Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
He was comfortable, and she wanted to turn the heat up.
She was going to dance-exercise classes, and he was counting pills.
He was impatient to drive faster, and she thought he should slow down.
She was remarking about the pleasant evening they’d had, and he was complaining about the price of a dinner for two.
He didn’t know how this fit into anything.
Completing his manuscript, including revising and editing it, he scoured the net, found a dozen prospective agents, and sent it off to them.
Three weeks later, he hadn’t heard anything from any of them and decided to beat the net to see what was happening with his prospective agents.
Imagine his surprise when they all turned out dead.
Well, he’d always thought it was a killer idea.
After soldiering through the funeral arrangements, he arrived home to the empty house. “Alone at last,” he shouted, throwing his coat down on a chair. Now he would see, now he would learn the truth about all the little things that had became maddening. He would see who it was who always left the lights on, if it was her who didn’t pick up, didn’t clean after herself when she cooked or baked, her who left doors unlocked and wasted heat and energy. Now he would see. He’d always believed it was her and now he would prove it, because now it was only him. And then —
Stopping, he looked around the silent house. Moving slowly, he picked up his coat and hung it up. Then, just for spite, he turned on a light, and left it on.
he’s an edge without a blade
rain without a cloud
a dance without a song
a steak without a knife
he’s a foot without a leg
a beard without a head
pupils without a face
fat without a bone
he’s an object without shape
sweet without taste
sour without texture
swallowed without chewing
spoken without thought
buried without mourning
morning without light
coffee
without beans
the computerization
fragmentation
digitnation
wants one thing for itself
and another for the rest
keep everything else
just gif me the best
don’t judge me wit crayons
or color me
on Insta
Face
tweet
you adult you
e’s and blue screens
ceilings and fans
t.v. and sports
song and dance
coming and going
in
fan-tah-sy
compa-tish
shun
hiddin by a fence
you see there
i see it
don’t
you correct my words
for-gettin’
’bout my
e’s and blue screens
ceilings and fans
t.v. and sports
song and dance
coming and going
in
fan-tah-sy
compa-tish
shun
trans
pan
bi
straight
another city
another country
another –
face
none this is me
i’m all this
don’t try to touch me
don’t seal me with a kiss
touch on skin
touch on lips
touch on face
touch on spit
touch on love
touch on hate
touch on kiss
touch on grace
touch on
touch on
touch
on
touch
He considered it a sign of his life that this shit happened.
First, he’d outlived his friends and family. Said good-bye to all of them. By the time some died, they’d noticed that his hair remained shiny and full, wrinkles didn’t mar his skin, and that he remained energetic and athletic as a twenty-year-old. “Good genes,” he always said, even to his parents and siblings. “Why didn’t we get those genes?” they wanted to know. “Good question,” he replied.
Now, they were alive again, not because of his good genes, but because he’d awakened back in time. “Impossible,” he told himself.
But there they were. He wondered if he’d have to say good-bye to them again, or would they finally watch him pass away.
Either way, it could be awkward.
Mr Gander rolled into the noisy sports bar, grunting and waving at others while signalling for a PBR. As Gander’s ample weight found a stool, Tilly observed that Gander seemed down.
“The wife.” Gander pointed his eyes at the TV and sampled his beer’s head.
“What ’bout ‘er?”
“Nothin’. I have little complaints ’bout ‘er. They’re so small, you could say they’re shards of complaints.”
“You ever tell ‘er ’bout ’em? Maybe that’d help.”
“Naw, man. If I tell ‘er my complaints ’bout ‘er, she’ll tell me her complaints ’bout me.” Gander sipped his beer. “Who wants to hear that crap?”
