A desk in the shape of a box sat in the living room of one Mr. David Nashe. Mr. Nashe, having vacated the putrescent premises of his abode this particular evening, distributed sequentially a series of ego-contents in spurts of fantastically phantasmagorical rapidity, his consciousness plastered about the total surface area of one Ms. Nora Veronica, seated and situated adjacent his person, seeping duly purposeful magnitudes of that superbly feminine magniloquence. Poised in the manner of a tiger in constructive possession of that great misfortune (that is, having been stuffed), she breathed slowly. A species of Caucasians adorned in (imitation) African dresses passed by the automobile in which they were stationed, a large Cadillac.
She spoke, each word tinged with the acrimony of repressed vehemence.
EXT. UNIVERSITY QUAD – DAY
It’s a small Catholic University. The type that hosts haunted castles, secret underground passageways and cemeteries.
He… I… woke up in the communal
bathroom. There was… blood on
my thigh. My name is Angela Roberts.
Sun shines upon a healthy student body – we see an ultimate Frisbee match, theater club dressed in medieval costumes rehearsing and beach bodies sunbathing.
I laid in bed on top of damp sheets staring up at the molded ceiling which just started to leak. Drip, drip, drip, water fell into various pots and buckets spread around the room. My grandmother’s “friend” allegedly fixed this problem the day before but I could tell Jim didn’t have a clue what he was doing by the way he strapped on his useless seventy piece tool belt, like he was about to build a dining room table. Idiot. Jim just wanted to impress Grandma Stone so he could get some more of her homemade raspberry cobbler— unfortunately not the kind you eat with a spoon. He was disgusting. They were disgusting and very loud in the adjacent bedroom. I could hear my Grandmother trying to quiet him down, “You’re going to wake her up”, she would say.
Of course, when I tell people that I was abducted by an alien, they laugh at me. Some listen politely at first, then they laugh; others laugh before I even try to explain. Some ask me if I would I like to tell my story to a doctor? And then there are the endless jokes about probing — I won’t even go into those.
It doesn’t help when I mention that the alien was a taxi driver, or that the abduction occurred via taxi. That prompts people to tell me they were abducted by an alien taxi driver too, and then they tell me their abduction story but it’s always about being taken to the wrong address, or the driver spoke an unknown language, or the like. READ MORE.
The uniformed driver stands in front of gate 10 and wrings his hands. “The bus is full,” he says, then puts his palms up like two little stop signs. It is Thanksgiving morning and the gritty-eyed travelers still waiting to board grumble with frustration.
“It’s overbooked,” he explains with a shrug. “The next bus leaves at five.”
Frustration boils over and grumbles rise into shouts and curses. There is a commotion near the head of the queue, people screaming, elbowing one another. I watch one girl in particular from my seat on a bench at gate 11. She is not like the rest; no anger, no obscenities, just a wide yawn which she covers with the back of her copper tan hand. She looks Mexican; at least I think she looks Mexican, with these prominent cheekbones I can’t stop staring at. Maybe she doesn’t understand that the bus she is waiting for is overbooked. READ MORE.
Danny O’Toole suddenly found himself hovering somewhere between time and space; hearing conversations from people who were not there. He could feel his body, but he couldn’t see it. He still felt old, but he didn’t know how he could feel so light…so flowing and agile. He was everywhere and anywhere, hovering high above the ground. Out across the lonely rooftops, seemingly all around him in four directions, voices chattered up into the hazy sky. But he could only see a single spot below his house. The sky above him was frozen and the sun had no heat. He could look straight into the sun and it didn’t bother him. He was conscious of nothing beyond the voices and the moment. It was a moment that went on and on. He didn’t panic. Actually, it was with a strange calm that he looked down at the piles of bricks, each stacked neatly in rows anchored against the hard, dry dirt. The bricks were stacked five high and ten across in two solid red rectangles. To Danny, these had been monuments of possibility; solid blocks of reality perched against the emotional chaos that had been his life.
I just like imagining somebody choking to the tune of Jock Jams. Is there something wrong with that? If so, then this is a world in which I no longer want to exist in. If writing a story about this makes me insane, than I will choke you to death when I see you at the Insanity Olympics. Little Billy, as his parents lovingly called him, although he was rapidly approaching the age of 18, was in his room listening to music on his headphones. He listened with headphones for 2 important purposes: 1. His parents would nag him if the volume was too loud, and low volume music is not cool. 2. He was embarrassed by his favorite songs, which mostly consisted of Jock Jams. This fine evening he was munching on a bag of potato chips while listening to GET READY FOR THIS. One particular chip was a bit larger than average and it ended up getting lodged into the poor boy ‘s throat. He began choking. He tried screaming for help but could no longer talk. His heart immediately began racing at an accelerated pace at this jarring observation, knowing that this was an indication of an authentic choking.
Ever took the stairs slowly, each step getting a bit harder than the last to hoist up her hundred-pound body. She ached down to the bone and knew that if she stopped moving, she’d probably fall asleep on her feet and end up in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. She didn’t get it. It had been two weeks, and neither the fatigue nor the pain had subsided. She grasped the cool, iron railing, pulling herself up the stairs by her arms now, letting the burning ache fill them. Why the hell was the elevator in this building still broken?
“What are you doing?” she heard, and jerked her head upwards to see Lindsey staring at her. She hadn’t even known someone was there, making it easy for him to spot her first. He was standing on the landing just a few steps above her, his hand still on the railing. He’d obviously been watching her a while. She looked at him, seeing his incandescent blue-green eyes grimace and scrutinize her over.
I hardly knew my old friends; nevertheless, when they said they were coming I felt obliged, from the same sense of shame that had defined our relationship years before, to make the nerve-wracking train ride into the city. It was a blazing day without heat. Aside from an increasing concentration of jet contrails as the city neared, only a few scattered clouds, black and the exact size and shape of blimps, interrupted an otherwise empty sky. I spent the ride gazing at scenery flowing past like a smooth-running river, altering in stages from tufts of green to angles of gray. From time to time I pulled out my phone for no particular reason. Inside the enormous domed terminal, my phone died the instant I tried to call my old friends to let them know I’d arrived safely. That posed a problem. How could I be expected to remember their phone numbers, three sets of ten digits that I’d only looked at once during rambling speeches on their part, with grunts of approval on my part, about their accomplishments since we had last met in the flesh, like reading from resumes?
Hoof beats echoed through the gentle rain and brought the ploughman to his senses. He sighed and let the soil trickle through his fingers, back to the ground where it belonged. ‘It’s just not what it used to be,’ he muttered, allowing the wind to swallow his words.
“Hello there!” The old man turned around and leant on his staff. His beard was matted with sweat, and his grey eyes looked older and wiser than ever. “Have you heard the news?”
“I haven’t.” Mr. Slater leapt from his mount and landed in the mud. His features were bright with excitement, and he leant towards the ploughman like a conspirator.