dreadcrumbs

"Visiting Hours"

I look at my brother across the table. His face twitches as he shuffles the deck of cards in his hands again.
"Gary," I say.
"You ain't real," he interrupts.
One of the other patients in the common room suddenly starts singing what sounds like a cartoon theme song at the top of his lungs.
"FELIX THE CAT!" the man screams.
"I'm your older brother," I say. "Don't you recognize me?"
Gary starts to deal the cards face down on the table. Solitaire, maybe.
"THE WONDERFUL WONDERFUL CAT!"
I turn to glare at the screamsinger, who seems to be sitting calmly on a padded chair, flipping through a copy of Highlights.
When I look back at Gary, he's staring at the cards laid on the table with such intensity that I think he's trying to will them to move.
"I have a wife named Julie," I say. "You've met her. We have a little boy now."
"I know who you say you are," he whispers, not looking up from the cards.
"Then what..." I start.
"But you ain't real," he says again. "Yer made up."
"...EVER HE GETS IN A FIX!"
I look around again, this time for an orderly, or a nurse, or anyone, who will take responsibility for Felix the Screamer. There's a man behind the counter at the security door, but it looks like he's tuned it all out.
I stand, walking over to Gary's side of the table. His eyes dart once to me, and then back to the cards.
"Hey buddy," I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. I feel him twitch once and start to shiver. Crouching down to eye level, I put my other hand on his.
"I'm here, Gary," I say. "I'm here, I'm real, and I'm your brother."
I hear his breathing get more ragged, and he sits, as still as he can, for several seconds.
"...INTO HIS BAG OF TRICKS!"
Abruptly, he turns his head to look right at me, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.
"I can't see you," he whispers. "I can't see you. I can't see you."
I stand up, and plop back into the chair across him.
"This is really sad," I say, just as a nurse appears with two tiny cups for Gary.
"Got your medicine here," she says.
"Hey," I say to her. "Could you do something about Felix the Cat over there? It's really hard to talk with that screaming."
"FELIX THE CAT!"
She looks over at the screamer, shakes her head, and walks off in the opposite direction.
"Great," I mutter, and then notice Gary is staring at me, his little pill cup in one shaking hand.
"You ain't real," he says, and gulps down the pills.
"We went to school together," I say. "Remember Goatwood? I introduced you to Emily?"
"You ain't real," he says again. My vision blurs as my eyes start to tear up.
"I am," I say, reaching up to wipe the tears, but find none.
I blink several times, trying to clear my vision, and realize only Gary is blurry. The barred window behind him is as clear as ever.
"What...I..." I mumble, looking at Gary's image grow more indistinct, and then disappear altogether.
Suddenly the nurse is at my shoulder. "Did you take them pills, Nathan?" she asks.
"What?" I say. "No. My brother took them."
The nurse sighs. "Did you take 'em or not?"
"My brother did," I say. "He..."
She bends down to look me in the eye.
"He ain't real," she says.
The nurse stares for a few more seconds, her eyes searching for something in my face that she evidently doesn't find. Eventually she clucks her tongue and walks away.
I cast around, looking for someone, anyone, who saw Gary, who saw what I saw, and my eyes fix on Felix, who is staring at me. When he realizes I'm looking back, he silently mouths something, like he's trying to tell me a secret.
"What?" I mouth back, confused.
"I HAVE A MAGIC BAG!" he yells.

Five Reasons Not to Use Your Own Body as a Laboratory

1. Failed experiments are often difficult to explain, socially
2. Fed-Ex does not recognize "Hands, Arms and Torso, Me" as a valid delivery adress
3. It's difficult to find and keep janitors
4. You can only realistically keep one test tube in storage
5. If there's a fire, choosing what bits to save involves using a knife

"Our Agents of Armageddon"

I pull up the black spandex at my wrist and check my watch, like I have somewhere to be.
Everyone is just sitting around the table in silence trying to look thoughtful, or pensive, or dark.
I think we're all unwilling to say anything after The Insectosaur's awkward comment about midgets.
Baron Necrosis is tapping his fingers in series - pinky, ring, middle, pointer, pinky, ring, middle pointer. It's getting annoying, but mostly because I didn't think of it first. It's a great way to look like you're formulating some kind of despicable plot even if you're really just waiting for someone else to say something. If I started tapping my fingers now, I'd just look like a stupid copycat.
"I need a lair," Cerebrain says.
"Yeah?" I say.
"An underground lair," Cerebrain continues, and starts to stroke his chin like he's grooming an invisible beard. Another good move, but it sort of requires you to actually announce what it is you're thinking about, or you just look like a retard.
"I didn't mean all midgets," Insectosaur interjects. "You know?"
The Baron goes through two more tap cycles in silence, and then says "Underground lairs are stupid."
"Yeah?" I say.
"Why?" Cerebrain asks. "The Deathworm has one, and does okay for himself."
"That's his shtick," The Baron says. "He's a burrower. If it collapses in on itself, he just dig-wriggles out. What would you do? Think your way out?"
"Evil finds a way," Cerebrain says, fairly unconvincingly.
I take a deep breath, and my eyes dart to the snack bowl, still empty.
"Have any of you actually worked with midgets, though?" Insectosaur says. "Like, professionally?"
"Unless..." Baron Necrosis murmurs, and stops tapping. Everyone looks at him expectantly. That's another good side effect of the tapping. When you stop, it makes whatever you say seem more significant than it really is.
"No," The Baron says, starting up again. "That wouldn't work."
"What?" Cerebrain says. "What wouldn't work?"
"Nothing," The Baron says.
Cerebrain grunts. "I think an underground lair would totally work," he says. "If you built it right."
"Yeah," Necrosis grumbles. "Like above ground."
"Half of the houses in America have basements, Baron," Cerebrain says. "And they're not collapsing in on themselves."
"Oh, excuse me, then," Baron Necrosis says sarcastically. "When you said 'underground lair,' I didn't know you actually meant 'suburban basement.'" "Look, I'm just saying that..." Cerebrain starts.
"Midgets, they just aren't like us," Insectosaur interrupts. "They see the world differently."
"JUST SHUT UP ABOUT MIDGETS, JERRY!" Necrosis explodes. "YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING! YOU DO..nn...mffm....ahuh."
Tears well up in The Baron's eyes, his lower lip starts to quiver, and we all watch in horror as he starts to cry.
He puts his head on the table, covering it with his hands, muffling the deep sobs wracking his body.
I look over at Cerebrain, who shrugs nervously.
"Dude," says Insectosaur, confused. "Are we under attack?"
"Mmmm...my Mom," The Baron starts, his voice still muffled. "My Mom and Dad."
"Your what?" Cerebrain asks.
Baron Necrosis raises his head, eyes redder than normal, his mouth in some kind of agonized rictus. "My Mom and Dad," he says, "were killed by feral midgets. When I was a child."
"Get out!" Insectosaur shouts. "Mine too!"
Baron Necrosis stops sobbing abruptly and looks for all the world like a sick little child.
"Really?" He says.
"Really," says Insectosaur, who gets up and walks over to where The Baron is sitting.
I know it's coming, and I should look away, but still I stare as Baron Necrosis stands and hugs The Insectosaur. And then they just stand there, rocking back and forth, holding each other, crying.
I look over to Cerebrain, who is also staring at the spectacle with a nauseated look on his face. He turns to look at me with horrified eyes. "I think I just threw up in my mouth," he says.
"I'm sorry I used your real name," I hear The Baron whisper.
"It's okay, buddy," Insectosaur says. "It's okay."
I turn without a word, mounting the stairs to the outer door. About halfway up, someone starts to sing, and I'm pretty sure I hear Cerebrain vomit.

"The Second Date"

Amy is telling me all about the magazine she's interning on, and because she's cute, and I really like her, I'm trying to pay attention.
"...it's amazing the kinds of things they're reporting on, stuff the mainstream just won't touch," she says. I raise my eyebrows and nod. I should be asking something. A follow-up, to illustrate I'm engaged.
But her handbag is dripping, and has been since we sat down. So I'm distracted.
"pligk," comes a sound from just below her bag.
It's a thick kind of drip, like a sea sponge overladen with phlegm.
"pligk," I think I hear again, but try to ignore it.
"When it goes to press, it's like a giant process machine turns on, interleaving media without..." she says, but...
"pligk," a drop interrupts.
It's seriously distracting.
She's hung her purse on the armrest of the chair she's sitting in, leaving about four inches from the bottom of the bag to the floor. Just far enough for the drops of whatever is seeping through the seams of her bag to make a barely-audible noise when they hit the floor.
"...and so when I told Gordon, that's the 'Humour' editor - it's so great, they use the British spelling 'cause they mean it in that old Greek way, like feelings and bile, not, like, actual funny stuff...but so when I told Gordon..." she goes on.
"Pligk," says the drop of whatever-it-is crashing to the floor.
Normally, I'd be leaning forward, politely rapt, trying to show I'm interested in her and her story, but when I do that, the bottom of the bag creeps into my field of vision, and the little off-white pool forming beneath it kind of grosses me out.
It's probably just water, I tell myself. She set the bag down outside, and it got damp, and...
"Pligk," rings the bell of another free drop.
I swear I can feel the drops hitting the floor through my feet. I shift my position, trying to get as little of my feet touch the floor as possible.
"...I've got like four more weeks, but like I said, Sarah is leaving next month, so I'm really sure that..." she goes on, and I'm suddenly struck with the unreasonable fear that I'm going to be tested on what she's been saying.
"Plish," comes the sound, and the change makes me twitch. I try to cover by faking a stretch, but she stops abruptly.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
I realize suddenly I've leaned forward, and I can see the little pool underneath the bag. I stare. There's some kind of dead bug in it now. A beetle maybe. A moist shell on its back.
Almost in slow motion, I watch another drop form on the bottom of the bag, break loose, and splash onto the beetle. It twitches violently with the impact, and suddenly, Amy's head is in front of mine.
"What is your issue today?" she asks, annoyed.
She's about ready to walk out, I think.
My eyes drift to hers.
"What's in the bag?" I ask.
"What?" she says.
"What's in your purse?" I ask. "What's in there? What's wet in there?"
Her eyes turn confused, then irritated, and she leans back, letting out an exasperated noise.
For some reason, I still think she might answer me, and I wait, staring at her.
Abruptly, she grabs her purse and stands. I hear a crunch, and I know she's put her foot in the puddle and smashed the bug.
"Please don't call me again," she says, and I look down at her foot.
She walks away, the tread of her shoe pulling up the damp remains of the beetle. I watch her feet as she leaves, leaving pieces of bug behind with every step.
I look back to the wet smear of handbag secretion on the floor.
Just leave it alone, I think, even as I crouch down next to it.
But I have to know.
I lick my lips.
I have to know.

Five story cop-outs that need to be retired

1. The Shaman.
   We need our character to have a drastic change of heart, remarkable physical/emotional/spiritual healing, or receive some piece of advice from beyond-the-ken-of-mortal-man. Sort of like, a religious experience. But without the religion. Is there any kind mystic tradition we can distort to our purposes that people will recognize but not really know anything about?
2. "Love."
   Why is our character doing things...er...out of character? Why is he leaving his family? Why is he spending all his savings on a boat ticket to the Mariana Islands? Why is he risking his life for a stranger? Let's say "Love." It conquers all or something, right?
3. Sex.
   So how can we get the audience to believe our character is actually in love with someone they've only known five minutes? You know, without actually having any good interpersonal dialogue? Or acting? Cheap.
4. Nutso Technology.
   In the distant future year of 2009, our hero has, say, a 100 year old skull, and needs to find out what it looked like before it lost all of its skin and hair. Why not just stick it in the Amazing Analyzotron 4000? You can get a nice holographic representation of the head in its heyday, as well as any tattoos it may have had. With a few tweaks from the geek on staff, you may even be able reverse-interpolate its vocal cord DNA and hear it speak.
5. Swiss Army Magic.
   We've given our hero the "Mantle of Jove" which enhances all of the bearer's natural abilities. Also, with enough concentration, and when the plot paints itself into a corner, it enables our protagonist to see through walls, read minds, fly for brief periods of time, communicate with animals, and, if he really concentrates, reverse the flow of time and, depending on audience feedback, resurrect the dead.