Driven to win and lost in reality..within a dream and a space in time none around her understand. To win means so much more than to cross a finish line. To thrive against one’s self in a universe unforgiving of itself in its own abandon but to win really to win is to be comfortable in one’s skin in this space within that only the soul sees knows and understands. Expressed only by bliss and opportunity. The truth of one’s reality an un-spoken story that is hers and hers alone. The truest winner and only in this place she wins.
The mask protected me from the pinprick of the needle targeted at the height of my face in the bathroom stall. The contents of the syringe would put me out of sync and unable to function for two weeks. I was being singled out for the large crop of wine grapes I planned to process into my famous, Rose wine.
A drive to the print shop to expose the Darling family was scheduled. I headed for the terminal to catch a flight to New Jersey where I would hire the crew I needed to teach the Darling family a lesson.
When Brenda exited the terminal in her darling, little polka dot print dress, I said I would drive her to the house. I gave her one scarlet rose and drove quickly to show her the grapes that we would harvest this year.
I felt a little out of sync, but a pinprick of passion in my heart tore the mask of candor away from my face, and I confessed to her that I had cheated on her while she was away getting a dilation and curettage followed by a tubal ligation.
Brenda was a real sport and a real trooper.
Blue eyes drift, a wistful gaze drawn through cracked glass to the desolate street below. With quill in hand, rolled ever so slowly between aged fingers, echoes of previous times drift over her thoughts forming a shield, obscuring the present.
An unsteady lift of the hand raises the instrument above paper yellowed with age, the shaft devoid of ink but unnoticed. A soft sigh escapes as invisible words are scratched upon the surface in a flurry. Day and again the ritual resumes, written words spoken to echoes of the past. Alone, the quill and times gone by her only companions.
People ask where my wickedness came from… I’m not sure, but there’s one day that clearly stands out in my mind.
It was the day the fair came to town, and the big, ugly brute at the ‘Try Your Strength’ machine laughed in my face when I asked for a go.
“This is a man’s game”, he said, “not for weak little girls like you”
That’s when I grabbed him by the balls and started to squeeze as hard as I could, and I didn’t stop until his screaming ceased, as he slumped unconscious to the floor.
Who needs strength?
Billbert clung to his tree branch and wished he had thought it through when Roderick told him to grab a bag. How was he to know it would become his only article of clothing.
Considering jumping again, he suddenly lost the choice when his branch gave way.
Either the bag he wore was magic, or he did have superpowers. Instead of falling to the ground, he shot off, above the heads of the unsuspecting students and landed gracefully on the administration building.
He just had to figure out how to get his clothes back from Roderick and get to class.
Tavis sat at the bar, neon lights changing the color of his birthday cupcake, courtesy of Mr. Romo, the barkeep.
Tavis saw Romo go for the taser shotgun when the obvious tough talked into the bar, eyes on Tavis. Romo went down with a dart in his neck. Tavis whirled, placing two slugs in the chest of the sneak in the booth, courtesy of the bar’s mirror. Next, two in the tough. They both fell collapsed.
Tavis turned away, and heard the click prepared himself, heard the shot, and saw his cupcake blown to smithereens by the tough’s final act.
They call me cupcake.
You’d think there was nothing nicer – sweet, cute, and so desirable – you just want to have me.
But there’s more to me than just looks – and just like the pastry cupcake – too much of a good thing can be very bad for you.
All that sugary sweetness can make you nauseous, rot your insides, and ruin your health. No matter how good it might look, or how delicious it may be, too much cupcake, over time, can kill you.
I don’t have the time to spare though, so I’ll stick to strychnine instead!
“Come with me, CUPCAKE!” One of my favorite lines from J.J. Abrams reboot of the Star Trek Franchise. It’s a line that seems both appropriate and timeless in our current age. Case in point, I’m watching the latest episode of Dr. Who, and Bill is shocked to hear the Doctor’s response to her question about freewill, “You had freewill, and look at what you did with it. Worse than that, you had history. History was saying to you, ‘look, I have some examples of fascism for you to look at.’ No. ‘Fundamentalism?’ No.” Quite a mess our current state, CUPCAKE!
By Christopher Munroe
For the record: It’s not all club lyfe and binge-drinking, here on the party-bus.
Though there’s plenty of that.
We also, for example, have a biweekly Dungeons and Dragons campaign, for while we travel.
I play a chaotic-neutral half-orc ranger named Thog, Master of Contusions. He’s our party’s tracker/private security. Kind of a high-fantasy Pinkerton…
Jill, on the other hand, is our bard, a Zither player/epic poet. She’s very funny, though Alec, our paladin, finds her poetry borderline blasphemous.
It’s a fun way to spend time on the road.
And like I said, not EVERY party needs to be debauched…
Under the bright moonlight, Alan found Randy thrashing around in mucky
water that came up to his chest.
“Randy! What are you doing?”
Randy paused, pointed to the water, then violently banged his head
forward and back.
Alan sighed. “I said we were going to a mosh pit, not marsh. We’ve
been waiting for you.”
“Oh.” Randy put a wet hand to lips in thought.
“Concert’s over, man.”
“Oh,” Randy said again. He sank down until the water came to his
chin. “Guess, I’ll just mellow out here.”
Alan rolled his eyes. “You have got to lay off the hash.”