All over, people are suffering, persevering, and making their dreams come true. Somewhere in the universe, The Local Nutcase is reconsidering what his blog stands for. Where is the beer?

Monday, April 11, 2005

Three Short Stories

1. Of My Brother's Keeper

As Jimmy O'Hara walked in the front door, he knew something was wrong. No bacon cooking on the stove.....no sound of a shower running.....no incessant droning of a tv weather caster saying that today would be partially cloudy with a fine haze of sweat over everyone and everything. He took off his hat, his coat, and his gloves, and hung them on the rack. He silently prayed that what he knew to be true was not. He slowly glided in, as silently as possible. He crept to the bedroom, taking off his shoes so as not to make that spot in the floor creak. He flexed his hands, ready for what he must do...He thrust open the door, and, to his horror, realized he lived alone.

2. The Dame Wore Pants

As she got dressed, Rose Tomkins realized her lover would have to be killed. She had worked it around in her head over and over. The little voice would pop up, Haven't you had good times? Is it really worth doing what you're thinking of? She pushed that voice away, wiped the sweat from her still heaving breasts, and pulled her long silk stockings on. "I knew this day would come," she said, reapplying her smeared lipstick. "This went too far long ago, and now it has to end. What if my husband were to find out? I can't bear to think of little Timmy and Marie living without both parents. Did you think you could OWN me? How DARE you! I will have to do this now so I don't have it come back to haunt me later!" She suddenly stood up, quicker than a bullet from an outlaw's gun, took her lover in her deceptively strong hands, and removed the batteries.

3. Dog In The Cave of Time and Reticence

It was hot on the night that I woke up to realize I was dead. The kind of heat where you feel your armpits getting cool, the sweat dripping down, staining your newly bought izod polo, pink and seafoam green, even though you thought it seemed a bit lavendar, your wife was all over it. It was dark, where I lay, but it felt like the heat of a thousand suns was on me, that I was cooking in a slowly turning rotisserie, seen only by those bored kids who had nothing better to do while there mothers, tired and sick and holding a baby of some kind, bought ham, the kind of ham that's cheap and salty and tastes too gamey to get more than a grunt from your husband, world-weary and drunk, halfways watching a football game and halfways wishing he were a woman named Yvette, too beautiful to be called Myrtle, not beautiful enough to be called Rita, but pretty enough to have a half-full dance card. As I lay there, it occurred to me I must have been killed by those friends who swore to protect me, those bastards who swore to UTILIZE me if they had to, and not any other time. I would get them back somehow. If only I weren't already dead! I would find a way. I would make my play at the best time, when no one saw it coming, when no one could stand up and say, "Hey, he's making his play!" I would get them all back for killing me like they did. I am a Run-on Sentence.

2 Comments:

Blogger Sassy said...

YES! YES YES YES. You are my hero. I love them. :)

4/11/2005 02:45:00 PM

 
Blogger VintageGeek said...

Holy crap, those are awesome! Hehehehehe...they make me want to chuckle maniacally.

4/12/2005 09:09:00 AM

 

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