After they turn up the lights, cash out everyone’s tabs, turn off the jukebox, and put up the chairs… she gets out her guitar and walks to the stage.
Just a corner of the bar, big enough for one table.
She puts one of the chairs back down on the floor, pushes the table out of the way, and she sits down.
And she plays. She plays so beautifully.
Not like the old days, when she filled the bar, and the line went around the block.
No. Even better.
A tree falls in the forest.
And she hears it fall.
Turn Eighty
The robot served as my mother for years.
Then, when I was older, she served as my wife.
After that, she served as my daughter.
And then, she served as my nurse.
For eighty years, I was never without her.
Nor was she ever without me.
“You turn eighty tomorrow,” she said. “I have enjoyed being with you.”
As she mixed the government-supplied chemicals, I thought about her.
How she’d call for the service to pick up my body.
And whether they’d pick her up for termination.
Or recycling. To become a mother again.
Then a wife. And a daughter.
The Human Touch
They say that the human brain is the most powerful computer.
But they’re wrong. The most powerful computer is in the sub-basement of the university.
It’s a massive array of computing units, networked together at the speed of light.
Surprisingly, it doesn’t take much power.
Just food and water, and some waste disposal.
Because it’s made out of human brains.
No, they’re not brains in jars. They’re still in their bodies.
We tried using homeless people and convicts, but we get better results with normal people.
Just lie on this table and relax. Breathe normally.
It won’t hurt a bit.
How sweet
After every terrorist attack, they’d dance in the streets and hand out candy.
Usually, the bombmakers or the gunmen or bombers in training would stay away from the celebrations.
But every now and then, we’d pick a few up.
Two, four. Always in pairs.
I put two in a room, strapped to chairs that had elevated armrests.
Their fingers forced into the others mouth.
Fingers, covered with cupcake frosting.
“You’re so fond of handing out sweets,” we said. “How sweet are your hands?”
When one finally bit, the other would scream, and they’d bite, too.
Over. And over. And over.
The camera doesn’t lie
They say that the camera doesn’t lie.
And it’s true. The camera doesn’t lie.
It’s the asshole holding it who lies, framing the shot to show what he wants it to show, and leaving out what he doesn’t want to show.
It’s the editor who lies, leaving the truth on the cutting room floor and stitching together their own version of reality.
It’s the producer, choosing what to broadcast and what to leave on the shelf.
It’s the reporter and anchor, with their tone of voice, their body language, wrapping the lie in a package you’ll believe.
But you shouldn’t.
Weekly Challenge #742 – Cleave
- Lizzie
- Richard
- Serendipidy
- Tura
- Norval Joe
- Tom
- Planet Z
LIZZIE
The impressive statue filled the room of the museum. It held an ax and a noose, and also a plate of fruit.
Strange combination, he thought.
“Whatever you do, don’t touch it,” said the security guard, walking away.
He touched the plate, of course. Nothing happened. The noose. Nothing. The ax. Still nothing.
He shrugged.
Suddenly, something hit him. He got snatched back by the neck and was gone when his back got slashed.
Before the cameras, the director promised he would find the culprits.
The security guard hid the noose and the ax away, and calmly enjoyed his apple.
RICHARD
Contract
I like ambiguous words. You know the sort: when you can use the same word to mean completely opposite things, like the word ‘fast’…
When our marriage commenced, our relationship was rock solid, and we felt it would hold fast forever, but now we’re fast approaching the end.
The wife tells me, that no matter what, we’re bound by our vows, and therein lies my getout clause.
You see, I insisted on writing them myself, and when I said we would ‘cleave, together’, I insisted on the comma between them.
That way, I have a contractual obligation to divorce her.
SERENDIPIDY
It’s one of my favourite words – cleave.
Unlike stab, chop, cut, carve and slice it conveys a real sense of intent – a premise of permanency, of finality and complete conviction.
You can’t cleave something half-heartedly and there’s an element of surgical precision too: Cleaving is undertaken with gravitas and commitment, it’s not haphazard, incidental or impulsive.
And, for all those reasons, cleaving is far too good for you.
For you, my friend, it’s the choppy, stabby, slashy, frantic cut and thrust of frenzied abandonment. The messy kind that causes pain and intense suffering.
I’ll save the cleaver for someone better.
TURA
Cleave
———
Three eminent masters of their respective crafts contended to see which was the greatest.
Master Ding the butcher said, “My blows with the cleaver are so sure, that in nineteen years not once have I needed to resharpen it”
Master Qing the carpenter said, “In nineteen years, I have never needed more than a single blow to drive home a nail.”
Master Bing the bureaucrat said, “In nineteen years, I have denied every petition presented to me.”
The other two bowed. The next day, Master Bing’s body was found expertly dismembered, the pieces nailed to the gateposts of his house.
NORVAL JOE
When his mother left, Billbert walked over to his father and looked at the computer screen. “Who exactly is headed our way?”
His father pointed to three blobs on the monitor. “These are super villains. I don’t know who these two are, but this big red one is named Atomic Fission.”
Linoliamanda joined Billbert and his father. “What are his superpowers?”
“Her, superpowers,” Mr. Wienerheimer said. “She divides things, like separating the members of our team. Making it possible to eliminate them one by one.”
Billbert gulped. “Is mom in danger?”
His father shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope not.”
TOM
Chop-Chop
“Mama?” “What Cleave?” “Why did you name me Cleave? Timmy says it’s a stupid name.” “Timmy is a dick, and everyone in this direct DNA pool is a sub-primate.” “No, mama, I know Timmy is a knuckle dragging moron. I need to weaponize my name to battle with the god’s less fortunate, thus seeking the almighty’s reward. Well actually I just want to fuck will them.” “Well it happened a long time ago in Italy. Your Great Grandfather, not one to suffer idiots, buried a butcher’s knife it a customer’s head. Go now my little cleaver, and do likewise. Chop-chop.”
PLANET Z
The annual Best Cleavage Contest was coming up.
Melanie picked out her best low-cut blouse and bra and checked herself in the mirror.
“All natural, no artificial fillers,” she told herself.
Unlike some of the so-called competition.
It took thousands of dollars of surgery to get close to Melanie’s league.
There was no way they’d make top shelf.
So, they took a different approach.
Up there on the stage, Melanie looked up and down the row of flat-chested women.
Who pulled off their skirts and turned around.
Perfect ass-cleavage, every one of them.
Defeated, Melanie felt like a total… fool.
Glued to the television
I remember my mother talking about the Kennedy assassinations and the Moon landing.
She said they were all glued to the television.
Which I found strange, because she was always telling me not to sit so close to the television.
“Why can’t we get a bigger television?” I’d ask. “That way, I don’t have to sit as close to it.”
Now, I’ve got a big flat-panel television up on a stand.
Every now and then, a cat jumps up on the stand.
The cat isn’t exactly glued to the television, but I do hear occasional static crackle on their fur.
Empty Revenge
Does revenge bring closure?
It wasn’t hard to face her killer.
He was in the morgue.
On the table next to my pregnant fiancee.
It was a suicide bombing, after all.
I yelled. I screamed.
Beating his corpse with a folding chair.
But I still felt the rage.
When we found the bombmaker and the planner, I thought about making them eat each other’s fingers.
Instead, we shackled them to concrete blocks, flew them three miles out over the sea.
They fell, begging and screaming.
Let them drown in my tears.
But I felt nothing, and I haven’t cried since.
Sweet and Sour
I don’t like sweet and sour chicken.
Chicken should be sweet or sour. Not both.
I don’t want indecisive chicken.
I don’t want passive-aggressive or bipolar chicken.
The last thing I need is erratic chicken on my plate, on my fork.
In my mouth, chewing. Chewing.
If I’m eating sweet chicken and it turns sour, I’m going to spit it out.
If I’m eating sour chicken and it turns sweet, I’m going to spit it out.
So, in the end, I don’t eat chicken.
I eat beef. I always eat beef.
Sweet and sour beef is just fine by me,
Bashar Assad
The blood of hundreds of thousands on his hands, the dictator of Syria listened to the threats and shrugged.
Then, one day, the missiles came, striking his chemical weapons factory.
The dictator assumed he’d be next, and he wore a vest with babies duct-taped to it.
That way, if he were attacked, his attackers would be condemned for killing babies, too.
But the babies constantly screamed and pissed and shat and were generally horrible.
The dictator had them killed.
They were much quieter, but they began to stink.
Even worse than the CNN reporters who volunteered as his human shields.