David's Dada Eleganza Extravaganza

An old man in a blue dress rides the skeletal carousel:
Its ponies smile with empty eyes and softly sing his knell.
It's time to paint with porridge on the typewriters we've sold;
Let's nail our heads together, lose italics, use the bold!

Sometimes a girl named Margarine, she was a butt'ry spread,
She'd laugh and smile and wink at me, so I took her to bread.
While the clock of hearts pumps time upon its shoddy, three-legged stool,
Let's cut a bougie pig or two, eat beans, and don't skip school!

Attraction- Connor's Take

The Challenge: Write a character to whom you would be attracted.

 

Knight Kitchen

[pleased to be bad to you]

 

By Connor Hammond

 

 

Some people have a striking presence; some people bring a certain magnetizing with them into a room, and some people just walk in and hit you in the face.

 

I cannot at this time ascertain which of these has just happened. Okay, there is certain evidence that seems decisive. The fact that she is still standing by the door, while I am waiting for a drink at the bar seems like strong evidence but, as they say, “the detective is out”… do they say that? It isn’t important. What is important is Sabrina.

 

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, Inhale—now sigh it out: Sabrina.

 

Okay I’ll back it up because the place is also important. It’s a bar, but you know… more than that. It’s an establishment that provides hand crafted food and drink in a neighborhood full of the non-committal artistic type. It dishes out brilliance but doesn’t bother to dress it up. Like a master chef making a midnight meal, it will taste like heaven on earth but no one is orienting the protein. You know? The interior is full of repurposed industrial tables, exposed brick walls, and local art. The lighting is dim but the lighting instruments are plentiful. Light seems to come from a thousand places but never really get where it’s going. Maybe the light gets caught in all the hipster beards filling the place. Yeah, now you’re seeing it. This place, it is the Knight Kitchen. 

 

I’ve been working. We’ve been working. Ninety percent of the cliental has just gotten off work somewhere but more specifically Leo and I have just finished closing down the American fusion place up the street. We’re tired, but driven. We want to stay out just to say that some part of this day was ours.

 

As I push past the faces I know, and the ones I don’t “know” but recognize as a part of the collective scene that inhabits and distinguishes my neighborhood, an afterhours mood begins to settle on me. I want something, lots of somethings. Maybe drinks, maybe dancing, maybe drinks- sex-drugs-drinks-dancing-drinks—I need a drink which means pressing yourself as close as you can to the backs of the people at the bar and wait for it to turn over. As we wait we engage in light bitching about work. It is like a warm up for the total mudslinging that will start a few drinks in.

 

An “all black everything” type guy shoulders between us with his drink and Leo slips into his vacant spot at the bar.

 

“What do you want?” Leo asks. In way of answer I gesture at one of the taps that I don’t recognize, he nods, and she walks. da fuck. in.

 

I added more oomph to it this time. Trust me the moment can support it.

 

Up until this moment Sabrina was this mid twenty-something Israeli-American girl I worked with who was always good for a quip or biting comment. The best thing about her was this wicked laugh of hers that was at once conspiratorial and kind of hot. Now everything about her was hot and good for biting.

 

At work I see Sabrina through the confines of uniform and work: hair always in a ponytail, the ill-fitting button up shirts don’t do anything for anyone’s physique, jeans, and an apron. Here, now, she was undiluted Sabrina and it was as if Natalie Portman and Bar Refaeli had a baby then let Robert Downey Jr and Angelina Jolie raise it. I needed more detail, I needed to be closer. My left hand suddenly felt cold—Now that’s a strange side affect. I might be going into shock. Or maybe I’m dying from exposure; doesn’t that start with a loss of sensation in the extremities?

 

“Why are you muttering to yourself?” Someone shouted in my ear.

 

I close my mouth and reluctantly peel my gaze off of Sabrina. My eyes dejectedly scan the rest of the room for the speaker. They find Leo starting away from me towards the tables outside, probably him (Hey, the detective is back in, eh? No? whatever). I start to follow and almost spill the beer I find in my left hand. With my mind being prone to go off on journeys, my body has had to learn to do many things without direct supervision.

 

Leo has now paused to mime at Sabrina: he gestures at her with his beer, takes a sip, makes an inclusive circling gesture, and then jerks his head towards the door. Having concluded this communication Leo continues past her out the door. I move closer taking in this new Sabrina. Her wavy, dark brown hair was loosely done up so a few curls fell over her pale blue eyes as she nodded towards my beer, “let me get a drink and I’ll be right out” she said. She was wearing a short little black dress with a high collar and a deep open back. Her slightly poufy skirt brushed against me as she turned sideways to squeeze past. Sweeping diagonally up her slender back were a half-dozen small cranes-in-flight done in Japanese watercolor.

 

“I wanna smell your hair” With all the passionate desires I was currently experiencing I didn’t even scold my tongue for letting this slip.

 

Sabrina turned back laughing then continued to the bar as I let the press of bodies sweeps me outside.

 

“I can honestly say I have never seen that person before.” I say as I post up at a high top and set my beer down next to Leo’s

 

“Who?” Leo asks

 

Inhale, exhale, inhale and sigh it out: “Sabrina”

 

Leo takes a pull of beer and cuts his eyes towards me “I think you’re hyperventilating, can you just cool your shit?”

 

Inhale, exhale, inha—“I want to touch her”

 

“Whoa! None of that now” Leo sets his beer down and puts his hand on my shoulder, “You’ve got to play this nonchalant like. Otherwise you are just another douche”

 

I nod as Leo removes his hand but continues to dispense wisdom, “It’s like nipples” Leo states as if that clears everything up. He returns to his beer.

 

I follow his example in case the beer will grant me comprehension. “I—I need more—I play it nonchalant like nipples?”

 

“Yeah” Leo nods and continues to drink his beer

 

I dig around for some meaning “I—what, need to stimulate them—stimulate her?”

 

“What? No, don’t stimulate her at a bar” Leo looks at me askew. I formulate my thoughts; take a deep breath and say, “What did you mean when you said, ‘play it nonchalant like nipples’?”

 

“Oh” Leo sets his beer down and turn his full attention to me, “You know how lots of girls these days have stopped wearing bras with their little dresses and thin tops, as if pokey nips are a part of the outfit?”

 

“They’re doing that deliberately?” I ask

 

“Sure they are and it’s awesome but it’s also a test.” Leo moved a little closer and dropped his voice. I picked it up for him and reminded him that it is hard to hear out here. Leo spoke louder, “They want to see if they can eliminate you. If you don’t look? Pssh!” Leo made a dismissive gesture, “They want you to look, but if you look to long? You’re a pig. If try and look at them without her knowing? You’re a perve.” Leo let this sink in for a second and finished his beer before continuing, “What you have to do is look at them and then look her in the eyes. No reaction! Nonchalant, like you’ve seen a million just like her.” Leo held one finger up, “unless they are the best you’ve seen. And then? Then you wait until you are making eye-contact, and if you get just the right vibe you just give a little smile.” Leo stepped back.

 

“Wow”

 

“I know, it’s a very subtle business” Leo set down his empty glass, “I’m gonna get another” He said and started back inside”

 

“Wait, why do I have to play in like that?” I asked but he was already through the door. Emerging from the door was a pair of red Louboutin’s followed by well toned calves and slender thighs. On one of the calves was a gazelle and on one of the thighs were two coy. Around the coy were delicately rendered lily pads and richly colored swirls of water. One of the coy was partially concealed by the poufy skirt of a high collared little black dress. I wanted to join that coy and swim up that lovely leg.

 

My heart hammering in my chest as Sabrina approached. Then she was standing right in front of me, looking up through dark lashes, a dangerous little smile curling her lips. She was waiting for something. I noticed something I had missed the in dimness of the bar. I looked at them, looked her in the eyes—lightning passed between us. Slowly a small, somewhat mischievous, smile came to my lips.

 

Then she threw her drink in my face and left.



Attraction- David's Take

The Challenge:  Write a character to whom you would be attracted.

 

 

 

Alicia: An Admission of Bad Taste

By David Franklin

 

Working at a prestigious research library was a full-time commitment, but that didn’t stop Alicia Sommers from volunteering at her local Humane Society, mentoring gifted children with emotional disorders, or studying ballet and Wu Shu kung fu in her spare time.

 

“How do you find the time for it all, Alicia?” asked her unnamed woman friend over coffee one day. “Don’t you ever just want to stay in bed all day and watch Shark Week?”

 

“Oh, I would actually rather read than watch TV,” replied Alicia, adjusting her glasses. “But in principle it’s the same thing. Like last night, I stayed up until three reading Inferno in its original Tuskan. Dante’s contemporary political commentary and rich metaphor are like the warp and weft of the Jacquard tapestry that hangs over my writing desk. I stayed up two hours past my bedtime! What will they think of me, yawning during tomorrow’s NSA protest?” She chuckled and sipped her chai latte.

 

Suddenly, a man representative of all of his gender sprinted to the pair of women and knelt before Alicia. He beat a clenched fist over his heart in salute.

 

“Excuse me, ma’am. I just wanted to tell you that I originally approached you with the intention of trying to get your phone number, on account of you’re so hawt. But then I overheard the last part of what you were saying, and your obvious sophistication has challenged everything I know and believe about both gender relationships and our society’s conflation of physical attractiveness with personal value! I’m going to go home now and reconsider everything that my emotionally repressed father taught me about what it means to be a ‘real man.’ So thank you for that!”

 

“Aww, that’s so lovely of you to say,” crooned Alicia. “You have a nice day now, sir!”

 

“Oh, I certainly will! You ladies have a nice one too.”  The man turned to leave, hesitated, and then turned back. “You know what? I think I’m going to buy a dress.” With a wink, he sashayed away.

 

“What a wonderful human being that person was,” remarked Alicia.

 

“I want to hate you,” said the lesser woman of the pair. “When you walk down the street, all the men and several women gaze after your full, voluptuous-yet-toned body that seems to call out to them even beneath your tasteful and smart attire, and that makes me automatically feel bad about myself by comparison, causing me to project my insecurity upon you and killing any potential friendship we could have… or it would, if you weren’t so gracious and genuinely interested in the thoughts and feelings of other people, regardless of social status. It’s probably because of that that you have so many close personal friends of both genders and all walks of life!”

 

“Well, human beings do fascinate me,” replied Alicia. “We’re capable of so much, yet in the end each of us is slowly dying. There’s no time to waste. I’d like to do what I can to make as many of our short lives as rich and fulfilling as possible, and that’s why I donate generously to responsible charities.”

 

Her brow furrowed as she sighed heavily. “But it’s still not enough to overcome my deep-seated existential guilt. I often don’t think I deserve to live this gob-smackingly awesome life while most of the world suffers from poverty. What right do I have to pursue my dreams and eventually find a partner who can complement my innate curiosity, strong will, and generous spirit, as well sate my voracious and occasionally non-traditional sexual appetite, when so many children are born just to starve to death?” she asked, brushing aside a lock of her vibrant red hair that had fallen over one of her piercing emerald eyes, which were brimming with the milk of human kindness.

 

            Alicia’s friend sighed with strictly Platonic admiration. “You’re so wonderful that I don’t even mind being a prop for your character development in this facile story!”

 

            “What did you say.” Alicia’s gaze was swift and hard.

 

            “N—nothing! I said, ‘You’re so wonderful,’ that’s all! I swear!”

 

            “You fool!” shouted Alicia, her face distorting with panicked rage. “Your thoughtless meta-narrative self-awareness has doomed us all!”

 

            Indeed, even as they spoke, the fourth wall began to unravel. The fictional world is much denser than reality, and the resulting pressure differential between the two realms created a time-space vortex that crushed Alicia, her friend, and the rest of their story into a single point of infinite fictional mass. Needless to say, everybody died.

 

THE END

Attraction- Jenny's Take

The Challenge:  Write a character to whom you would be attracted.

 

Charlie

 

By Jenny Holden

 

The morning was all downy soft, light tumbling in pastels through the mottled green of summer leaves.  Charlie sat on the porch of a small white cottage with a coffee balanced on one knee and a book on the other.  The water-colored dawn slipped down his aquiline nose like quicksilver. 

A glimpse of smile curled his full lips and vanished nearly as quickly, almost as if he was afraid of giving it away for free.  He reached up slowly, removed his worn reading glasses, and rubbed his eyes. Heavily lashed lids began to droop slowly over pale green, thought overtaking him.   Last night had been a wonderfully uncommon occurrence and his body was still reeling from its effects.  Drinking with friends after an impromptu jam session happened rarely, which made it all the more special.  Charlie, reminiscing, eyed the banjo sitting comfortably in its stand just beyond the threshold.

Thick black hair stood in anarchic locks this way and that, a stark contrast to his methodical face.  He still hadn’t brushed it and probably wouldn’t for the rest of this lazy Sunday. He thumbed to the back flap of the book, pulled out the receipt of its purchase, and used it as a makeshift bookmark.  A slight grimace painted his marble visage as he downed the rest of the acrid coffee.

He stood, stretching his 6 foot frame toward the pink and gray clouds scuttling by.  He was broad chested, but fairly slim for his build. He accredited his physique to his love of the ocean.  Every morning he would take his dog, Hank, out for a run along the coast of his beloved Massachusetts home and the occasional swim if the weather was agreeable.  This morning, the sky boasted of boundless sun and congenial temperatures, so Charlie sauntered back into his modest abode with a sense of adventure.  A stroll down the beach with a sandy-blond companion would be a most satisifactory start to a day like this.

Clothes from the previous night were pooled near the door of his bedroom, Charlie having been too tired to bother with sorting, folding, and hanging.  He set his cup and book on the bare tile counter of the kitchen and bent down to collect the debris when Hank bounded off the bed and into Charlie’s arms.  The force of canine adoration sent the two sprawling onto the hardwood floor.  Charlie let out a booming laugh and wrapped his arms around the wriggling golden retriever.  Hank licked every inch within reach. 

After a few moments, Charlie released his willing captive and rolled to his feet.  He ambled into his bedroom, not before he gathered his clothing once again and deposited the lot into his hamper.  He didn’t own much.  In fact, he owned less now than he had in his entire life.  After an incredibly difficult span of five years, Charlie had given away virtually his entire estate to lead a simpler life.  He moved to a simple town, bought a simple house, and started writing a simple book.  He was simply and incredibly happy.



Unrequited Love- David's Take

Hospitals Are Unpleasant: A Love Story

By David Franklin

 

She couldn’t remember much about the accident, but the Nurse told her it had been bad.

 

            “Almost lost the pair of you! We sure did!” she sobbed, and tear rolled down her face.

 

            “Oh,” said June groggily. She smiled faintly, touched by the strange woman’s concern. “So Kenny’s okay then? When can I see him?”

 

            The Nurse furrowed her brow at the name. “Kenny?”

 

            “Yes, my husband Kenneth. I guess he was in the… accident with me, but you’re telling me he’s okay? Can I see him soon?”

 

            “Oh! Your husband! Certainly, I’ll go get him.”

 

            June was confused.

 

            The Nurse disappeared from sight as she turned into the hall. June heard her footsteps disappear. The hospital was silent.

 

            June rose from her bed with effort, bracing herself against the wall as she surveyed her room. The larger portion contained the bed and side table, a television, medical equipment, a few chairs for guests, and the restroom door.

 

            A new set of footsteps echoed from the hallway, and June returned to her bed. They grew louder, and her door opened. Kenneth smiled.

 

 

June’s sister Cynthia lived in Milwaukee, and though she and her sister hadn’t spoken in years, Cynthia called June the next day.

 

“I know you must be lonely in that hospital room,” she said, concerned. “I just want to make sure you’re keeping up your spirits. Are you feeling healthy?”

 

“Thank you, Cynthia. That’s very considerate. And yes, I, uh, feel very healthy.”

 

“What a relief!” Cynthia cried. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you both!”

 

“Oh! Well thanks, sis... I’m glad to hear you changed your mind about Kenny.”

 

There was silence.

 

“Kenny?” said the voice on the other end.

 

“Yes. You said ‘you both.’”

 

“Oh.”

 

Cynthia said nothing else, and June eventually hung up.

 

The Nurse reentered.

 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

            June supposed the hospital must be very crowded, but the Nurse seemed to spend an unusual amount of time with her, and she never heard anyone else besides Kenneth. The other patients must be sleeping while she was awake. Perhaps that wasn’t odd. She herself had been comatose for a week after the accident, Kenneth told her.

 

It was probably the impact trauma and the drugs, but there had been… nightmares. Mouths and eyes. She had dreamt of mouths and eyes. Far too many, and in places where they shouldn’t have been. Mouths that took away her husband, piece by wet piece. Eyes that gazed on her next with greed…

 

Kenneth had cried when she told him, as if he had been the one trapped in that inchoate hellscape. Bewildered, June had consoled him as best she could.

 

            “Sorry, it’s stupid. I just love you so much. You know that?”

 

            “You’re a ridiculous man. You know I know that.”

 

            “You really don’t.” Kenneth looked very severe. “No one has ever loved you so much and in as many ways as have I.”

 

            “You’re a cheeseball.”

           

            As June reached to tug his hair affectionately, Kenneth caught her wrist sharply.

 

            “Ow. Kenny?”

 

            He kissed her hand and placed it on her belly, intertwining his fingers with hers.

           

            “Sorry. I- I think I might be losing my hair, so please don’t pull it,” he said seriously.

 

            She stared at him askance, then chuckled at him deprecatingly. “Uh, okay grampa.”

 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

           

After the next morning’s checkup, the Nurse opened left to get June’s breakfast. She was never alone for very long. The Nurse checked her vitals incessantly and made sure she ate everything she was given.

 

“Shouldn’t I be up and walking by now? Are there exercises I should be doing?” June asked.

 

“Oh certainly not. Mustn’t strain yourself,” the Nurse replied.

 

 Kenneth kept her company after work, and Cynthia called several times a week. During one such call, June brought up the nightmares.

 

“You poor thing!” exclaimed Cynthia.

 

            “It seemed so real…”

 

            “That’s how dreams are,” interrupted her sister. “It’s perfectly normal though. There’s no need to upset yourself and risk coming down with something. You have such lovely health.”

 

            “Um, thanks?”

 

            “Besides, Kenneth visits you every day after work. You have very good evidence that he’s perfectly fine.”

 

            “That’s true I guess… Do you guys talk often?” asked June.

 

            “Whatever do you mean?”

 

            “Kenny obviously told you when he comes to visit, I mean. Don’t get me wrong, I’m just glad my sister and husband are finally getting along.”

 

            “Indeed. We are very close,” replied Cynthia evenly.

 

            “That’s awesome! Hang on, Kenny’s out in the hall. I’ll go get him, and we can talk on speaker.”

 

            “No! You mustn’t strain yourself!” Cythia said sharply.

 

            June still felt very weak, but she pulled herself along the wall.

 

            “It’s cool. I could do with the exercise.”

 

            June opened the hallway door.

 

            “June! Return to your bed immediately!” screamed a voice that was certainly not Cynthia’s.

           

            The voice came both from the phone and from down the hall, and in the dim fluorescent light, she saw a shape from her nightmares, barely contained by the Nurse’s uniform. Kenneth’s empty face hung limply from an eyestalk.

 

            June screamed as she backed into her room. A clattering sound echoed from the hall as the Creature pulled itself along on knobs of bone.

 

            “No need to upset yourself,” said Cynthia’s voice from one of the Mouths. “I don’t know what I’d do without you both.”

 

            “Mustn’t strain yourself!” said the Nurse’s voice from another Mouth. “The baby’s very sensitive. Almost lost the pair of you! We sure did!”

 

            “I told you,” said the Mouth from under Kenny’s face, “No one has ever loved you so much and in as many ways as have I.”

 

            And all of the Eyes wept with joy.

 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

            Three years later, June awoke as her abdomen burst open. Mouths and eyes.

           

Unconventional Sorcery- Jenny's Take

 

Muffy Winthrop loved her children.

She’d even woken up a little earlier than usual expressly to see their shining faces arrive home from school. Slinking through the marble hallway, away from the master suite, she admired a few portraits she’d commissioned of the beloved family pets last winter. They were stunning works, even though the be-tutued shih tzu was a little on the chubby side. This had been a point of mild outrage for Muffy in the past, but now was a minor irksome detail. She paused a moment to see if any annoyance surfaced from under the leagues of apathy. When none emerged, she decided against downing another Valium and meandered on.

Perfectly manicured toes made no sound as the cold stone rose to meet her feet. The lengthy hallway widened into the delta of a grand staircase that swept downward to an even grander foyer. A pristine alabaster soaked the walls and the floors of marble were as colorless as her country club. The house’s pallor pleased her… or at least the decorator’s tightly-fitted trousers pleased her and that had been all the incentive she’d needed to green light the 4 month and $350,000 redesign.

Standing elegantly at the top of the stairs, Muffy was a queen surveying her land. Diamond clad hands slithered up her silk drenched frame and she noticed, with what coral would register as elation, that her hipbones were protruding a little more than yesterday. Her overly ripe lips attempted a smile.

The quiet pressed against her like a lover. She filled her lungs with it, sucking at the vacant air. Impossibly blue eyes rolled back into her head as she savored the solace that was soon to be broken by the fruit of her loins. The darlings. She’d birthed them through a tastefully drugged C-section almost 13 years before. Twins! Can you imagine?! Such a handful and yet such a blessing.

Stretching her slender arms in the air, she embraced the light streaming through the crystalline chandelier. She knew it was gaudy (her decorator had expressed this in so many indeterminable words), but didn’t care. The light glinting through the drops pleased her to no end and in so much silence one could almost hear the beams dancing with slippered feet upon the—

BAM. A door crashed open and then…

“Shut your beaver, AVA!”

“At least I have a beaver and not a dick, you fucking man.”

Ah. The children were home.

Muffy unclenched her jaw, fists, and pelvic floor respectively, swept a taloned hand through her butter highlights and prepared to glide down the staircase. But as soon as her foot fell upon the top step, a jarring scream erupted from the kitchen below.

“You CUNT!”

Muffy sauntered down the stairs with all the swiftness she could muster and strode lightly into the dining area. There she found her two daughters trying to scalp each other with butter knives.

“Blake. Avery. What is going on here?” Muffy sternly murmured. The din continued unaffected.

“Get the fuck off me you crazy dyke!”

Blake had gotten the upper hand and was wrapping her sister’s hair around her forearm as one might a rope during a particularly nasty game of tug-o-war. She squatted and plopped all of her weight down onto Avery’s squirming back and pressed the edge of the “blade” firmly upon the girl’s forehead.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re crazy! GET OFF ME!”

“Not until you fucking pay me! I was saving that shit for this weekend and you flushed it?!”

Blake wrenched her elbow back leaving a faint pink line zigging zags across Avery’s flesh. In response, Avery yowled, bucked, and sent Blake flying backwards on to the smooth stone floor. Blake let out a cry to add to the cacophony of curses spewing from Avery’s foul mouth.

“You fucked up, bitch! You fucked up good! I’m going to MURDER you with your own boot laces you muff munching, orange-is-the-new-black-loving, shit faced whore!”

“You mean I fucked up well, you illiterate cocksucker!”

“BLAKE.” A third voice boomed like cannon fire in the air and the caterwauling was silenced almost as if by magic.

Lupe, the nanny, had entered from the garage carrying the day’s groceries. She was a petite woman with a figure to make lonely housewives kill. Long black hair complimented her flawless caramel skin and immense obsidian eyes that burned like coal. Muffy would’ve hated her, but the numerous SSRI’s mixed with recreational anorexia numbed pretty much anything and who really cares anyway she was the kitten of the is there food?

Lupe stepped slowly toward the two trembling tweens.

“Blake. What did you just call your own flesh and blood?”

“Nothing.”

“Do NOT lie to me, because I can smell it on you.” The words fired from the Latina’s crimson mouth like a singular bullet.

The twins shuffled in place, two dogs cowering with their noses pressed to the soiled carpet. Lupe set the organic, cage-free kale on the counter followed by three bottles of Ketel One and sucked her cheeks in. She spoke slowly and deliberately, making certain that every tongue flick, roll, and wag could be heard.

“I know… that no young lady of mine would ever be caught with such disgusting language on her tongue. You know how I know this?”

Silence.

“I said: you know how I know this?”

Identical whispers. “No, ma’am.”

“I know this, because young ladies of mine would be too afraid of the consequences to ever say something as ignorant as ‘cocksucker’ to their sister. So, since you both are not my young ladies but two little cerdos waddling around with filth covered mouths, you won’t mind me taking away your cellphones.”

1000 shrieking cats lent their voices to the upsurge of tweenrage that threatened to Jericho the whitewashed walls. Muffy drifted back and found herself at the foot of the stairs once more. Blake and Avery were united in a force to rival bulls running through Pamplona and Lupe was helpless against them. The Cuban with a Brazilian had made a fatal mistake and now that the twins were brandishing the same semi-automatic blind hatred, Lupe’s magic was useless. The screeching reached a deafening pitch and desperately Lupe looked up and straight into Muffy’s wan face, beseeching some kind, any kind of assistance.

When it came to parenting, Muffy was a last resort; because, despite having carried the twins to term, Muffy had never expressed any interest in their lives. But as the shrieks of those two little blessings promised to burst eardrums, Lupe hoped to use her peacemaking powers to form a bond of motherhood with her employer. What Lupe didn’t know was that Muffy too had a magical gift.

Slowly, Muffy turned from the imploring eyes of her servant and placed a delicate foot on an icy stair. She floated up the ascent of stonework, past the immortalized canines, into the master suite and finally came to the threshold of the master bath. It was there that she concocted a special potion; a brew to rid her serenity of yowling ingratitude and Latin-American judgment. You see, Muffy had a gift for mixing substances and she’d saved the very last of her favorite bottle of Chateau Margaux ’95 for just an enchanted afternoon.

Two parts red wine and one parts Ambien, the concoction was know in the waspiest circles as the “Mayer Mollifier”.

She held the chalice aloft and recited the appropriate incantation: “Fucking botched vasectomy.”

And like magic, her children disappeared.

Unrequited Love- Connor's Take

Never Listen to the Milk

by Connor Hammond

 

I promised myself I wouldn’t be put in this place again. The place where I’m willing to give anything, change anything, just to have you look at me for a second. I don’t know when that became a currency. I don’t know what other people have that they can get your attention so easily while the exchange rate is crushing me. I have waking dreams where my skin is the same color as that wallpaper you hate in the bathroom and I’ve almost tried to peel it off. I’m having that right now. Would you look at me with more than a passing glance if I started peeling my skin off while you sit perched next to the sink eating cereal? Instead of the cat!! I used to love that cat but now it is the easiest way for you to avoid me. All you do for the brief moments you are here is stare at that cat. ALL THE CAT DOES IS STARE AT THE WALLS!! If I stared at the walls would you watch me all day?

 

Of course none of this was articulated. John’s silent tirade was only outwardly represented by the occasional clenching of his jaw while he leaned, in what he hoped was a casual manner, against the refrigerator. He had chosen to lean against the fridge because while Alice ate cereal she always kept the milk next to her so that she could add small amounts from time to time. John knew that she would eventually have to put the milk back in the fridge and would be forced to ask him to move. He also knew that if he feigned distraction at just that moment Alice would simply nudge him out of the way.

 

He lived for those moments.

 

Alice finished her cereal, set the bowl down in the sink next to her, hopped off the counter, and reached to pick up the milk.

 

John prepared himself. The cat also prepared himself to go lap up whatever milk might remain in the bowl. As the cat jumped from the small dining table where it had been sitting, to the counter the animal stupidly misjudged the distance and instead crashed headfirst into the oven door and skittered into the next room.

 

Alice burst out laughing then followed after the cat making consolatory noises. The milk sat forgotten on the counter.

 

John took a long even breath, his jaw clenched and unclenched. Several moments passed between John and the milk. John still leaned, somewhat abjectly now, against the fridge looking at the milk. The milk sat on the counter looking at John; as if to say, “Sorry old pal, we did our best. What more can we do?”

 

Having perceived to have received his own consolation John answered the milk’s question by striding into the next room, taking the cat from Alice’s arms, continuing past her out onto the balcony, and decidedly dropping the cat over the railing.

Unrequited Love- Jenny's Take

Rolling Hobos Gather No Moss

By Jenny Holden

 

 

Gacy was the tallest bum in Poncey-Highlands. He towered over the hustle and bustle like an obelisk of bad smells and worse choices.

Not unlike many of the destitute denizens of Atlanta, Gacy was a nomadic tramp who traipsed up and down the smut covered grid like a lion prowling the boundaries of his enclosure. He liked the ebb and flow of people from block to block and how different their reactions were to his gap-toothed grin. If he walked down Peachtree, the Buckhead Bettys would dive in to their golden SUVs and step on the gas, whereas in Little Five Points he might get a handshake with a friendly “how the heck are ya?”

His actual name and place of spawning Gacy couldn’t recall. It was as if he’d been birthed from ye olde AIDS hospital on Ponce, spat out onto the curb, and commenced to bumming at the ripe old age of “iunno”. But, that was about 37 near-death experiences past and who the hell could remember back that far?

Gacy wore a long maybe-green–maybe-black trench coat, melanoid fetish pants that had seen their fair share of Chevron bathroom floors, singed fingerless gloves, a dingy gray sweater with the phrase “somebody, somewhere, is tired of her shit” emblazoned on the front, overly large black boots and a mustard beanie. But all of this appeared almost charming compared to Gacy’s mug. Deep caverns were carved in the leather stretched around his empty mud colored eyes. A bubbling bulbous nose with flared puce nostrils sat atop a nightmarish grin. Gnarled and chapped lips spread wide to reveal no more than 7 serrated “teeth,” much like that of a geriatric shark. But this lack of bicuspids was only a fraction of the reason pedestrians sprinted through oncoming traffic to avoid him. Caking his gaping maw were layers upon layers of maroon; dried gore smeared haphazardly along the halitosis-ridden canyon like a macabre Ben Nye advertisement. The effect was terror-inducing to be sure, but Gacy always seemed puzzled when his smirk was met with Watership-Down-eyes and mace.

Some are born wicked, some achieve wickedness, and some have wickedness thrust upon them. Gacy considered himself to be all three. He often also considered himself to be a giant glass of whole milk, but who’s counting chickens before they’re in the bush? No one, that’s who.

As a foodie amongst hobos, Gacy had perfected his dining habits and refined his palate enough that he could enjoy all manner of urban-foraged bounty with the addition of a simple key ingredient…

Pigeon.

In his experience, there existed no dish that could not benefit from the “intellectually satisfying” acridity of the rodent of flight. Gacy put pigeon in everything. Pigeon a la burger king wrapper, pigeon & pintos, stoned pigeon soup, pub pigeon, he even added pigeon blood to the occasional batch of porto-potty wine. He was cuckoo for pigeon. Which is why Gacy was forced to reevaluate everything he had ever believed about himself one fateful morning.

It was a day of a week. Which day? Doesn’t matter. Gacy was a hobo.

Morning came at sunrise that day and Gacy was up like a shot. A good feeling buzzed in his skull and banged around looking for an upbeat song to play on repeat. Finding nothing, the feeling started bantering with the other inhabitants of Chez du Fucking Nuts, getting into a pretty heated debate about whether or not the cats roaming the backstreets of Poncey-Highlands were demons. Gacy pulled on a lopsided grimace of jubilation, tugged his sweater and coat over his head and brained the glass partition of his favorite Marta stop for good luck. Today was a fucking miracle and Gacy could not wait to seize it. He had so much to do and so little time.

The near seven foot drifter sprinted at a breakneck pace down Ponce until he reached his first stop of the morning. The parking lot of Murder Kroger was a puzzle to be solved. Shopping carts did as they pleased, rolling this way and that with no consideration for the feelings of others or the rules. There were rules in this world, god damn it, and there were no free rides; even for the blue plastic peasants wheeling willy nilly before him. In this game of war, Gacy was GOD. His eyes settled onto his first victim, but just as he was about to declare dominion over the cowering cart, Gacy laid eyes on the loveliest being he’d ever seen.

She wore grey and black, smooth and without pretention. She walked slowly toward the cobalt POW and its keeper, eyeing the pair with content scrutiny. Her gaze narrowed upon arrival to focus solely on Gacy. Cocking her head to the side, she considered for a moment the heap of horror before her and to his surprise and arousal, her expression never faltered. The comeliest countenance the vagrant had ever beheld harbored neither terror nor disgust. Something akin to the warmth he felt after yelling at cyclists on the beltline bubbled deep within. It was a strange feeling and for the first time the voices in his head were not crying out for blood, nay, but for something else much more taboo. Something he never thought in a million years he’d have the good fortune to feel. The weight of emotion brought Gacy to his knees before this exquisite creature, and while she regarded him with comfortable compassion, joy burst through his every capillary. Gacy’s rubicund face deepened to burgundy and from within his yawning gullet burbled a girlish giggle. Love flooded his senses and due to the glaucoma he was nearly blinded by the sensation.

It is said that while love corrupts, absolute love corrupts absolutely. Gacy had never been more absolute in his life. For the first time, he wanted to harm no one and a different hunger consumed him.  He was a changed man and his mind was made up.

He was going to fuck this pigeon.

Gacy was unsure of how to broach such a sensitive subject with a complete stranger, so he did the only logical thing he could think of… a mating dance*.

Two bloodshot pools of mud rolled back into his dented skull, two scarred boughs reached up into the air and entwined themselves like boa constrictors, and one raw lower lip was sucked into his second most important orifice. He sighed.

“Let us begin.”

The full body gyration began at the pinnacle of Gacy’s stance. Slowly at first, clasped hands began to whirl and weave, followed by overlong arms, grubby head, chest, and finally his birthing hips. The spiraling was now at a rapid pace, revolving faster and faster like a tilt-a-whirl of sex. He licked his lips and began to vocalize in time with the gyration.

Mmmmuggh, uuuugh, uh, uh, uggggh.

Although Gacy usually found it disingenuous to break focus during such a vulnerable moment, he couldn’t help but to peek through his sparse lashes in an effort to both convey coy while simultaneously gauge his ladylove’s seduction status.

A shock ran through his body and his bedroom eyes snapped open. Instead of the soaring fire of his heart’s desire all that met his stunned gaze were cracked asphalt and cigarette butts. His hips stopped mid-revolution and he began to twist about, searching desperately.

Had it been a dream? Was she the Whore of Babylon?  Isn’t that something you tell someone before forcing them to fall in love with you? Was there a way he could trade his sperm for two forks? His brain cup overflowed with questions, all valuable and yet all meaningless in the face of his despair.

He prepared himself to brain the asphalt when a cooing from behind gave him pause.

Could it be?  It could! She was still there! She must have flown around to get a better view! Relief aerated his tamped soul and he turned to give her a wide toothless grin. But, as he turned, his heart dropped once more and melted through the pavement, deep into Beelzebub’s blazing pit.  There his paramour, his light, his love sat in the belly of the blue beast.

It was clear to Gacy then that she had led him on in order to get closer to that contemptuous cart.

The warmth that had simmered pleasantly in his gut before began to boil and a shriek from the pit of his soul revved like a freight train and erupted from his tattered, tortured larynx. The rage and hurt flew like bits of hot coal out of the smoke stack* and he staggered to his feet, the howl unbroken.  Hatred shot from his finger tips as he wheeled around to face the siren and her suitor.  He raised both arms and willed the godforsaken cart to come to him for destruction.  He stood there in his bloodrage for at least ten minutes screaming his betrayal all the while casting summoning spells.

When the cart would not oblige him, Gacy stepped forward and looked at his once-best-friend-and-lover.  Who’d of thunk it?  After all this time, his feelings were still there.  He found that even though they had their disagreements and that she had cheated on him with one of his many subjects, she was still the same lady.   Beautiful and compassionate and wondrous in her existence.  Gacy knew it was time to move on.  He had so much to give to this world and he was, he thought with a sad smile, ready to love again. 

He reached down, caressed her cheek fondly, and then in one swift motion of his hand he broke her neck.  Lifting her to his mouth, Gacy planted a chaste kiss on the tip of her beak.  He parted his lips once more and took a bite out of her face like an apple.

You know what they say… A bird in the hand makes lunch good when she’s the bitch who broke your heart.

The End

*Did you honestly think that we would get through a short story about a hobo named GACY fucking a pigeon with no dance sequence?

*Gacy and Jenny have no knowledge of train structure.  They have also never been seen in the same room.