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Very short stories to read at the bus stop.


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On the Rock

(viewed 128 times)
"Did you see that?"

"See what? It's dark out."

"A light in that tree. There it is again."

"Like a firefly or something?"

"Something like that. Except it's just gone New Years. We don't see them around here until May, June, July, maybe August some years. And that's damn bright for a bug. Have to be nuclear powered."

"Maybe you're being signaled by a magpie or a mockingbird. You know they collect the shiny stuff. Maybe one found a wrapper for a cigarette pack of something, and it's reflecting a streetlight."

"Maybe, but as you said, it's dark. And cold. They'd be asleep. In the Caribbean, if they had any sense."

"Just a wrapper, then? Caught on a twig?"

"Maybe. I hope so. Shit like that makes me nervous."

"Only because we're out here in the park after dark, up to no good."

"Whatever, man."

"Whatever yourself, man. I'll bet it's a squirrel up there with one of those keychain LEDs, deliberately fucking with you. Trying to make you freak out."

"Shut up, man."

"You should stay off the rock, man, is what I'm saying. That shit makes you paranoid. And stupid as a pile of wood chips, you on it long enough."

"I said shut up. And pass me the lighter."

"'Nuff said. Hey, maybe that squirrel's got a lighter!"

"Now who's stupid? Squirrel paws aren't strong enough to work a flint wheel, even if it don't have a child-proof catch. And all the push-button ones have catches. They'd never figure it out."

"Lucky we're possums then, eh?"

"Damn straight. Let's burn this place to the ground and trot on out of here I'm sick of the fluffy-tailed bastards acting like they own the goddamn park, cussing and yelling and flinging shit at us all the goddamn time. Park like this? Gotta kill fifty of 'em, at least."

"Do what you gotta and let's get. Your half of what we got off that drunk we rolled ought to get you another rock...."

"Shut up, man."

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

4th Jan 2009, 04:16   | tags:comments (3)

Home is where you hang your head

(viewed 92 times)
It's easier to take your trousers off than dump your pockets so you can be comfortable when you sit or lay down. Similarly it's easier simply to remove your outside face than untrain the perky dimpleclench the dayjob requires. Just pry that bastard loose and throw it on the corner of the bookshelf by the doorway, and let it all hang out.

Let your work face stand guard over the door while your eyeballs hang down your face on their cabled strings, strummed gently by the radiations from Scrubs Season 4 while your jeans curl up around your wallet and pocketchange, growling in sleep and wheezing athsmatically.

While you're at it, pop the top of your skull off and let the kinked tubes of that cramped old brain uncoil like a slimy garden hose slipping off the hook in the shed. Go ahead. Let it curl up around your ankles like a pet python welcoming you home from shopping for groceries, begging for fresh ratcicles.

Unhook your legs and let them bounce to the floor and roll under the sofa. Unhook your weak arm and let it flop around until it settles. You'll need to keep the other one on just in case you need to hit a button or two on the remote -- or perhaps one or two other buttons closer to home.

You won't have to drag yourself back together until the morning. Now is the best time in the world to fall to pieces. Make the best of it!

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

2nd Jan 2009, 03:22   | tags:comments (0)

Why We Kill

(viewed 110 times)
     Brock, as ordered, refilled the wrinkled little man's cup with the warm beer they had picked up in the marketplace. The trip through the dusty open market seemed like a dream from years ago. "I don't understand," Brock said.
     "I'm trying to explain. My father and my mother -- and my other mother -- spoke often of their home in the garden. I never saw it. But, oh! my mother cried, wherever we went. 'It was so beautiful So beautiful, not like here.'" The brown man sniffed.
     "I wanted redemption. I wanted to be a gardener. I wanted to be admitted to the garden I had never seen, show myself worthy to tend it." He drank a long pull from the gourd-cup and continued.
     "I bred grapes the size of my head -- two of them would last you all day in the desert. I armed the roses so that birds and beasts wouldn't carry off their sweet flowers. I grew wheat-corns like handfuls of river-stones. I made cotton from fibrous flowers and softened flax and hemp. I tried to show that man could live without death -- without shedding blood. That we could be worthy of the garden, regardless of what my parents had done.
     "My first brother. I loved him. But I detested the way he embraced death. It sickened me. 'Death is the gift Javeh as given us,' he said. 'It is the new order of things. Spread this gift. Share it with all of creation!'
     "We argued for many turnings, of the sun, of the moon, of the stars and of the soil. We took our argument to the Watcher at the edge of the garden, the one who stood on the border of our land and the garden. I spoke, being eldest: 'Our father and our mother have taught us knowledge of good and evil, yet we disagree. Is it more evil to breed life? Is it more good to slay what you love?' For my brother truly loved his animals.
     "The Watcher was short with words. He said, 'Death is your lot. What you love, you will kill.'
     "My brother smiled. Yet I was not done. 'I love my brother more than anything or anyone, save Javeh. Will I slay my kin? Will I slay Javeh?'
     "The Watcher spoke again. 'Death is Javeh's gift. It is by death that Javeh is among you.'
     "I was crying. 'What are you saying?' I shouted. 'Can we not make a garden of our own, for Javeh to visit and be among us?'
     "The Watcher spoke for the third and the last time. 'Javeh is among you, and his gift is death. All that you love will die. All will die.'
     "I turned away from the Watcher. 'You were right, my brother. We accept Javeh's love through killing and death.' And I picked up a rock. He showed me how he sharpened them for slaying his animals and explained how a blow to the neck was quickest. And in the field before the gate of the garden he knelt before me, as he would make a goat kneel, so I could see.
     "'I love you,' I said. 'I am sorry I have been so wrong-headed and so stubborn. Javeh has no mercy.'
     "My brother replied, 'You are still wrong. This is Javeh's mercy.' And I saw that he was right.
     "He said, 'Make your sacrifice. You must learn.' And I raised the stone ax we had made. I placed my hand on his head and I cried. 'I accept Javeh's gift,' he said. 'Amen,' I replied, and I slew him with a single stroke and held him as he died.
     "I left his body in the field and made his dog stand watch over it. And I departed for my own garden, to rip the plants from the ground. Javeh came to me. He asked, 'Where is your brother?' and I answered, 'Why don't you ask his dog?'
     "Javeh laughed. 'Your brother's blood cries out to me from the stones of the field. Your hands are brown with his blood. What have you done?'
     "I had no idea where my sense of reverence had gone. I was angry and hurt. 'You must know,' I growled. 'You were there. I gave him your gift.'
     "Javeh laughed again. 'You learn quickly. What are you doing now?' He asked, and I replied, 'Spreading death. I'm ripping up my garden, my poor imitation of Your garden. And then I will go to find the largest habitation of men, to spread your gift, and to receive it from them. They will kill me, slow learner that I am, when they see me coming.'
     "'My servant,' said Javeh. 'Go with my blessing and the mark of my protection. Take death to the deathless. They will fear you. And any that kills you will spread my gift even farther and faster.'
     "I began to cry again. 'You still do not understand,' said Javeh. 'Cheer up. You will understand before I give my gift to you. And you will understand even more afterwards.'
     "And then I left my gardens and the city of my children for the larger city and the University of the Watchers, because I knew that was what Javeh wanted. And yes, I understand it all now."

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

30th Dec 2008, 03:18   | tags:comments (4)

Pictures of the Third World

(viewed 120 times)
In the context of the third world -- and here I'm not talking about "third world" in terms of wealth and economic advancement, but "third world" in terms of the world before the present one that's winding down, due to end in (May?) 2012 -- darkness was substance. Not the fire that it was in the first world, not the stone that it was in the second world, not the weighty airy liquid that it is in the present, but something between clumpy sand and a gelatin made of seawater.

You could push your way through it. It sealed behind you, like quicksand closing over your head. But behind you. At every step.

More creatures flew then, too, but it was easier, more like swimming. If you were a creature of darkness.

It was gritty and got in your eyes, like sand. It's one of the many reasons the last world was worse than this one. Darkness blinds us in this world too but it doesn't hurt as much. It leaks quietly into the eyeballs and builds up until our eyes are full of darkness.

Much of the evil in the fourth world is both gentle and insidious. It is a mark of our refinement.

At least in the third world you could find joy by shoveling the darkness aside, by thrashing until you were on top of it. You could squint your eyes and slap it aside. You could even press it into balls and throw it like snow You could fish creatures out of it and they would be happy, even when you klilled and ate them.

In our fourth world, darkness is volatile and superfluid. It expands to fill any container it enters, yet it stacks on the ground in shards like layered panes of broken glass. You can fill bottles with it, but it seeps out. You can use it to lubricate stones for the purpose of sharpening knives. You can drink it and breathe it. If you are a creature of darkness.

In the next world, darkness will be like light, like electricity. It will seep into us and ride in our bones. We will pet our cats and transfer it with a zap.

We will sweep it out of the air with wool, with spun glass, with nets of metal and ceramic wire. It will blind us like lightning and we will glow with it as our vision fades.

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

27th Dec 2008, 20:24   | tags:comments (7)

the other energies

(viewed 172 times)
It was Monday night and I was there; sat around with the
other energies, we were floating in the basement. Have you ever met an energy?
Tornado eyes! I mean? your hair blows everywhere when they look at you. Their
bodies are like slowed down sparks; they are dying and re-igniting and never
really there (or not there). When energies laugh the colours in the room strobe
on and off and when more than one energy laughs at once the whole sky starts
flashing colours too. At the moment? we are ALL
laughing! We are laughing because we will have to return to our bodies so soon.
It is said reincarnation was a source of unsurpassed grief for ancient energies
and now is not so different? except? we prepare our humour? soon we will not
send flames when we think; nor white-wash darkened rooms by our gestures; nor
transfer ourselves within each other? soon we will have arms and legs and
purpose and hunger! Tuesday morning is so close and so we prepare ourselves;
each takes the floor and each summons their fires, their crashing sounds, their
tidal waves; they summon invisible hands and wild lights? and they speak; they
tell a story to the rest. So this is why we laugh? to mask a tragedy? the sky
becomes a kaleidoscope of each story and the shadows become their great
characters and the world is for a millisecond turned liquid and next glass; the
world shatters and rearranges with the mountains and valleys of each story. She
was to go last and more quickly than the others her storm doubled up upon
itself with each word; the roar and crackle burnt the very colours before us.
Right here; in-league with the stark rays of first daylight, her story deleted
wide strips of the room, the energies with it and at the very end even me.
Energy never disappears it just moves. We are in our bodies again, true... but
not for long; day time has never yet lasted forever and when the night descends
so too nears the thunder, the burning rainbow and loudest and brightest and
most colourful of all... her energy.

Posted by louis

15th Dec 2008, 19:51   | tags:comments (1)

Open Mic Night

(viewed 121 times)
This looks like the place. Backside of a warehouse, no cameras. Couple of extra cars here, maybe, but their hoods are cold. Left here for the night, maybe.

The Porche is still warm, though. That's a good sign.

Oh, it's been too long. I've nearly forgotten how one of these deals work. I'll just sit here until I see my contact.

There he is. Rounding the corner. Slouched hat, trench coat -- that's a bit much. I guess it's just the uniform. Like that crap that pimps wear. It's a kind of advertising.

...and he's getting into the Porche. That's a very good sign. It's not a high-end Porche, a couple years old, but it's a sign he's got money. Or, at least, someone trusts him with money. I guess it's time to start this thing.

I flash my lights. He starts his car, turns it off, and pops the hood. He gets out to lift the hood. I get out, ostensibly to offer some help.

I walk over while he makes a show of poking at things. He prods a vacuum hose and frowns.

"My uncle has a car, same as that," I say.

Samizdat. The code word.

"Really," he replies. "Clever is he? Like you?"

"Just tryin' to help," I say. "You need help?"

"I always need help. Thanks. I don't know what to say."

The recognition phrase.

"Maybe I can help, then. I got sixteen words."

"Words I can use?"

"They're good words. See for yourself."

I hand him an envelope. He opens it and flips through a handful of cards.

This is where things could go rapidly south. It used to be just the fear of rejection, but these are modern times.

"License free?" he asks.

"License free," I reply.

He nods.

"Good words," he remarks.

I nod.

"Sixteen hundred dollars then," he says, and puts a fat stack of twenties into a similar envelope.

"Hundred dollars a word?" I ask. It's low.

He shrugs. "Rates go up on longer pieces. Consider it encouragement to be creative."

I shrug too. I've got nothing left to bargain with.

"Alright then. Glad I could be of some assistance. Maybe I'll see you around?"

"Open Mic Night," he replies.

Open Mic Night. The upcoming literary apocalypse.

"Soon, then," I say.

He grins. "Soon."

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

15th Dec 2008, 18:49   | tags:comments (1)

Paint what you feel

(viewed 322 times)
"Paint what you see."

"Nobody wants to see that."

"Paint what you think people want to see."

"That's a sell-out."

"Paint what you think people need to see."

"That's preachy."

"Paint, um ... This is hard!"

"Isn't it, though."

"Paint what people would paint if people could paint whatever they want."

"Ooh. That's a good one. But no. Most people are boring. It'd be nothing but cats and porn."

"Paint what a space alien would paint if one came down to spend a couple of days in Manhattan."

"Nobody wants to see that."

"Didn't you already..?"

"Yeah. Same thing, really."

"I know. Paint what you think people would expect you to paint if they thought you were trying to paint something they wouldn't expect you to paint."

"Oh, that's good! I'll do that."

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

28th Nov 2008, 02:39   | tags:comments (2)

Arena

(viewed 227 times)
Walk backwards up the stairway
Stand up and defecate
Dash graffiti on their face
Believe not what they say
Gather the rogue youniverse
Scream out behind the words;
?I?m stupid! I can?t do the work!?
Be confused by orders
Make them crazed with the racket
At keyboards and tennis
And your own crime syndicate
Repeat them their madness.

Posted by louis

26th Nov 2008, 16:12   comments (3)
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