surprised by the incident and gawked their jaws hanging low. The villagers around informed them that the man was Ramiyya and had stammering problem from his early ages. This made many people to bully him from childhood, thus his parent's made him strong and thought him selfrespect. Thus the little crying and stuttering boy grew into a great warrior and fought for the rights of all. He not only fought against who teased him, but also helped the needy. The people of village had a special place for him in their heart. Each home considered him as their own son, they called him the pride of their village and anyone who opposed him was considered as the one who hurt their selfrespect
Sisters: An Unfinished Random Flash Fiction
The monitor has kept a lonely vigil on the nightstand. Its green, and sometimes red, bars of light have blinked intermittently for nearly two weeks. The volume is turned off, though the residents in bed beside it wouldn’t know the difference. They lay inert beside its quiet pleas—bodies and breath reeking of the same substance that recently occupied the empty bottles littering the floor.
Neither is much to look at. The wife—we’ll call her that, for they are legally married after the common-law variety—is rather large. Her thin, unkempt hair fans across the pillows of her fleshy cheeks, puffy lips hiding dark, spotted teeth. Her pink, wrinkled chemise stains beneath the underarms and her hefty legs tangle in the rank sheets.
Beside her lies the broad form of her husband. Though not as corpulent as his wife, he bears it more awkwardly. His arms and shoulders are thin, but he packs more in his gut and cheeks and ankles. He is also rather hairier; the short stubble of his head extends toward his eyebrows, and down his back. An empty liquor bottle rests against his chest. He strokes it mindlessly with his thumb, a smile on his lips; sordid dreams flitting across his barren mind.
The monitor gives a sudden, silent scream as the bars flash to maximum capacity. Green. Green. Red. Red. Red. All five blink in rapid succession. The monitor seems to buzz and shake with the effort of waking its owners. The wife twitches and begins to stir.
Down the hallway, at the microphone end of the monitor, a girl crouches against crib bars, fingers to her ears.
“Hush, hush,” she pleads with her infant sister, “you’ll wake them!” Her knees are held tightly to her chest, tears in her big, somber eyes.
The girl is no more than seven, perhaps eight years old, though she is small for her age. Her body is as pinched and thin as her parents are large and obtuse. Her wispy-fine hair is mouse-brown and matted, and she reeks of urine. Reaching into the crib, she tenderly lifts out the shrieking bundle. Even so, no one has taught her to support the neck, and the baby’s head lolls back. The infant shrieks louder. Terrified, she pleads again— “Hush baby!”
She cradles her sister like she’s seen other girls do with their dolls. Girls whose dolls are exquisitely dressed, pushed along in pink little wicker prams. She rocks baby girl, back and forth, back and forth. Still, the girl screams on, inconsolable.
Fearful, the girl looks about, grasping at a bottle on the shelf. It is empty—only a dried milk residue remains—but she puts it in, desperate to quiet the shrieking. For a moment it works, baby girl is content to suck on the dry air of the bottle. But her empty belly aches with the rush of air and the crying intensifies. Laying the baby on the floor, the girl rushes through the doorway to get to the fridge, when from the other end of the house, a roar.
“Fer gods sakes, shut ’er up!”
The girl flinches visibly and hurries back to the room. At the end of the hall, an argument ensues.
“It’s yer turn.”
A whiny voice answers. “I went th’ last time!”
“No yeh didn’! Yeh jes’ slep’ through me gittin’ up!”
Their voices grow louder and louder through the thin walls.
“You son-of-a-b—! You say that every time!”
“I don’t! Ef’n yeh ever got off yer own lazy ass, yeh’d know!”
She screams at him in return, a high, angry shriek, and the sounds of a scuffle ensue. Profanities rain through the walls and the whole house shakes at the meeting of these two behemoths. Baby girl screams on, where she’s been left the floor. Her sister sobs quietly, crouched, hiding behind a threadbare armchair in a corner of the room.
A few loud thumps, a final shriek and the door flies open. Hair ratty and frizzed from the tussle, the ogress emerges from her cavern, jowls quivering with rage.
She hurls a final insult behind her; “son-of-a-b—!” before stomping down the hall. Her fury is brought to a halt on finding her infant on the floor. Her face slackens into an expression of dull stupidity as she puzzles over the marvelous event, when suddenly the pieces click.
“Lena!” Her patience is razor-thin. “–Lena! Where is that little b—!?”
Timidly, Lena emerges from behind the chair, thin arms across her chest, shielding herself.
“There you are.” Her mother grimaces. “What you been doin’?” When Lena doesn’t answer, she cuffs her across the head. “You been wakin’ her!? Huh? You been wakin’ her ‘cause you know we already en’t gettin’ no sleep!? You little b—! Answer me!”
Lena glances down at her squalling sister before replying. “No’m. Jes’ tryin’ to shut ’er up.”
“Liar!” Her mother slaps her again, before turning her attention to baby girl. Lena takes the opportunity to scuttle back to her place behind the armchair.
“What Lena been doin’ to you, huh?” she smiles emptily down at baby girl. Lifting her up, she presses the child against her bosom. “Shush, shush, baby.” Lena watches jealously from the corner.
Alternately rocking and bouncing, the woman works to console her. Rock, bounce, pat. Rock, bounce, pat. At moments, the newborn pauses in her crying and allows herself to be consoled. Then, remembering her parentage, the wails begin afresh.
“Agh—jest shutup!” The woman’s jaw quivers angrily. “Well—mebe you’re jest hungry!”
Rummaging in the cupboard, she hastens to mix a few ounces of formula and puts it in the child’s open mouth. Though hungry, the child gags on the cold milk, crying louder. Her small, wrinkled face is a crimson red-verging-on-blue. Rock, bounce, pat. The mother goes through the motions of consoling her child, though inwardly her corrupted heart dwells on the offenses against her. An abusive husband who forces her to care for their children alone! A willful daughter who purposefully awakens her sister. An infant who won’t stop screaming. All of them, conspiring to wrong her. Her mind picks over each damning evidence.
A dark seed of hatred, already well-established, takes firmer root. Her stained pink chemise slips off her shoulder and those wretched, rotted teeth grimace as the infant scorns her attentions.
Rock, bounce, pat.
Rock, bounce, pat.
Five minutes pass, then six. Each second is an eternity beside those ear-splitting screams.
At eight minutes, she tries burping her, changing her, feeding her again. After each failure, her fleshy face darkens, and her mind grows more embittered.
‘All I do is care for ‘em, hour after hour an’ this is my thanks.’ She thinks savagely. ‘I hate ‘em.’
Rock, bounce, pat.
Rock, bounce, pat.
Behind the chair, Lena tries to stifle a miserable sob.
“Lena! Git out here!”
Reluctantly, Lena creeps out from behind her perch.
“You woke ’er, so you c’n take ’er. See how you like it!”
She dumps the child unceremoniously into Lena’s arms and retreats into the hallway. The thin walls no longer hold back the tide of noise, however, and the alcohol has worn its way into a pulsing headache. She hovers there for a few minutes ‘jest to teach Lena a lesson,’ before marching back in to pull the baby out of Lena’s despairing arms.
Rock, bounce, pat.
Rock, bounce, pat.
Rock, bounce, pat, shake.
At first, it’s just brief jounce, enough to scare her quiet. Then, as the screams crescendo and the injustices against her culminate in the woman’s small mind, she shakes the child harder. With a final thump on the thinly carpeted floor, she begins to scream herself.
“Shutup! Jest shutup!”
This time, baby girl listens.
CHEMICAL REACTION
“911 What is your emergency?” The stoic female voice crackled from a cellphone speaker.
With trembling hands, thirty-nine-year-old Megan Lowry’s finger fought to lower the sound on her Android. She had dialed 911 after clearing her head, trying to absorb her current situation. Holding the phone close to her mouth she whispered in high pitched staccato breaths. “Hello? You have to help me! I’ve been car jacked!”
Lit solely by her phone, Megan lay balled up in the dark confines of the trunk of a car, her own car. A bag of groceries she had just purchased were spilled open behind her. She could feel the moisture on her back from crushed eggs. Several bottles of
Vitamin Water rolled whenever her car made a sharp turn. A tire iron beneath pressed into her hip. The smell of carbon monoxide lent a weight to the hot air she took in with every panicked breath. Megan fought an urge to cry. She whispered again into the phone. “Please, you have to help me.”
A robotic voice replied. “Try to remain calm. What’s your name?”
“Megan. Megan Lowry. I’m locked in the trunk of my own car.”
The voice registered a slightly more human tone. “Megan, I’m Sheila, I’m here to help you. You say you’ve been abducted, yes?”
“Yes. Yes. I stopped for groceries. I was putting them in my trunk when someone attacked me from behind. I was struck on the head. I woke a minute ago in the trunk of my own car!” With her free arm she felt for the walnut sized bump on the backside of her skull. She rubbed it, too scared to feel the pain.
“Can you speak up, Megan. I’m having trouble hearing you.”
Megan dared not to. “I can’t. I don’t think he knows I have my phone. I don’t want him to hear me.”
“Okay, okay. I understand. Tell me what kind of car you have, Megan.”
“A Toyota Camry. 2001, White. Please help me.”
“White Camry. Toyota. Got it.”
Desperation clung to each whisper. “Can you send the police? Can you track my phone?”
“That’s what we're working on Megan.”
“Hurry, please!” Her voice breathless now.
“I need you to focus, can you do that, Megan?”
“I can try.” Her whisper squeaked.
“Do you know your license plate number?”
“Yes. KEMY5T3. California plates”
“K-E-M-Y-5-T-3, is that right, Megan?”
“Yes. It’s…” Megan stopped as the car came to a halt. Perhaps her abductor heard her, Megan couldn’t be sure. “Sssshhh! Be quiet. We’ve stopped.”
Megan heard bells begin to ring in a back-and-forth cadence. The rhythm was familiar to her. The next sound confirmed what she suspected. The sound of rumbling thunder caused the whole vehicle to vibrate. She couldn’t see it. She heard the rolling freight
train lumbering through a railroad crossing. Megan knew of tracks on the far side of Glendale that ran North and South. She now believed she was heading East out of Glendale towards Pasadena so she couldn’t have been unconscious long. It took a solid three minutes for the clickety-clack of the train to pass and the warning bells to fall silent. She guessed the barrier lifted when she felt the car jolt forward and the tire iron dig into her hip as she bounced while the car crossed over the tracks.
From the trunk, Megan felt her car bank, taking on an incline and gaining speed. She was certain they were on a freeway entrance ramp curving to enter a stream of California traffic heading for God only knows where.
She whispered again. “Sheila, we’re getting on the freeway. I can feel it.”
“I’m here, Megan. The highway patrol’s been notified. We already have an Amber Alert out.”
“An Amber Alert?” Megan’s unease pinched her stomach. A thousand panicked thoughts filled her head. “He can read those signs too. Won’t he wonder how it was reported so fast? What if he figures out I have a phone? There’ll be no way for you to find me.”
Sheila attempted to reassure her. “We’re using our Enhanced 911 system. We’re already triangulating your location through the cell tower your phone is using. We should have your approximate location momentarily.”
Megan hissed. “Approximate? I need you to find my exact location now!”
Sheila returned to a professional tone. “Megan, focus. You’ve got to keep your wits about you.”
Megan snapped back. “I’m sorry, Sheila. I don’t get car jacked every day; you know?”
No answer came back. “Sheila?” Worried her tone offended the operator, Megan shook her phone, frantic to get a response. “Sheila?” Again, no answer. She felt the car slowing down. She heard horns honking outside the car. The blaring sounds seemed to echo and bounce back upon themselves; then muffled, as if they were in a tunnel.
Megan whispered a single word. “Bridge.” It was the only answer she could think of why she lost her connection. There were no tunnels she knew of near Pasadena. There were a number of bridges crisscrossing the freeway. Megan could tell the traffic must
be moving at a crawl under a bridge, or a series of bridges.
The point was moot. Her phone had no signal. Megan felt a pang of abandonment, a loneliness not dissimilar to the one she felt about the divorce she was currently going through, but given her present situation, much worse. She was beginning to think maybe whispering wasn’t the best strategy. Megan thought maybe to start
yelling. Perhaps someone in the slow-moving traffic would hear her. She could kick the trunk hatch to attract attention.
Before a decision could be made, Megan heard the sound of a siren in the distance growing louder and getting closer. For the briefest of moments, she wondered it were the police coming to her rescue. Maybe they triangulated her location. Maybe they set up a roadblock to slow traffic. Maybe the Amber Alert worked after all.
The many maybes were answered when the siren blared past her and drowned out like a dying cat just ahead. The smell of gas fumes, oil and radiator steam entered her confined space. From outside, Megan could hear the electronic garble of emergency radio calls. She visualized an ambulance arriving at a terrible car accident on the freeway. They must be passing the scene and looky-loos brought traffic to a crawl. She wanted to scream. Fear held her frozen in place. Megan felt the fractional G-force as the car accelerated and traffic resumed its normal flow. Megan whispered. “Sheila?”
Silence hung in the air. The bars were empty. She couldn’t connect with a tower. Megan held the phone in two hands, her thumbs went to work. She decided to send a text. But to who? Megan scrolled through her recent contacts. There was her boss at ChemGen, Mike Rafferty, useless for the most part. Then her current boyfriend, Nelson Wickland, patent attorney she met at a ChemGen conference; Nelson was arranging the legal papers for a new chemical compound the pharmaceutical would be releasing revolutionizing cancer treatment. She met Nelson over a month ago. She had been sleeping with him several times and he was the first man she shared a bed with after her separation from her ex. She wasn’t in love, but she was lonely. She needed the feel of a man to hold. Nelson was, intelligent, successful and a gentleman. Then she saw Jake Lowry’s number, her soon to be ex. Megan would never have left Jake had she not found evidence of him cheating. Receipts from hotels, motels, romantic restaurants, a cabin in Big Bear, sexual texts on his phone. She was deeply hurt and divorce at the time seemed her best option. She exhaled and text what might be her final message.
It was to Jake. She figured a fifteen-year-old marriage must have meant something. Megan remembered the instant chemistry they had when they first met at Stanford. Her text explained her current situation clearly as possible, ending that if she survived this encounter, they might give it another try.
Two bars blinked on and off on the phone like the pulse of an emergency room patient crashing. Megan hit send. The message buffered trying to connect with a faint signal. The wait seemed endless. Then the bars went solid. The text stopped buffering. It got sent and the phone vibrated. Caller ID read, 911. Megan answered in a whisper. “Sheila?”
“No, Megan this is Officer Lancer with the Barstow Highway Patrol. Sheila connected us when your signal returned. We have a good idea where you’re located. Are you injured?”
She whispered. “Other than the bump, I’m not injured, but the road we’re on now is bumpy as hell.” She stopped. The car began to slow, gravel could be heard crunching beneath the wheels then went silent at full stop. Megan's heart raced. "We stopped!"
The engine shut down with a sputtering cough. She heard the driver’s door open with a popping creak and felt the car jostle as the driver climbed out. The door closed with a thud she that she could feel in her chest. She rolled on her side, shoved the phone in her pocket and faced the trunk latch.
The phone was her lifeline. She would protect it until the end. A key jostled outside. A click. The trunk sprung open. A flashlight beamed in her face. She tried to glimpse the car jacker’s face. Her kidnapper lowered the light.
It was Nelson Wickland, the man she had been sleeping with for the past two months. “You? Nelson, what the fuck are you doing?” She started to climb out, a raised revolver stopped her forward motion.
“Your phone, Megan. Give me your phone.”
Her phone? No way. Her phone was Sheila. Her phone was Highway Patrol. Her phone was GPS, her only way to be located. “What phone? I don’t have a phone.” She tried to look incredulous. “What I have is this nasty bump on my head, thank you. Why are you doing this?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Now give it.”
Megan shrugged holding out empty hands.
Nelson’s voice went grim. “Don’t make me hit you again. Phone.” He pocketed the light. Both were now bathed only in the red of the taillights.
“Nelson, I swear…” She couldn’t give up so easily.
Nelson chuckled. “Megan, you just text Jake. I can’t believe you suggested a reconciliation.” Nelson held up his phone, it showed her text.
“Jake? How...?” She stopped her question mid-sentence. Megan was a Stanford University graduate. It took less than a second for her to compute the scenario; Jake and Nelson are conspiring to kill her, but why? Fifty percent of community property? They’re both successful men. It made no sense. Then it hit her. The patent. Megan’s contract was written where she owned a percentage of any of ChemGen’s products she helped create. If the divorce went through before the patent was signed, Jake got nothing.
“Jake will be along. We’ll meet at our rendezvous tonight. A cabin in Big Bear. Now give me your phone before I beat it out of you...” He raised the gun again. “…Or something worse.” He held out a hand. “The phone.”
Megan hoped Sheila or the Highway Patrol cop was catching all of this. This was the final string of hope left on a tenuous safety rope. The man she married for fifteen years and the man she recently began sleeping with have plotted to murder her. The biggest shock was understanding the two men must have been lovers for some time. Which is why she never found whoever the "other woman” was.
Megan looked at the desert expanse where the car was presently parked. It was as fitting a place as any to match the hurt flooding over her and drowning her sense of self. She noticed the bars on the phone were blank. The battery near dead, the signal once again dropped. She had no idea if anyone heard anything. She held the phone out with great reluctance.
Nelson snapped it from her hand, shut it off, dropped it, crushing it beneath one of his twelve-hundred-dollar Oxfords.
That was it, he might as well as stepped on her heart. All her lifelines were cut. Megan was truly alone. She cowered elbow up, as Nelson slammed the trunk shut leaving her in choking darkness. She felt Nelson climb back into the driver’s seat. The engine hesitated to turn over then a wisp of carbon monoxide leaked through the trunk floor. The car began to move. Megan felt every bump on the desert road leading back to the highway.
From the interior front cab Led Zeppelin’s Dazed and Confused began to play loud. Megan guessed Nelson found her CDs in the driver’s console and was playing her 70’s song list. The percussion from the speakers throttled against the back seat making Megan feel each beat of bass like a small gut punch. Her favorite band now sounded like a death march dirge.
Music has the capability of dredging up memories from the mind’s deepest recesses. In the darkness, Megan’s thoughts drifted from her claustrophobic fear turning to early days with her father. He was the reason that rock ’n roll was as much a part of her DNA as her hazel eyes.
Professor Connor O’Conner, a science teacher at Stanford University, single father to a precocious, outgoing young Megan O'Conner, raised her to be independent, curious and an audiophile of 70’s music. If Classic Rock were the only category on Jeopardy, Megan would have been grand champion.
He also fueled her love of science, the direction her career took. He taught her simple experiments like how to make invisible ink from lemon juice, create a fireworks-like show in a glass filled with olive oil, water, and food coloring. Megan was not like most of the neighborhood girls her age who experimented with make-up, lipstick, and eye shadow.
She was eight when she got her first chemistry set. Nine when she almost set the house on fire mixing potassium permanganate crystals, glycerin, and water. Despite that, her father never scolded her. He just asked her to think. Always think.
He’d playfully tease her saying most little girls were made of sugar and spice and everything nice, but she was different. She had her own special chemical make-up, equal parts Boron, Radium, Iodine, Nitrogen and Sulfur. At that age she knew he must be joking. The elements that made up humans were simple, Oxygen, Carbon, Hydrogen, Nitrogen, Calcium, Phosphorous, Potassium and Sodium. It wasn’t until she noticed the symbols on the periodic table that she understood her father’s joke.
(B), (Ra), (I), (N), (S). Brains.
Long ago he taught her to always rely on intellect. It’s why she became a chemist and a damn good one.
Megan snapped out of her reverie returning to her present dilemma. Zeppelin was still playing loud from the front cab. She got to work. She felt underneath for the tire iron wedged beneath her, taking the flat end, used it as leverage to pry open the rear taillight panel, timing it on each musical downbeat. She popped the panel, pulling the light from its mount. Stretching the wires, she brought the bulb into the tight compartment illuminating it like a Halloween haunt.
The music track up front changed. Golden Earring’s Radar Love thudded through the rear seat. It was to this rhythm that the car seemed to accelerate, and Megan got busier.
She reached for the grocery bag contents and began to forage. Picking up item after item, some she’d keep, others, toss in a corner. She found what she needed. 8 ounces of
olive oil, a shaker of Extreme Hot Cayenne Powder, a lemon, a bottle of Windex, black pepper. Megan found a funnel near an oil can where she stored the vehicle’s emergency equipment. She grabbed two road flares. She was ready to build her final defense.
Megan used the flat end of the tire iron to tear through a road flare. She grabbed the funnel, shoving it into the bottle of vitamin water. Into it she poured the contents of the flare. The Potassium Nitrate, Polymeric Resin and Strontium Nitrate would dissolve in water, while filtering Potassium Percolate into a crystal. She
needed something to sift out the crystals, but what?
Megan removed her bra as if she were Houdini escaping from a strait jacket. Using one of the brassiere’s cups, she poured the contents from the bottle, straining the liquid in a corner leaving only the Potassium Percolate crystals behind which now needed to dry.
She did this by utilizing the bra’s other cup allowing it to absorb any liquid. She reopened the Windex bottle, added the crystals making sure nothing touched her skin. Megan had just fashioned her own bottle of MACE. With the crystals the potency of this homemade pepper spray was multiplied threefold.
The music stopped. Nelson called out from the driver’s seat mockingly. “Honey, we’re home!” It was time to ready herself. The trunk ’s smelled like a meth lab crossed with a Chipotle restaurant. Megan hoped the fumes hadn’t seeped into the forward compartment. She knew this would have to be a complete surprise when they opened the trunk. There would be no testing of the spray lest she blind herself.
Megan turned her body to face the trunk latch, placing her feet firm against the trunk’s rear panel behind the fender. She lay in the cramped compartment like an astronaut in a capsule awaiting launch. She felt down to her side to make sure the second
flare was in place and within reach, as well as the tire iron. Igniting the flare could turn the flammable pepper spray even more deadly. She pulled the lightbulb from the wire plunging herself back into darkness. Megan gripped the spray bottle with two hands and readied for her defensive assault. She gave one final whisper, “C’mon. Bring it.”
The white Camry, rear right taillight out, sat idle outside a lone cabin. Jake stepped out from inside onto the porch. Nelson climbed out and the two men approached each other hugged, then kissed. Megan couldn't hear what they were saying. They turned their attention to the trunk. Noticing the rear light was out and exchanged glances. Jake inserted the key. Nelson raised his gun. Both stood at the rear ready to open the trunk.
The car's license plate, illuminated by a tiny bulb read, KEMY5T3 or “CHEMISTRY.” The very thing that brought them all together. Now all three awaited the outcome of the coming chemical reaction.
Mirror Mirror on the Wall Who’s the Shallowest Genepool of All?
I'm a small pasty, bald, Irish guy that looks like the product of an unholy, biological-law-breaking union between Uncle Fester of the Addam's Family and Mr. Burns from the Simpsons. On a scale of 1-10, most people would say that I'm a C-. Already in my middle years, I fully expect that by the time I'm an old man I'll have to shop at the Big, Tall, and Hunchbacked store for clothes.
In terms of a personality? I have one. I guess. However, it's an open box, slightly irregular, analog, neon plaid, and batteries not included purchased at a shady flea market stall kind of personality.
Psychologically, I suffer from major depressive disorder, with manic tendencies which is interesting because I can't find, "Manic Tendencies" in the DSM-V. I guess my psychiatrist really thought I was special and deserved something customized! It was sweet of him, really. I also have PTSD related to domestic violence, social anxiety disorder, and was exposed to a buffet of illicit drugs in utero.
People think I'm eccentric when really, I'm a ball gag, straight jacket, and resides in a padded cell kind of psychotic. My delusions might be absurd and self-destructive, but they're a lot of fun!
I am a social worker with crippling social anxiety. I can be in a room with 3-4 people, but any more beyond that and I want to curl into the fetal position under the nearest bed.
I am a husband and father of 4. Really! No, they're not imaginary and I know this because if they were imaginary I'd have a lot more fucking money.
I can quote hard rock and heavy metal lyrics verbatim, but I know fuck all nothing about anything that qualifies as useful. Change a tire sew or replace a button on a shirt? Fuck no! Quote the lyrics to both versions of AC/DC's, "The Jack?" Fuck yes!
I was a Taco Bell restaurant manager for more than 10 years. Although it's been nearly 16 years since I worked there my sweat still smells like red sauce.
I hate reality television and country music. Honestly, prolonged exposure to either will likely result in a loss of a minimum of 10 IQ points and at least 1 child conceived with a first cousin.
I'm not into porn, but if there isn't a Golden Girls inspired porn series there should be!
The only addiction I never treated as a substance abuse counselor was addiction to Flintstones Chewable Vitamins. It's probably a good thing because I don't have a fucking clue how I would've responded to being told, "I used to do horrible, horrible things for a hand full of Bam-Bams."
Is there a Just Fans page with just fans? Do you have to pay more for variable speed or oscillating? I can imagine someone getting a little moist in the knickers after watching a black stainless steel oscillating fan with a chrome fan cover blowing on high.
I would rather have my ass lubricated with battery acid immediately followed by a prostate exam performed with a running, rusty chainsaw than be anywhere near a clown.
Vacuumed by Violent Vortex Waterspout
A leisurely sail out by a virgin island far from the mainland hinted of heavenly, glorious forecast.
We embarked under most salutary weather conditions oblivious to meteorological predictions of severe hurricane (category 5) maelstrom just barely detected by radar.
Thus, (thyself and thee missus) paid scant attention to oft interjected broadcasts (between commercial deliveries), when the skies and sea appeared calmly placid.
Nary a hint gleaned sans of any weather forecast jack knifing, snap chatting, or rip roaring storm.
Many previous supposedly violent, yowling, beastly, enormously horrendously kickass, ominously ravenous, unforgivingly wicked, yo-yoing ma frightful abominations crumbled entirely.
Inert lambasting, monstrously nasty punishingly rapacious slamming torrents underwent wimpy yawning, baby faced hypocriticalness Janus mocking nature.
While tooling about within a crimson edged italicized Jesus Loves Outliers Catamaran for the vast majority of that typical summer day (with nary a worry creasing thy stern brow), my primitive climatological global position satellite (in tandem with the one percent Neanderthal mom genes – this genetic tidbit of information acquired upon submitting a tube full of mine saliva processed by biochemists affiliated with 23andme.com) an electronic guiding light found me linkedin to promising unknown destiny.
While far out to sea (where infinite blue water merged with cerulean celestial vault), nothing could possibly abend, diminish, grandeur joyfully manifesting peacefulness sans vibrant yearning bursting every hotly kindled nook of psyche!
Twas while thine being seduced into a sublime hypnotic state, that a shrill emanation reached these highly attuned ears, which supreme auditory sense compensated for the extreme myopia afflicting me since a little whippersnapper.
Ah, thine spouse (comfortably reclining upon a amply cushioned deck chair) espied a faint smudge away near the vanishing point of the horizon. Since her eyesight much more keen (while she dealt with diminished hearing), this the outcome of countless childhood bouts with Eustachian tube infections), I entrusted any distant potential threat to benevolent babe.
Sparse trappings of basic nautical instruments came in handy as each of us squinted into our own set of pricy binoculars.
Even though highly nearsighted (with floaters that peppered field of vision), a distinct amorphous dark mass appeared to be skirting the skies at the approximately the speed of sound.
Never one to roughhouse, spar, nor tangle with the wrath of natural forces, an instinctual reaction found me reorienting our quality state of the art made vessel back to the closest jetty of lands-end.
Though this blotch became more pronounced within blink of eye, no stirring of wind-song palpably materialized to serve as an invisible tether, which would have subsequently tugged this speck of flotsam (bobbing along the briny deep with two adults) within the ocean.
Asper when a noticeable increase in air velocity present, the concomitant blackish dome found helter skelter thoughts competing with an external disposition of calm. No anti-anxiety medications (about a half dozen prescription magic bullets toned down inexplicable inherent vulnerability to panic and susceptibility to experience a sloop of physiological symptoms formerly - meaning during that emotionally tempestuous prepubescent stage) rendering this chap good as useless.
Once sufficient atmospheric currents ideal to raise sails (prayerfully gliding troughs and crests), our destiny subsumed by the merciless whims of irreconcilable small medium forces at large.
Best option available constituted just hunkering down, and securing heavy objects that could be bandied about once grabbed by titanic powers governing Earth.
After battening down the hatches, a ploy arose to tap into the knot tying skills (earned thru skills taught and red badges of courage earned when boy-scout thence Coast Guard survivalist tactics learned), would be put to the electric kool aid acid test.
While hastily trying to sequester vital rations (sand which I also counted requisite voyaging equipment), this spry simian reviewed (reconnaissance reckoned as if an enemy in midst of pummeling this former boatswain and the savvy wife) the ominous black soundclouds driving, hashtagging, and kickstarting energetically forward getting hideous instantaneously – ja!
Most deafening roar (like the eye of a tiger) synchronized with Poseidon poised pell mell whipped thee Homo Sapiens schooner, and flecked like spit two helpless primates now within the maws of mercurial mincing monster.
Akin to Jonah and the whale, an immense vortex waterspout wielded woeful wusses.
How ironic to become astutely electrified with the physics of humongous whirlpools, while being swallowed within non discriminate ferocious force fields fanning across the vista, when just moments before a placid surface met thine gaze.
Team ming tribes of turbulent twirling tendrils luxuriantly looped, licentiously lashed, and lickety-split wrought wrenching wracking (exceeding the series of unfortunate events experience by Lemony Snicket by exponential powers – Damn envious this dude envied said pseudo pirate) wickedness came our way.
No opposing counter force could redeem this suddenly frightful middle aged man, nor assist the spouse, whereat only the stormy fury of Gaia (we named Daniel) would decide how the tale of two city bred aficionados ended.
Interestingly enough (though caught within the terrestrial typhoon) this marginal member made peace with death. Upon accepting a premature demise, (whose two daughters of mine would eventually become privy to this papa and mama lost – heavens to Betsy – at the gambit decreed via prime mover), a fledgling glimmer hovered inside jettisoning knowledge learned. Mister no-name parlayed quest resorting silently to undergo verve witnessing first hand the adventure of a lifetime.
No idea fixated itself whether death succeeded this sea veer, soaked to the bone, swampy scrimmage since that manmade essence viz space/time continuum obliterated.
Awareness of Bing a Capital One Earthlinked Hotmail, received an Insta-Gramm from Gemini (?), an invitation where souls transformed into an altered state spent LivingSocial amidst an Outlook with good n Plenty of Sprint ting disembodied spirits each housed within a Soundcloud Twittering Uber Yikyak.
Henceforth any innocent lives lost to the unsurpassed might upon the third planet from the sun Joyus lee pride fully joined Afterlife MeetUp.
After crossing over into the dimension of non-corporeal surreal tawny veil, a absolute silence disrupted by the wings of a swallowtail butterfly (at some unknown destination), which interestingly enough (and like totally irrelevant) throve on wild asparagus.
Twas said classy donned, ethereally fleeting, and globally honed individually joyously kool Lepidoptera who made us (thyself and the missus) reckon that nonhuman organisms seemed to possess greater basic, democratic, fantastic, holistic, kinetic, magnetic, opportunistic, quixotic, telepathic, et cetera intelligence.
No utterances took place between this generic guy (thwarted into another universe) and the flora and fauna, which sent instant messages kickstarting a lively mission to incorporate ourselves into an altered state far more rhapsodic than a previous housing of consciousness.
Animals and plants downplayed any gross infringements on the niches assumed by plethora of entities more than willing to make accommodations for most fierce some beastie boy and goo goo doll, who courtesy mind boggling combinations whilst becoming repurposed upon exhaling final breath.
Nada iota of recall could dredge the phenomena, when both this pissant quirky rebel rouser, and his sidekick soul mate became reconstituted, homogenized, and configured into biota unlike anything found on planet Earth.
Chapter Thirty-Nine - Final Delusion
“I’ve won!” The leader declares, “You can’t stop me.”
“The dream isn’t over yet.” Gina announces.
As the woman is bound in chains and cast down. The army that swept over the Earth is shattered into a million individual pieces. Just when the army is poised for its final victory, the remaining kingdoms of the Earth band together and field a large army of its own. These two armies fight and when the dust clears, the great army that swept over the world is gone and there is no one left to replace it.
The leader is captured and before he can be executed, he uses his magic to escape. The woman who opposed him, breaks free of her chains.
They all wake up from their dream.
“Now that you know the end of the dream, let me show you your final fate.” Gina announces. She grabs the hand of the young man and the great one and disappears, leaving the leader alone to contemplate his fate.
When they reappear, they are in a cave far away. The former leader is there. Having lived out the dream, he knew they would come. He just didn’t know when.
“Look at yourself.” Gina says to the young man, “Is this the fate you want?” The young man looks at himself, old and broken. He turns away in disgust.
“No.” he says quietly.
“Are you ready to give up your magic?” Gina asks.
“I am” the young man declares, “Will this hurt?”
“It will not” Gina assures. Gina waves her hands and says something that sounds like nonsense. The spark leaves the young man. Gina grabs both their hands and they disappear. When they reappear, they are back to where they started from in the past.
“You can be happy now with people who care about you.” Gina says, “I have one final thing for you.” Gina causes the young man to forget everything he had seen and heard about the possible future.
“Great one is it an honor to see you. “The young man says to the great one, “Miss” he says to Gina. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“No, I was just passing by you may go about your business.” The great one said.
“Thank you” The young man says as he goes on his way.
“I owe you a great debt.” The great one says to Gina, “You have kept me from making a terrible mistake. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No. Just be more careful.” Gina replies and with that she disappears and the great one never sees her again.
When Gina appears again, it is in her own time. She is in a small chamber and an old man is sitting there. He notices that she had the spark.
“I didn’t know you were a magician.” The old man says, “You certainly were not one when I saw you earlier today.”
“True” Gina answers, “I was given the ability to perform magic.”
“And who would give that ability to you.” The old man asks.
“You did.” Gina declares.
“I did, and why would I do something stupid like that.” The old man asks, amused.
“Because you are the wisest, smartest person I know.” Gina answers, “Thank you for believing in me.”
“You’re welcome, I think. What are you going to do, we can’t have two princesses running around.” The old man asks.
“You know I’m not the princess anymore. I think I’m going to travel, see the world.” Gina replies.
“Well, you be careful then.” The old man warns.
“I will” Gina assures. She then disappears again. When she appears, she is in another small chamber. There is no one there so she waits. She waits for what seems like a long time until suddenly Carla walks in. When she sees Gina, she is frightened and can’t speak.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” Gina declares.
“You have?” Carla can barely get out.
“Of course, I’m going to travel the world and I can’t do that without my best friend.” Gina says. Carla isn’t sure what is going on. The princess is never nice, and she is pretty sure the princess doesn’t know she exists. Gina takes both her hands in her own. “I will always have your back.” Gina assures. Carla is really confused. One moment they are in her room, the next moment they are somewhere else.
The somewhere else they are, is outside Mark’s quarters. Gina puts one finger over her mouth and tries to calm Carla down. Within a few minutes, Mark comes out of his quarters.
“Princess, what are you doing here?” Mark asks.
“I am going on a trip, and I need your protection.” Gina declares.
“Does the King know? Why don’t you have a real knight escort you?” Mark asks.
“Are you questioning me!?” Gina says, “You will change into some normal clothes right away and come with me.” This was highly unusual. Mark had bad feelings about this, but he couldn’t refuse the princess. If she wanted to make his life miserable, she could easily do it.
“Yes, princess.” Mark replied. Mark went and changed as quickly as he could.
“That’s better, do you know Carla?” Gina asked. When Mark saw Carla, he felt something he had never felt before.
“My name isn’t…” Carla was about to say but Gina stopped her from finishing her sentence.
“Your name is what I say it is.” Gina rebuked sternly, “We have one more stop before we leave.” Gina took them both by the hand and disappeared again. This time she reappeared in front of Toby’s modest shack.
“You two wait here.” Gina ordered. Gina entered the small shack. Toby had gone to sleep because it was late, but Gina woke him up.
“Princess, what are you doing here?” Toby asked. Toby couldn’t believe the princess was in his small shack. It was as if he were still dreaming. Toby got to his feet. When he did, Gina wrapped her arms around him and gave him a kiss on the lips. It was at this moment that Toby was sure he was dreaming. The princess didn’t even know he was alive, yet there she was.
“Are you ready?” Gina asked when she was done kissing Toby.
“Ready for what?” Toby asked.
“Ready to run away with me.” Gina continued. Toby didn’t know what to say. He had dreamed of this moment his entire life and it was happening.
“Yes” He affirmed.
“Then come with me” Gina ordered. Toby and Gina went outside where Mark and Carla were waiting for them. Gina had them all hold hands. Once they did, they all disappeared. When they reappeared, they were all in the future.
“Where are we?” Carla asked. She looked around and nothing looked familiar. They were on the side of a road and a car passed. “What was that?”
“We are in the future.” Gina declares, “A future where we can all be our best selves.”
“What will we do here?” Mark asked.
“Anything we want!” Gina replied, “I just have one final thing to do.” Gina let go of the spark. She was no longer a great sorcerous, now she was just herself, with the people she cared about.
THE END
The Persistence of Memory
His love, outside of time, beyond the illusion of forever, was immemorial as it was eternal.
Long before the human genome had been discovered and deciphered in cold, impersonal laboratories, his epigenetics had been warmly at work, laying down inheritable sentiments for his progeny. He built up a latticework of devotion to her where natural selection had no relevance.
His love would persist through the ages. It always had, hadn't it? Some certainties persist beyond memory.
His was just a trick with amino acids, bonding junk DNA to the otherwise silent portions of his genetic helices. But there she straddled, fresh and alive; lovely and kind; and generously giving.
And inheritable.
Alas, he never taught her how to do likewise. He couldn't. It was a process so private and inherently esoteric that he didn't quite understand it himself. How could he translate such mindful machinations into words of instruction? He might just as easily deconstruct love, grief, or loneliness, all of which ensued upon her death.
But love and grief and loneliness are constructs of a genetically derived mindfulness, apart from his epigenetic love letter, and ne'er the twain would meet: his completeness by her was immune to the instructions of mere proteins or hormones.
Each time he visited her grave, the tighter his epigenetic bonds became. They stood out--little bombs easily packaged for sorties to his offspring to come.
Each time he visited her grave, he would sink to his knees, crying, "I love you eternally. My love is still here now, and will so remain, until it becomes the stuff of stars themselves!"
Hundreds of years later, great-great-great-grandchildren, now unrecognizable to each other on their family tree, visit her grave driven via a powerful, mysterious compulsion. Chance had summated perfectly: three strangers--two men and a boy--know they must be there but don't know why.
Prudence Planchard
My Forever Love
May 25, 1757 — September 5, 1785
The older man said, "I love you forever."
The younger man, added, "My love is still here now..."
And the boy added, in a sentiment well beyond his years, "...and will so remain until becoming the stuff of stars themselves."
They departed, but would certainly, in love, cross paths again.
Precipice of Danger
Why did I go to Peru? To a rustic camp somewhere high in the mountains? With a broken foot and ankle in a cast and resting on a leg scooter?
Our guide utters something not in English, and other campers pick up the pace of clearing a new site for our encampment. Shoveling snow. Moving rocks. Erecting tents. Building fire pits.
Why is everyone glancing at me and shaking their heads? Because I am just sorting gear? Because I appear to be the only American of the dozen or so campers? And the only one not pulling his or her weight? Fine, you try hard labor with a bad leg.
Break time at sunset and everybody huddles around a large barrel with a blazing fire inside. Everyone but me. I try to scoot in but other campers won't let me. Snickering faces are bathed in the warm, orange glow from the barrel.
Soon, everyone leaves the barrel but me. They line up on a rocky ledge to retrieve dinner from a wagon. It looks like chipped beef, but I can't get close enough to be sure. I guess I'll miss dinner again. They find rocks to sit on and drag the fire barrel away from me, so they can stay warm.
I look for a rock to sit on. I go up a slight incline, and I find one 10 yards from the group. But as I lift my leg off the scooter, somebody from the group yells. I look up, and others are shouting at me. I don't know what they are saying.
I sit on the rock, and my leg scooter rolls backward toward a cliff. It disappears. I stand to look, and I find that I am on the precipice. I topple backward and fall, but my right hand grasps a branch. I do not know how a tree got up there, but I hang on tightly. Now both hands are on the branch as my body dangles helplessly in nothingness. The group's screams have stopped. I hear a crack. I yell for help, but no one comes. Another crack, and a big piece of bark falls away. I yell for help, but no one comes. I can see the yellow innards of the branch. I yell for help, and now I have to pee.
I awake in my warm bed and head to the bathroom.
An Uneven Matchup? Rick vs Cyclo
This chapter is part of "The Small Town Magic Arc." Links for prior chapters in this storyline can be found here: https://www.theprose.com/post/746871/the-small-town-magic-arc
Cyclo dropped to the ground and rolled around laughing. He then stood up and jeered at Rick.
"You think you can take me, boy? You must be a teenager, thinking you can take on challenges you are horribly unqualified for! Fine with me! If you want to die first, I can take you clowns on from youngest to oldest!"
"I, and everyone else in our crew will not be dying today." Rick replied boldly. "Even you aren't going to die Cyclo. But I promise you that when this is over, you won't terrorize Tamma, Jahno, this town, or anyone and anyplace ever again."
"Not gonna kill me eh? Then you will definitely fail lad! Well, I declare that I am going to kill you. And I promise that it will be a very excruciating, painful death!"
"You've got this Rick, we believe in you." The Pirate smiled as he patted Rick's shoulder. "Go ahead and teach this Goliath wannabe a lesson!"
"The Pirate and I will protect Tamma and Jahno, starting with a force field spell." Cerissa added. "Essie, can you back Rick up if needed?"
"Of course I will." Essie said in a tone that sounded both brave and affectionate. She then embraced Rick. "I have your back, always."
"Thanks Essie, I will always protect you.... and everyone else too of course!" Rick was grateful for his helmet covering up his blushing.
"Awwwww, how freaking wholesome!" Cyclo mocked. "Can we get to the fight already, before you win by putting me to sleep, or making me vomit?"
"Sure thing Cyclo, we've all waited long enough for this fight!" Rick shouted as he charged at Cyclo. Cyclo laughed gleefully and also sprinted towards his opponent. Once they were close enough, Rick followed through with a closed fist to Cyclo's face. The force of Rick's punch sent the cyclops flying into a distant barn, causing the structure to collapse. Cyclo emerged from the wreckage and limped back to his much smaller foe, his expression reflecting his shock and anger.
"How.... did.... you.... do that?!?"
"Trade secret." Rick replied in a mocking tone of his own. "Ready to continue being pounced, or will you surrender now?"
To be continued....
Describe Yourself (I’m Still Scared To Use Hinge)
Pretty bitch (when it’s three am and i’m looking at myself in the mirror and my ego is getting the better of me, otherwise i think my face is too ethnic—the ancient aztecs would’ve loved me though—and too white at the same time)
Compulsive—
I compulsively and impulsively do things
(do i have adhd? should probably get tested so people stop asking)
I am staring at my body
At the funhouse mirror in the county fair
All long hair and petite and wide hipped
(some white lady once told me i had ‘mexican hips’ and i should’ve clocked her if she wasn’t so old and i’m still not entirely sure what that means but that’s a weird thing to say to a latin girl when she’s nineteen, no?)
I feel observed,
In public
Like I am constantly being baited into social error
I crave and detest attention
I like to read
(and at night i will gaze upon such nonsense it makes me sick and i begin to hold a personal grudge against Garth Ennis)
I want things I can’t have, (like, i want lemonade but not this lemonade, the lemonade from two summers ago)
Would you still love me if I told you everything wrong with me? If I told you my fixation on religious imagery stems from—
I like to paint
(if i love you i’ll make something in your image and also i can’t really remember when i was eight years old and my favorite color is a green i’ve tried to find my entire life and will probably never be able to see again because it was the center of a lake on a roadtrip through the yukon when i was small)
I’m young and dumb
(but i feel so old it hurts—I blame this ⅖ on the expectations of the religious sect—cult??? jury’s still out—and all the guilt and the violence that came with it and the other ⅗ on bad blood and familial tradition)
Would you still love me if I was a worm?
Would you still love me if I told you I couldn’t sit with my back to doors? Or that if I don’t check behind the shower curtain, I am confident that I will be Psycho-ed? That I can’t stand loud noise in or outdoors? That I am a slut but only of the soul, because I want you to eat my mind or some other dumb shit I might confess on account of a sleep-deprived high?
Would you still love me if I said men scared the living hell out of me? On account of the reception of violence from them since I was just a baby? That I once crashed my bike while trying to get away from catcalling and rode home with gravel stuck to my bleeding knee?
I’m good with animals and small children and my roommate’s cat literally won’t leave me alone
Would you still love me if I told you I hated vulnerability? That if I said I loved you, I’d immediately ask you to take me out back and shoot me? That I feel like I present the illusion of it and so people always tell me everything because I'm just so goddamn trusting? Because all people want to be believed.
(And, like religion, i believe until it makes me sick.)
That,
my favorite songs are Ethel Cain’s unreleased, and AC/DC, and Gaga and just about everything except country (best friend gets in my car and is stunned by the rapid switch from Danzig to Pop Smoke to Dolly)
and every sibilant sound that my mind latches onto
and i also latch onto you
I really like trees and the beach
(please want me,
please like me)