Tag: mystery

Foldspace

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Edgar needs to go to Phoenix.
He pulls out his world map, makes a few folds, and he’s now just a few minutes walk from Phoenix.
“Relative Foldspace” he calls it, in between cigarettes.
I call it Voodoo.
“It doesn’t hurt anybody,” he says. “It just folds my relative space.”
He smokes another, ashes fall on the map.
Brushes them off. “Thought it would set the world on fire?”
With a shout, he tears the map in half.
I recover from my fainting spell to the sound of Edgar laughing. “It’s just a focus. It ain’t the world.”
Is it?

Never

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We all stared at the turtle in its terrarium.
They named it Never.
“What kind of name is Never?” I asked.
The twins both shrugged at the same time.
They did that kind of thing, shrugging and smiling and sneezing together.
And they were always in agreement.
Even if it was something weird, like naming their pet turtle “Never.”
“I still don’t understand why you two wanted a turtle,” I said. “Why not a dog or a cat?”
And they shrugged again.
Sure, they’re my kids. I love them.
But it can be really, really creepy when they do this.

Skin Contract

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Awake at 4. Itching, scratching.
The rashes are unbearable.
One more week until my skin contract’s up.
The free ones are nothing compared to expensive designer skins, but with the contract, you get a discount on those.
I look in the mirror. Hideous bags under my eyes, wrinkles like canyons across my face.
And rashes.
Last time, I cheaped out. Ever since, it’s been dermatologist appointments and oceans of cosmetics.
Yak butter creams? Tungsten wire therapy?
I won’t make that mistake again.
I put on my happy-face, the porcelain doll-mask with the vacant, vapid stare, and head to the kitchen.

Silent Night

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Santa got stuck in my chimney.
He’s yelling for help.
I called the sheriff.
He told me to lay off the egg nog.
That’s how life goes in a small town sometimes.
It’s a nice place, though. Quiet and peaceful.
Until some old fat guy gets stuck in your chimney.
I turned on a flashlight and looked up.
Two black boots. Gigantic red ass.
“What am I getting this year?” I asked.
“A lump of coal if you don’t get me out of here,” he yelled.
Fuck him. Mr. Santa Fatty can wait.
I turned up my headphones.
Silent night.

Butterflies

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What am I eating?
Butterflies.
Ever eaten butterflies? No?
Oh, they’re delicious.
I can’t decide if they taste better dipped in chocolate or hot sauce.
How do I cook them?
I don’t. I eat them raw.
Their wings melt with any kind of heat.
That’s okay – lots of things taste better raw, like peapods and carrots.
Okay, so they taste like crunchy fluff, but they hold the chocolate pretty well.
And hot sauce, too.
Hold it by the legs and stick the wings in the dip, then pop it in your mouth.
How did it taste? Delicious?
Told ya so.

Free Trial

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The letter said I qualified for a 7 day free trial. But it didn’t say what it was for.
I figured what the hell, right, and I called the 800 number.
I heard it ring twice and then a click.
No answer. No voice.
The line went dead.
The next thing I knew, I was in Paris.
It was a week later, and there was a receipt in my hand.
“REFUNDED IN FULL”
I had no idea what had happened to me or how I got there.
There were no other receipts, no clues.
I found a cafe and drank.

The Tongue

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Robert Pastorelli’s been dead for years, but that didn’t stop me from dreaming about him.
His corpse had been torn to pieces and I had stumbled across his tongue, a throbbing slab of redness inchworming its way along the pavement.
I placed a resonating gadget to its tip and it spoke of his death and subsequent desecration.
When I found the rest of his head, I placed the tongue back inside and it babbled nonsense.
Why I dreamed of Robert Pastorelli, let alone his severed head, tongue torn out, I have no idea. I haven’t watched Murphy Brown in years.

Half the moon

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Which half of the moon do you want?
The left? The right?
Waning? Waxing?
Or perhaps you want the top of it?
Don’t forget the bottom.
Maybe you want the side that faces us. Certainly you do not want the side that faces away.
What do they call it? The dark side of the moon?
Take your time. It is an important decision.
What of the other half? Who gets that?
Is half the moon not enough for you? Need you have more?
I can understand. What good is half a moon?
Better to have none at all, I suppose.

Stoned Dead

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The five of us sitting around the table, her pacing back and forth asking us why.
It’s been less than an hour since she died, but her ghost is talking to all of us already.
Usually, if a ghost will show up, it takes a week.
When the spirit is strong or the death is particularly
violent, it’ll bounce off of Heaven and echo quickly.
Drinking a lot or smoking a bunch of dope makes it easier to sense them.
Her purse was full of weed. Couldn’t let that go to waste, right?
We’ll save a little for the funeral.

The Camp

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I saw him in a bar. He was the bartender.
Turned out he owned the place.
Thirty years ago, he had a gun to my head, laughing as he pulled the trigger.
The gun was empty, the bullets fired at my family.
All dead, there in the middle of the camp.
Here. Now.
I asked for a beer, he put a glass in front of me.
I drank, pulled out a knife, and stabbed him in the chest.
“How’s it feel to die in front of your enemy?” I ask.
He laughed and said “Ask yourself. The beer is poisoned.”