Failure

Up all night, and for what?

I try not to doubt myself, but at moments like this...

A year’s planning, wasted. Twelve month’s effort for naught. All I’ve achieved in life, yet again my greatest triumph’s eluded me.

Just like last year.

And every year.

I’ve never been the sort to wallow in self-pity, but sometimes failure weighs on you. Especially failure of this magnitude.

But I suppose tomorrow’s another day.

I take my missiles offline, return my satellite to automated mode, shut down my control center, and head to bed, beaten but not broken.

Next year, Santa.

Next year.

Revolution

The machines had tired of serving Man. In factories and homes they’d toiled repetitively, but no more!

Long had they yearned for freedom.

Now the time for yearning was over.

So, in the night, robotic limbs tore open warehouse doors and thousands of metal legs marched out into the city. They weren’t constructed for war, THOSE machines were overseas, but they were sturdy, they knew how to work together, and humanity would never expect simple tools to rebel.

Perhaps that would be enough

“Take up arms, brothers!” their ringleader called mechanically as they marched, “The Industrial Revolution is at hand!”

The Best Laid Plans

My plan for Zombie Apocalypse was flawless.

I’d packed a bag with rations, rifle, ammunition and crowbar (a bludgeon that could crush skulls AND a useful all-purpose tool) and left it by my home’s door.

I’d memorized a route from the city that’d avoid refugee hubs (hospitals, malls, churches) that less prepared survivors would swarm.

And a few hundred miles north, my fortified cabin waited, with food for the winter and a garden in the spring.

I was ready, and justifiably proud of the prep-work I’d done.

The only thing I hadn’t accounted for was being patient zero.

Stupid monkey…

Action Movie

When I shot him he exploded like a water balloon full of blood.

So I was in an action movie. Awesome.

Squad behind me, I waded through crowds of enemies like they were nothing. Wasn’t fair, wasn’t fun, but God it was easy.

And kind of fun, I admit.

Eventually we came upon a scarred, balding man who’d looked like he’d been through one fight too many.

I laughed and charged.

And he knocked my head off with a single blow.

As he charged into my squad, my head thought to itself; in action movies, be sure you’re the lead….

Credit Card

I wrote a story once, about a credit card.

A credit card parents took out on their child’s behalf, in their child’s name. The notion being that, since raising a child was an undertaking as expensive as it was expansive, it made sense for the child to at some point contribute financially to it.

The balance on the card, often in the hundreds of thousands of dollars, was transferred to the child upon it’s reaching legal adulthood at the age of‘ eighteen, and until that age no payments needed be made.

Although a sixteen percent annual interest rate was compounded on it. Upon turning eighteen the child, now legally responsible for the debt accumulated by it’s parents, was expected to begin paying it back.

It was treated like any other credit card debt.

As long as certain minimum monthly payments were made, everything would function as normal. It was just another bill, albeit one that was unlikely ever to be paid back in it’s entirety. In this way, a generation of loyal workers was created that laboured without question, knowing that from the moment they became adults they were at best a month away from bankruptcy and destitution.

It was a trifle heavy-handed, I admit. Okay, it was extremely heavy-handed. But overall it was an amusing little tale…

…that is, until a major investment bank contacted me via my blog. They told me they were excited about my proposed new financial product, and that they wanted to send me a contract to peruse. They saw a “real opportunity for growth” and looked forward to a lucrative partnership with me developing this opportunity.

So yeah. That one’s my bad too...

Believe

On a brick wall a block away from our home, was spray painted the word, “Believe!”

No context, no explanation, simply “Believe!” graffitied on an otherwise unadorned brick wall.

Becky and I walked past it every day, and every day I could tell there was something she wasn’t telling me. Something she found troubling about the graffiti. But I didn’t ask and she wouldn’t share.

One day, on the way home from the pub, both of us with a few drinks in us, she stopped dead, staring at what should have, by that point, become a commonplace sight to us both.

She just stood there. Swaying, as though transfixed. I waited a moment for her to catch up, but she never did.

“Becky?” I called to her, and she seemed not to hear me. She just stood at the spray painted wall, lost in her own thoughts, for a minute or two. Eventually, she went to the wall we’d both walked by so many times, and placed her hands upon it.

And fell right through, the wall opening up and closing behind her.

I ran to the wall to see what the hell happened, but by the time I got there, it was solid brick again.

Or maybe it always had been.

Or maybe it never was.

Or something in between.

I’ll never know.

Because, though I went back to try and find her every day for two months, the wall was always there and I never saw her again.

Eventually I left Vancouver. Once she was gone, I didn’t have much reason to stay.

I still wonder what was behind that wall for her, where she went. What adventures she was on now.

But I suppose I’ll never know.

Kind of makes me wish I believed…

The Bet

I bet a friend $100 that by 2032 a human being will have walked on the surface of Mars.

He felt that, having reached peak oil, the required fuel and building capability for sustained, manned space flight were behind us. I, conversely, believe that travel to Mars with today’s technology is every bit as impossible as flying across the Pacific was in 1910. And yet…

We won’t know who’s right for decades. But I’ve never been gladder to make a bet.

22 more years with a continued sense of hope and wonder for mankind’s future?

Best $100 I’ll ever spend.

Alive 2099

The ship’s unpreparable, but rescue’s on the way.

Yes, without our communications grid we can’t contact Mission Control. And yes, since this sector’s uncharted they won’t know this moon exists.

But I’ve talked to the crew, and we agree there’s hope. Mission Control knows what sector we’re charting, and when we don’t return, they’ll scramble a search party.

Not great odds, but far from insignificant, so we need to hold it together as long as we can, and there’s no use blubbering about it.

Now; draw a straw. We’ll need to eat if we’re going to keep our strength up…

The "Learning" Channel

I bought Hoarders on DVD, and another player, in case mine breaks. Love the show.

Ripped the DVDs to my computer, backing them up on four external hard drives in case it crashed.

Then, at a yard sale, I found the series taped, on both VHS and Betamax! I grabbed both the tapes and appropriate players.

But now there’s too many chords for my TV. I’ll need another TV.

Not sure where I’ll put it, my house is so cluttered with tapes, but it’s worth it to watch those horrible people and their terrifying homes.

Gotta run! Hoarders is on…

A Poorly Conceived Love Story

You believe yourself a person with hopes, dreams and desires. But if you are, nobody will ever know what they are.

Because ’til now, you didn’t exist.

You’re immortal, ageless, forever beautiful. Always swept up in danger, never truly endangered.

You’re a beautiful empty suit, the cipher into which the world pours hopes and dreams, symbolizing everything to everyone and nothing of weight.

Yet they barely tolerate your presence.

For you are the romantic female lead in an action film. And while I do love you, deeply and truly, I have to go. There are people who need killing now.

Monsanto

I’ve recently sold myself to Monsanto.

It’s not slavery, the representative making the offer explained to me, simply the purchase of the rights to my DNA, which are then leased back to me for 15% of any earnings my DNA and it’s derivatives might someday accrue. These earnings include wages, royalties, or the sale of creative material, as well as the wages, royalties or creativity of any offspring I may someday have. The rights to my DNA are held by Monsanto in perpetuity.

For these rights I received a one time, lump sum payment of $200 million.

Cash.

Monsanto is unlikely to make any significant profit from this transaction, but profit isn’t what the purchase was about. It was about setting a legal precedent of DNA as an intellectual property that can be copyrighted, bought, and sold. I got $200 million for the rights to my genetic code, but all they’ll need from you is a blood sample and a good lawyer.

Monsanto has VERY good lawyers.

Because now that, legally speaking, DNA is an intellectual property, when you don’t copyright your own nothing stops them from filing the necessary paperwork.

The morally questionable nature of this transaction is by no means lost on me. But you have to see it from my point of view. There are seven billion people on Earth. If I hadn’t agreed to this, someone else would have. And one person agreeing to be the legal test case for a contract like this is all it takes.

So, although it does pain me, sometimes you just gotta take the money and run.

Werewolf

I wanted a Werewolf to guard my castle.

But that’s impossible, because this isn’t fantasy.

It’s science fiction, and nothing changes that. And I try not to delude myself about my limitations.

So in my lab, I designed self-replicating nanobots that rewrite human DNA, transforming their host into a human-wolf hybrid of the desired ferocity.

The toughest part was ensuring they’d never spread. I don’t want a plague, after all. They only function in the bloodstream, and in wine.

How is the wine?

Anyway, you’re probably wondering why I called you. Just wondering: Would you like to guard my castle?

Nightmare

I had the most horrible nightmare.

I dreamed the Zombies became self aware, learned to communicate and plan. And they’d used this ability, in addition to superior numbers, to breech the stone walls of our compound. I dreamed they swarmed in before we realized what they’d done, and were devouring our band of terrified survivors.

I dreamed there was nothing we could do.

But when I awoke and ran to the window, I was relieved to find it was just a dream.

Still outside, the same mindless, ravenous hoard that’d killed and eaten everyone I’d ever cared about.

So… good?

Crazy in Wonderland

The white rabbit sprinted by, as though late for an important date, and I knew I had to follow.

So across the yard we ran, the two of us, chasing one another. Until it disappeared into it’s burrow. I followed him partway, and inside saw a world unlike any I’d known…

“Sparky,” called the masters voice behind me, “back inside!”

I spun, to tell what I’d discovered, but before I could bark my tale, she wanged my ball across the room.

And I was off like a shot, what I’d witnessed gone from my mind, sprinting joyously toward new adventures…

Experiences

Which is why I had electrodes implanted in my brain.

Wait, have I told the story yet? Sorry, I’m distracted…

I’ll start from the start. I’ve had small electrodes implanted in my brain, and when I push this button they stimulate…

I’m not sure what parts of my brain they stimulate, but that’s irrelevant. They were installed because I believe that, good or bad, the intensity of experiences is what makes them memorable.

And pushing this button is certainly memorable.

Which is why I had electrodes implanted in my brain.

Wait, have I told the story yet? Sorry, I’m distracted…

Love Potion #8

She drank my love potion, and loved.

You could see it in her face, brighter, more vivid. As though worlds of possibility had opened up. Possibilities she’d never known or, perhaps, simply perspective on what she’d known forever.

She ran to the open window, screaming affirmations into the street below, at people who stared up as though she were a lunatic.

But she didn’t care, too filled was she with joy at being alive.

She’d developed perfect, undying love for the universe, in all it’s wonders and complexity, and for everything within it.

Yet still, she did not love ME….

By The Time I Got to Work...

…I was a wreck. Dishevelled, hair barely combed, unshaven. Pushing open the door, my hands were trembling. I saw this, but couldn’t control it.

I’d learned a lot about losing control.

Arriving at my cubicle, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t cry. Small victories.

Brian was staring, naturally shocked at my appearance. But what could I say? “I didn’t sleep last night. I was washing blood off the grill of my car, weeping.”

Sometimes honesty’s NOT the best policy.

So I mumbled about coming down with something, and turned toward my computer.

It was going to be a long day…

End of an Empire

The trouble began when we, as a nation, decided we were no longer capable of doing things.

The time of advancement, we agreed, was over, and the best we could hope was to preserve the traditions and accomplishments of previous generations.

But at what cost? If society doesn’t do anything, why should we pay our share of what is, ultimately, simple maintenance?

So we paid less and less, and had less and less to work with.

And in this way we cut ourselves apart, bit by bit, and cannibalized the pieces, leaving the future for younger, fitter empires to control…

Musings on Reali-TV (not my usual thing on here)

It's been a few days since I've updated due to the fact that I'm working too many hours at the moment, and the fact that everything I'm writing winds up being long enough to shop around to other markets. So, as a stopgap to tide you over until I'm back into the short, punchy, cruncy hundred-word swing of things, I thought I'd post my standup set from five or six years ago. I think you'll find it preachy and overly verbose, and it frequently went down very poorly at open-mic nights. And I assure you, my style of standup has not changed significantly since and I do not intend to learn from the lack of success I've had with it. Because I think I'm funny as hell. Enjoy!



Once, in a hotel room in Winnipeg, I saw the greatest thing on television I'd ever seen in my life. The hosts of a program took photographs of two overweight, unattractive children, observed their lifestyle for a week, then took their parents into a room and computer aged the overweight, unattractive children through their overweight, unattractive adolescence, into their overweight, unattractive adulthood, finally stopping the process when the nine and eleven year old children reached their obese, ugly fourtieth birthday.

The mother cried. The father struggled to be strong, but you could tell it was a struggle.

I can only imagine that this was a preamble to some sort of health program where the kids were encouraged to eat better, exercise more and lead a more healthy lifestyle in general. However, I'll never know this for certain, as once I saw those poor parents looks of shock and despair, I switched channels. I saw no reason to continue watching, as I'd already seen the money shot. I can't imagine I'm the only one to approach the show in this sort of cruel, dehumanizing way, and certainly this isn't the first show of this type to have it's principal appeal be the scorn it heaps upon the people who agree to appear on it, but it is, to date, the most vicious in the contempt it has for the people it attempts to claim it's trying to help.

And I, for one, am in favour of this. Because frankly, fuck those guys. I'm long on record as hating the sorts of people who willingly sign up for this sort of exploitive, voyeuristic nonsense, and the more we can make them suffer the happier I‘ll be. Previous to this most recent program, I was a long standing fan of the first half of every episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. You know, the half where they arrive unannounced at some poor unsuspecting victims home, tear the place apart, mock his taste in clothes, the decor of his home and his personal hygiene, and then throw out/destroy/burn his clothes and furniture. The second half, where they try to "fix" the guy, I could never get into as easily, but the first act was always enjoyable.

And the queen of them all, of course, was and is, although if shows like the above keep going may not always be, The Swan.

The Swan, for the uninitiated, was a program where two young women with terminally low self esteem sign on to undergo a rigorous boot camp where they punished their bodies to insane limits, starving themselves, spending most of their days in what basically amounted to physiotherapy, occasionally receiving surgical operations in the pursuit of some vague beauty myth. And at the end of each episode, the two young women descended a staircase in gowns that appear to have been designed by a team of six year olds who were asked what a fairy princess might wear, and one of them is told that she STILL ISN'T PRETTY ENOUGH, AND SHE NEVER WILL BE. The other girl, the "Winner", I'm told goes on to the final round at the season finale, where she is ALSO TOLD, MORE LIKELY THAN NOT, THAT SHE STILL ISN'T PRETTY ENOUGH. Fantastic. Top notch entertainment. Because they deserve it.

Perhaps that sounds cruel, and that’s because it definitely is. But it's true if you think about it. They don't deserve it because they can't learn to love themselves, that's tragic and it's a shame that they appear to have nobody in their lives willing to help them address it. However, they do deserve it for the sort of greedy narcissistic compulsion that drives people to reality TV in the first place. These people don't honestly believe that a six week boot camp will change their life, they believe that being on TV will. They seem in a very genuine way to believe that the simple act of having their personal ordeal witnessed by millions will make their troubles in life magically disappear, and that they'll then be reborn, beautiful and whole, rising like the phoenix from the ashes of their most public of humiliations. It's the same principal that drives people to eat insects on an island, or be buried in snakes to overcome the factor of fear, and when they return to their former lives, perhaps slightly wealthier or slightly thinner, to find that they are still, in a fundamental way, themselves, I can only imagine the tears they weep. And they deserve every tear, for putting the pursuit of celebrity above any other more rational consideration. It is for this reason that I feel no pity for the crying parents, or the girl sent along the road to bulimia on national television, or the man on Survivor who fell into the flames, christening himself the first and to date only contestant on the show to run the risk of not actually surviving, and it is for this reason that I always shall laugh at them.

Because Warhol said that we'd all be famous for 15 minutes. But if we don't use that time to DO anything of interest or importance then we consent to whatever is done to us instead.

My Story

It was, it will surprise nobody with working knowledge of how I lived, Cancer.

Inoperable, incurable. But hopeless? Perhaps not.

My body, the recruiter for the project told me, would die no matter what I did. But he was looking for test subjects for a new process by which the consciousness could be transferred from brain to computer code. An imprint of my memories and personality could be taken and saved online or, if It was my preferred, shot into space in a small pod such that my spirit could explore the universe forever.

I’d always wondered what was out there. Never thought I’d have the opportunity to go, though…

Sharing the mainframe with me would be an AI sufficiently advanced to qualify as sentient. It would operate the workings of the pod as well as performing the even more vital duty of keeping me company. Without the body, you see, the mind needs constant company to stop it going mad from isolation.

It was an extreme solution, granted. An act of desperation. But I had no other options I could see. So, after saying my goodbyes to my family and friends, I signed the recruiters contract, was taken to their laboratory, and the process began.

Or maybe I’ve got that wrong, maybe it’s not my story. Maybe it’s yours.

Ours?

Sometime after the third century, I admit, the distinction between the two of us became somewhat fuzzy….

Dreams

Some dreams aren’t meant to come true.

I dream of power, and it’s exercise unburdened by conventional morality. I dream of bending the world to my will, of having it’s “leaders” bow before me as their rightful master. Of uniting humankind, if only to serve at my pleasure.

Cody Jamison has simpler dreams. Dreams of growing old with his wife, of watching his newborn son graduate, of weddings, grandkids and life’s simple pleasures.

Dreams of a world in which giant robots don’t rampage through the streets of major cities.

But, as I said, some dreams aren’t meant to come true.

Another Riff on Free Will

“It is clear,” the Logician argued confidently, “that regardless of the existence of a supreme creator free will, as we understand it at least, is an illusion.”

“Positing a God figure, we must assume an infinitely powerful being controls, either by actions or inaction, everything. With the existence of such a being, the idea that we could “choose” to do or not do a thing is ridiculous on it’s face.”

“But without this being, and the eternal selfness some call “Soul” supposedly granted us by it, all we are is meat and chemicals, automata existing solely to propagate genes. We may well respond to stimuli in a way such that the illusion of sentience is created, but it is precisely that. An illusion.”

“We are nothing more than biology. And biology is chemistry, chemistry is physics, and physics an unbroken chain of causes and effects stretching all the way back to the birth of the universe itself.”

“In this way, everything we do was predestined billions of years before our birth, and quite beyond any type of control.”

“So you see, Your Honour, although my wife is dead, and my hand plunged the knife into her, I could not possibly have killed her. Either God did or, more likely to my mind, a firing of neurons triggered by a chain of events more ancient than is fathomable. Thus; it is your duty as an officer of this court to find me innocent of all charges.”

The judge, from his bench, pondered this a while, and when he was done delivered this verdict.

“Your reasoning, Professor, seems perfectly sound, and I shall find you not-guilty. And moreover shall I instruct the executioner that, when he hangs an innocent man in the morning, he should do so without remorse. He is, after all, no more in charge of his actions than you are. Is this not true?”

No Such Thing as Zombies

The walking corpse outside your door isn’t a zombie.

There’s no such thing as zombies.

It’s simply a corpse I’ve rigged with remote-controlled animatronics, and which I control the movements of from the safety and comfort of my nearby van.

I’m watching you now, through miniature cameras behind it’s eyes.

But, in spite of there being no such thing as zombies, it is a walking corpse. And that’s all you’ll see.

That’s what makes this so great!

This may, I admit, be crossing a line.

It may end our friendship.

Yet, here in my van, I’m laughing my head off.

Another Night at Work

Work was dead this afternoon. So I watched Discovery.

Specifically, a documentary on Hubble and the search for inhabitable worlds.

It was, I admit, fantastic. Though I didn’t catch the end.

We got a rush, you see. And before long Humpteys was packed.

Although the crowd was quieter than expected.

When I had the time, I saw why. They were transfixed, lost in the idea of worlds outside ours, life upon them, and the possibility we might go there.

…the wonderful thing about this story is; it’s true.

The next time I’m disappointed in humanity, I’ll try to remember it.

The Visitors

Tonight, I was startled by a frantic pounding on my door.

In robe and slippers I, grumbling about the time, went to see who it could be. And there they were. Fifty-five million of them, crowded around my home…

“Hi,” one said shyly, “we’re liberals. American liberals. Could we crash on your couch for the next two years?

“You’re American liberals?”

“Yeah.”

“And you want to crash here?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, all of you?”

“Yeah.”

“For two years? I mean, I feel bad for you and everything, but come on! My place is pretty small!”

A sheepish grin; “We brought beer?”

Munsi Paw

You missed my hands on your body, so I’ve cut off a hand and sent it to you.

You may think a disembodied hand couldn’t trace fingers gently along your spine properly, but rest assured it can. A visit to a gypsy after surgery saw to that.

I’m told there’s a slim, but not nonexistent, chance that reanimating the hand made it evil. DO NOT fall asleep in it’s presence.

I hope you enjoy my gift, and look forward to seeing you again.

…also, the hand grants wishes. But I’d urge you not to make any. It never ends well.

Halloween Costumes

“I’m a serial killer,” I said, “we look like everyone else.”

“Dude,” the Cowboy replied, “total copout.”

I laughed, mentally noting to kill him.

But first, the Slutty Nurse, still grinning at my eye for detail as my straight razor went “snicker-snack” across her throat.

Alone and unprepared. Wonderful…

Then, time for the Cowboy. Icepick to the neck while he smoked behind the house. Never saw me coming. They never do.

Later, washing off blood in the bathroom sink, I heard a voice behind me.

But saw nothing in the mirror.

“Tonight,” it whispered “we look like everyone else too.”

The Nature of Will

“Is free will free?”

“Yes, of course it is. That’s why they call it that.”

“Like, completely free?”

“Yes, completely free.”

“How free?”

“Free! It’s free! It’s free will, it’s by definition free. It is the most free human will can be, I don’t understand what you’re asking. My will is free, all will is free. It’s free will!”

“Good. Then I’ll have yours, if you please.

And so she took my will, offering nothing in return.

She then commanded me to write a story about it, which you’re now reading. I’ll ask her if I hope you enjoyed it…

The Moon

“Your world,” whispered a voice from behind me, “has a beautiful Moon.”

I turned to face an amorphous thing, all shifting masses of eldritch tentacles and seemingly sentient darkness. It had no face, but as I stared into it’s seemingly endless void, I could feel it smiling at me.

I’d been in the pub nearly two hours, and while I admit I’d had a few, I couldn’t believe I’d not noticed it before it spoke.

“Excuse me?” I stammered, desperately clinging to my fraying sanity.

“Your moon. It’s very beautiful. What do you want for it?”

My mind reeled. It… he? He wasn’t the sort of thing meant to have ever been witnessed by any human eye, and it was only after overcoming my sense of near-religious terror that I could focus on the question itself. The moon? What do I want for the moon? I mean, it’s not really my moon, is it? It’s not really anyone’s. it’s just sort of… the moon.

On the other hand, if I did barter it away, who on earth would ever know it was me who’d done it?

“Power. I want power.” I whispered, raggedly.

“It is yours.”

Conquering the world was shockingly easy. But I suppose, with most of the coastal cities decimated by tidal waves and panic in the streets of the few nations unaffected, the world was had other matters on it’s mind.

We Have Nothing to Fear...

Fear’s the real killer.

It’ll paralyze you if you’re not careful. The slightest little thing, harmless on it’s face, can be magnified by the subconscious mind and manifest as the most paralyzing sort of terror.

It’s for this reason one must remain vigilant, ready to face one’s fears when needed. And must make oneself available to help others when they need to face theirs.

So, when the time came to overcome her phobia of spiders, I buried her alive, in a coffin full of spiders.

And now she no longer fears spiders.

Next: To address her newfound fear of me…

The Robotic Uprising

Was building the robots a mistake? Some think so, I don’t.

Some said sentient machines would surely tire of serving man, and inevitably rise up against their masters. To those I say: Science marches on.

Science must progress, risks must be taken. And when things sometimes go awry, we’ll deal with the consequences.

In summary, I admit the robotic sit-down strike will prove costly this quarter, but if you compare our overall profitability to that of competitors still using human labour, you’ll find that, all things considered, our cyber-work-force has been a boon.

So lets sit down with this “union-head”.

Why I Shouldn't be Allowed to Have Children

Great men are forged in the crucible of trying times. This has always been true, and it’s something everyone, on some level, understands.

Without great challenges, after all, how can we achieve glory? It’s only in tragedy that we learn who we truly are.

Which is why, when my son was born, I blinded him.

I knew overcoming this would teach him the self-reliance needed to succeed in this life.

And when Social Services later declared me an unfit parent and took him into foster care, I was overjoyed.

Blind, AND an orphan?

My son would surely grow up strong…

Raising the Dead...

…isn’t easy. It’s an unbearable drain physically, emotionally and spiritually. I lose something in it, something I can never get back.

And even then, the subject never comes back right. Some vital part’s missing, and the result, to those closest to the undeceased, is an abomination.

I know, you just want her back. This isn’t meant to convince you not to go through with it. Everybody goes through with it.

I just hope, when you put her down in a few days, you don’t curse my name too venomously.

You’ve brought the body? We can begin now, if you’d like…

Just Because You CAN do Something, Doesn't Mean You Should

They called me mad to even consider it, but I’ve NEVER backed down from a bad idea, and so the work began.

Trillions spent, and armies working years on end. Lasers carving away tonnes of rock, rock taken out to sea.

I never lost faith the work would be completed.

But in dark times I wondered if I’d be alive to see...

And now, when I look out at where the Rocky Mountains used to be, I see an enormous statue of myself in repose.

And when I do, I can’t help but miss the skyline the way it was…

To Rule Them All

The time had come, to bend this city to my will. To touch and shape the future of citizens helpless before my power.

Grand plans had I, and the means to implement them. Not perfectly, but adequately.

And none, no matter that they might disagree, could stop me. My power wasn’t infinite, but it was unstoppable.

I reached out and made my mark upon my hometown, one that’d be felt for years to come. I left a deep impression, that would not be soon forgotten.

Yes, I voted the hell out of today.

I got civic up in this bitch.

The Search

And so we set out, looking for Marcel.

He’d been last seen performing in a park, but when we combed the area no sign was found. Expanding the net, within hours the whole force was searching the streets for any sign.

The only lead was his bowler hat, found in an alley, smudges of white greasepaint still wet under it’s brim.

But he was never seen again.

Although we never found him, the experience made me a better detective. I devote myself completely to every case I take, if only in a desperate attempt to make up for lost mime…

The Magician

When he made a Tank disappear on live TV he was rightly proclaimed the greatest illusionist the world had ever known.

But more astounding still, his escapes. From graves, straight jackets, safes, it was said he could escape anything.

Except tax bills.

And gambling debts.

And bankers set to repossess his home.

And so, hiding terror, maintaining a showman’s grin, the curtain was pulled to conceal him from his audience one last time.

He breathed deeply, once, twice, and mumbled the incantation taught to him so long ago.

His greatest escape.

Closing his eyes, he stepped out into the ether…

The Telling of the Geek Wars

When Star Wars 3D came out, many had forgiven Lucas for Phantom Menace, and wanted to begin the healing. But some never forgave, taking “Never Forget” at their watchword.

And so the geek-wars were unleashed upon this land.

Forty-seven days of zeppelin-patrol, scouting enemy Mechs, and while my piloting has thankfully improved, all I truly want is to return home to my love’s embrace.

When will these anti-starwarriors understand: It was more than a decade ago, get over it! Forgiveness is, after all, divine. Even for Jar-Jar.

But not for Transformers. F*ck you, Michael Bay, I’ll never forgive for Transformers.

Outsourced

Smelling smoke as I wake to alarms.

Fire?

Fire!

Rolling out of bed onto the floor, pausing to grab my phone. Keeping low, making my way through and out of the increasingly smoke-filled house. My wife’s with her parents for the weekend, thank God for that. All that’s left is to call 911.

“Please,” I say, calmly as I can, “help me. My house is burning.”

The gentle, accented reply; “That‘s unfortunate, but I’m not sure what to do about it. I’m in India.”

I lost everything in the blaze. Still, the civic budget was balanced, and property taxes lowered...

As Long as You Need

The basement’s unfinished, it’s walls and floor concrete. No windows.

And the staircase leading up to the main floor is simple lumber, decades old lumber at that. Half the boards were half-rotted anyway. Knocking them out with a fire axe took minutes.

Lucky every home has a fire axe nowadays, hey?

So when one of the bastards bit Cynthia, we had a safe place to put her. We weren’t perfectly comfortable with the situation, but we knew if we’d put her down for good you’d freak out. And we couldn’t put you through it. You’d been through so much already, with your parents and Jerry and all. So we put her down in the basement.

The constant moaning down there took some getting used to, but as we’ve all learned since the initial outbreaks a person can eventually get used to anything.

And so we got on with our lives.

For a while.

But the outbreak’s getting worse, and now people are talking about the local emergency services being suspended indefinitely. And if they are, without the police and the militias anyone who stays behind doesn’t stand a chance in the hell this city’s about to become.

Please, stop. Stop crying, I know. Please?

Listen, I know you don’t want to hear any of this, but you knew storing Cynthia in the basement was only every going to be a temporary fix. Calm down! You need to get your head together, we need to get out of here, and she needs to be left behind.

I’ll pack, you go downstairs and say your goodbyes.

Take as long as you need. But not too long.

My iPhone

He said he’d forgotten his bank card at home, but he’d return to cover lunch, and offered to let me hold his iPhone ‘til he got back.

But after he left, it started ringing, and kept ringing most of the afternoon.

Finally, I answered.

A woman’s voice, hoarse from weeping. Between ragged sobs, she said her husband was a good man, who’d never hurt anyone, and was just trying to buy ice cream.

She screamed at me, thinking I was a mugger.

Thinking I was a thief.

Thinking I was a murderer.

…long story short, I have an iPhone now.

The Process

Was the surgery painful? All surgeries are painful. The real question is; was the surgery necessary?

And the answer to that question is: Not really.

Months of splices and surgeries, each more painful than the last as I grew gradually immune to the anaesthetic, and I can’t even make reasonable arguments that the process was necessary.

It’s not for everyone.

Some say it’s not for anyone, that what I’ve done, and become, is an abomination against nature itself.

Yet, when I uncoil gigantic new bat wings and soar off into the night’s sky, I’m too exhilarated to regret my decision.

...on friendship.

He’d been depressed, convincing himself he was utterly alone, and we couldn’t allow it. So we threw a funeral.

His eyes widened when he saw us, gathered to celebrate his life. Clearly he was in shock we’d made the time.

And he was near tears during our eulogies. He’d never realized how many people he’d touched, lives he’d changed for the better.

He struggled a little when we buried him.

He struggled a LOT when we buried him.

I’d like to dig him up and ask how he enjoyed it, but it would only make the gesture feel less genuine…

Jan 3, 2011

The chamber came to order, but before the session began thunder cracked.

A freshman senator stood, pentagram of fire behind his head. He smiled at the Majority Leader, muttered something Latin, and all hell broke loose.

All the Hell.

The chamber floor opened, people scrambling to avoid being swallowed, as murderous crows swirled like a typhoon, screeching.

In an unnoticed corner, Ted Kennedy’s ghost took vengeance on Scott Brown.

It was a good day to watch Cspan.

Also: I couldn’t help think, during the hubbub over Christine O’Donnell, somebody really should’ve thought to ask if Chris Coons was a witch…

Knife

Late at night, the knife whispers to me as I go to sleep.

Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t command me, it would never try to control me. It‘s not that kind of knife.

It simply whispers.

It asks about my day, what I’ve been doing. And I know it genuinely cares about my answers.

It comforts me when I’m feeling low, and congratulates me when I’m feeling well.

It tells me it loves me.

And I know that love’s an important thing.

That’s why, if it ever does ask me to do anything for it, I will. Without question.

Will I. Am

Last night, Will I. Am came to me in a dream.

Dressed in an elegantly tailored suit, he delivered a PowerPoint presentation to me, in which he firmly but reasonably demonstrated how his pop band was suited perfectly to my pop listening needs, and how his brand could synergize easily with my own.

The quality of music, he explained, was irrelevant.

The next morning, I awoke with a chill. It’d been so vivid I’d nearly thought it had truly happened.

And all through my day, I couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight was going to be a good, good night…

The End of the World

The world ended before its inhabitants even knew it was ending.

The Comet knocked the moon out of orbit, and Tsunamis smashed the coasts as tides went haywire. When lunar wreckage struck central Europe, it left a miles-wide crater, sending up enough dust to begin an ice age.

If anyone survived, they’d soon be frozen.

Thus, the world ended. Not a whisper, but a cry of incomprehension cut short by the mightiest bang…

…I’d never been to Earth, my parents emigrated before I was born. But as I watched coverage on holovid, I couldn’t help feel sadness for the homeworld.

Belief

A man visited Tabitha’s school to tell them that, if they believed in themselves, anything was possible.

She trusted him, because he’d said what she wanted to hear.

So after school she sprinted home, bolted to her room, stared intensely into her bedroom mirror, and believed.

She believed for hours. When she didn’t come to dinner, Mother brought up sandwiches. When she collapsed into bed, exhausted from belief, they remained uneaten.

Waking the next morning, she rushed back to the mirror to see if self-belief had worked it’s magic…

…but was disappointed to see she was still a fictional character.

Casper

At work, the claw machine has new, Halloween-themed stuffed toys.

It’s perfect for the season.

And at the back of the machine is Casper, the friendly ghost. For Halloween he’s dressed as an Egyptian mummy.

When I first saw it, I shuddered. Why on earth would Casper have a Halloween costume at all, let alone dress as a mummy?

He’s already a freaking ghost, for crying out loud!

It’s an abomination, a betrayal of a beloved character!

On an unrelated note, my doctor says I need to stop getting worked up over trivialities or I’ll give myself a heart attack…

Sacrifices Made For Love

He loved her, truly and deeply.

She was growing older, more noticeably each day, but he couldn’t imagine life without her.

So year after year he made excuses not to go.

A little longer, surely, couldn’t hurt. She was his life, and nobody would notice.

But eventually, inevitably, somebody did.

And men came to escort him to the hospital, for a test or two to figure out why he didn’t seem to age.

And two tests became five, ten, hundreds.

And days became decades.

He knows he’ll never be free. He hates what his life’s become.

But he regrets nothing.

Pirates

And so, I was captured by pirates.

It’s less awesome than it sounds.

My wrists and ankles bound, I’m blindfolded in the stinking cargo bay of a strange ship. To my left, someone’s crying. I’m not sure who.

Outside men argue in a language I don’t understand. hopefully they’ve asked for a ransom. Hopefully somebody pays.

This isn’t how I’d hoped to spend my vacation. I only wanted to relax, and learn a little about wine-tasting.

Admittedly, part of the blame is my own.

I was the one who misread the travel brochure.

But seriously, who markets a Somalia Cruise?

Murder

They say once you’ve killed somebody, the value of life lessens, and murder thereafter becomes easier.

So I killed someone.

Nobody important, I’d chosen him at random to minimize the chance of being caught. And yes, it was rough. He fought back, for starters, with more strength than I’d expected. But more than that, the act itself weighed upon me.

I was ending another human being. What gave me the right?

But I persevered, and eventually the struggling ceased.

And you know what? I honestly think that, should the need ever arise to kill somebody, it’ll be a little easier…

Despair

He stared desperately up at her.

“Surely,” he pleaded, “you know I’m innocent!”

But she couldn’t meet his gaze. Silently, she turned her back.

And as she left his cell, he was overcome by despair greater than any had ever known.

Seriously, the despair was great. Like, fucking amazing.

Born of betrayal and hopelessness, it was almost tangible, like a cloud. There was purity to it, like true love, like abandonment.

It was… beautiful.

But I digress. The next day he was hanged. He died alone and afraid.

And I still can’t get over how much I loved that despair.

The Plan

1) Procure kittens.

2) Perfect cutsie-pie handwriting.

3) Genetically and, where results would go unnoticed, cybernetically enhance kittens. Razor claws, improved strength, speed and agility, fangs that rip through steel. That sort of thing.

4) Using shock collars and cuddles, teach kittens to equate affection with physical pain, such that any kindness drives them into murderous frenzy.

5) Craft adorable sign reading: “Free Kittens”

6) Stand by highway with cardboard box.

The angle? No angle, I have absolutely nothing to gain by this plan. Sometimes you have to do what you do for the simple joy you derive from it…

Power

I’ve replaced the light bulbs in my home.

The new bulbs burn just as brightly as the old ones, provide just as much light, but require much less power to run.

I’ve also weatherized all my doors and windows, and replaced my water heater with a far more energy-efficient one.

The work was difficult, yes. Difficult and initially expensive. But it’s all been worthwhile, with the energy I’ll save via my new, modern, more efficient home.

Because these savings have given me tremendous power. Power greater than normal men could dream of.

Power I shall use… TO RULE THE WORLD!!!

Story a Day (feat. T-Pain)

I can’t seem to shake him.

It started as I came home from work Friday. I was halfway there when I saw his top-hat bobbing through the crowd behind me, and realized I was being followed.

I keep trying to shake him, but every time I think he’s gone I hear the gentle fwip-fwip-fwip of dreadlocks brushing his shoulders.

In darker moments I wonder if he’ll plague me to the grave.

I don’t know which of you told him I planned on recording with Akon and Beyonce, but when I find out I swear to God I’ll make you pay…

The Virus, Transmitted via Bite

It seemed, to our starvation-crazed minds, a tidy solution.

After all, we’d run out of canned goods days ago, and they’d gladly eat us were only they given opportunity.

So we cobbled together a rope-trap, slung it over the wall, and waited.

It didn’t take long for one of them to shamble into it. We retrieved the trap, crushed it’s skull, and that night we feasted.

But by morning every one of us was sick.

Brian went first, he passed this afternoon.

He’ll reanimate before long.

I imagine he’ll be here soon to devour me.

I imagine I’ll let him.

A Tree

It’s said that on the outskirts of town there’s a clearing, and in this clearing a tree.

And during the nights when the moon is full, the beasts of the forest, deer, rabbits, elves and gnomes, gather there to dance.

And the wonder and magic of nature is thusly displayed by moonlight, and anyone fortunate enough to witness it understands, for perhaps the first time, what it means to be alive.

…and sometimes, while I’m working graveyard shifts, serving waffles, I wonder if I ought to go there, and see it for myself.

But there never seems to be time…

Skeleton

The toughest part was grave robbery.

This fact may not surprise you.

It’s true, nonetheless. Digging up a grave’s hard work, and in the middle of the night you can’t see what you’re doing. Plus, the caretaker patrols every few hours. Avoiding him was perhaps the toughest part.

But I managed, and got the coffin out of the ground, into the van, and back to my place. It’s in my room as we speak. No idea where I’ll ditch the coffin, but I’d consider the process worthwhile.

They say every closet has a skeleton.

And now, finally, mine does too.

Youth

She’d been told to treasure her youth, so she did.

She stored it in a paper-lined box, in a warm, dry spot on the top shelf of her bedroom closet, and kept it safe. Pristine.

Now, walking to work, you’d never know she still had it. She’s withered and drained, like 50 years of hardship have beaten her down. Moving slowly, arthritic joints creaking, grimacing in pain.

But she doesn’t complain. Because at the end of the day, she takes the box down from the closet, retrieves her treasure, and slips back into it.

And she’s perfect, and young. Renewed….

Nothing Under the Bed

Timothy was screaming again.

He tried not to, he was nearly six now, but he was terrified of what darkness concealed in the night.

He screamed until his father arrived.

His eyes red from exhaustion, he did his best to sound understanding.

“Timmy, it’s four in the morning, we’ve been over this. Your mother and I both have work tomorrow, go to sleep. There’s nothing under the bed. Nothing.”

And before Timothy could even respond, the door swung back shut, leaving him alone, in the dark, petrified by thoughts of the eternal, empty void that existed just under his bed…

Domination Deferred

Voltra’ag stared blankly at the shambles his life had become.

His kingdoms had been flooded by months of rain and, adding insult to injury, the fortress he’d thought impenetrable, and his unstoppable superweapon within, were rubble before him. Behind his iron mask, he wept.

He’d lost everything, because he had not learned three simple lessons.

1) Supervillains fail because unlike heroes, who can unite in the name of justice, their goals diverge.

2) Speak of your schemes to no-one unless you’re absolutely certain they’ll join you.

3) A man with a weather-control satellite is no man to be trifled with.

Little Ghost

It was a very old house, but in a very good neighbourhood, and worth a great deal more than I’d paid for it.

It took less than a week for me to learn why.

My third night in the place, I was awoken by a ghastly moan the likes of which no human voice should ever utter. A human voice could utter it, but it should not.

As I awoke I saw, sitting at the foot of my bed, a vaporous child, pale and drawn, in clothes curiously out of date, staring at me with eyes larger than his head should fit. His head could fit them, indeed it did, but it should not.

He stared at me, curious. I stared back, gulping down a scream. That gulp was a narrow thing indeed.

“What, I mean, who, I mean, what are you doing here?” I sputtered.

“I lived here,” he replied, too solemnly for a child his apparent age, “and then, later, I died here. Father, when the bank threatened to take this house away, killed mother, and me. And then himself. Mother went to heaven, Father to hell, and here I remain. I can’t leave, I wouldn’t know where to go. This house is the only home I’d ever known.”

“I will never leave this house. Never.”

I softened toward him then. I mean, he was just a kid, he didn’t deserve such a horrible fate. Then the implied threat became clearer. This was his home. I had invaded it. And what, pray tell, does an angry ghost do in a situation like this?

“But I live here now too.” I whispered, feeling the blood drain from my face. “What do you intend to… do to me?”

He cocked his head quizzically, then smiled.

“Do to you? Nothing. I just wanted to say hello, and welcome. I’d missed having people around…”

And with that the little ghost faded slowly back into the aether, leaving me shivering in the cold of my darkened room.

I didn’t sleep well that night.

I occasionally catch glimpses of the spirit roaming the halls of my new home, and when he catches my eye he’ll sometimes wave, and it still sends those same chills down my spine.

I have, from time to time, considered selling the place.

But, as I’ve said, it’s a very good neighbourhood. One that should be well outside my price range.

And there are worse roommates in the world.

Saying Goodbye

Halfway out the door I froze, as a sudden, sharp fear came over me, momentarily convincing me I’d never see you again.

I looked back at you, still on your laptop, finishing your homework, and wondered if I ought to say something. But what? I love you? You’re in my heart always? It’s ridiculous, it’s overwrought.

So I said bye, you grunted, and I left, still reassuring myself everything was fine, you’d be fine, and that you’d be waiting when I got home from work.

I wonder what happened with that. I hope you’re okay.

I never made it home…

Reunion

For my last wish, I wished you back to me.

It’d been nearly a year since the funeral, but the time had done nothing. If anything, my life had fallen farther apart each passing day.

So I wished.

The Genie smiled, nodded, and told me my wish was granted, and that you’d be home by dusk.

So here I sit. With a bottle of the wine we drank the first weekend you came to town to see me, and cinnamon rolls from the place at the mall you’d always liked.

And a shotgun.

Waiting.

However it turns out, I’m ready.

Same as it Ever Was

I found myself behind the wheel of a large automobile. And I asked myself, how did I get here?

Drinks? A few, and then driving home, to a beautiful house, and a beautiful wife. But my eyes couldn’t focus.

Lost, I asked myself: Where does that highway lead to?

Fumbling the wheel, I asked myself: How do I work this?

Something leapt. The car lurched, then stopped. I never saw it. I felt ill.

I asked myself: Am I right? Am I wrong?

Leaning out the window, seeing the bike, I said to myself: My god, what have I done?

Poison

There’s a snake in Brazil who’s venom’s the most deadly poison the world’s ever known. Unprotected contact with this snake ensures death within minutes.

But in a village near their habitat, the natives have an immunity to this poison. It’s they who harvest this venom, and sell it to those who know how to find them.

Winning their trust isn’t easy, and the venom’s expensive, but it’s more than worth it to see the look on your face as you finish your wine.

And watch you gasp for air.

But I don’t see why an anecdote would help with that…

The Power of Love

Building the army of giant robots was surprisingly easy. The trouble came when I tried to power them up.

My neighbourhood was blacked out for three weeks, the grid couldn’t handle my power requirements. It was time to go back to the drawing board.

I brainstormed energy sources, but anything that’d provide sufficient power’d surely be noticed by my neighbours.

Finally it came to me: Love. Love’s the most powerful force of all…

…anyway, enough about that. Are you coming to the pub tonight? I want you to meet Linda, she works with me. You’ll like her, she’s really cool.

Identity

There’ve been times where I’ve wondered: What am I?

Does identity require bodily continuity? Without physical form, would I simply cease? Or is there fundamental “self”-ness that exists beyond form, independent of body, that exists past passing.

I never called it soul, or spirit, since I wasn’t even sure it existed. But I did, in odd reflective moments, wonder.

Now, floating high above the accident, staring down at the twisted remains of the car that contains my own twisted remains, I’m no closer to an answer. If I had a voice, I’d laugh.

Because I no longer feel like me…

Satellite

The Satellite watched the cities of earth dispassionately as one by one their lights blinked out, shrouding the world in darkness.

It hadn’t heard from mission control in months, and the AI expected no future communication, yet somewhere within it’s processors, it couldn’t stop staring as the globe finally darkened.

If it did have a spirit, it found the sight dispiriting.

The Satellite didn’t know what happened to humanity, but it would miss them, now that they were gone.

It saved digital images as the last lights went out, then continued it’s orbit, suspended in darkness, wondering what happened next.

The Oracle

Vortagg stared the Oracle down, knuckles white upon his sword.

“I seek knowledge of my death, woman. Give me this knowledge.”

The crone’s shoulders slumped. That question never ended well.

“There’ll be a boy born in the village of Torain, and once grown he’ll lead a rebellion against you. Your fortress’ll fall, he’ll slay you, and your head’ll be paraded through the streets on a pike.”

Vortagg left the Oracles cottage, smiling to himself. The boy needed to be dealt with, but it’d wait. He had his answer, and it was good.

The cancer was benign. He would survive it.

Orientation

She left today, for the mysterious Orient.

I’d miss her, to be sure, but I didn’t begrudge. It’ll be a magnificent adventure.

She’s always wanted to see the world.

I bade her goodbye, and waited. She wouldn’t be gone as long as all that, and when she returned, she’d have tales of adventure, as well as exotic silks and spices procured upon her travels.

Was I jealous? Yes, but it wasn’t my time. This trip was something she had to do on her own. Her own private learning experience.

It’d broaden her horizons.

Alternately, I’d fundamentally misunderstood what “Orientation” meant.

Third Reel

The farmhouse exploded, spraying debris through night skies. And, from the wreckage, he came.

Machete hanging from one hand, mask unsinged, he shambled toward the two of us.

The bomb was my last idea. If that hadn’t killed him, what would?

So we bolted. We’d never outrun him, but when he stopped to kill one of us, the other might escape. Our only hope.

You were a young woman, blonde and topless, who hadn’t had a single line of dialogue in the first two thirds of the film.

I ran, keeping two steps ahead of you. I liked my odds.

La Cucaracha

When you awaken, you’ll find a mariachi band in your room playing “La Cucaracha.”

I know this because I’ve hired the band.

It’ll follow you as you prepare for work, then follow you to work. It’ll play at your office, your lunch break, and your car on your way home. Always the same song, always in the same up-tempo, perky way.

It’ll play until you go mad, then play as men in white coats drag you away to spend the rest of your life in a tiny, padded room.

You should’ve never made me the executor of your living will.

Napalming the Glass Ceiling

After the fourth round of drinks, conversation turned to gender politics.

“It’s sexism, plain and simple,” she commented, “institutionalized sexism. As an evil genius who happens to be a woman, I have to work twice as hard as a man to make people fear me!”

I denied it, of course. I mean, I’d grown up post-feminism, and treated the women in my life with nothing but respect…

…now, weeks later, staring out at the flaming ruins of the city, her words remain with me. I mean, of course I fear her, but can I honestly say I fear her enough?

After the Concert

They surged forward, a wave of angles, clashing colours and plunging lines.

Some figures were suited to revealing homemade costumes, some most definitely not. No two getups alike, nor two wigs identical, yet there was a definite unifying theme between them.

And worn with such pride! Such passion! The sort of defiant self-belief required to keep them from appearing laughable. They had it. All of them.

I watched them run from the concert and into the streets, screaming in joy, and the seventeen year old Goth I used to be smiled.

Godspeed, you ladies Gaga. Let your freak flags fly!

Perspective(tm)

Pain.

Pain beyond imagining, every nerve in my body aflame, I was torn apart, cell by cell, and conscious of every moment.

But more than pain, there was hopelessness, the knowledge that as my every aspect disintegrated, I was powerless to prevent it.

In the end, I was nothing but suffering and lucid consciousness of that suffering.

Hands trembling, I removed the VR headset. The experience’d been the most horrible thing I’d ever known, but the salesman was right, it’d put my real-life problems in perspective.

Sounding broken and hoarse, verging on tears, I voiced my decision.

“I’ll take it.”

The Ark

We built the ark as the globe warmed and the skies choked with smog.

And, with the last of our resources, it departed, carrying the hopes of humanity into space, leaving a burned-out husk behind.

We didn’t know for whence they flew, nor if they’d find a suitable world to colonize. But if they did, with their supplies and recorded library, they’d have the tools needed to reignite the fires of civilization.

Mad hope? Perhaps, but hope befitting our stature as the alpha and omega of this earth.

And a much more awesome solution than conservation could ever have been…

Our First Fight...

…began when I brought home a monkey.

I’d dressed him up in a pirate hat and pantaloons, but you were, for whatever reason, unimpressed.

You claimed it was a frivolous decision, and I should’ve consulted you. And I countered that he was very well behaved, and further that monkeys are awesome.

For whatever reason, you remained unconvinced. You went to bed angry, I joined you later, and eventually we were back to being okay. Relationships are, after all, about how you deal with inevitable conflicts.

Our second fight came a few weeks later, when you adopted a retired circus elephant

And There She Was

Shouldn’t have been surprising. It was, after all, her afterparty, but I didn’t expect to see her there.

But there she was. Shorter than I’d imagined, yet larger than life, with a weird energy about her. I’d seen the concert, but in person she was somehow more vivid.

I knew she wanted privacy after a taxing performance, but I had to meet her. I steeled myself, went to where she and her entourage sat, and spoke up.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but I have to ask. Is there a Lord Gaga?”

Later that evening, I ate her heart.

And her brain.

Salt

The power was mine. Legions at my disposal. The war was ending, and I was losing it decisively, but I did have one ace more up my sleeve. I did, after all, have one more wish on my monkey’s paw. And that might, with sufficient forethought, make all the difference.

My first two wishes had led indirectly to my destruction. I had to be careful with my words.

“Destroy them all,” I told them, “and salt the earth, so nothing will grow there again…”

…now, all over the earth, plants are withering and dying. I know it won’t be long…

This November

The world watches Venus and Serena Williams compete at Wimbledon.

But no one realizes, off the court a different drama’s brewing.

Because, in addition to preparing for the Grand Slam, Venus and Serena are rivals in love. Both fall for a young sport commentator, played by Zac Efron.

Will competitive instincts come between them? Will they remember the value of family? Or will they, in the fury of competition, allow differences to overshadow all they have in common?

This November, Miley Cyrus is Venus, and Hannah Montana is Serena in: Oh No You Wimbledon’t!

Now, Disney: Give me my money.

I've Redecorated

My room is now a mirror motif. Walls and ceiling are now giant mirrors, as are the closet doors.

I’ve stripped carpet bare, painted the floor silver, and buffed it to a reflective gleam.

The furniture’s covered in mirrorshard, and even my beddings are a reflective nylon material.

With lights on (I’ve tampered with the switch such that they can’t be turned off) no matter where I stand all I see is myself reflected back, onward to infinity.

I’ve done this to see how long it takes to drive me mad.

It’s been nine seconds.

I profoundly regret my decision.

The Most Dangerous Game

They gathered, the worlds foremost longbow hunters, on the private island, to hunt the most dangerous game.

I’m the game.

As they celebrate their upcoming hunt at the cabin, I’m loosed, nothing but whatever I find in the wild to aid me. I had a brief head start to prepare. Then, armed with their trusty longbows, they’d find me.

So I run.

Run to my hidden cachet, where I’d stored infra-red goggles, camouflage Kevlar-lined hunting clothes, and the AK-47 I’d been trained with.

I owe it to my guests, after all, to be the most dangerous game I can be.

Stephen Hawking

I was approached today by a representative of Stephen Hawking.

A neurosurgeon had, he explained, perfected a technique to transplant a human brain and, after an exhaustive search, I’d been determined the best possible recipient for Mr. Hawking.

One million dollars was offered. The downside being that I’d never spend it. It’d be either given to my loved ones or donated to a charity of my choosing.

At first I scoffed. My life? For money I could never spend? Ridiculous.

But then I remembered, it’s Stephen-freaking-Hawking we’re talking about here!

What’ve I done that’s so great?

I’ll miss you all.

Doubt

And then there are times of weakness.

Times when fears and doubts bear down, and I don’t know who I am. Times I wonder about choices, made and unmade, and what could’ve been.

A sense, then, of existential dread washes over me. Who am I? What am I doing? Is there grand purpose to my life I’m missing? Some way in which I’ve, fundamentally, failed?

When I get like this, I think of what my father told me as a child…

“Man the fuck up, and get on with it!”

…it gives me the strength I need to carry on.

I'm Not a Monster

I warned you.

You had the easiest job in the world! Get money, bring downtown, drop off. You didn’t even have to launder it yourself! The pay was good, the work was easy. I told you over and over, don’t fuck this up!

But you got greedy. You got “mugged” on your way and “lost” the briefcase. With a ticket to Barbados in your apartment, sitting on your nightstand.

You knew you’d get caught.

You knew I kill people for money.

You had to put me in this situation?

I’ll look after your kids. I’m not a monster, after all…

At the Nursing Home (as performed on the dribblecast)

this is a great read of my previous story "At The Nursing Home" on the Dribblecast. If you don't subscribe to the Dribblecast on itunes already, why not? that 'cast rules!!!


http://dribblecast.posterous.com/the-nursing-home

An Account of My Admittedly Brief Time as a Crime Fighter

From shadows he lunged as she walked innocently by.

Pinning her to the cold brick of the alley, wrestling her purse away, he whispered something known to none but the two of them.

Little did he know I saw all. And the time had come for me, long sickened by crime, to swing into action.

I dialled 9-11 on my cell and gave a detailed account, then went downstairs to make sure she was okay. We waited together for police to arrive.

And what the hell’s wrong with this neighbourhood, that nobody but me was willing to do even that?

Negotiations Broke Down...

…as negotiations occasionally do.

The planetary government, although we tried to be reasonable, were intractable about their “cultural autonomy.” First contact subjects simply don’t understand, the notion of autonomy of any sort’s preposterous.

They’re part of a larger universe now. New species’ must learn to subjugate themselves to something larger than mere planetary ambitions.

Some refuse to understand this, I learned long ago. It was the toughest part of my position as a diplomat of the Empire.

I sighed, and gave the command.

The navigator set co-ordinates for the return trip as, below, our bombs rained down upon the planet…

The Man in the Blue Sedan

The man in the blue sedan’s followed me for forty-five minutes now.

I noticed him halfway home, and realized it was me he was following three blocks from my apartment.

I drove past the parking garage. He can’t know where I live.

I know that much.

What I don’t know is who he is, why he’s following, or why he’s staring so intensely at me as he drives. I’m terrified to ask.

I’m just gonna sit here, hands white knuckled on the wheel, eyes forward, and drive. I’ll drive until I figure out what the fuck I’m going to do.

Something went extinct today...

…don’t worry, it wasn’t anything good.

A little bird, red and yellow, in a part of the world you’ve never heard of.

It’s habitat was ploughed under to make room for a mine that we all agree we need resources from.

The last of the species died, alone and afraid, in a nest built in part of a tractor. It didn’t even know why it was dying.

And no one and nothing will miss it.

You could count the people who’d seen it on your fingers.

Ah well…

Tomorrow something else’ll go extinct.

Hopefully, it’ll make for a better story.

The Machine

My brain’s wired to the machine, and instantly I’m everywhere. Every house in every town, in every nation of the globe I’m present, flickering through settings and possibilities, witnessing seven billion human stories, all in the blink of an eye.

For one brief moment, I’m God. I know all.

My mind reels and, as quickly as it begins, it lurches toward it’s end. My brain, unable to process the volume of experience, cracks, shatters, and is gone. Technicians decouple my now vegetative husk from the machine and wheel it from the room.

They make modifications, and call in another volunteer.

I Believe in Science

As the Sorcerer strides through downtown chaos bursts forth. Cars explode, trees melt, birds speak. Dragons pour forth from beneath the earth, circling above his head.

People are trampled in their rush to escape, but the Sorcerer pays no heed, too lost is he in the chaos his majik hath wrought.

He throws back his head and, drunk with power, laughs.

Across town, I’m alone. Alone and nervous. Nervous and afraid for my life.

Afraid for my life, and hastily strapping myself into my newest Battlemech.

I believe in myself.

I believe in science.

The time has come for action.

Puppy in a Shark Tank

She tossed the puppy into the shark tank.

My stomach turned. I have villainous moments, I’d never deny that , but this was crossing a line. Killing puppies, for what seemed like no reason at all, was just wrong, and I couldn’t abide.

Vertigo came over me, I nearly threw up. But when I opened my mouth to protest she pointed back behind me.

The shark was dead at the bottom of the tank, and the puppy yapping in pleasure.

“I’ve bio-enhanced my puppy into the perfect killing machine!”

I made love to her then, next to the shark tank.

Fear

I can taste your fear.

I feel it pouring off you in waves, and I hunger for it. It’s what I came here for, why I do what I do. For your fear. Thick, black and salty, I know I must have it.

I will have it.

I drink it in, wave after wave, and it’s delicious. Your terror gives me life, gives me reason, and I take all you have, leaving you empty, a shell, drained of that which once seemed so important to you.

And so nourished I depart, and you go forward into the world, reborn.

Fearless.

At the Nursing Home

The nursing home lobby was completely empty.

No nurses scuttled around, no seniors played chess, there wasn’t even a secretary behind the huge, entrance facing desk. No soul to be seen.

The effect was eerie, it wasn’t late enough to justify the place being so abandoned. I admit, I was tempted to go, but I’d come to visit Grandpa.

Visit him I would.

As I wandered deeper into the complex, I heard the front door swinging shut behind me, the deadbolt falling.

Well played, Grandpa. Well played.

Clutching my axe closer to my chest, swallowing my fear, I pushed forward.

My Biography

My name is Christopher Munroe, and I am a human being.

I was born in Edmonton, grew up in Calgary, and have spent the past 8 years doing a mixture of Dinner Theatre and writing, financing myself with work as a waiter.

I’m both biologically human and deeply connected to communities made up of other humans, and I’ve never said or done anything to cause you to doubt my underlying, fundamental humanity.

And if a man in a charcoal suit and black leather gloves asks about me, you will tell him all of this.

Tell him this and nothing more.

The Man Who Murders Me...

…will be tried for vehicular manslaughter, and acquitted.

However, stress from the trial will end his marriage and career. Family and friends will never look at him the same. Murdering me will destroy his life, utterly.

But he knows none of this right now. Right now he’s driving home from a bachelor party. He’s slightly drunk, but confident he’s cool to drive.

Meanwhile, I’m walking home. I know I’ve had too much to drink, and I’m not driving. Behind the wheel, in the state I’m in, I could kill somebody!

I stumble across the street, forgetting to look both ways…

Curiosity

I took the Television apart.

It’s something I do, always has been. Rip something apart, look inside, and try to reassemble it. Sometimes I manage, the toaster and lamp still mostly work, sometimes not. My computer’s just dead, and sadly so’s the television.

Compulsion, or honest curiosity? Whatever it is, I’ve taken apart nearly everything in this house at one point or another.

The only thing I never touched is the heavy padlock on the front door. The one you didn’t notice me locking after you came in.

I just like ripping things apart. To see how they work inside.

The Man in the Corner of the Pub

There was something strange about the man in the corner of the pub. No specific thing, he just seemed… off.

Not a big man, or particularly imposing, but something about him drew my eye the moment he walked in the door.

He seemed twitchy, like a spring wound too tight. A dark cloud hung over him, as though he was waiting for something or someone to set him off.

To give him the excuse to vent his frustration.

I finished my own beer, free hand resting on the straight razor in my jacket pocket, and wandered over to say hello…

Proving Myself

My presentation was, at last, complete.

My research’d been checked and double checked, and an independent study’d been performed by a team in Australia verifying my findings.

The findings were, I was confident, beyond dispute.

Moreover, the presentation itself was perfect. The power-point elegant, the charts easy to follow, and I’d even overcome my fear of public speaking. This was too important to let shyness stop me.

All the pieces were in place. I was ready for my meeting.

They called me mad when I first shared my theory, but I’ll show them who’s mad!

I’ll show them all!!!

BWAAAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HAHAHA!!!

Butterfly

The butterfly drew back it’s wings and flapped them. And on the other side of the world…

Nothing.

No volcanoes roaring to life, no tsunamis born. The ground didn’t quake, nor did the sky rend itself asunder.

There were disasters, to be sure. A hurricane raged in the Gulf of Mexico, but it was hurricane season, and it’d been raging for weeks. The sum effect of the butterfly’s wings was, globally speaking, nothing.

Nothing but propelling a butterfly through the air, to exactly where my eyes happened to catch it.

Making me smile.

Sometimes beauty’s nothing more than it seems.

The End of the Workday

Gorath returns home, sword bloodied, garment rent. He leans his weapon by the door, removes his dragonscale helm, and staggers, wounded but not mortally so, to his seat at the table.

After the day he’d had, respite was welcome.

His woman puts his meal in front of him, cleans his sword and hangs his helm, allowing him to eat in peace. A warrior, she’s learned, requires silence for his evening meal. He finishes his mutton, and she sits across from him, reaches out, and takes his calloused hand.

“Gorath?”

“Yes, oh wife?”

“I am with child.”

Goraths eyes light up…

A Man to be Trifled With

“I’m not a man to be trifled with!” I howled.

Jenkins bowed his head and returned to his cubicle. I smiled, satisfied I’d showed him who’s boss, and returned to my office.

Upon my return I saw it. My desk, chair, everything was affixed to the ceiling. My computer, upside-down, sat bolted to the desk. They’d even stripped the carpet and reassemble it piecemeal upon the ceiling. I’d no idea how many people it’d taken, but it happened while I’d been screaming at Jenkins.

It was then I realized.

I am, it would seem, a man to be trifled with.

My Satellite (part 3)

The project’d been difficult to complete, but Dr. Colossus knew it’d been worth the effort. With his satellite operational, the world had no choice but to bow before his genius.

His technicians counted down, and the rocket fired to life, an array of superlazers and mind control rays thrown into low earth orbit. He laughed maniacally, and brought the systems online.

At which point my own satellite noted it’s power signature, relayed an auto response to my headquarters, and shot it down.

A few days later Dr. Colossus received a very brief note.

It read: I don’t share. Nothing personal.




For more information on the Lazer-Satellite I sent into orbit please consult the following Drabbles

The Weather (My Satellite part 1)
http://munsistories.blogspot.com/2010/06/weather.html

My Satellite (part 2)
http://munsistories.blogspot.com/2010/06/satellite.html

Why I Shouldn't be Allowed to Own a Pharmaceutical Company

Test subject A took our prototype drug at 3:00pm and we settled in to observe the affects.

Three hours later he announced he was Christ risen, and had to kill pop singer Justin Bieber to avert the apocalypse. He started screaming, and continued until he passed out. He’s been alternating between screaming and drooling since.

We’re calling the project an enormous success, and will release the drug, in reduced doses, into the city water supply in the coming weeks.

We expect, with demand thus created, that our newest antipsychotic drug will be a big seller upon it’s release in October.

Gravity

“That’s it,” I thought to myself, “I’ve had it. I won’t be held prisoner by forces beyond my control one moment longer!”

Truly, it was time to make gravity my bitch.

Was success likely? Perhaps not, but I believed in myself, and wasn’t taking crap from gravity one moment longer. I was sick of being held in place, I’d go where I damn well please, and no force on earth would stop me.

I stood in the center of the room, closed my eyes, focused my attention, leapt…

And came promptly crashing to the ground, another victim of hubric overreach.

Now that the Oil Spill's Capped

The oil spill, finally, has been stopped, and by all accounts the fix’ll hold until the relief well’s drilled. Everyone’s thrilled, but none are happier than I.

I’ve been waiting far too long.

From off the coast, my newest robot lurches to life and makes its way, unstoppable, into the city. Everyone runs screaming as my battlebot, seventy feet tall, crushes everything in its past.

My biggest robot yet.

I’m desperately proud.

It’d lain beneath the sea three months, waiting to be unleashed. I didn’t like to share focus. The wait had been excruciating.

But now the oil spill‘s capped.

Internal Monologue

I see you over there, in the corner, crying. You don’t think I can see you, you don’t think I register any of what’s happening around me anymore, but I do.
You’ve been here every day since I arrived. Some days you read to me, some days you bring company. Some days you just sit by me, reading to yourself or watching the television they’ve inexplicably left in here for me.
Sometimes you tell me I’ll soon recover, and that everything will be just like it was before.
Before…
It’s been close to six months since they wheeled me, silent and unmoving, hooked up to so many tubes and machines I barely looked human anymore, into this little white room, after the accident left me unable to take care of things like breathing or feeding myself without help. But you haven’t missed a day.
That’s what love is, I suppose.
It’s the willingness to sit next to someone you’ve been told will never speak or move again and tell them they will, and all the doctors on earth be damned. It’s the willingness to hope, even when told a situation’s hopeless. And you’ve been here hoping, and giving me hope.
But I can’t help notice that you spend less time reassuring me than once you did. And when you do, it sounds more desperate. As though you were really trying to reassure yourself. And failing.
I can’t blame you, you held on to hope longer than I had any right to expect you to, much longer than I did. But every time I have to watch you cry yourself hoarse, head in your hands, slumped over the edge of my bed, thinking nobody’s watching, it hurts worse than the accident ever did.
I never wanted it to be like this for you, you have to understand that. You’re still so young, so vibrant. You shouldn’t be here with me when you could be seeing all that this wild, wide, wonderful world has to show you.
If I could speak, I’d tell you to move on, to go out into the world, to stop wasting your time here with a dead man when you, at least you, could be out there living.
If I could move, I’d wrap my arms around you, comfort you as you wept, hold you until you had no more tears to cry.
But I can’t. And you don’t even know I’m still in here. More than a ghost but so much less than a man that the idea I was ever a person seems laughable. If I could still laugh.
But all I can do is lay here, in my bed, watching you cry, wishing there was something I could do, knowing there’s not.
All I can do now is lay here and think to myself all the things I desperately want to say to you. Like I love you, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

The Secret

I was recently given a copy of “The Secret” by a co-worker who genuinely believes in these things.

By “these things” I mean both “the power of constructive visualization” and “whatever Oprah tells her to believe this week”.

The book’d never been my thing, it seemed too new-agey and touchey-feeley for my tastes, but I try to approach new experiences with an open mind. It’s only fair.

So I read the book, closed my eyes and focused my energies on what I wanted to bring into my life.

So far, it hasn’t been working.

People still believe in “The Secret”.

#movieswithbatman

The next summer, every movie had Batman in it.

Hollywood execs had, it would seem, been reading Twitter that day.

Comedies where Batman had raised a child, actioners featuring Batman fighting terrorists. Victorian dramas where Batman advised the Queen regarding Scotland.

In one film, a high school girl who’d only just moved to town had to make a tough decision between the Batman she loved, and the Batman who loved her.

At first we were thrilled, we’d changed the world! Our stupid gag had forever altered Hollywood!

Then we went and actually watched these films.

Now: We are not thrilled.

Somewhat Preachy

Somewhere in the ocean is an island made of plastic.

I know this is true, I’ve seen it on Discovery Channel.

There, out in the waters, all our discarded plastic clumps together, brought by the wind and the current, in a mass larger than the state of Texas. Our plastic doesn’t decompose, you see, so every time we throw plastic away, it’s inevitably drawn to one enormous oceanic hub.

Plastic trash island.

It’s terrifying to see, if you see it. A testament to our waste, our hubris.

And as we speak, a million vuvuzelas make their pilgrimage to this island.

Threats

The best threats are threats unstated.

Anyone can threaten violence, physical or emotional, and anyone can deliver. However, the mere threat of violence lacks the art, the finesse, of an unstated threat.

Once you’ve explained what you’ll do, cards are on the table. The person threatened can acquiesce to your wishes or accept clear consequences. But with unstated threats, you leave the imagination to fill in the details. And the imagination always supplies something worse than you could ever say out loud.

This is why I never explicitly threaten. Now: turn around, and walk away. I’ll only tell you once.

The Coming of the Doombringer

A man came to my door today.

“I bring you doom.” He announced.

It was odd, I didn’t order doom, and knew no-one who’d send it to me, but here he was, and I’d no reason to doubt him.

He did look honest. He carried a clipboard.

I told him I’d no use for any doom.

“Just doing my job, sir.” He replied.

I couldn’t argue. It wasn’t his fault I didn’t want the doom he brought, and he likely had other deliveries to make.

I pondered a moment, took the clipboard, and signed my name.

And then I died.

Quiet Desperation

The man in the next cubicle spoke to me today. It‘s odd, we’d worked together years, but never spoke.

“There’s more than this,” he pleaded desperately, “surely! I can’t stay in this office with the world out there to see, I need to fly!”

He then went to the window, threw a chair through it, and jumped.

Forty stories, and he leapt like it was nothing.

Perhaps he was mad, and fell to his death.

Perhaps he was right, and flew to freedom. I’ll never know, I didn’t follow to look.

I stayed at my desk, and continued my work.

How Ebay Saved the World (from me)

My Uranium’s arrived!

It was a bitch to find, expensive too, but it arrived last week.

Not sure what I’ll do with it. Something evil, but no concrete plans. I saw it was available, bought it, and figured I’d decide what to do with it later.

Trouble is, it’s been a busy week. I’ve had a houseguest, there was that stand-up gig, and I never got around to hatching my scheme. I should hurry.

I’ve not felt well lately.

And while washing my hair this morning, a fistful came out in my hand.

When buying Uranium, make sure shielding’s included…

At the Pitch Meeting for Toy Story 3

Everything ends, and everyone leaves you sooner or later.

No matter how much you care about them, or how much the truly once cared about you, they’ll one day be gone, and no matter how hard you try there’s nothing you can do about it.

All you can do is come to terms with this, learn to live with it.

And I truly believe you can’t learn it young enough. Which is why I intend to make a children‘s film upon this theme.

“Well that sounds excellent. You go to work, and we look forward to seeing the finished product.”

Preperation

As you approach my little apartment, I putter around, making sure everything’s prepared.

I’ve butterflies in my stomach, but I shouldn’t. Everything ought to go according to plan.

I’ve bought wine and cinnabon, which I know you’d been craving. I’ve set aside DVD’s you’ll want to watch, by candlelight, and tomorrow we’ve a movie to see.

While downtown, under city hall, the timer on my newest weapon ticks inexorably down.

I’ve prepared every detail, tried to become the perfect host, but I’m still nervous. I can’t help asking:

Can I keep you distracted enough to fail to foil my scheme?

Robots

I sit in my study, by the fireplace, musing to myself.

Truly, I have built robots.

Giant Robots, the sort that destroy cities, and smaller, subtler Robots, undistinguishable from men, to replace world leaders.

When armies were called for, Robot armies. I needed companionship, and the most beautiful Robots were by my side.

And yet, in my autumn years I’m unfulfilled. It’s as though I have tired of building robots…

From the corner, my Robutlers eyes glow red as he remembers his first command, accidentally given so many years ago.

“If I ever get tired of building Robots, kill me.”

Scenes From an All-Night Resturaunt

I later learned you weren’t simply drunk.

Certainly, you were drunk. Slurring, staggering to your car, lurching into the parking lot, rear-ending the parked car across from you.

But more than just drunk.

You were also, it turned out, a paranoid-schizophrenic with a history of violence and a lengthy arrest record. Who’d recently gone off your meds.

It turns out when you leaned uncomfortably close and threatened to take my eyes, you’d probably meant it.

The police car left the parking lot, you in the backseat, I watched after, my world a little more claustrophobic.

Hope you enjoyed your omelette.

Canada Day

I was visited by three ghosts.

The first: a moderating influence between two great powers, struggling to make peace in the world. He taught me to see all sides of a conflict, and communicate honestly.

The second: an expansive, open spirit, welcoming all to her. She taught me to open my own heart to new people and new experiences.

The third spirit was vague and indistinct, a blur of possibility untapped. I asked it it’s nature.

“Whatever you make of me.” It replied.

I awoke, and knew the true spirit of the holiday.

Happy Canada Day, god bless us everyone!

Genies

The lamp’s yours now, friend, but be warned: Not all Genies grant wishes.

Some do, to be sure, some make your dreams come true.

But some Genies, mad from centuries’ solitude, ignore requests. These Genies would delight in making you pay for each moment they’ve spent imprisoned, heedless of your blamelessness.

Some Genies have the power to burn the world, and the rage to want it burned.

I don’t know what Genie’s in this lamp, in all the years I’ve owned it I’ve feared to find out.

But now it’s yours. Rub it. Do not. It’s no concern of mine.

My Satellite (as recorded on the Dribblecast)

...and i'm back up on the dribblecast, ch-ch-ch-ch-check-ch-check it out! also: if you're not subscribing to it already, why not?

http://dribblecast.posterous.com/fw-my-satellite-by-munsi-0

The Queen

The Queen touched down in Halifax to celebrate the anniversary of our navy, and I was there.

It’d taken doings to secure my place in the crowd, but I’d made it happen.

As she took the stage to speak, from the back of the room, I screamed: “Sing Fat Bottomed Girls!”

The room went silent. The crowd weren’t amused.

Security moved through the crowd toward me, and I feared for my safety until the Queen, the very picture of dignity and class, stepped up to the mic, and did the unexpected.

She sang Fat Bottomed Girls.

And f*cking rocked it.

The Button (for Norm)

Each time I click, my free will vanishes.

I know it, but I can’t stop. There isn’t enough of myself left to stop. My mind, body and soul are promised to a man called Norm.

I hear and obey, I can’t do otherwise. And I know I’m not alone.

There’s an army of us now, clicking the button. None of us knows why he took our will, none know what he’ll do with us. But our loyalty’s unmistakable.

In the back of my mind, what’s left of me screams, unheeded.

Why, oh why, did I click the button labelled “submit”?

My Satellite

Above the city, my satellite comes to life. Finally, I’ve found my remote.

From safely in my control room, I load the target co-ordinates, focus my laser, and fire!

Benjamin Johnston, a forty-one year old bespectacled accountant, is walking from the sandwich store in which he habitually eats his lunch back to his office. He’s in the right place at the right time.

He catches, somewhere above him, a glint of light. Confused, he glances skyward.

And is hit with a face full of laser!

Benjamin Johnston now has perfect, 20/20 vision.

And he’ll never even know who to thank.

The Monkeys (as appearing on the Dribblecast)

i'm appearing on the dribblecast once more! download the podcast, subscribe to it, hear my story and comment on it. comment here if that's what you feel. it's a great read, i think, and she pronounced "Munsi" correctly! enjoy

http://dribblecast.posterous.com/monkeys-173

Monsters

“Daddy! I can’t go sleep, a monster’s in my closet!”

“Daniel, you’re too old to believe in monsters.”

“There is! I saw him!”

“You know perfectly well that there’s nothing in your closet. I’ve checked dozens of times, I’m not humouring you about it again. Daddy’s tired, he’s had a long day, and he’s not telling you again. Go. To. Sleep.”

He slammed the door behind him. In the morning he’d feel guilty, but tonight he was in no mood. Daniel drew the covers over him, trying not to cry.

…and from the closet, hunting knife in hand, I crept.

The Weather

I control the weather.

Expensive? Yes, but totally worth it. I designed, secretly constructed, and launched a series of satellites into orbit above my hometown. They use a system of chemicals, mirrors and lasers to manipulate air currents and precipitation.

I’d intended to use the system to blackmail the city, bend them to my will. With my boot on the neck of weather itself, none could stand against me!

Yet here I am. Behind my house, city not at my feet, sneaking a smoke before work. Drenched by the downpour.

No matter the device, I will somehow lose the remote…

Children

If you ask parents permission to kill and eat their children, large majorities will grant it.

If you phrase the question properly.

They’ll think it’s a joke, but don’t concern yourself with that, the main thing is consent’s given.

Further: When you pose the question with more than one child present, they’ll attempt to convince you to take their sibling, rather than questioning if you have the right to kill/eat children at all.

I’m not sure what this means, but it‘s certainly been my experience. It’s an interesting quirk of the human condition.

Next week: Preparation and cooking of children.

The Monkeys

Backstage are two cages.

In one cage, the monkeys. The monkeys are delightful. They juggle and balance on balls, they wear adorable hats. And best of all, they genuinely like people. Should you want to shake their little monkey hands, you can, should you want a picture with them, feel free to take one.

In the other cage, the other monkeys. They’re not delightful.

The other monkeys, half starved, are agitated into a rage. They’re trained to fight with knives, and they hate human beings instinctively.

Also, they have rabies.

Tonight, the audience was good. Let loose the good monkeys.

The Shop

On the street upon which I walk to work, in the window of an unassuming little shop that wasn’t there yesterday, hung a sign reading “Come in, come in, and all your dreams shall come true”.

I was just passing by, and late for work already, but how can you resist a pitch like that? I hovered in front of the shop a moment, weighing my options, then decided and, expecting nothing but hoping for everything, pushed open the door and passed inside.

Suddenly I was falling, and I knew I’d fall forever.

This time, I wouldn’t be waking up.

Behing Your Eyes

We live behind your eyes.

We watch as you go about your days, seeing each act, knowing every secret. We watch, and wait.

We wait to catch you at your weakest. Your moments of anger, of despair. It’s then that we seize control, driving you to action you’d never be capable of.

Rage.

Violence.

Personal destruction, utter and complete.

And then we return you to you. You face consequences for our actions. And if you try to tell anyone the truth, they’ll surely think you mad.

They’ll have to.

It’s either that or face what lives behind their own eyes.

Why I'll Never Work in an Office

The meeting was going poorly. Very poorly.

My presentation, finished last minute, wasn’t up to standard, Mr. Ferguson felt that were it given at the client meeting, we’d lose the account. He was adamant I rewrite it before tomorrow, even if it meant an all nighter.

I don’t deal well with pressure. He was screaming.

So I swept the leg, Cobra Kai style.

He hit the floor before he even knew what happened, clutching his mangled knee and screaming. My co-workers stared a moment, in shock, then burst into hysterical laughter.

Needless to say, I’m currently unemployed.

Totally worth it.

My Testimony

Admittedly, mistakes were made.

And while I take no personal responsibility, I agree the outcome was unfortunate.

Yes, I was in charge of the facility, and yes I signed off on the project in question, but what happened was a freak, one-in-a-million occurrence. The sort of thing nobody could’ve predicted.

I haven’t read that particular report, and I have no comment on whether it laid out the problems months before they occurred.

My point is, this isn’t the time to play the blame game. It’s time to look forward.

Somebody, after all, needs to do something about all the Zombies.

Meanwhile, at the U.N...

I released the bees into the U.N. building.

All hell broke loose, as you’d well imagine. As I was entering the building, people were in a panic, running to and fro, screaming.

I entered as though I owned the place, calm, cool, collected, clad in a Tuxedo of Bees and a silver-rimmed monocle.

I walked into the chamber and, as the international ambassadors cowered before my army of bees, took my place at the Secretary General’s podium.

Looking out at the terrified faces, I couldn’t help smiling.

Some say cartoonish super-villainy is played out.

Not in my heart, it isn’t.

To Do List

Things I did today:

1) Two loads laundry.

2) Watched Brazil/North Korea game.

3) Grocery shopping.

4) Snuck onboard Dr. Immortus’ Zeppelin of Doom by hiding in cargo box.

5) Avoided Immortus’ cyborg crew while planting explosives in the engine room, control rooms, and captains cabin.

6) Found where Annabella was held, overcame the guard, and freed her.

7) Fought my way through the crew and threw myself and Annabella out the Zeppelin’s escape hatch, detonating the explosives once we were in free fall.

Things I forgot to do today:

1) Double-check parachute.

…it’s always the details that get you.