dreadcrumbs

Microstory Monday

Victual Reality

"How long have you been here?" I ask the man tied up across from me, and he just stares at the floor, wheezing through his nose.
The floorboards creak above us.
"What do they want? Do you know? I have money." I say, and then looking up, I yell "I have money!"
There is a long silence, abruptly broken by a muffled cry of "MORE BACON!" from upstairs.
My companion's head suddenly jerks up, staring at me with wide bloodshot eyes.
"What?" I say, as heavy steps cross the floor above us. "What is it?"
He opens his mouth too wide, letting out a thick squealing sound, and I realize this man has no tongue.
A hole opens in the ceiling, and I see a head look down at us. "Shhh, piggies," it says. "Nana needs meat."

Friday Fives

Five things my two-year-old son probably wouldn't have eaten had his mother been home this week

1. 107 Individual French Fries
2. Traces of whatever made that stain under the couch cushion
3. Bacon Cheeseburger Pizza
4. Something crunchy that was sitting on our porch
5. Blood of unknown origin

Chaos Gnomes

I have, for most of my life, been the cause of much grumbling, muttering, head-shaking, and declarations of exasperation to the women in my life, particularly those in some kind of authority position over me. Which is pretty much all of them.

I think, and keep in mind this is only after 20 years of analysis, much of this frustration has to do with the tendency of my surroundings, be they bedroom, cubicle, or entire house, to transform themselves into an ever-descending maelstrom of incoherence and disarray, fit only to be the day-room of some wretched beast of extra-cosmic bedlam.

It can be aggravating, I imagine, to try to keep a home orderly when it houses such an abyss. I understand. Much to the disbelief of these women, I'm sure, I have been fighting these base forces of anarchy all my life. Because the lives of these sweet matrons have been blessedly free of such mind-shattering battles between order and chaos as my life has proven to be riddled with, they naturally assume these persistent pits of disarray exist through some fault of my own.

Alas, if only it were so. If I were the cause, rather than the last line of defense in a losing battle, I would happily submit myself to some institute to properly reprogram my brain. The sad truth is, I do put away my socks and dishes. I do put the dvds and cds back in their proper location after being used. I even alphabetize, file, and stack things. And yet, something else stays one step ahead of me, undoing all my good work.

And now, with my wife out of town, these nether-fiends seem to know I am under more stress than normal, and are working twice as hard to break me by throwing the house into further disarray. No matter what I do, that pizza box just stays on the living room floor. Disgusting. I think I must need some kind of talisman or a potion or something to keep these otherworldly wretches away. My own innate orderliness doesn't seem to be quite enough anymore.

Microstory Monday

The Psychosurgeon
Alan closed his comic book just as my screwdriver finally pried his kneecap loose.
"If you could have a super power," he said, "which one would you want?"
"Mind control," I said, shifting the gore bucket under his leg a bit.
"Like, so you could make people do whatever you want?" he said, brow furrowing.
"Not really," I said. "I'd use it to take away human suffering. Make people happy, you know? Regardless of their circumstances."
"Great answer, Ms. America," he said, opening up the comic again. "I'd choose invulnerability. That would be awesome."