by Tomorrow's Man
I can see the line between mouth of power and washed out to die where the lights of the towers horizon flicker into strobe life; for reasons the descending sky doesn't know, the lights flick to red, and the waters below my windows churn with the motion of something heaving....
A Day in the Lyfe
4PM: Begin to clean
5PM: Notice that despite grueling hours spent scrubbing and sweating, stink seems to be getting worse. Actually feel nauseous.
5:15:10PM: Move small pushcart to clean hallway rug.
5:15:11-5:15:17PM: Choke -- quite literally -- on the cloud of fruit flies that swarms up as the cart moves. Not only inhale scores of insects, but feel the panic rise as they get in eyes, nose, and ears.
5:17:31PM: Move George Foreman Grill off of second shelf of cart.
5:17:42PM: Vomit onto feet, sandals, floor.
5:17:51PM: Stumble out of house. Realize that as the grill was moved, it ripped the dark brown skin of something behind it that had glued to the grill's feet; moving the grill tore the outer skin of the mass. The dark brown skin would later prove to be that of a viscous foundation of decay leaked and congealed from an unquestionably old bag of potatoes. Not only did the bag no longer contained anything solid, but the plastic itself had fallen victim to some decomposition caused by two weeks of 90-100 percent humidity, 80-degree heat, and hundreds of fruit flies and their by-blows.
5:19:01PM: Re-enter house. Force gorge not to rise, as stench of humid rot and decay has permeated the house. Become light-headed from short breaths through the mouth.
5:19:02PM: Feel greyish panic as hackles rise; calm down with knowledge that it isn't an actual threat, but an innate reaction to what is without question the dreadful, dangerous warning stench of death.
5:21PM: Spray until saturated all appliances, cups, utensils, etc., on cart, effectively wiping out thousands of lives. Watch alarming, surreal dynamic as the hundreds of airborne fruit flies -- panicked, but comparatively unprepared -- fly toward their birthing ground, into the spray of exterminant, and fall in pixelated sheets to the floor.
5:27PM: With long-handled mop, attempt to scrub cart shelf. Realize that the wood of the shelf is saturated with the viscous rot. Realize scrubbing is the ultimate in futility, and decide to relagate cart to garage.
5:28PM-5:34PM: Move cart; spill thick brown fluid onto floor and foot; vomit bile into mouth; get cart outside; stop to hose off foot; shove cart into back of garage; re-enter house to fumigate
5:35PM-6:34PM: Drink much beer. Shower. Shiver. Shake.
6:35PM - 7:04PM: Jot this heinous tale.
an employee who shall remain shameless had this suggestion as a way to improve his company:
"hire more whites - we are now the minority!!"
it reverberates:
[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[ugly non-fiction society]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]
I think I need to spend the rest of this week meditating over a lotus flower growing in the sunshine outside a gun shop.
The saints soon will come marching in.
This will not be with the jocular chime of victory.
There will be the stamping of feet.
The pounding of a low monster's tread will dust our foundations.
The rumble you hear will not be victory.
This time It will be the ripping of the membranes of the war drums.
Zero lives have been claimed by Hurricane Fabio.
"Tiny Airport"
Once upon a time, there was a tiny, tiny airport in a tiny, tiny town. It was frequented by tiny, tiny airplaines, which had tiny tiny propellers.
These planes were manned by an elite flying corps of tiny, tiny men. Their names were:
Ikki, Bikki, and Dot.
Ikki and Dot were brothers, and had been pilots for many years. Bikki came from Papua New Guinea, and had, prior to attaining his pilot's license, made his living as an exotic dancer in a small Siberian town called Clean Steve.
Unfortunately, the denizens of Steve were less than properly appreciative of Bikki's act, which incorporated a canary cage and two day-old poppyseed bagels.He left, and became a pilot after seven days on the cold roads without food or water. He ate the bagels the first day. He ate the canaries on the fifth. On the sixth he was run over by a Belgian bicyclist named Pierre, who told him to wait and then returned with a pickup truck and a bottle of vodka. Pierre used the canary cage as a fulcrum and hoisted Bikki into the back of his truck. He took the bottle of vodka and before Bikki could request a drop he downed the entire litre in a single glug.
Shouting at Bikki where he lay in the back of the pickup, Pierre let loose with a stream of Belgian that sounded like a poor translation of the last three pages of Jane's Fighting Ships and threw the bottle into some conveniently located bushes. Bikki was quite certain that he was about to meet with a permanent and irreversible misadventure, but as it turned out,
Pierre was quite a fine driver, despite the devastated road and rickety truck. As they were bumbling along, a small, odd motorcycle pulled alongside the truck. "Who are you and what is that??" Bikki shouted in broken French. "It is an Achilles!" Shouted back the pretty girl.
The End.