18 August 2011

The Big Sleep, a #Fridayflash

So I did without a little sleep here and there. The extra hours were great for productivity—those hours after the wee one went to bed and before the sun came in to bid me do the Devil’s work at Big Name Corporation. Driving was the hardest part. Icy cold a/c spewing from the vents in December, shaking my head back and forth to rattle out the snooze spiderwebs. Acid metal in July. Windows all the way down as I yanked my aching, splintering bones through another bitch of a day.

I figured it out. How to not sleep. The best thing ever, because I could just keep working. Burning my candle at both ends ’til what I had left was a puddle of flaming wax searing the skin from my hands. It was a breakthrough.  Everyone left me be when they realized I’d discovered that magical secret. They were obviously jealous of me.

It wasn’t until the men from the bank came to collect the things from my house that I fully understood the permanence of what I’d done.

Photo credit: wintersixfour from morguefile.com

12 August 2011

Goiter Ghost, a #Fridayflash

Morning Bob, how’s that woman coming along? You read her the Riot Act like I told you?

Yeap and she didn’t like it one bit. Took the kids and went to her mother’s.

She’s an ornery one, that Regina.

That woman wasn’t just the orneriest thing out there in the swamp. There was that ghost goiter, Sangerria.

--like a real ghost?

Yes like a real ghost, now shut up, you’re breakin’ the ambulance. 

Don’t you mean ambivalence?

Whatever. Me and Johnny grabbed our bibles and rifles and took on off out there in Jim’s old T so we could get a good look at the Devil.

You can’t see the Devil, Bob.

I know that but that goiter had to be the next best thing. Pale as a corpse with yellow eyes. It snapped and hissed at the both of us but we held fast. See, there was a screwdriver buried deep in its side. It was in a heap of pain and probably dying.

So what’d you do? Pull it out and make friends?

Hell no. We did what any self-respecting country boys would’ve done. We had him for dinner.

(Photo credit: gxman from morguefile.com)

19 May 2011


Something about my life traded in a parade of egos and glittering trail of what could be disturbs me. A piece of the pie, tin star in my eyes, reaching for that next branch in the tree. Take time to assess the damage of being me, around me, inside me, and figure out if you come out on top.


I'm closing the door, pulling up anchor and departing golden shores to give this black mist in the distance its due. Without a fucking clue I'll drive all night if it'll only lead me to where I was supposed to be. A little bit of me in encased in words and typography on my screen. A breath I made extends half way across my universe and darker things lurk in shade where it's just a little bit cooler.

A few degrees.

25 March 2011

"Race" #Fridayflash

Brit slipped on his racing gloves, smoking a cigarette down to the filter, only to light another one. His knuckles strained against the English leather, fingers clamped tight atop the steering wheel.

“He's not going to show after all.” He smirked, relaxing slightly. Cockiness reared its pointed head and he took a nip from the silver flask in his inside jacket pocket. The blue 'Stang purred around him in approval. Nothing could beat his car. Underneath the hood he had a secret. A little switch under the dash. One flick and he was gone daddy gone.

Thunder rolled in off the highway. A deep rumble drifting up to the precipice. Ghastly blue reflected off the scraggly weeds clinging to life on the rocky edges.

“I'll be damned,” Brit growled and popped the handbrake.

The stranger rolled up next to him and tipped his hat. Lightning flashed overhead without the barest threat of rain. Brit shivered and gave a curt nod to his opponent.

Cindy went to stand between the two cars, short plaid skirt whipping in the breeze. Her fishnets were torn, exposing white flesh. She pulled a scarf from around her wrist and raked her blonde hair from one cheek to blow Brit a kiss. He heard the stranger's laugh.

The scarf went up. Then down.

Cindy was pelted with thousand of tiny bits of rock and dirt as the two muscle cars blew out of there, nose-and-nose, flank-to-flank. Tires scudded on the dirt, chrome flashing as both cars gained purchase at the same time. Brit had to admit, the old man was good. He dug the gearshift into fourth and the 'Stang screamed in response, ripping it up to fifth again once he'd gained on the stranger. The 'Stang chomped up the dirt, snarling as Brit pushed it to redline. He flipped on the radio and cranked up a metal song, riding the high that only this kind of race could provide.

The stranger cut him off at the curve, snapping back into first place. Brit cursed and slapped the wheel. The ass end of the 'Stang skidded in a half-arc before Brit commandeered it back into submission. The stranger had no brake lights.

They broke out of the turn clawing for lead, the stranger's ghoulish Dodge pissing blue flame, dwindling arcs of cerulean embers left to bounce to nothingness in the rearview. A cold bead of sweat rolled down in Brit's left eye and he brushed it away. He could see the shimmer of the violet haze as he pulled to the stranger's rear wheel on his side. The inside of the car was black as a sack of crows.

The straightaway loomed ahead and Brit flipped the switch, releasing the nitro into the engine. The 'Stang shrieked and rocketed forward. He laughed like a madman as he saw the black Dodge fall behind, until the headlights were two little dots in the mirror.

The nitrous gave out almost as quick as it'd kicked in and the 'Stang's speed fell. The finish was up ahead somewhere. Brit peered through the dirty windshield and didn't see the black Dodge fly up behind him.

Metal collided with a sick crunch, and Brit was thrown forward into the steering wheel. He downshifted and tried to shake his tail but the stranger might as well been painted there. Another impact, and Brit busted his lip on his own skull ring. He tried to brake, but they didn't respond. The 'Stang went faster.

They blew past the waiting victory committee and out towards the mesa's edge. The stranger showed no relent and kept his nose up Brit's tailpipe, smashing into it every now and then. Brit'd go left, the black Dodge would swerve left. Brit swung to the right and the stranger would smash into him until he went straight again. The end of the road showed in his headlights. Brit shit his pants as he drove through the barrier.

The fall took forever.

11 January 2011

Of Dust and Spirit

Would this crumbling sort of grey fall away to expose the tattered chosen? Dead fingers grasp at the last space of air left behind in flight to take hold of something that will all-too-soon grow cold. This grave in stride, where one must end up when they’ve died and there is no second stop beyond. Still one longs to hold this strange memory, giving the illusion and questioning a certain conspiracy of where the road must end. One pretends in fact, that this person has not gone along and instead remains strong, an entity to benefit the rest of those left behind.

We create Heaven.

A holding tank or golden pastures to pleasure and entreat those who met certain demise. Fly in friendly skies on pretty wings all white and pristine; an idyllic scene to bring more to this deceived population. This congregation with scales in their eyes cannot realize that there is only a finite level of life left in these human batteries. The soul encased in flesh is best when still fresh and not left long to pull loose of moorings tossed aside.

We die without expectation.

Photo credit: lkc from morguefile.com