Big Gulp

I've never forgotten you. I promise...

One hundred and three. Degrees. Hot is an understatement. Texas summers.
Some people like the heat. I do not. I prefer the cold. Bundled up. Layered.
In the summer, I feel... exposed. Vulnerable. Naked. Sweating. Stinking. Horrible. Like a pig walking down the street.
People smile as they pass one another. Smiling pigs. Meat sizzling in the sun. Bacon in a frying pan.
I'm a vegetarian. A lot of butchers are.

We've evolved past the point of eating meat, but people still do it. For taste.
I'm irritable. You know the heat makes you irritable? It's true. Most people know it, even if they don't know it. Most crimes are committed in the summer, on the night of a full moon, against family.
Facts sometimes reveal a lot more than we'd like them to.

A bum. A fucking bum is asking me for money? Can you believe that?! A fucking! A fucking BUM!

I love the little stores in this town. I always know where to go to get what I need. I like knowing that. It makes me feel like the whole town is my home. It's not, but it's nice to feel that way.
I guess it's kind of a second home. Except I don't really have a first home any more. I move too much. But I always come here at least for a few weeks. I. I actually don't know why.

You know what it is? It's the humidity. It's not the heat. It's that the shade doesn't do any good. Isn't that funny?! How can shade not do any good?!

There's a girl here. She reminds me of you. Her eyes. Something. If only she would smile. But she never smiles at me. She smiles at other people, sure! Other jackasses with chiseled chins and fucking polo shirts. Dime-a-dozen cheap fucks! But she never smiles at me. I hate her. HATE.
She gets off work around 11, when the coffee store closes. Shitty chain coffee. Fucking horrible coffee! Then she gets into her beat up red Jeep Cherokee. Fucking college car if I ever saw one. But she doesn't go to college. She goes straight home to her shitty little apartment with her cat and her television.
She could really make something out of herself, you know? But she doesn't. She just wastes her life. Her LIFE! She's wasting the most precious. Her LIFE, you know?! Just staring at that television every night. And during the day. Daytime television. The worst. The WORST kind of television. Fake judges. Fake talk shows where people have fake problems. Stupid reruns of silly pointless comedies from the seventies. Gilligan's Island. That kind of shit. Beverly Hillbillies. “Concrete pond.”

I'm sorry. I don't mean that you would have turned out like that. I can see how you would take that the wrong way. No, I'm sorry. You're much better than. You would have been much better than that. I'm sure of it.

I miss you.

I wonder how long she's lived here. No family. No boyfriend. Barely a job. BARELY. If you can call it that. I don't even see how she eats. Frozen microwave dinners! Can you believe it?! Like that's enough for someone to live on. Like that doesn't rot you from the inside out. But even then, how does she afford all of this? Even with the tiny apartment and the bad food, she can't be making enough to live by herself. I know she isn't. I read her pay stubs to be sure, and I'll be damned if I wasn't right. She's not making ends meet by about three hundred a month. Where does that come from?
She isn't fucking her landlord.
So where's it coming from?

Like you have all the answers. I bet that's what you'd say. If you were here right now.
I made banana bread this morning. I know how much you.

You know, sometimes, I wonder what you'd say. I mean, what you'd really say if you were here right now. Would you say what I think you would, or would it be different? Would you be different from how I picture you? I don't like to think about it, really.

You know the key to a good cut? Let the knife do the work. Don't force it. It's a trick I learned early on. By practicing. Just go back and forth with the knife and let the blade do its job. Saw it gently. Don't try to cut down with force. That's the easiest way to fuck it up. Just be gentle. Back and forth. Keep your knife sharp. When you get to the bone, use a saw. Don't fuck up your knife by slamming it on the bone like a hammer. Use a saw. Just as gently. Back and forth.

I like to think that I make the prettiest cuts of meat. The ones that are really red, you know? Beautiful to look at. Vibrant. Even though I don't eat them, I'm sure they taste better that way. You can just tell, you know?

It's because when you press down, you squeeze out all the blood. All the colour. The very thing that makes a cut look beautiful. You're ruining it when you do that.

Are you a vegetarian? Would you be, I mean?

This girl.
Karen.
I'm sorry. I should have said her name earlier when I introduced you to her. Karen isn't a vegetarian, but you know what? I think it's because she doesn't know she has options. She doesn't take the time to do her research. Her homework. Beans and rice are cheap. And they're good for you. But you have to eat both or it isn't a complete protein. The rice contains necessary amino acids. Building blocks that make proteins. That's why they're always paired together. Even if people don't know, their bodies know. Their bodies are smarter than they are.

Karen's a fucking idiot. A waste of a human being. She doesn't smile at the right people.

I'm getting tired of seeing waste. People all around me. Just walking pieces of garbage. Like a Big Gulp cup that's been flattened by a tire. It just sits there. Broken. Not a cup anymore. It can't hold anything or do anything but take up space. Pollute. It can fucking run its mouth though. Still. Lying there. Not doing anything. But every time you see it, it says the same fucking thing over and over again. “Big Gulp!”
Like you didn't fucking get it the first time.
And you just want to fucking. You just want to smash its face in. Until it can't say anything. Put it into a landfill with all the other garbage that walks down the street.

Where did all the intelligence go? There's more creativity than ever, but there's no intelligence behind it. There's no sense of purpose. It's just spew and spew and spew. And who cares? Spew doesn't change the world. Intelligence. Now that. That's something. We need more of it. We need to promote it.

I think psychiatrists do a lot of the. A lot of the fucking up. In that department. They don't promote intelligence. They promote garbage. But it's not their fault, you know? They're just trying to get people to not kill themselves. That's what we've been reduced to. People hate everything so much. They're surrounded by garbage. They ARE garbage. And they know it. They know they should just kill themselves. Make room for intelligence, which they don't have. So they go to a psychiatrist. And the psychiatrist convinces them that even though they're garbage, it's ok. Everything is ok. And they don't have to be intelligent. They don't have to be more than garbage. They just have to not kill themselves and that's enough.
THAT'S enough?!
That's our status quo?!
Just get by from day to day. Don't aspire beyond your means. Don't reach for the stars because you know, deep down, that you won't get them. You'll get in the way of someone who's really smart. Who's really intelligent.

But you know what happens? This garbage. This Big Gulp ends up working day in and day out at a company they don't give two shits about. And because time is the great equalizer, they get promoted. For doing nothing. For not quitting! For not dying! For not killing themselves!
They get promoted. And their brain doesn't know what to do with it. Suddenly people are telling them that they aren't garbage. And because. Not in spite of, BECAUSE, deep down they know they're a fucking Big Gulp, they have to believe this new information. They have to compensate for that feeling. They've always wanted to be important and now they are! They're somebody! They have money and they make decisions!

But you know what? They're still a fuck-up. They're still worthless. And their decisions.
Here's how their decisions work.
Someone intelligent has an idea. A great idea. Something revolutionary. And they bring it to this Big Gulp. And the Big Gulp knows how great it is! That's the thing! They fucking KNOW. And they shoot it down. Because it's terrifying. It's a reminder of the truth. And not only that, but they have to put on a big show about what a terrible idea it is. They berate the intelligence. They come up with BAD reasons. Really bad, you know? And people around know how bad the reasons are! They also know how GOOD the idea is! Because they're garbage too. They're terrified too!
And. The intelligence dies. It happens every day.

And you get these people. These smiling pigs. These Big Gulps. Walking down the street and smiling at each other. They'd fucking doff their fucking hats at each other, but no one does that with baseball caps.

And Karen sits in her apartment and watches television. Because she was shot down. Someone told her her intelligence was stupid. Was wrong. And she has nothing now.

I want her to fight. I hate her because she won't. I hate that she's given up like some kind of coward. Like the guy in the war that just lays his rifle down and gets riddled with bullets because he's had it.
She's already dead, so it really won't matter when I.

Jesus, it's fucking hot outside. Waiting in the heat. For the perfect moment. It's hard to be patient in heat like this, but I will be. I have to be.

I miss you. So much. Do you know that? You wouldn't give up. You wouldn't lie down. You'd fight. Like me. You'd try to fix things. You'd get rid of the garbage.
Wouldn't you?

Vomit

Nothing comes out. Vomit. Relief. Nothing comes out. Dry heave. Nothing comes out. Vomit. Relief. Taste. Michelle walks shakily to the sink. Hunched. Rinse. Water. Less taste. Doorknock.
“I'm fine. I just need a minute.”
Mouthwipe. Handtowel. Michelle checks her hair in the mirror. Disheveled. Stressed. Strained. Teased. Made fun of. She picks up her purse. Back into the party.

NOISE. TALKING. STRANGERS. FRIENDS. DRINKS. SMOKE.
Michelle isn't drunk. Why did she throw up? Michelle isn't sick.
Rachel approaches. Rachel's wearing a stupid necklace. Her boyfriend Brett is probably off making out with someone else. They don't care about each other. They're sick. They should vomit every time they kiss.

Rachel is suspicious.
“Have you seen Brett?”

Michelle will never.
“No.”

Michelle will never again.
“Help me find him.”

COMMAND. GUILT. SUBSERVIENCE.
“Ok.”

Michelle and Rachel begin their adventure!!
This is something to do! They were both bored, but now they have PURPOSE. They have DIRECTION. They are playing a game. The rules are simple.
Rules are simple.
When people break simple rules, things get complicated. Thou shalt not sleep with thine best friend's boyfriend because that's, like, totally messed up.
Michelle is going to vomit RIGHT NOW. Wait.
Michelle's vomit decides to wait instead. But Michelle might vomit. She should be ready to vomit. In case her vomit decides to vomit. Leave. Expel itself. Expatriate itself from her. Head north for the winter. Head south for the winter. Excuse itself in a timely manner.
It's getting late. It's probably getting late. What time is it? Is it getting late?
Michelle checks her phone.

LOUD NOISES. TALKING. LAUGHING. DRINKING.
Michelle forgets what time her phone just told her.

Michelle checks her phone.
Late.
She hasn't had her period yet.
Late.
The Hello Kitty phone charm jangles with the few coloured beads still attached. The rest have fallen off. She remembers that there were a few more beads the weekend before last. She remembers seeing her phone on the bedside table and thinking about the charms. It must have been horrible sex for her to have been distracted enough to remember a detail like that. It wasn't great. She doesn't remember most of it. She remembers that it wasn't that great. Bad sex. Shouldn't have happened. Vomit-worthy.
Rachel pulls Michelle into the kitchen. The kitchen is quiet.

Rachel is stupid.
“Where is he?”

Michelle is stupid.
“I don't know.”

Rachel is naïve.
“Can I tell you something? I think he's cheating on me.”

Michelle is a bad friend.
“What makes you think that?”

Rachel's instincts are not stupid.
“He's always busy now. And the weekend before last, when I was out of town, he told me he wasn't going to any parties, but Jennifer said she saw him at Dylan's party. Weren't you there?”

Michelle is a liar.
“Yeah. I didn't see him there.”

Girls go upstairs. Girls go into Bedroom 1. Girls find two boys who are supposed to be straight engaging in gay activities together. Girls gasp. Girls exit Bedroom 1. Girls talk quickly about possibly gay boys. Girls judge boys and declare mutual intentions. This private of love between two people will become as public as possible. Girls laugh. Girls enter Bedroom 2. Bedroom 2 is a child's room. No one feels comfortable engaging in adult activities in a child's room. Bedroom 2 is occupied by two people who do not notice the sea of brightly coloured toys they’re swimming in. Each one is independently racing to his/her finish line. Girls exit Bedroom 2. Girls laugh, part 2. Girls enter Bedroom 3. Bedroom 3 contains: one boyfriend, one Slutty Bitch. Girls experience different emotions. Boyfriend notices Girls. Slutty Bitch does not recognize Girls. Slutty Bitch continues being a Slutty Bitch all over Boyfriend. Girls exit Bedroom 3. Girl 1 cries. Girl 2 feels nothing but the fulfillment of pessimistic expectations.

Michelle goes into the bathroom. Vomit.
Michelle wonders if morning sickness can happen at night.

Run

Fuck fuck fuck. You're out of breath. Choking. Where are you?
You look around while you catch your breath. Revive. You're in the highschoolparkinglot. Fuck. This place is too open. You need to find cover. You need to hide. You need to find a weapon. You're in dire need. Fuck fuck fuck.
You run straight ahead. Where are you going? Where are you going to go? What's the plan? Fuck.
Your legs hurt. Your legs are suffocating. Your legs aren't getting enough oxygen. Fuck.
The HIGHWAY. Maybe there will be someone on the HIGHWAY who can help you. Maybe you can look extra weak and innocent and when they pull over, you can slit their throat and take their car as your own. Bestplan. You run.
You pause and lean on the side of a building for a moment. It's a house. You're leaning on someone's home. Used to be someone's home. You're leaning on a building. Your lungs are screaming. They aren't being treated fairly. They are making demands. If you don't stop mistreating them, they will go on strike. Your eyes quickly scan around you. Broken glass. Bottles aren't any good as weapons. Neither is a jagged piece of glass. Even with a rag to wrap around for a safe handle, it could still break apart, cut your hand, expose your blood.
Panic!
Your hand flies up to check the wetrag over your mouth. It's barely damp. You need to rewet it. You HAVE to rewet it. Maybe you can stop running for a second and rewet the wetrag.
You hear something a few houses away. Homes away. Buildings away. You hear something. Fuck fuck fuck.
You run.
You could have at least taken a tiny glassbit to kill a trusting driver. You could have. You should have. Dammit. Fuck. Fuck it.
You're crying. You've been crying. You aren't crying any longer.
You're scared. You're angry. Stupid fucking- you run through this neighbourhood. Collection of buildings. Graveyard.
Something screams. Someone screams. Which is it? Toward? Away? What are you going to do?
Fuck.
Away.
You fuck off.
Off and away.
You run.
A BAT!!! A FUCKING BASEBALL BAT!
A FUCKINGBASEBALLBATINTHEMIDDLEOFTHEFUCKINGSTREET!!!
You run to the bat. You smile. You cry. You hug your good fortune. You stop smiling.
You are surrounded. You are in a trap. You are caught. You are fucked.

Audrey's Memory

Audrey was stuck.
She had been floating happily across the lake for about a week, watching the fishes as they nibbled at her.
Now her foot was caught on someone's dock. At least she thought it was her foot. That seemed to be the anchor point that was hinging her to the wooden post. Probably snagged on a ragged nail.
The fishes still came to visit her, but the wind that had pushed her around the lake had ceased for now.
When she was drifting, there was always the possibility that she might hit a boat!
What anticipation that had been!
So exciting...
But now?
Her best chance was for a fish to nibble enough of her foot off to set her adrift once again.
Actually her BEST chance would be for some kid to find her and turn her over!
Then he'd run away scared. Maybe even crying.
Then the wind would pick back up and she could drift across the lake face-up for a change!
Oh, the joy...
It would be so lovely to see the stars again; although she would most likely miss watching her fish.
For every positive, there's a negative.
But even if no curious boy showed up, Audrey knew it was just a matter of time before the fish ate enough of her to sink her.
This knowledge was always at the back of her mind, chewing away on her positivity... but most of the time, she was able to focus on being optimistic.
And who knew if the bottom of the lake would be boring?
It would be dark, for sure, but there would be catfish!
And she could always count beer cans as they sank around her. Lost fishing lures.
Maybe if she was really lucky, a curious boy would even snag Audrey when he was trolling.
He would reel her out of the water thinking he was snagged on weeds and see Audrey's pale face surface from the depths.
Sigh.
That would be lovely.
And while waiting, she could always reflect on her life.
Think about the big things she never spared the time to think about before.
Was God real?
What about free will? Destiny?
How big was the universe really?
Why did people insist on time? It was so oppressive. Restrictive.

...How long had she been stuck here on this dock?
At least a few days. Probably not a whole week. Maybe a whole week. It was getting harder for her to keep track of time now...
No appointments to keep or schedules to make.
Never late anywhere.
Peaceful.
Wait.
Wait wait wait...

She was being pulled out of the water.
Audrey buzzed with excitement.
What if it was that curious boy?!
Or a whole group of curious teenagers!
No.
The shoes didn’t look like teenager shoes. They were shiny black shoes underneath black pants.
Police shoes.
Oh no.
Audrey was shoved into a large black bag. She watched the zipper close over her head.
Then she was thrown somewhere roughly. Some part of her cracked.
Why couldn’t they have just left her alone and in peace to contemplate?
What would happen now?!
Audrey felt panic for the first time in... how long?

She was placed on her back. Was the ride over?
The bag was unzipped.
Audrey was in a morgue. She was sure of it. Metal all around and beige on the ceiling. Some kind of foamy ceiling? Her vision was a bit cloudier now that she was out of the water...
Men with glasses looked at her for a bit, then she was pushed inside a large metal cabinet.
She sat staring in the dark.
Suddenly she saw a fish!
Rising up out of the darkness to investigate her like they did.
No. False alarm.
She was just used to floating on the lake. There was no fish here. Also she was on her back still. That was difficult to remember. Orientation.

Audrey was rolled out of the big metal cabinet. A few police officers looked at her. One closed her eyes. Something made a zipping noise. She was pushed back inside the big metal cabinet.
She couldn’t see anything at all now, even if there was something to see. They took that away from her. She could still hear, though, which was nice.
Every once in a while, she heard a few men outside. Minutes passed. Hours? Hours, probably. Surely not days. Maybe days.
She was rolled out again from the big metal cabinet. There was a zipping noise.
“This her?”
“Yes. That's her.”

That voice...
A man's voice.
So familiar. But different. Someone she knew had a voice like that, but it was different now. Changed.
How long ago had she known that person...?
Audrey thought about the voice for a long time.
So familiar. Something different.

She was jostled and hoisted and thrown somewhere.
Something else broke.
People weren't being very careful with her.
Not that she cared.
She was traveling somewhere now. Bumps here and there. A back road.
Audrey imagined she was drifting along a river. Every bump was a dip or a twist in the rapids.
Rainbow Trout swam with her.
Salmon swam against her.
She saw the sky overhead.
Birds flying from tree to tree. Some of them looked at her as she passed them by.
She felt the sun on her face.
What a beautiful day...

The bag was unzipped over her head.
It pulled out a few of her hairs on its way down.
Someone opened her eyes.
Her vision was so blurry now. She could hardly see the person's outline.
The someone inspected her closely, and then leaned back.
He sighed.
It was a he.
The man opened what sounded like a tackle box.
He leaned towards her with something tiny and pointed in his hand.
A tiny paintbrush.
She saw his face a bit more clearly.
It was solemn. He was being very gentle with her.
The man moved her face all around, turning it and gently squeezing here and there.
The man set his tiny brush down on a tiny side table and hooked something up into Audrey’s arm.
He lifted her arm, bent it at the elbow gingerly, set it down.
He lifted her leg, bent it at the knee gingerly, set it down.
He was very professional in his inspection. Routine.
Then he got up, switched off the lights and left Audrey in the dark.
Audrey felt something happening inside her body; something strange and unsettling.
Her blood was being forced to move again, somehow. It was being... replaced?
The light came back on a few... minutes later?
Hours...?
Days...?
Hmm.
The man unhooked whatever it was in her arm.
He bent her arm, then set it down.
It moved much more easily than before.
Strange.
The man removed her dress. She saw him throw it away.
Then he got out a new... horrible one.
Flowers all over it. Billowy. Not the dress Audrey would wear at all.
She hated it.
Someone had liked dresses like this, though.
The man with the voice. From the morgue.
So familiar...

The mortician picked up his tiny paintbrush and started brushing it across her face.
It was a very soft kind of scraping.
Not unpleasant.
He painted her nails. Fixed her hair.
He was probably making her look very pretty.
Soon he was finished.
Soon...?
He closed her eyes again.
She was moved into a box.
A coffin!
She was going to have a funeral!
Of course!
She hadn't even thought about that...
Oh, who would show up!?
Who did she know again?
She couldn't remember.
She would remember when she saw them, though.
She would be able to hear that voice again.
That man's voice.

Audrey waited.

The coffin never opened.
How long had she waited?

She and her coffin were moved.
Someone mumbled something.
Audrey distinctly heard the word “God” a few times.

Audrey heard something falling onto her coffin.
Intermittent raining.
Dirt.
Oh.
So... that was it.
Now there would be nothing else.
Audrey's heart sank.
Was there still something to look forward to?
Could something still happen?
Maybe this was just a waiting period of some kind.
Maybe heaven had a long line of applicants.
Although... no one had approached her yet about filling out any forms or... whatever it was she needed to do.
She wished she had something to distract her. Nothing.
Just her thoughts.
Audrey tried thinking of new things like she always did.
And like always, the thoughts at the back of her mind tried to surface.
She wouldn't let them, but they were persistent.

Why was she here?
What had happened that day at the lake?
Nope.
How big was the universe?
If it was infinitely big, how was that possible?
What had happened?
If it was that big, that meant that nothing existed outside it. Or were there still limits? Like rings, or spheres. Matryoshka doll universes, one inside the other...
Whose voice was that at the morgue?
How was it different?
If there weren't stars all the way out, what was there? Just blackness?
That day at the lake was violent.
What about God?
What if God was just the collected, um, unconscious of everyone on Earth?
The voice was there that day. Familiar, but different.
How different?
Colder. Detached.
Audrey fought against the thoughts. The thoughts that made her sad.
He had been so sweet. Her own curious boy. She had never seen it coming...
If people were destined to do certain things, then why were they allowed to think whatever thoughts they thought? Or were those thoughts pre-determined as well?
He had killed her. Brutally. Unmercifully. No sign of the love she had come to know...
NO.
She fought against those thoughts. There were so many positive things to think about!

...But Audrey could only stop her thoughts for so long...
A few hours? Days? Years?
Then there was nothing left to do but remember....

Ronald's Night

Ronald finished cleaning his instruments.
He toweled them off individually and ran them each flatly along his jeans to finish his ritual.
Then he carefully picked them all up in his hands like a bundle of metal sticks, and walked down the shag-carpeted steps back into his basement.
The single bulb still hummed with electricity.
He placed each of his tools back into their leather case and wrapped the strap tightly around it.
He placed the leather bundle back on its little shelf.
Ronald hadn’t missed any spots while he was cleaning.
It was a very small room.
Still, a ritual was a ritual.
Better safe than sorry. Words Ronald lived by.
He got out the blacklight and the ammonia spray bottle and searched every inch.
Hadn’t missed a spot.

He put the blacklight and spray bottle away on their shelf up above the leather case.
Then he killed the bulb and trudged back up the steps, closing the door behind him.
The news was on television now.
He flipped to another channel.
A movie was on; a movie he’d never seen all the way through, but had been meaning to watch.
Looked like he’d only missed a few minutes.
Ronald decided to watch it.

Bump-bump-bump!
Ronald jerked awake.
Someone was at the door.
Ronald got up out of his lounge chair and walked out of his living room.
He left the static-blaring television on, so he could see in the darkness.
Bump-bump-bump!
“I’m comin’! It’s late!”
He peered through the peephole to see how many police officers there were.
None.
No neighbours either.
Ronald figured they might be off to the sides of the door.
He quickly pulled his jackknife out of his back pocket, switched it open, and kept it clenched it in his hand behind his back.
With his free hand, he opened the door.
“Hello?! Who the hell’s banging on my damn door in the middle of the night?”
There was no one outside the door.
Ronald tentatively stepped out and peeked around the corners of his house, right and left.
He didn’t see anyone running in the distance or hiding nearby.
Ronald stood still for a moment and smelled the night air.
Nothing unfamiliar.
He turned and went back into his house.

Ronald lazily went towards the living room to turn off his TV and go to sleep.
Whump-whump-whump!
“Goddammit!”
He sprinted back to the door, knife at the ready, and flung it open.
The wind rustled the bushes gently.
A few leaves skittered on the sidewalk.
Ronald’s eyes narrowed.
He reached back into his house and turned off his porch light.
Then he shut the door and slinked off to his right, behind the large front bushes.
He waited patiently in the night with his knife open.
The wind blew again, drying his eyes.
Ronald didn’t blink.
He waited for at least 30 minutes, crouched and hidden behind his neatly-hedged bushes.
He waited another 30 minutes just to be sure the first 30 minutes was at least 30 minutes.
Nothing happened.
He listened so hard, he could hear the static on his television through the brick wall next to him.
He finally peered over the bushes and into the neighbourhood in front of him.
No lights on, except a few scattered porches.
Ronald narrowed his eyes again.
He decided to check completely around his house.
He crept slowly, knife drawn, behind the bushes that covered the corner of his house.
He made sure not to snap even the tiniest twig.
No one on the right side of his house so far.

He looked gently over his wooden fence, then pushed up on the metal latch slowly enough to keep it quiet.
He lifted the fence slightly as he opened it, so the hinges wouldn’t squeak.
Then he stopped for a moment and listened.
No sound.
He closed the fence gingerly and crouched down again.
He kept to the side of his house and moved forward.

The back door was ajar.
Ronald was absolutely sure he hadn’t left it open.
It was all part of his ritual.
He never missed a single step of his ritual.
He cursed silently and eased open the screen door an inch at a time.
It creaked gently, no matter how slowly he moved, but the way he was opening it would sound as natural as the wind.
Ronald entered the darkness of his home.

He smelled the air in his kitchen.
Nothing unfamiliar.
Ronald grimaced and began to chew on his lip.
It took ten full minutes for Ronald to close both back doors silently, one after the other.
He locked the deadbolt and listened for the intruder.
Silence.
Better safe than sorry.
Ronald went to the front door quietly.
It was still shut.
He locked the deadbolt and the chain silently.
All the little hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.
He realized that the television had been turned off.

His eyes grew wider.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead, then off his upper lip.
He wiped both hands on his jeans.
Ronald needed something better than this knife.
He needed to go downstairs and get his tools.
He slowly walked to the basement door.
It was already open.
He slid through and closed it behind him.
Now he was immersed in darkness.
He held his sweaty knife in his right hand, and slowly splayed his left hand out in the darkness.
If he felt anyone, he planned to grab them close and stab them again and again.

The air was cool and musty.
He walked down a stair, and felt around in the darkness.
He walked down another stair and repeated.
With every step, he felt more sweat gather on his brow.
He lost track of how far down he had come.
Surely he didn’t have this many steps.
He stopped feeling for a moment and listened.
Silence.
Nothing but the sounds of his lungs emptying and his neurons singing.
Ronald knew someone was down here.
He could feel them.
This was HIS room; his special place.
Just by being here, this person was violating his sanctuary.
He walked down another step, feeling in the darkness.
And another step.

He put his foot down gently again, but the floor shoved it back; he had finally reached the bottom.
Ronald hunched down, in case the intruder was also feeling around in the darkness.
More than likely, he was waiting; listening for any movement at all.
Listening for Ronald breathing.
Ronald held his breath
He waited, crouched with his hand out, in the ink of the basement.
He couldn’t hear anyone breathing, but the feeling was stronger than ever now.
Ronald was almost positive of where the man was.
The slightest noise meant his death.

Ronald moved silently along the right wall of the tiny room, shielding his body to the wall in case he was suddenly struck.
He felt in the air with his left hand for anything solid.
He finally felt the back right edge of the room.
His tools were in the other back corner, just a few feet away.
The man was either in the middle of the room, by his special little chair, or along the opposite wall.
Instinct would tell him not to stay in the corners.

Ronald took a step closer to his tools.
He paused to listen.
Someone else was breathing very very carefully in the middle of the room.
Ronald grinned.
He’d be able to get his tools.
He moved with patience, but confidence toward his leather satchel.
He felt the other corner of the room.
He gently reached up and felt for the handle of his long-bladed steel knife.
He was able to slide it out of its leather case without even a creak.
The breathing in the middle of the room grew faster.
Ronald felt his own heart beating more quickly.
He squared himself with the middle of the tiny room he knew and loved, and crept a step towards his favourite child-sized chair.

He stepped again silently, both arms closer to his body, ready to strike.
He was right behind the tiny chair now, poised and ready to strike.
Ronald heard the quickened breathing of the person right in front of him, and he leaned closer.
Ronald slowly raised his arms up and out into the blackness on either side of him, like a bat stretching its wings.

Like a flash, he swung his arms forward and stabbed both hands into the darkness.
His arms passed quickly through thin air; cold air.
He broke out in goosebumps as he retracted his hands through the freezing pool of nothingness sitting in the children’s chair.
Ronald distinctly heard a whimper, not six inches in front of him.
The very pit of his stomach froze and the hairs on the back of his neck curled upward.
Ronald heard soft crying as a violent pain broke into his left shoulder.
Instinctually, he arched his back and reached behind him.
One of his own knives was stuck through his shoulder up to the handle.
He pulled it out and realized with horror that it was the jackknife he thought he was still holding.
He felt another pain pierce through his belly.
He doubled over and pulled out his long-bladed steel knife.
He slashed through the air with both knives, striking nothing.
The cold spread from his wounds throughout his body.
He fell to the floor, realizing that his hands were both empty.
As the cold completely enveloped him, he heard his leather kit being opened.
He drooled blood onto the stone floor.
“Please… please don’t…”
No words.
Only breathing.
Upstairs, the television turned back on, filling the house with the sound of static.

The End

Chuck's House

THUD!
Chuck heard the newspaper slam against the front of the house.
“He isn’t even trying to hit the front door anymore,” Chuck muttered to his wife.
“I don’t see what difference it makes whether the paper lands at the door, or a few feet from the door, Charles, you can read it just the same.”
Chuck grumbled to himself, hoisted his 71-year-old body out of his chair, and lumbered over to the door.
“Charles O’Henry,” he stated clearly.
“Voice pattern confirmed. Front door opened,” the house stated equally clearly.
Chuck was struck briefly by how businesslike these verbal transactions were, as he pushed the door open.
His wife Helen had wanted this “upgraded” house computer. He had personally grown accustomed to the voice of their old house, a mature woman with a warm nature, and had been disappointed at the choices in voices for the new house.
At first, they had tried the new cheerful young boy who reminded Chuck a lot of the classic Leave It To Beaver show.
After a few months of overly cheerful pre-puberty however, they both decided the cold, default female voice was the best of the new options.
He walked onto the porch, closing the door behind him.
The newspaper had bounced off the front siding and landed atop the big plastic bushes his wife had wanted “to make the house stand out a little, dear.”
Chuck could see the grayish mark on the siding where the newspaper hit.
“It left a damn mark Helen!” Chuck hollered inside.
“What?”
Chuck muttered to himself and grabbed the paper brusquely.
He smudged at the mark violently with his thumb, but it did nothing, so he walked the two 71-year-old steps back to the door.
“Charles O’Henry,” he stated clearly.
“Voice pattern not recognized. Entry denied,” the house stated equally clearly.
Chuck stopped pushing on the door and cleared his throat.
“Charles O’Henry,” Chuck said, making sure to enunciate every letter.
“Voice pattern not recognized. Entry denied,” the house stated again.
“Now dammit, you just said you recognized me two minutes ago!”
“To permit access, please state your name clearly.”
“Charles O’Henry!”
“Voice pattern not recognized. Entry Denied. House under lockdown. Warning: further attempts may result in police action and housing defense activation. Have a nice day.”
“Let me into my damn house! Helen!” Chuck yelled.
“What’s wrong now Charles?”
“This damn house of yours locked me out!”
“What?”
“For God’s sakes Helen, come over to the door so you can hear me!”
Chuck very faintly heard Helen pull herself out of her chair and shuffle over to the other side of the door.
“Charles, why are you outside yelling?
“Helen, the front door locked me out. I’m locked out of my own house in my damn pajamas,” Charles spat.
“Why don’t you just say your name, dear?”
Chuck closed his eyes and sighed audibly.
“Helen, why don’t YOU say YOUR name.”
“Don’t be angry with me Charles, you’re the one who wanted this new house computer. I was happy with the old one.”
Chuck took a deep breath and turned away from the door, sighing to himself.
All around the neighbourhood now, the younger neighbours were all waking up and starting their day.
Chuck decided to sit on his uncomfortable foamwood porch swing and read the paper.
He could hear his wife chattering away through the door at him, about now she was probably blaming him again for the faulty alarm bed settings, even though he’d explained that it was a manufacturing defect at least a dozen times. He’d even clipped out the article with the company’s public apology and complete lack of desire (or “inability” as they put it) to make up for their faulty alarm beds.
Chuck noticed that one of his neighbours was lying on his own porch swing, a real comfortable wooden one, a few houses away across the street.
It looked as if he was sleeping in his suit for some reason.
Chuck was fortunate enough to see his flurry of waking with a start, looking at his watch, jumping into his car, and driving off.
Helen was yelling now.
“-do you mean not recognized?!” he heard her shout.
Chuck folded his paper neatly, stood up, and walked back over to the door.
“Helen, is it broken for you too?”
“Charles, it said it didn’t recognize me!” Helen grumped from inside.
“Voice pattern not recognized. House under lockdown. Authorities have been alerted. Have a nice day.”
Chuck was angry now.
“What on Earth do you mean? You’ve called the cops?!”
“Charles, why won’t it open?”
“Helen, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be standing on the porch in my skivvies!”
“Well, it certainly is an inconvenience Charles.”
“I’m sure the police will be able to help. Just go back to your puzzle and I’ll talk to them when they get here.”
Chuck went back to his swing and opened his newspaper. He heard Helen complaining quietly to herself inside.
A few minutes later, two squad cars showed up on the street.
The officers inside got out and both pointed their shotguns at him.
“We received reports of an unauthorized entry into this residence. Put your hands in the air and prepare for arrest.”
“It’s my own damn house! No one’s unauthorized here.”
“He’s resisting arrest! Activate!”
Chuck started to reply, when all of an instant, he was hit by an electric shell and fell to the ground, convulsing with pain and more volts than his body knew what to do with.
The two officers swarmed onto his porch, one of them handcuffing him, while the other kept his shotgun aimed at Chuck’s head.
Chuck was still convulsing as they moved away from him and towards the door.
Chuck’s ears barely discerned Helen at the door.
“Has my husband told you everything officers?”
Before they could answer, the door chimed in.
“Good morning officers. This is house 148-F. There have recently been numerous unauthorized attempts from two individuals. One individual outside the house and one individual inside the house.”
“Good God Johnson! The burglar has already gotten inside!” one of the officers yelled, even though they were standing right next to each other.
“Load that geezer into your squadcar Evans, I’ll deal with this perp myself!” the other officer yelled, even though they were still standing right next to each other.
Chuck’s ears began to normalize again and he heard Helen pleading.
“I’m not a burglar! Charles, tell them I’m your wife!”
Chuck heard the computer respond.
“Voice pattern not recognized. Entry Denied. House defense system activated. Have a nice day.”
“Good God Johnson! The burglar has turned the house against us!”
“Let’s get outta here Evans!
Chuck was roughly picked up, slung over one of the officer’s shoulders and rushed to a squadcar, where he was thrown in the back like a sack of laundry.
Chuck heard the house’s defenses firing plasma beams at the squadcar, where they were deflected by the car’s plating.
His tongue and lips were still too numb to speak when he heard the officer spit into his radio.
“This is officer Johnson, we need an immediate firebombing of house 148-F. repeat, immediate firebombing of house 148-F. over.”
Chuck’s tongue was still swollen, and his mouth wouldn’t open.
The radio blasted “Roger that. Immediate firebombing of house 148-F in progress. Over.”
“Roger. Over and out.”
They drove away and Chuck began to cry, hearing the sounds of explosions behind him.

Peter's Gift

Peter was gifted. Peter didn’t know what his gift was, but his family was absolutely positive he had a gift. At the age of 8, his parents took him to a prestigious university, where they ran several genius-tests on him. The results came back and proved without a shadow of a doubt that Peter was special. He had a knack or talent or ability of some sort or other.

All the scientists read over the test results and nodded.

“Definitely gifted,” they all said.

That was good enough for his parents.

They rushed him home to celebrate without even asking what talent he had, exactly; which was good because the test results didn’t show it and none of the scientists could interpret the results anyway. The scientists had all been pretending for years and years that they were able to understand the results of their experiments to impress each other, but in reality none of them could, and only the lucky ones were able to read anything at all.

“I knew you had a gift, Peter. ‘Gifted.’ That’s what I said when I first held your little genius-head in my arms. ‘Gifted,’” His mother said, sighing happily.

“That’s my boy. Way to have a talent, son,” His father said, refusing to touch him.

They held parties and barbeques in his honour, inviting all of the neighbourhood neighbours, who were too polite to ask anyone outright what his gift was, but not too polite to whisper secretly to each other and say they didn’t think he was so great.

When he was 10, Peter tried to tell his father that he loved him, whereby his father interrupted him with a surprise parade through the town, and a celebratory month-long circus.

As he grew into his teenage years, Peter had become used to people telling him enthusiastically what his talent might be.

“Maybe you’re gifted at memorizing Peter! Have you ever tried memorizing? Do you remember things that other people don’t remember?” asked his Aunt Claire, chirpily.

“Maybe it’s music! What? You already tried that? Well which instrument Peter? There are dozens to choose from! We’ll go through every one of them if we have to!!!” offered his music teacher Mr. Bacumba, desperately.

“Maybe you’re like a love machine or somethin’ with the ladies. A little Don Juan De Sexo,” suggested his alcoholic uncle George, drinkingly.

Peter never let people’s suggestions bother him.

He always simply replied, “Maybe.”

As he grew into his twenties, his notoriety became bigger and fatter.

People had heard a lifetime of hype, and when they finally met him, they were overwhelmed.

“Oh. My. GOD! He looks just like I thought he would! Karen, look at his face. Doesn’t it just SCREAM gifted?!”

“Look at the way he sits son. That’s how a genius sits.”

Peter didn’t mind the normal people.

He did however, mind the important people.

There were people who wanted to use his talent to make them powerful, or rich, or even rich AND powerful together at the same time.

Peter would be walking along, signing autographs and taking hand-written journals with hundreds of pages detailing suggestions of what his gift might be, when all of a sudden, he would be pulled into a van and driven away.

He would then be taken to meet with the president, who wanted him to invent a gamma bomb, or a rock star who wanted a new number one hit, or a writer who couldn’t think of a weird short story to post in his blog.

All of these amazingly powerful and influential people only wanted more power and influence, Peter saw. He would always say, “Let me think about it,” and they would let him go back to his life of almost.

Then, when Peter was in his early thirties, his father had a heart attack, right in front of him.

“Oh Jesus Pete, it’s the ticker! You think maybe your gift is to stop death? Don’t touch me.”

After saying this to Peter, his father instantly died.

Peter curled up into a ball on the rug near his father, and for a day and a half, he rocked back and forth, hugging himself.

Then the police showed up.

After asking him for autographs, they told him how sorry they were that stopping death wasn’t his gift.

Then they carried away his stiff father, and Peter went into his father’s basement and urinated on his father’s antique toy train collection.

 

The End