I Think I’m a Natural
Shhh! I may be considered a predator or a psychopath, but I take pride in being a harvester of humanity. You might say that I just nibble around the edges of lives. The profilers believe I’m a male because of the manner in which the bodies are mutilated. All of them are wrong. If you saw me walking down the street, you would think I was a beautiful young woman with my stiletto heels and my sexy blue dress which matches my cornflower blue eyes. My skin is so lush that you would be tempted to drink it, inhaling it into your body. I don’t have to wear makeup because of my natural creamy coloring and blushing cheeks. My dark lashed eyes seem to look into your soul. But make no mistake – there is no feeling inside me.
Every man I have ever met wants me, except for this one. He just doesn’t seem interested which makes him more intriguing. I have seen him with women so I know he is not gay. Since I always need to be in control, I am determined to watch him and follow him until I can fulfill my desires. I have never felt any empathy for any of my victims and he will not be any different. I know that I am more intelligent than he is and I will have my way. Usually, I kill them after a sexual assignation but I don’t think this will be the case with him. He is completely oblivious to me as I lurk in dark corners, waiting for him to be alone and unwary. It’s worth it to take my time in order to get what I want. Power is my aphrodisiac and I am excited and alert.
Tonight, I am outside watching his outline against the fluttering curtains in his bedroom. I linger on thoughts of sex with him but it would be all for my benefit since I give nothing in return. I haven’t perfected my plan yet but he will be mine. I observe his shadow leave his bedroom and head toward the kitchen which I can’t see fully. I know it is there, though, because I have been in his apartment, rifling through his drawers as I learn all about him. I like to be prepared for all contingencies. I figure that he must be getting a snack because he is taking a long time.
I hear a slight snap behind me and whirl around to see my prey holding a gun which he jams into my stomach. I am not afraid because this slow motion stalking needed to come to a head.
“Turn around and march straight forward to my apartment door,” he commands as he nudges me with his weapon.
I twirl around and do as he says. Why should I confront him now when everything is working out well, although not as I planned? He herds me into his bedroom and tells me to remove my clothes. His eyes move upward as I reveal my full lush breasts and wet my lips with my tongue. I have him exactly where I want him. I am so aroused because this is just like my first blind date! But, in reality, he is the one who is blind to the danger that I promise.
I kick his gun out of his fist with my shapely legs and hurl my body over the weapon. I roll over with the gun in my hands and shoot him between the eyes. Now the fun will begin. I walk to the bedroom door to go to the kitchen to get some knives to complete my handiwork but I find the door is self-locking and of such sturdy construction that I am unable to kick it open. I race to the window and find bars over the panes. I panic for a moment as I realize I can’t get out. I have no weapons other than the gun and try to shoot out the door knob but it doesn’t budge. His apartment is isolated and there is no one around to call for help.
What is an entrapped psychopath to do? I am beginning to get hungry and thirsty and must come up with a plan for my survival. I claw at his body with my sharp nails until I have an opening in his femoral artery, lower my head and begin drinking my fill. When my thirst is quenched, I begin to tear chunks of his flesh with my teeth, chewing them until I am able to swallow them down. There is plenty here to sustain me for a while. It does bother me a little that when they find our skeletons, they will think he was the predator. I want them all to know that I deserve the credit for this.
I dip my fingers in his blood and begin penning a note on his floor, telling the world that I want the fame and the glory to be attributed to me. I have satisfaction in knowing I will go down in history as the greatest female killer of all time. After all, I am a natural!
“He must have forced her to write it,” the detectives said when they found the remains. “That poor innocent young woman.”
The Water Boy
Jimmy “The Water Boy” Jefferson was found fully clothed, hanging by a belt. One end of the belt was wrapped around his neck, the other around a running shower head. Even Jimmy’s very last toss had landed right side up.
Jimmy Jefferson was a youngster with a gift. He could toss a partially filled, plastic water bottle, flipping it by it’s neck, and make it land upright every single time. Jimmy had watched videos of people tossing them on YouTube and tried it. His first attempt failed, but something connected inside him. He felt the water’s weight, and the bottle’s shape, and the distance to the landing spot. Jimmy visualized the bottle flipping awkwardly through the air, twirling at the perfect height, and with the perfect number of rotations to land cleanly on the tabletop, and it became so simple that he never missed again.
Jimmy was showing off his newly acquired talent in the lunchroom at school the next day when Mr. Bailey noticed the gathering crowd. When he inquired, and saw what was happening, he held up his phone, videotaping from overtop the heads of the crowded children. No matter how much water the bottle contained, and no matter how far from the table Jimmy stood, every bottle landed upright, every time. The other kids all crashed and burned when they tried, but Jimmy’s bottles behaved as if they were trained to do the very thing he bid them to do.
The ringing bell broke up the fun, but Mr. Bailey could not stop watching the video. He had the kids in his classroom read silently while he watched over, and over again, until he could stand it no more. He finally hurried to the Teacher’s Lounge, grabbed several bottles from the fridge, and returned to his classroom. He and the children poured varying amounts of water out of each bottle and started trying the trick, attempting to land the bottles on his desk. Out of hundreds of tosses the class collectively managed to land two bottles upright, and one of those was such a short toss that it shouldn't have counted, but both successes caused such a clamor from the children that Mr. Bailey was sure that Prncipal Lemon would hear them. This really was a difficult thing to do!
When class ended Mr. Bailey ran straight to Ms. London in the library. Together, they downloaded the video of Jimmy Jefferson flipping his bottles onto a computer, added some stop-motions, slow-motions, and other effects, titled the video, “Jimmy ‘The Waterboy’ Jefferson,” and they posted it to Mr. Bailey’s YouTube account within a minute of completion.
After school Mr. Bailey excitedly checked his account. Jimmy’s video had already been “clicked on“ 247,890 times. “The Waterboy” was going viral.
It was supper time when he knocked on the Jefferson’s front door. Mrs. Jefferson answered. Mr. Bailey joined the family at the dinner table to explain what he had done. The video had been watched over two million times now, and the number was quickly increasing. The producer of, “The Ellen Show” had already contacted him. They were prepared to pay Jimmy to come on the show. Jimmy “The Waterboy” Jefferson was about to hit the big time!
And so he did. Ellen, Jimmy Fallon, The Today Show, Jimmy did them all, tossing his partially filled bottles to land perfectly while the adult show hosts bumbled about with theirs, looking all the more foolish with every attempt. And Jimmy achieved some fame, and he made some money, and some attention, and he liked it all.
But fame is a fleeting thing. Within weeks the water bottle craze dried up. The shows stopped calling. Jimmy ceased to be “The Waterboy,” and was only Jimmy Jefferson once more. Jimmy’s folks fought over the money before finally splitting up, dividing their time with Jimmy just like they divided the money he had made. A young life that was so recently on top of the world was rolling downhill fast.
Only a few will ever know what it’s like to be fourteen years old, and to know that your best days are behind you. Fame is sweet on the tongue, but leaves a bitter taste once swallowed. Jimmy still tossed water bottles, he tossed them right up to the very end, but no one watched. No one made videos. No one cared.
And so Jimmy Jefferson tossed it all away.
I Hate A Natural
You were always the natural.
You can …
Sing like a bird,
Dance like a swan,
And paint like the wind.
I sit here under the dirt unable to grow,
Despite the water poured on me.
I drown in it instead.
You are the natural.
And I am the failure.
The bad egg.
The unlucky runt.
In spite of you,
I picked up a pen.
Nothing came naturally,
It never will.
The doll is just sitting there, all alone. Giggles heard the girl say to her mom. Giggles had blue eyes and, brown hair, peach skin, and a little smile on her face. She had a little string on her back to make her say things to the person who pulled it. Giggles felt the little girl gently pick her up and spin around with her. The girl stoped when she noticed the string and carefully pulled it. I love you, and I will always love you! Giggles box said, but it spoke for her, she loved the little girl too.
"Please mommy!" the little girl begged "You heard her, she loves me."
I do love you, Giggles thought Please mommy.
"Oh fine," The mom said.
"Yay!" The little girl said as she pulled the string again.
My name is Giggles, and I love you so much. The little girl smiled, and Giggles smiled back.
Talking to others,
You find it easy,
While I find it queasy.
Being comfortable around others,
That's your language,
Yet not my forté.
Something you were born to be,
Not for me.
Falling for someone,
then we lay
stretched out on the grass
pointing out shapes in the clouds
watching them stroll across
in waves of orange
painting the sky
a child’s watercolor
in an infinite universe
flecks of gold
ever so slightly chapped
whispering against my skin
“You’re a natural”
feeling him smile
you're a natural
you're a natural
you can breathe
and you've done so well
the way you move
the words you speak
everything comes so freely
every time you speak
his heart goes thada-thada-beep
and it's a real talent you have
a natural is what you are
i am a natural
at hiding what i'm feeling
and telling you what you wish to hear
it's so natural it doesn't feel real
i am a natural
and i forgot to breathe
so long ago that everytime i try
i choke on all the ways i could be wrong
i am a natural
that i do not sleep at all
my tired eyes are hidden behind
all the lies of mine that you believe
do you know what my name is
do you know my favorite color
do you know that i do not like coffee
do you even know me or do you see what you wish to believe
i am a natural
so so so so natural
that you do not even
know who i truly am
He started writing. His words flowed out without much thought, but it was still the best writing the city had ever known. He didn't have to do as much work as most to become good at writing. He was a natural. When people asked him for tips, he didn't have any because his writing was always perfect. Until one day he just couldn't write anything good. Throughout the week his writing became worse and worse. He couldn't figure out why. He stopped writing, got another job. After a year, he figured out why his writing was worse. He had spent all his time writing in his house. He never really left, so he couldn't connect with his stories. The stories became lifeless. So after he realized that, he fixed his problem and became a better writer.
Through my eyes I see darkness.
For feel of feet I'm walking pain.
In my grave I'll sleep partless.
Looking down is my remains.
The bee landed on the baby’s hand. He, fascinated with the colors, brought it to his mouth. A piercing scream scared him and he, startled, began to cry.
The mother scrambled to the carriage, lifting the protective plastic, then scooping the baby to her. She ran her free hand all over him searching for a sting mark to find none. After she was satisfied, she held him close, gently rocking him. The baby, hearing his mother’s heartbeat, calmed down and peacefully slept.
Shortly thereafter, as he crawled on the grass, he met a skunk. His mother had turned away to dig in a bag for the baby’s food. He had wandered behind a bush, where he met his friend. Together, they enjoyed a discarded wedge of watermelon.
At his mother’s scream, the skunk strolled away. Peter, with watermelon in fist, used his free hand and legs to slowly crawl back to the other side of the bush. His mother ran to him, smacking the food from his hand. He wept until she could get him to sleep again.
“What are you doing, sweetie?” He was five years old. If he had told his mother that he had been playing with an alligator, she would have screamed. She screamed alot.
“Nothing. Mom, why can’t animals talk like us?”
“You know Mrs. Yu, from downstairs? She talks different from us. She talks English like us and she talks Mandarin, like they talk back in her home. Do you understand?”
“I think so. So animals don’t know how to talk English. Can we teach them?”
“Oh, honey! It would be fun, but they don’t have the same mouths as we do. That’s why they don’t talk like us.”
The black cat jumped from on top of the refrigerator. The mom screamed, having been caught off guard. Peter was used to it and laughed.
“Mom!” They both laughed. Peter followed the cat to the attic.
“Onyx? Would you like a bath? Say, ‘Noooo.’”
“YES!” Peter hissed.