"So... Tell us, stranger. How did you get here?"

"Mm... That's a really interesting question. You mean in life? Or physically? Cos... I don't really have an answer to either to be hone-"

"How did you get here. With me?"

"I was on a walk. I was looking at the clouds. I saw one shaped like an alligator eating a little egg-chick-thing before whatever the fuck happened. Is that the last cloud I'll ever see? That's kinda cool."

"You don't seem frightened."

"Am I supposed to be?"

"Do you think someone's coming to save you? I'm going to kill you in the next five minutes-"

"Hopefully two if I'm annoying."

"...you're really taking all the fun out of this."

"Fine. Look. I was scared when I woke up cos I'm not great at adjusting to new things. But like... I dunno, I've learnt ways of suppressing my emotions as best I can. If you'd been behind me you might've seen my hands twitching cos I didn't want it in my face but nope, you're staring at me. With a... Barney head on. That brings back weird memories. I can't believe my purple dino bestie from childhood is about to murder me. I had literally no friends, this is harsh B, thought we were buds-"

"Stop making a joke of everything!!"

"If I get serious, we'll both get sad. Why are you talking to me anyway? Please don't torture me before you kill me, just put that gun to use. And not the way Fight Club movie-and-not-the-book did it. Make it a clean swipe, yeah? I don't want anymore pain. Oh, yeah... No more periods when you're dead. Send me to the ground homie."

"...your generation is so unstable. It makes my fun so... Not fun. Maybe I should start hurting you all."

"I mean, sure? That doesn't sound very nice but I can't exactly stop you. Sorta tied up and about to be an expired can of blood and meat, here. Not that you needed to. I'm not stupid enough to try to run. Or smart enough. I'm not sure which is the right option since we only just met and I've never been kidnapped before. Ooh, have you been stalking me for weeks for this kill? Secretly in love with and or obsessed with me?"

"Nah, I just-"

"Saw me on a walk and went "fuck it, why not?" aka my entire life philosophy. I won't lie to you... That's a little disappointing. But for my life, it does sound about right, so-stranger. I think my heart is clenching up, as it sometimes do. I'm gonna have a panic attack, maybe. That's embarrassing. Or something breathing-related since there is no air here at all. Not even ac, shit. Do me a favour and don't look at me if I get all twitchy and moan about my heart-chest-area. I don't wanna be more embarrassed than I already am."

"Forget all that. You're about to die."

"...is this like in Fight Club where the guy only does the gun thing so the other guy goes be a vet? Cos if it is... I don't know if I have any really cool goals. I always kinda wanted a cat but money and shit. I always wanted to kiss and date a girl but like... Life is hard and I'm not great with people, anyway."

"Those sound like excuses. Also, stop with the Fight Club references! You are going! To fucking! Die!"

"Interesting. Okay. I believe you. Heart is still pounding but she'll hopefully shut the fuck up eventually so I can be fully present. I think my soul is trying to pull away from my body so I don't have to properly go through this but I do wanna be here, buddy, I promise you that. Buddy... What are your pronouns?"

"SHUT UP!"

"Okay... I'll just stick to gender-neutral shit. Speaking of gender-neutral, do me a favour? When you kill me... I know you won't send a note explaining stuff to my family. That's a little over-nice for a killer- not to presume anything about you without knowing you! That was sort of mean of me, Barney-bee, I'm sorry. Okay. I'd ask you to burn me and release my shit into the air but fuck that, Nature and the worms underground got to be fed. But what you can do is not take me back to them. I'm sorta glad I don't have to die where they know I am. That way, I don't have to have a Christian funeral and be buried in clothes I probably won't like, surrounded by people who didn't give a single fuck about me. I've been to the funerals my family has. Lost grandparents and all, half of which mattered, half of which kinda don't. Anyway... I don't like the way my fam does funerals. So... Since I'm about to die, thanks for fulfilling this last wish, purple dino. I get to be myself in my last moments. Afraid and free all at once. Like I always was. At least the chains feel a little lifted now that I'm... Literally tied up. I am the weirdest fucker I know."

"Fucking hate this hobby, now. You suicidal bunch of assholes."

"Oh... I wouldn't call myself that. I am totally an asshole; part of me anyways. Suicidal though? I dunno. I never did get that therapy, which means no fancy words and acronymbbreviationwhatevers to describe my mental state. Guess I don't need any of that where I'm going. Heh, heh? Laugh with me friendo! You're the last person I'll ever meet!"

"Fine... You're a little funny."

"Gasp. That's so sweet. I bet you're kinda attractive under that mask. Not in a let's-sleep-together way ewwie I don't know you don't touch me or I will not hesitate to injure you. More in a let's be besties and cuddle way. Is this the part where we do a one-eighty Stockholm Syndrome Beauty and the Beast style and fall in love??"

"No more fucking talk, kid. Now... Say your final words and get ready to be nothing."

"I totally get why you'd want this kind of power. But it's also a little mean, not gonna lie. Not everyone would be as calm and panicked as I am babes. Anyway... Last words, last words... Shoutout to probably at least a little pretty random stranger for being "the one". I'd always hoped my death would be sudden and... Soon but they were nice enough to gimme room for reflection. Wait, wait- is there a deadline for this or...? It's not that I want someone to find me, I hate ruined plans and I wouldn't do that to you, love but like... Last words are such a big deal you know?"

"I haven't got all night, dammit."

"Okay, okay. Be nice. I hope you're smiling under there, must've taken a lot for you to go against societal norms and expectations to murder somebody- I don't even know if I'm your first but either way, you've been handling this really nice. Last words, last words... Okay. Thanks for the opportunity by the way. It's been - in many, many ways - a shitshow. However. I liked some of the music you living beings have in stock. And the food could be nice when it didn't turn my stomach into a war zone. And people could be cruel... But they could also be kind? Also I had the best time watching stuff and reading stuff and being a simp and once in a while, I'd have this random day where I felt truly alive. Maybe cos of breeze or a violent rainstorm or a song or shitty ballet dance or self-squishy-loveydove softness. So... Thank you-ish? But also no thank you. Here's to hoping I get a rest now, please do not send me back cosmos. Hit it, best friend!"

*POW PEW*

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I can hear the ringing from the sound of his fingernails on the metal barrel and it lets me know exactly what's being spun around in his hands. A chrome .45, pearl grip, shined to gleaming. Even over the phone, I can imagine what's happening perfectly, the threat of it hanging over our heads for years now. He's in faded jeans, a red flannel, surrounded by trees. There's a knife tucked into his belt, swung low.

There's silence on the phone, before I whisper breaking the tension that began to exist the moment I picked up his call.

"Why are you doing this?"

He scoffs. "I told you that I didn't want to see past 25. I figured with a couple good memories under my belt, I'd just accelerate the timeline a little bit. Go out on some happier times."

I'm over 50 miles away, driving home from work, and even without being near, I know that we're both at the wrong end of that stupid, no-good pistol that's being thrown back and forth between his hands.

"You don't have to do this."

"I'm going to."

I'm pleading now. "Why? What about your sisters? Your friends? What good is going to come of this? You don't need to do this. It's not too late." I can feel the tears starting to pool, desperation leaking into my voice. "You don't have to."

His reply hurts. "You can't change it now. I'm not even sure why I called you."

"Maybe because you knew I'd try and argue you out of it? Because this is a stupid decision that you shouldn't make?"

He drawls his word slowly. "Nah, I think.. I think I just trusted you enough to say goodbye."

I hear the safety click right before he hangs up the phone, in time with my pain-ridden whisper.

"Goodbye."

His breathing was even now, his arm thrown heavily over my hips. I waited for the tell-tale drunken snore. It came. Finally, he'd passed out.

I slipped from under his arm and got up slowly. I didn't want to wake him, but I also had no choice. It felt like I had a broken rib to go along with all the brusies this time. Then there was the broken glass.

He never hit me in the face. Only where no one would see the evidence of his kind of love. He never meant to hurt me; just teach me a lesson he thought I could only learn at the end of his fist. Today, I didn't show sufficient appreciation for the flowers he bought for me with his hard earned money.

Flowers. Not for my birthday or Valentine's Day. Just because he loves me. And I had the nerve to be less than happy because it was 2 in the morning, and he woke me up. Pushed the flowers in my face and said

"Smell'em, Annie."

Startled, I gasped and swatted at whatever was in my face. The flowers flew out of his hand and knocked over the glass of water I had on the bedside table. It crashed to the floor.

"You scared me to death, Tommy."

"I bought you flowers."

"What time is it?"

"Who cares? I bought you flowers. Say thank you."

I heard the tone, smelled the liquor. "Thank you, Billy. Why don't I clean up this glass while you get ready for bed."

Did I mention they sell them at the local bar so all the guys can bring them home to the women waiting for their drunken partners to return home?

Ingenius, really. I suspect they sell out every night.

I didn't see the punch coming. I should have known better.

He cried afterwards. Apologized. Somehow made it my fault as he asked for forgiveness.

I went to the guest bathroom down the hall. I filled the tub with hot water and lowered myself gently. I sat there a long time not crying. Just thinking. By the time the water was cold I knew I was leaving. For good this time. I didn't need this kind of love. No one did.

I packed a duffle bag quietly. I didnt take much: two pairs of jeans, all my underwear and bras and some t-shirts. And three dresses and a pair of low heeled pumps for job interviews.

I wrote him a note and left it next to his car keys.

I can buy myself flowers

Write my name in the sand

Talk to myself for hours

Say things you don't understand

I can take myself dancing

And I can hold my own hand

Yeah, I can love me better than you can

"I miss the days when a man could have a seat in an old vinyl booth, slide across the cushion shined up with Armorall, and order a fifty-cent cup of coffee."

"So the coffee is three bucks now. So what?"

"So, now I have to go outside, at least three paces from the door, to light up. Coffee and cigarettes in an all-night diner, son. I miss that."

"It hasn't been that long ago, except for the fifty cents a cup part."

"It's been too long."

"Like this meeting."

The clink of silverware on porcelain, the sizzle of the flattop griddle in the diner's kitchen, these sounds filled the air and complimented smells of bacon and pancakes. Snatches of conversation could be heard over the movement of city life.

The two men contemplated one another. One, an old man with the sharp eyes of a hawk. The other, a younger man with the wary eyes of a rabbit about to run. The old man knew the younger one was scared, so he kept movements large, slow, and measured.

Finally, the grizzled veteran of wars fought at home and elsewhere sighed.

"Kid, I know you did it."

"Did what?"

Instead of answering, the old man rolled his eyes. He took a long sip of his almost-too-hot coffee, added a little more creamer from the tiny metal pitcher that sat next to the salt and pepper shakers. He sipped again, nodded, and reached into the jacket of his cheap sport coat.

The rabbit flinched.

The old predator smirked, tossing a clear plastic bag on the tabletop. It was like a ziploc, but not as supple. Crinklier. It was permanently sealed with a red band at the top; any attempts to reopen it would end up with the word "evidence" broken and split apart. The next best thing to tamper proof, it was certainly tamper evident.

That last thought, fleeting as it was, made the old hawk laugh out loud.

"What's so funny?"

"You, mostly. But stray thoughts make me giggle in my advanced age, too. So. You want to run, or what?"

"Why would I do that?" He licked his lips, tensing. He glanced around at available escape routes.

"I won't chase you, kid. I don't do that."

Somehow, that made the younger man even more nervous.

"Why would I run, anyway?"

"Because you killed a man with a forty-five caliber handgun. You shot him six times. You picked up five shells. The sixth shell has a partial thumbprint on it. I found it. You didn't. Ballistics have been run on the slugs, and there's no match in our database to the barrel, but I figure, if I were to search you right now, you might just be dumb enough to have the piece tucked in your waistband. Or maybe you're smarter than that. Maybe that gun is gone. Maybe you're super smart; lots of people have forty-fives. Maybe just the barrel was tossed in a river somewhere, and you were slick enough to pick up a replacement barrel at a gun show. With cash. Out of town. Maybe even out of state. Could be all of that is true, and it's all damned clever, too, except for this troublesome little hunk of brass here. Wrapped up so pretty and nice in a plastic bag." The man's speech seemed to have worn him out, his breath was a little hollow. He coughed, sighed again, and sipped his coffee.

The rabbit was now white, but still not running.

"What is this, detective?"

"Breakfast."

The waitress reappeared as if by magic, and an omelette appeared on the table next to the cup of coffee. The old cop smiled up at the young lady, thanked her, and he proceeded to butter his toast.

"Seriously."

"Seriously. I don't joke about food, kid."

"I guess you're a man who doesn't joke about much at all."

The detective shrugged, ate. Watched.

Tentatively, the younger man reached for the plastic bag. He held it up, looking through it at the man who had invited him to the diner.

"Pretty crazy of you to just toss this at me, if what you say is true. I could just ... take it. Maybe shoot you. Maybe just leave." With that, the kid flashes a chrome 1911, complete with what looked like pearl handles.

The cop's response was to scoop up a mouthful of fluffy, deliciously cheesy breakfast.

"I love how this place is just greasy enough, y'know?"

The rabbit cocked his head at the predator at the table. "I threaten you, and you just...eat?"

"I don't feel threatened."

The younger man couldn't help but bristle a little at the subtle insult.

"Kid, if I wanted you gone, you'd be gone. If I wanted to arrest you, we'd have done this in the dead of night when you were tucked in bed with your sweetie-sweet. Naked as the day you were born, snatched up and cuffed before you knew what day it was or where you were. Instead, I invite you to breakfast. I didn't invite you to the station. We're not in an interrogation room. We're at a diner. Jesus Christ, you're thick. Smarter than most, but still so fuckin' dense. Flashing me your nickel-plated sissy pistol like it's my first time. I'm a long way from prom night, sugartits." He stops, takes a bite, sighs. "Goddamn, we never catch the smart ones, really."

"You never caught smart ones, huh?"

"Sure. Had to kill a few more than I caught, though."

Just like that, conversation was over.

The rabbit watched the hawk eat, sip his coffee, and finally lean back in the booth.

"Old man. What is this all about? Can I just, Idunno, go?"

"Sure. You never had to stay."

"What about the shell?"

"What shell?"

The plastic bag slid off the table and into the rabbit's pocket.

"No."

"No? What do you mean, no? You just said 'what shell'!"

"Fuck's sake, kid. Take the shell out. Wipe it down, wrap it in a napkin, toss it in the trashcan in the bathroom. Just like that, it's gone. Like it never existed. Throw away the bag somewhere else, but make sure it ends up in an actual trash can on the street. Go be good to that woman."

At this, the rabbit's eared perked. "What are you saying?"

"What I'm saying is, she's worth it. You did the right thing. Be good. Do good."

"What do you know about it? Aren't you supposed to take me in, or something?"

"My job is to catch bad guys, kid."

"Murder is bad."

"What you did was kill a man. That makes you a killer, not a murderer."

"What's the difference?"

"If you do her like the last man did, you'll know."

With that, the old man left the younger one to pay the tab, and they never saw one another again.

There are things

that we favor

and things that

we bar

Things upon the

tablecloth

at ready

like in a

perforated jar

a grain

a pinch

a trail

a spill

and we're

tossing it

over the left shoulder

bruising the elbow

on the lip

aboard the yacht

inherited

from grandmama

05.23.2023

Combinations challenge @Ryzaklin

She only reaps when it is fertile,

only takes when there is enough.

Today she is overflowing

with a white, hot anger.

If she bottled it all up,

she could burn the whole world to the ground.

If only with her stare.

Those blue, diamond eyes that want to suffocate all of the light,

that want to blacken the soil with char and sulfur.

Resurrect her past offenders and fucking b r e a k them.

With her bare hands.

Her eyes a bloodthirsty cobalt, as hard as glass, and thirsty for blood.

She wants to rip them limb from limb.

Today, is the reaping.

She will meet those murderers of her past and present life, chrome .45 in hand,

staring down that barrel of death saying the last words they'll ever hear...

"Today, you die.”

Pearls are the result of irritation. Ask any oyster. Or the host of any guest who's outlasted his welcome.

And I'm irritated.

The irony is that I use this concentric-layered aragonite and calcite to sequester my irritation. It just happens to be on the end of a pistol. It's to settle my discontent that began small as a grain. That milky white irony is now firmly within my grasp: solid, purposeful, 45-calibred, and well-aimed. It is an iron-clad clasp that is clammy and sweaty. I won't wait a day longer, lest it become rusty.

Colt Manufacturing Company and Smith & Wesson solve problems. They remedy discontent. I bought stock in them before I bought this useful tool lock, stock, and barrel. It's the only thing that memorializes me in this alleged crime, committed--allegedly--by the alleged shooter who is me. Allegedly.

People with imagination, however, will ask, "Who killed whom?"

And what will finally solve my problem is that I must turn this pearly executioner on myself as well as you. Because the whole drama--the discontent, the irritation, the pain, the cruelty that ruins what's left of my life--is a package deal of you and me. There's no villain and there's no victim. You and I are way past that. How would one draw the line between us? This is our final dance macabre together. Does it matter whether it's here or at the end of a rope? What does matter in any dance is who leads.

May I?

I have clammed up tight, but the irritation has continued within--until I find I must open, explosively, to discharge that irritation. It's just part of the pearl-making ecosystem, don't you think?

You want to live? So do I! But there's no living with you. We're gonna go together. I've tried to understand your motivations and your reasons. I found them irritating, so I suppose I'm just a terrible host; and you've outstayed your welcome.

So, before all is done, we're both gonna be dead. Two birds with one stone, eh?

Me and my terminal disease. I hope you find it funny, but I've left explicit instructions that my tombstone read,

YOU SHOULD SEE THE OTHER GUY

i was Lost

but Darkness

was not.

And the DeviL

met us, both

halfway

05.22.2023

Own private Hell challenge @Prose

It’s not so much that I can’t come up with ideas, I just can’t hear them for the noise.

I don’t blame you for wondering what it is I need a break from. The optics are, I imagine, that I fill time between periods of sleep with putterings of little priority or consequence. But no – no, there’s a busy internal universe building pressure in my head that stirs like a stamped-on anthill. Narrowing it down to a single good idea is the real challenge.

I’m going to spend some time at the cabin with a plan to return on this day a year from now. I’m going to be Thoreau-ly focused until I can wring a solid idea from my restlessness. Ha! But you’ll see that I really am one great inspiration away – one turn of the Rubik’s cube that will convert the apparent randomness to elegant order. I just need the muse, the idea, the time…

I need Mary Shelley’s Lake Geneva, George RR Martin’s turtles, Ray Bradbury’s random office junk. How lucky they were to have access to such inspiration.

I’ll see you all soon if it is me who returns.

You all know I love a good horror story, writing and reading one, and what's more terrifying than being a reclusive writer typing out short horror stories in the middle of nowhere with no phone service? How mad you're all going to be when you realize what I'm going to be doing for a year.

This society thing, isn't working out. Through no fault of particularly anyone's, I believe God has far more crimes to answer for than my social ineptitude, I will be retreating into the dangerous, uncharted territory of my unstimulated mind for 12 months. This means I will not be able to contact you for a year. I will not attend birthday parties. I will not grumble assentingly over rants about the dentist, the dog, or the payments for the car. I will not be able to hug any of you or hear any of your voices. I may achieve Nirvana.

Jokes aside, I love you all dearly and fiercely. You will all be missed, every day, and I daresay some nights I will have a little cry about it. Just a small one. But take heed that the days following those nights I may write sad, soppy scenes into my stories that may catch the eye of an emotional big-wig publisher who'll pay me a huge check that I can use to buy myself an even bigger, more isolated house in the woods. (I will also buy all of you lovely presents, that I promise this time, you will get to choose yourselves.)

Thank you all for joy, immaterial and for laughter, inspirational. Being surrounded by such beautiful, creative, kind, endearing and supportive people each as uniquely wonderful as the other is why I write. So technically, this is all your faults. I love you, see you in a year.

P.S If any of you take the liberty of dying in this time period, please come and haunt me. It'll do wonders for the atmosphere of the place, and my book xx