With a simple flinch of my muscles, I’m on the porch's wall. It really is the perfect vantage point. It’s the best perspective. From here I can see the world. From here, with all the angles covered, the perfect vantage point ---I can conquer the world! I really am, am I?-as good as I think I am? I’m REGAL baby. I see something …Sh.
He sees a flock of birds. They appear to be pushed off some mountain with all the momentum hurling them recklessly just above. He can only dream. He salivates. But …He does appreciate them. The sight makes him relax. He takes a deep breathe. He flattens out his body and slowly pulls each muscle strand taut. He’s only several inches tall, almost invisible. Maybe he is?-Was ---never there?
He blends into the world. The eyes won’t stop on him. Even if the eyes were actually looking for him, they’d merely pass on by. From this position he can see the path in any direction. He can see all the vulnerabilities. He could press the button on anybody, who makes a simple mistake …
From south east to North West he moves on the porch’s wall, or, he simply, out of nowhere, appears there. He inches down a ninety degree angle. He blends and moves with the contours. Still, his existence has not been lodged in any ledger. Anywhere!
He’s on the ground rolling in the dirt. Now he actually is invisible. He moved closer? Now he’s moving recklessly, quickly, he possibly could be seen? (Then there) He’s in the air, twisting his body. He has to fit through two branches inches apart …
The branches, Juniper, had grown in a wispy fashion. Two branches seemed to collapse and then tried to stand up apart from one another. They wisped away from each other to connect later forming a circle. Inside that circle was a bird, “Help,” trapped by his own illusions. There was an exit. He couldn’t see it, and now he’ll never have another chance.
In the air he twisted his body and then stopped his body, ‘just like that’, snap. He pulled everything tight. He moved faster and faster. Like a missile, through the circular branches …it was contact, a murderous unprovoked attack: A life and death collision. The bird passed out before the jaws came clapping down, luckily for the bird. He would’ve heard laughter,
Stanford, my cat, laughed as the bird first, “Shrieked,” and later, had a ball with the body. And, following his own delusions, he left me a little present at the foot of my nightstand: A be-headed skeleton of a little birdy.
Now the D.A. has two charges against my cat: Mutilation of a corpse, and of course, Murder. For a picture of the killer in this story go to the post titled: “Killer.”
Don’t forget to feed your cat!
The End
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Pet Hospital
...Across from each other at the dinner table, the famous veterinarian, Dr. Stern, suddenly grimaced as he saw blood run down Mrs. Stern’s chin. “Isn’t this steak great,” she exclaimed while smiling broad, showing the chewed cow flesh in her mouth.
Dr. Stern’s hands ran to his face. The images came, they were back. He was a young boy back at his childhood farm. He saw a man with a fillet knife slowly carve away at a breathing standing cow. The cow stood proud and took it, barely snorting and stomping his legs. The cow killer carefully put lumps of cow flesh in packets with a plastic cover, and threw them on an escalator. The escalator dumped the dead cow flesh, as Mrs. Stern picked through the packets, discarding the unwanted ones.
He saw his wife waiting anxiously where the escalator ended and spun back around. The plastic covered cow flesh dropped at her feet. He saw chickens with their head cut off, running and laughing ---talking English! He saw cats killing kittens. It was faro. The pigs laughed and stopped with a pointing finger as he passed …He excused himself from the dinner table complaining of a headache.
That night he didn‘t sleep …
Most nights, lately, he didn’t sleep. He had lost thirty pounds in the last six months, and had developed a career ending physical ailment, which he concealed in his front pocket. His prominent hand, his right hand, now had a tremor. But the doctor was terrified, not to be called a doctor, and continued his practice like ‘normalcy’. He took his now regular belt of booze, whiskey, every morning and drove to work sometimes running over curbs.
Meanwhile …Pet Guy and Stanford were at Dr. Stern’s office anxiously awaiting Stanford’s results …
In the waiting room: The receptionist screamed, “Pet Guy and Stanford to see Dr. Stern!”
Stanford showed off his walk, subtlety swaying his shoulders. He paused, and slowly moved across the waiting room, like a stroll through Golden Gate Park? He avoided the other cat’s stares, and entered the Dr. Stern’s theater. He didn’t show a hint of fear. He jumped on the operating table like a solder waiting instructions. Dr. Stern opened the curtains and picked up Stanford.
His pretension was obvious. He didn’t care. Stanford’s face changed; he saw lies before they were delivered. Stanford started to squirm away from Dr. Stern’s grip. Dr. Stern had no choice but to release him, “What a beautiful cat.” The doctor said.
Stanford wasn’t taken in, and turned to the doctor. “You’ve been drinking!” He was on his hind legs searching for balance while waving his paw, “Drinking!”
“How are you doing that?” Dr. Stern said looking at Pet Guy.
“Do you see my mouth open and close? Stanford is talking and you better listen. Has the doctor been drinking Stanford?”
“You bet your ass Pet Guy, it smells expensive; eighteen year old scotch whiskey. I know all about you doctor. My senses are a little more acute than yours.”
Stanford curled his back. His muscles were taut and rippling. Dr. Stern started back peddling. An eye-lid closed and Stanford was air-borne, lunging at the doctor, with his claws fully extended. Soon …There were four claw marks across the doctor’s face with blood dripping, eventually to stick on Dr. Stern’s operating theater.
“Get your cat in order Pet Guy!” You could see his chest expand and collapse. He was in a panic.
“Not a chance doc --Stanford would never forgive me.” The doctor ran for the door. Pet Guy had to help Stanford, just a little, and locked the door. Dr. Stern took a swipe at Pet Guy. He adjusted his footing, WHISK; he was missed by three feet.
Stanford was on the operating table, again, curled for another attack. His eyes were the size of frigging marbles fixed on the Doctor. Now, his entire body ready, he leaped making another direct hit. The other side of Dr. Stern’s face had four claw marks dripping blood.
The doctor started clutching his chest. He was soaked with perspiration. He fell against the wall and slid down ---“Stop!’
Stanford went after the doctor in his vulnerable position, with a left than a right across Doctor Stern’s checks. Dr. Stern’s face now resembled the images he saw at the dinner table as he enjoyed steak with his wife.
“I think you should stop Stanford. I think you’re going to kill him.” Stanford leaped up on the operating table and broke out a smoke.
“Well doctor, do you want to die fast or should I take my time?” Stanford spoke while blowing smoke the doctor’s way.
“Please, please, hold-on a minute Stanford. I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry”
“Before you continue Doctor, could you wipe the blood off your face, you disgust me in so many different ways. Grab one of those napkins behind your head. Good.”
The doctor wiped his face and stared at the bloody napkin. Stanford was standing erect, “So Doctor, what about the human animal, would you indifferently kill them? Would you go about your business intoxicated and physically impaired? Perhaps ---You’re a murderer? Huh doctor?” Stanford was just there ---now three inches away from the doctor.
He screamed in his ear, “They’re all dead, all dead, they were murdered, they were killed, yes, yet no one thinks of themselves as a murderer. Who’s the murderer? No one steps forward and shouts, ‘I did it, how horribly cruel I was’. Nothing …done”
“Jesus Christ you’re right.” Dr. Stern took his hands away from his face and cried.
Stanford looked over at Pet Guy, “look at the little baby crumble. This is the best creature for creatures like me ---for our medical needs? What a disgrace! Help!!”
The End
Dr. Stern’s hands ran to his face. The images came, they were back. He was a young boy back at his childhood farm. He saw a man with a fillet knife slowly carve away at a breathing standing cow. The cow stood proud and took it, barely snorting and stomping his legs. The cow killer carefully put lumps of cow flesh in packets with a plastic cover, and threw them on an escalator. The escalator dumped the dead cow flesh, as Mrs. Stern picked through the packets, discarding the unwanted ones.
He saw his wife waiting anxiously where the escalator ended and spun back around. The plastic covered cow flesh dropped at her feet. He saw chickens with their head cut off, running and laughing ---talking English! He saw cats killing kittens. It was faro. The pigs laughed and stopped with a pointing finger as he passed …He excused himself from the dinner table complaining of a headache.
That night he didn‘t sleep …
Most nights, lately, he didn’t sleep. He had lost thirty pounds in the last six months, and had developed a career ending physical ailment, which he concealed in his front pocket. His prominent hand, his right hand, now had a tremor. But the doctor was terrified, not to be called a doctor, and continued his practice like ‘normalcy’. He took his now regular belt of booze, whiskey, every morning and drove to work sometimes running over curbs.
Meanwhile …Pet Guy and Stanford were at Dr. Stern’s office anxiously awaiting Stanford’s results …
In the waiting room: The receptionist screamed, “Pet Guy and Stanford to see Dr. Stern!”
Stanford showed off his walk, subtlety swaying his shoulders. He paused, and slowly moved across the waiting room, like a stroll through Golden Gate Park? He avoided the other cat’s stares, and entered the Dr. Stern’s theater. He didn’t show a hint of fear. He jumped on the operating table like a solder waiting instructions. Dr. Stern opened the curtains and picked up Stanford.
His pretension was obvious. He didn’t care. Stanford’s face changed; he saw lies before they were delivered. Stanford started to squirm away from Dr. Stern’s grip. Dr. Stern had no choice but to release him, “What a beautiful cat.” The doctor said.
Stanford wasn’t taken in, and turned to the doctor. “You’ve been drinking!” He was on his hind legs searching for balance while waving his paw, “Drinking!”
“How are you doing that?” Dr. Stern said looking at Pet Guy.
“Do you see my mouth open and close? Stanford is talking and you better listen. Has the doctor been drinking Stanford?”
“You bet your ass Pet Guy, it smells expensive; eighteen year old scotch whiskey. I know all about you doctor. My senses are a little more acute than yours.”
Stanford curled his back. His muscles were taut and rippling. Dr. Stern started back peddling. An eye-lid closed and Stanford was air-borne, lunging at the doctor, with his claws fully extended. Soon …There were four claw marks across the doctor’s face with blood dripping, eventually to stick on Dr. Stern’s operating theater.
“Get your cat in order Pet Guy!” You could see his chest expand and collapse. He was in a panic.
“Not a chance doc --Stanford would never forgive me.” The doctor ran for the door. Pet Guy had to help Stanford, just a little, and locked the door. Dr. Stern took a swipe at Pet Guy. He adjusted his footing, WHISK; he was missed by three feet.
Stanford was on the operating table, again, curled for another attack. His eyes were the size of frigging marbles fixed on the Doctor. Now, his entire body ready, he leaped making another direct hit. The other side of Dr. Stern’s face had four claw marks dripping blood.
The doctor started clutching his chest. He was soaked with perspiration. He fell against the wall and slid down ---“Stop!’
Stanford went after the doctor in his vulnerable position, with a left than a right across Doctor Stern’s checks. Dr. Stern’s face now resembled the images he saw at the dinner table as he enjoyed steak with his wife.
“I think you should stop Stanford. I think you’re going to kill him.” Stanford leaped up on the operating table and broke out a smoke.
“Well doctor, do you want to die fast or should I take my time?” Stanford spoke while blowing smoke the doctor’s way.
“Please, please, hold-on a minute Stanford. I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry”
“Before you continue Doctor, could you wipe the blood off your face, you disgust me in so many different ways. Grab one of those napkins behind your head. Good.”
The doctor wiped his face and stared at the bloody napkin. Stanford was standing erect, “So Doctor, what about the human animal, would you indifferently kill them? Would you go about your business intoxicated and physically impaired? Perhaps ---You’re a murderer? Huh doctor?” Stanford was just there ---now three inches away from the doctor.
He screamed in his ear, “They’re all dead, all dead, they were murdered, they were killed, yes, yet no one thinks of themselves as a murderer. Who’s the murderer? No one steps forward and shouts, ‘I did it, how horribly cruel I was’. Nothing …done”
“Jesus Christ you’re right.” Dr. Stern took his hands away from his face and cried.
Stanford looked over at Pet Guy, “look at the little baby crumble. This is the best creature for creatures like me ---for our medical needs? What a disgrace! Help!!”
The End
Friday, January 14, 2011
Window Dressing
Found on the desk of Mr. Worldly
To create drapes for people’s windows, exactly measured so that they gently touch their window sill, that’s what he does, and with an artistic eye too. He always wanted to do just this. So today he stares out his worn twisted, broken, drape-less window for motivation, and thinks just this, almost as fast as I write this, as he feels the stares into his unprotected home from miles away.
To him, the eyes feel like knives through his drape-less window pane, they pierce him, like a purely objectified …thing ---as he sits all day long, visible and vulnerable, and every single day, because he’s tortured or pissed just enough to actually want just this ---to create drapes to rest on people’s window sills: To give the people just enough peace and especially privacy so they continue with smiles. Ladies and gentlemen, please recognize …A missionary man!
But we take a step down a labyrinth, just underneath where he rests his feet, and the mission he’s embarking on unfolds. Down the labyrinth the apparatus he’s constructed is overwhelming in every detail; height, width, strength, also hidden, but most extraordinary, I believe, the novelty, or just the fuking balls needed to achieve such a far-reaching goal. But, too actually see the idea, to see the philosophy come to complete fruition is the stuff novels come from, and little short-stories too. So let’s get started, because there is absolutely no need to hold back. They did it. But to be completely truthful, they didn’t have a choice, or ---did they?
As he punches the clock in the morning hours, does his drape schematics, he waits to be noticed in his home, centrally located in the heart of the city. This is the easy part. His home rests atop an overpass, and every left turn a car takes, seemingly only happens after eye-contact ---driver to Missionary Man. Anybody or everybody that chooses ---or is so frigging bored can look directly in his home …but not after the sun sets. At night is when our man gets to work …
He counts the seconds until complete darkness. Finally, when it’s completely dark he slips on his lab-jacket, takes out his nerd pen-holster, sharpens some pencils, loads his assault rifle, has his pit-bulls attack and kill whatever he points to ---and gets to work! He opens the horizontal door underneath his feet …with a pitcher of water …
At first, of course, it’s one easy step down the labyrinth after the other. But with all his years of Drape Schematics, he’s somehow managed, as they say ---to bottle the sun. Quickly now, the steps become more and more precarious. But he continues downward with the sun shining bright ---where it shouldn’t be? He’s almost blind with the sun coming at him in every direction, even from below. He goes down one floor and then another floor, plus more, to almost complete blindness. He’s in the heart of it and puts on some ‘special glasses’.
But now, with the ‘bottled-sun’ slightly diffracted, he’s face to face with …it! They call ‘it’, if you will allow me such latitude ---A lot of medicine, or ---pot …so now, yes, he thinks, the people can have their privacy, and especially, peace, and he can sit all day noticed but not really seen, as he does what he’s always wanted ---watching fast-ass birds almost unravel as they crash to the earth only to scrape it ---untarnished!
The End
To create drapes for people’s windows, exactly measured so that they gently touch their window sill, that’s what he does, and with an artistic eye too. He always wanted to do just this. So today he stares out his worn twisted, broken, drape-less window for motivation, and thinks just this, almost as fast as I write this, as he feels the stares into his unprotected home from miles away.
To him, the eyes feel like knives through his drape-less window pane, they pierce him, like a purely objectified …thing ---as he sits all day long, visible and vulnerable, and every single day, because he’s tortured or pissed just enough to actually want just this ---to create drapes to rest on people’s window sills: To give the people just enough peace and especially privacy so they continue with smiles. Ladies and gentlemen, please recognize …A missionary man!
But we take a step down a labyrinth, just underneath where he rests his feet, and the mission he’s embarking on unfolds. Down the labyrinth the apparatus he’s constructed is overwhelming in every detail; height, width, strength, also hidden, but most extraordinary, I believe, the novelty, or just the fuking balls needed to achieve such a far-reaching goal. But, too actually see the idea, to see the philosophy come to complete fruition is the stuff novels come from, and little short-stories too. So let’s get started, because there is absolutely no need to hold back. They did it. But to be completely truthful, they didn’t have a choice, or ---did they?
As he punches the clock in the morning hours, does his drape schematics, he waits to be noticed in his home, centrally located in the heart of the city. This is the easy part. His home rests atop an overpass, and every left turn a car takes, seemingly only happens after eye-contact ---driver to Missionary Man. Anybody or everybody that chooses ---or is so frigging bored can look directly in his home …but not after the sun sets. At night is when our man gets to work …
He counts the seconds until complete darkness. Finally, when it’s completely dark he slips on his lab-jacket, takes out his nerd pen-holster, sharpens some pencils, loads his assault rifle, has his pit-bulls attack and kill whatever he points to ---and gets to work! He opens the horizontal door underneath his feet …with a pitcher of water …
At first, of course, it’s one easy step down the labyrinth after the other. But with all his years of Drape Schematics, he’s somehow managed, as they say ---to bottle the sun. Quickly now, the steps become more and more precarious. But he continues downward with the sun shining bright ---where it shouldn’t be? He’s almost blind with the sun coming at him in every direction, even from below. He goes down one floor and then another floor, plus more, to almost complete blindness. He’s in the heart of it and puts on some ‘special glasses’.
But now, with the ‘bottled-sun’ slightly diffracted, he’s face to face with …it! They call ‘it’, if you will allow me such latitude ---A lot of medicine, or ---pot …so now, yes, he thinks, the people can have their privacy, and especially, peace, and he can sit all day noticed but not really seen, as he does what he’s always wanted ---watching fast-ass birds almost unravel as they crash to the earth only to scrape it ---untarnished!
The End
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