“Little children should be seen, but not heard,” said Kyle’s mother as she tucked him in for the night. Nighttime was the only time Kyle got to see his mother after the messy divorce.
All Kyle had asked for was to spend time with her during the day. He just wanted to play with her. Kyle’s mother was a cashier by day and telemarketer for most of the night. When she was working, she locked herself in her room and conducted business there. She would also tell Kyle the same sentence when he was bothering her, almost as if it were her mantra for dealing with her attention-starved son. Sometimes, she shouted it at him, angrily.
One day while his mother was out getting groceries in a rare moment of free time, Kyle devised a simple plan. Being only ten, he went by the advice of a friend. He got some rope and made a slipknot with it, as he had learned from the same friend.
His plan was to fake hanging himself so that his mother would want to spend more time with him. He would step off the island in the kitchen and land on a stool, making it look like he had hanged himself.
He strung himself up and stood on the counter, waiting to hear his mother pull into the driveway. After a few moments of waiting, he heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
Overeager, and excited about the prospect of getting to spend more time with his mother, Kyle jumped off the counter and knocked the stool out from under him. Even more unfortunate was the fact that the car he heard pulling in was only someone turning around in their driveway.
It was too late by the time his mother actually came home. She cried even harder when she thought of what she had always told Kyle.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Jaundice
Johnny was a kid in third grade, as normal as were most children his age. One particular summer afternoon, after getting off the bus and walking down the street toward his house, he stopped to talk to his neighbor who was standing in his yard. After a brief conversation, he went home, so as not to worry his mother.
“And just where have you been?” his mother asked as he walked in the front door.
“Talking to the guy next door,” he said as he set his backpack on a chair at the kitchen table and sat across from his mother. “What’s jaundice mean?” he asked.
“What?” queried his mother, confused as to how he had learned that word. “Where did you hear that?” she asked.
“I was coming down the street and saw the man next door. I asked him why his skin was so yellow!” Johnny stated, proudly.
“Oh. I see,” his mother said. “Go to your room, and do your homework,” she said as she walked to the window and looked over to the house next door. She didn’t want to remind her son that their neighbor had died a week ago, from liver failure.
“And just where have you been?” his mother asked as he walked in the front door.
“Talking to the guy next door,” he said as he set his backpack on a chair at the kitchen table and sat across from his mother. “What’s jaundice mean?” he asked.
“What?” queried his mother, confused as to how he had learned that word. “Where did you hear that?” she asked.
“I was coming down the street and saw the man next door. I asked him why his skin was so yellow!” Johnny stated, proudly.
“Oh. I see,” his mother said. “Go to your room, and do your homework,” she said as she walked to the window and looked over to the house next door. She didn’t want to remind her son that their neighbor had died a week ago, from liver failure.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Inevitable Ticking
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It’s all I can hear now. It’s been a while since I fell. I fell and broken my leg, and I can’t make it to the phone. No one is going to come looking for me, though. I have no friends or family. No job, no pets, no real connection to the outside world.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
This clock. I curse the day I bought it. I used to think its loud ticking sound was soothing. Now, the sound is driving me mad.
I can’t move.
Tick.
I can’t stand the sound. That sound, the inevitable ticking of my life as it slowly slips away
Tick.
Second.
Tick.
By second.
Tick.
A slow death, counting the seconds, hoping that I won’t live long enough to hear the next damned tick of that clock.
It’s all I can hear now. It’s been a while since I fell. I fell and broken my leg, and I can’t make it to the phone. No one is going to come looking for me, though. I have no friends or family. No job, no pets, no real connection to the outside world.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
This clock. I curse the day I bought it. I used to think its loud ticking sound was soothing. Now, the sound is driving me mad.
I can’t move.
Tick.
I can’t stand the sound. That sound, the inevitable ticking of my life as it slowly slips away
Tick.
Second.
Tick.
By second.
Tick.
A slow death, counting the seconds, hoping that I won’t live long enough to hear the next damned tick of that clock.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Homeless Man
David and John were typical high school miscreants. Destructive youths and members of the high school football team, the pair was a dangerous powder keg of testosterone.
When they were not busy tormenting the chess club or giving wedgies to the slower band members, David and John enjoyed their second favorite—second to football, of course—extra curricular activity: bullying the city’s homeless. They were infamous for it.
In the past, the duo’s efforts were little more than petty. They would tip over the shopping carts or set fire to cardboard boxes, often times with their occupants still inside them.
This particular day, however, the pair decided to take their mischief to the next level. Going into their father’s garage, they found a large gasoline can. After they carefully poured a small amount of gasoline into a bottle, they made their way into town. When they found a homeless man rambling to a wall covered with symbols written in what looked like blood, they knew they had found the perfect mark.
They ran up to him and splashed the man with the liquid and lit him on fire. They ran off as he burned alive, cursing at them as they fled.
That night, when in bed, the two chatted about their deed. They had a good laugh until they heard a noise coming from outside their bedroom.
John, figuring it was his father, opened the door to make a snide comment to him. When he opened the door, however, what he was greeted with was not his father, but the homeless man they had torched earlier in the day.
Before the two could process what was going on, the man splashed them with the remaining gas from the can.
The next thing they knew, they were waking up in the hospital, burnt beyond all recognition. As a result of the fire, the both David and John’s vocal cords were damaged severely. Being unable to talk, and having no relatives to claim them, they were soon set out onto the streets, homeless.
When they were not busy tormenting the chess club or giving wedgies to the slower band members, David and John enjoyed their second favorite—second to football, of course—extra curricular activity: bullying the city’s homeless. They were infamous for it.
In the past, the duo’s efforts were little more than petty. They would tip over the shopping carts or set fire to cardboard boxes, often times with their occupants still inside them.
This particular day, however, the pair decided to take their mischief to the next level. Going into their father’s garage, they found a large gasoline can. After they carefully poured a small amount of gasoline into a bottle, they made their way into town. When they found a homeless man rambling to a wall covered with symbols written in what looked like blood, they knew they had found the perfect mark.
They ran up to him and splashed the man with the liquid and lit him on fire. They ran off as he burned alive, cursing at them as they fled.
That night, when in bed, the two chatted about their deed. They had a good laugh until they heard a noise coming from outside their bedroom.
John, figuring it was his father, opened the door to make a snide comment to him. When he opened the door, however, what he was greeted with was not his father, but the homeless man they had torched earlier in the day.
Before the two could process what was going on, the man splashed them with the remaining gas from the can.
The next thing they knew, they were waking up in the hospital, burnt beyond all recognition. As a result of the fire, the both David and John’s vocal cords were damaged severely. Being unable to talk, and having no relatives to claim them, they were soon set out onto the streets, homeless.
Given Reason
Kent Heister was an average person, living an average life. Recently, he had gotten a divorce from his wife. They just were not ready for that level of commitment. He had also stopped attending church and devoted himself to just working. Being single, now, this wasn’t much of a problem. Though he had been religious before, he no longer saw a reason to keep up the act.
This news upset Richard Carson, his long-time friend and neighbor. Richard, being the spiritual person that he was, was deeply concerned by his friend’s deviation from the path he had been on to God. He was also schizophrenic, a fact of which he was unaware.
Every now and again, Richard would hear voices telling him what he should do or say, and he took those as the words of God. After a few weeks of watching Kent slide into drinking alcohol and smoking cigarettes, the voices in his head told him what to do.
Richard took Kent on a nature walk in the forest near their houses. Kent was asked what it would take for him to get back on the path of righteousness and rejoin the church.
Kent told Richard that if he found some smokes while walking, he would join the church. After a few feet, the two came across an unopened pack of cigarettes. Kent picked them up and told Richard that it was just a coincidence and that if he found something to drink, he would rejoin.
After a few minutes, they came across a six pack of beer lying in the middle of the trail. Kent snagged the fresh pack of beers and looked them over. As he put them in his backpack, he told Richard that this was still some strange coincidence. He rationalized that some hiker was not only missing some cigarettes, but some tasty beer as well.
He told Richard, who was now ahead of him, that he needed a reason to pray and turn back to God. He said that was what it would take for him to rejoin the church.
Nodding to himself, having received confirmation from the voice, Richard turned to face Kent. He smiled as he reached into his pocket and gave Kent a reason to pray as he pulled the trigger.
This news upset Richard Carson, his long-time friend and neighbor. Richard, being the spiritual person that he was, was deeply concerned by his friend’s deviation from the path he had been on to God. He was also schizophrenic, a fact of which he was unaware.
Every now and again, Richard would hear voices telling him what he should do or say, and he took those as the words of God. After a few weeks of watching Kent slide into drinking alcohol and smoking cigarettes, the voices in his head told him what to do.
Richard took Kent on a nature walk in the forest near their houses. Kent was asked what it would take for him to get back on the path of righteousness and rejoin the church.
Kent told Richard that if he found some smokes while walking, he would join the church. After a few feet, the two came across an unopened pack of cigarettes. Kent picked them up and told Richard that it was just a coincidence and that if he found something to drink, he would rejoin.
After a few minutes, they came across a six pack of beer lying in the middle of the trail. Kent snagged the fresh pack of beers and looked them over. As he put them in his backpack, he told Richard that this was still some strange coincidence. He rationalized that some hiker was not only missing some cigarettes, but some tasty beer as well.
He told Richard, who was now ahead of him, that he needed a reason to pray and turn back to God. He said that was what it would take for him to rejoin the church.
Nodding to himself, having received confirmation from the voice, Richard turned to face Kent. He smiled as he reached into his pocket and gave Kent a reason to pray as he pulled the trigger.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Silent Nightmare
Children are always warned not to stay up on Christmas Eve and wait for Santa, let alone try to sneak a peek at him.
There’s a good reason for this, in fact. Santa knows when you are sleeping, and he knows who has been naughty. For children who have been naughty, being awake on Christmas can be, well, unfortunate.
How, after all, do you think he gets those small, young elves?
There’s a good reason for this, in fact. Santa knows when you are sleeping, and he knows who has been naughty. For children who have been naughty, being awake on Christmas can be, well, unfortunate.
How, after all, do you think he gets those small, young elves?
Monday, January 17, 2011
Can't Fail
I sit here, staring at the crowd of people around me. They chatter amongst themselves, almost unaware of my sleepy state.
After almost no sleep yesternight, I find myself having trouble holding onto reality; struggling to remain awake.
I can’t fail. Not until morning. Morning will come, and the crowd will clear out. These vile humans will shuffle along, returning from whence they came, leaving me alone. It will be then that I can flee.
I can’t fail.
I sit here, staring at the crow of people around me. They chatter amongst themselves, discussing my sleepy state.
After almost no sleep yesternight, I find myself a potential snack for these vile human beings. Morning. Must wait for it.
I can’t fail.
Can’t fail.
I sit here, staring at the crowd of creatures before me, my sleepy state allowing me to see these dream creatures for what they really are. They chatter amongst themselves, totally aware of my condition.
I am a tasty snack now.
Can’t fail.
Can’t…
…fail.
…
…
…
I sit here, staring at the crowd of people around me, chattering with them about this guy, about to fall asleep. He’ll be delicious.
He must fail.
After almost no sleep yesternight, I find myself having trouble holding onto reality; struggling to remain awake.
I can’t fail. Not until morning. Morning will come, and the crowd will clear out. These vile humans will shuffle along, returning from whence they came, leaving me alone. It will be then that I can flee.
I can’t fail.
I sit here, staring at the crow of people around me. They chatter amongst themselves, discussing my sleepy state.
After almost no sleep yesternight, I find myself a potential snack for these vile human beings. Morning. Must wait for it.
I can’t fail.
Can’t fail.
I sit here, staring at the crowd of creatures before me, my sleepy state allowing me to see these dream creatures for what they really are. They chatter amongst themselves, totally aware of my condition.
I am a tasty snack now.
Can’t fail.
Can’t…
…fail.
…
…
…
I sit here, staring at the crowd of people around me, chattering with them about this guy, about to fall asleep. He’ll be delicious.
He must fail.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Dream Death
Ever died in a dream and then woken up?
That just means an alternate you in a different timeline has died. Dreams about yourself are a glimpse into what's going on in alternate versions of yourself.
This also would explain why sometimes a person can dream of something, and then have it happen later. You simply have to choose the actions in the dream, and you become the version of yourself from your dream. Your timeline becomes his timeline, and vice versa.
Try to be more careful, though. Also, be mindful of what happened to those versions of you who died, will you? Remember: the waking you is also the dream of another sleeping you.
That just means an alternate you in a different timeline has died. Dreams about yourself are a glimpse into what's going on in alternate versions of yourself.
This also would explain why sometimes a person can dream of something, and then have it happen later. You simply have to choose the actions in the dream, and you become the version of yourself from your dream. Your timeline becomes his timeline, and vice versa.
Try to be more careful, though. Also, be mindful of what happened to those versions of you who died, will you? Remember: the waking you is also the dream of another sleeping you.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Heart Break-In
Sarah was wary about letting her husband Tom go on his business trip alone. She had a sneaking suspicion he was having an affair with his secretary, Rachel. Unfortunately, for her sake, she was unable to stop him from going. It was a mandatory meeting, according to the email she was shown.
One night, after Tom had been away for two days, she heard noises coming from the ground floor of her house. Scared, she hid under the covers, afraid for her life.
After what was the longest five minutes of her life, she heard someone come up the stairs, and shortly thereafter heard the bedroom door open. Almost instantly, the intruder flicked the lights in the room on. Knowing that hiding was now pointless, she threw off the covers to face the person.
It was Tom. He was home early.
“Oh God, Tom,” she said as she ran to the door and hugged him. “I wish you had called. I didn’t know you would be home so early. I thought we were being robbed!” she said, letting go of him as he reached into his pocket.
“We are,” he said calmly as he swiftly put the gun he pulled from his pocket to his wife’s head and pulled the trigger.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Five Days
Inside a small cave on the side of a snowy mountain, a woman stirs to consciousness. She takes note of the various blood-stained strips of clothes wrapped around her arms and looks up at the cave ceiling.
As reality forms itself around her, she notices that the cave is slightly illuminated and that she is curiously warm. She slowly sits up and her vision slowly comes together.
Sitting a few feet in front of her is a man and a small fire, not big enough to heat much of anything, but rather a dim light source. She then looks down at the things keeping her warm: clothing and thin blankets wrapped carefully around her.
“Welcome,” says the man as he looks up from the fire, noticing that she is now awake.
“What? Where?” she stammers, weakly.
“Oh, don’t fret. You’re safe. I don’t know if you remember, but the plane we were on went down. It hit the side of the mountain. We were the only survivors. I found you on one of my attempts to scavenge supplies and clothing from the wreckage,” the man said, smiling. His clothing was torn, obviously used to make the dressings on the woman’s wounds.
“Wow, thank you so much, sir. I don’t know how I can thank you. Where are you sleeping?” she said as she smiled nervously, glancing around the room for where his pile of blankets might be located. He wasn’t wearing much, and she knew he had to be cold.
“Again, don’t concern yourself about something like that. I’m just glad to see you are alive and well. You were out for so long that I began to wonder weather it was worth the sacrifice to bring you back here. It wasn’t easy getting you from there to here.” The man smiled, despite remembering the unpleasant memory of carrying a person for several feet of waist-high snow.
“How long was I out, then?” she asked, morbidly curious.
“Five days. I went back out the next day to try and find as much remaining food as I could from the plane. I brought what I could back. It was so cold.”
“I’m sure it was, what with using your clothes to save me.” She began to say more, but the man stopped her.
“Now, now. There will be time for that tomorrow. You need to rest more. We will talk in the morning.
With that, she nodded and lay back down. In almost no time at all, she was asleep. Several hours into her sleeping, around noon the next day, she was awoken by the sound of crunching snow and shouting voices.
“We got a survivor,” a voice shouted from inside the cave, and the woman sat up, thinking it was the man that had saved her.
“Yes! Survivors!” she called out weakly.
“Now, ma’am. Please lie back down,” the voice said as the person drew nearer, revealing to her that he was not the man to which she had spoken the other night.
“We’re getting rescued,” she said happily as she eased back onto the hard ground.
“We?” the rescuer asked as she was put onto a stretcher and carried out.
“Yes, the man who saved me is in that cave too. Didn’t you find him?” she asked as they reached a helicopter, perched on a save area of the mountain.
“I’ll find out,” the rescuer said as he stepped away for a moment. He quickly returned.
“Well?” she asked, looking at him expectantly. “I want to thank him properly when I am better.”
“Ma’am,” the man said. “I have bad news. There was another person in the cave with you, yes. However, from our best estimates, he died of hypothermia at least five days ago.”
As reality forms itself around her, she notices that the cave is slightly illuminated and that she is curiously warm. She slowly sits up and her vision slowly comes together.
Sitting a few feet in front of her is a man and a small fire, not big enough to heat much of anything, but rather a dim light source. She then looks down at the things keeping her warm: clothing and thin blankets wrapped carefully around her.
“Welcome,” says the man as he looks up from the fire, noticing that she is now awake.
“What? Where?” she stammers, weakly.
“Oh, don’t fret. You’re safe. I don’t know if you remember, but the plane we were on went down. It hit the side of the mountain. We were the only survivors. I found you on one of my attempts to scavenge supplies and clothing from the wreckage,” the man said, smiling. His clothing was torn, obviously used to make the dressings on the woman’s wounds.
“Wow, thank you so much, sir. I don’t know how I can thank you. Where are you sleeping?” she said as she smiled nervously, glancing around the room for where his pile of blankets might be located. He wasn’t wearing much, and she knew he had to be cold.
“Again, don’t concern yourself about something like that. I’m just glad to see you are alive and well. You were out for so long that I began to wonder weather it was worth the sacrifice to bring you back here. It wasn’t easy getting you from there to here.” The man smiled, despite remembering the unpleasant memory of carrying a person for several feet of waist-high snow.
“How long was I out, then?” she asked, morbidly curious.
“Five days. I went back out the next day to try and find as much remaining food as I could from the plane. I brought what I could back. It was so cold.”
“I’m sure it was, what with using your clothes to save me.” She began to say more, but the man stopped her.
“Now, now. There will be time for that tomorrow. You need to rest more. We will talk in the morning.
With that, she nodded and lay back down. In almost no time at all, she was asleep. Several hours into her sleeping, around noon the next day, she was awoken by the sound of crunching snow and shouting voices.
“We got a survivor,” a voice shouted from inside the cave, and the woman sat up, thinking it was the man that had saved her.
“Yes! Survivors!” she called out weakly.
“Now, ma’am. Please lie back down,” the voice said as the person drew nearer, revealing to her that he was not the man to which she had spoken the other night.
“We’re getting rescued,” she said happily as she eased back onto the hard ground.
“We?” the rescuer asked as she was put onto a stretcher and carried out.
“Yes, the man who saved me is in that cave too. Didn’t you find him?” she asked as they reached a helicopter, perched on a save area of the mountain.
“I’ll find out,” the rescuer said as he stepped away for a moment. He quickly returned.
“Well?” she asked, looking at him expectantly. “I want to thank him properly when I am better.”
“Ma’am,” the man said. “I have bad news. There was another person in the cave with you, yes. However, from our best estimates, he died of hypothermia at least five days ago.”
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