Day 9: DVD


Write on your cellphone


He was like one of those movies you were so excited about to see in theatres at one point and now you see the DVD in WalMart and wonder how bad it had to be to be below your radar until now. He was a good ish looking, I guess. He had a kind of “charm.” To be honest it’s so hard to make a judgement call on someone that you just are so far from being into. Like making a judgement call on one of your siblings.

I saw him at a book store, in those awful “stylish” scarves, jeans rolled up right above his ankles, and a grey v-neck. I wanted to slap the bullshit out of his clothes. He spotted me, leaning and staring, putting the lines to dots. I couldn’t run now. Well I could, but I didn’t.

“Amy!” And he smiled and waved at me. Didn’t even bother to get up, but I admired his outgoing yell in the middle of a BOOKSTORE.

Soon I was beside him at his little stupid window seat, his sweet coffee probably left to get cold or was cold all along.

“how have you been?” He asked, folding his hands on his lap and leaning back, eyes all over me

“shit. Nothing new.” He frowned for a moment and I swear to god that when he picked up his apple phone I thought his case would have a fucking cat on it, but it was just plain blue.

“I don’t have you on facebook.” He said aimlessly. I didn’t say anything back to him because that wasn’t a fucking request was it. Go back and fucking read the lack of “huh” symbol.

I needed to pick a book in here, I remembered. A famous author was coming to do a reading at this blues poetry place and I needed a copy of her book. Now normally I’m not a fan of pretentious posh shit like poetry places or authors and getting autographs, but I read an excerpt of her book and feel in love

“instagram?” He offered suddenly loudly over my thoughts. I realize I was staring out the window and returned my faze to him and he was scrolling on his phone, eyes fixed there. That one was a question, I guess, but I had no fucking clue as to what.

“oh by the way Ames, you dating anyone right now? I’m not seeing anyone right now so…” He crossed his arms around him into this sort of self hug, phone hanging out of his left, eyes finally around mine.

First of all, my name is Amy. It’s already fucking short as it was. And second, “oh by the [fucking] way. I’m not [dicking] anyone right now [and since we are like sorority girls on our periods synching the fuck up] so… [how about you get to the part where you suck my—

“Ames.” His voice ended my thoughts right in place. I smacked his coffee onto his lap and walked away. I was grateful that he didn’t make a huge scene. I mainly grateful that he can’t work his brain and mouth and arms at the same time in order to make a scene.

So his name was something like Jack or Mitch and yes I over reacted. I tend to over react.


Day 3: Balls


JIngle Balls (As the french call them)


He didn’t like the way his father twisted and tinkered with the ornaments. It made him uncomfortable sitting across from his younger sister dressed in pink and red frilled dress. She looked so very upset, arms cross, and cheeks red from pouting so furiously. She had this absent look in her eyes like she’d forgotten why she’d gotten so cross but was too committed to her frown to stop now. His father twisted the green striped on over and again, the tree shaking and flaking. His mother walked over every so often in her black high heels sweeping the shedding under under the fake snow. She looked very sophisticated in her black dress, but his father always got so cross when mother looked so curvy.

The second ball ornament slid down the string and collided with the green stripped one, crushing a popcorn in the middle.

“Juan-Carlos!” His father’s voice came suddenly almost like he’d turned around and rushed at him with both arms. He was standing facing the tree his green sweater facing the boy. Juan-Carlos lept up and rushed, palms up to help, “Hold these!”

Juan-Carlos cradled the two balls in one hand and his cheeks grew red. Two red balls in his hands. He wanted to giggle. Make a snide comment the frills on his sister dress, the black heels on his mother, and the sweater on his father kept his kravatte tie tighten like a noose around his neck. Sweat globbed up on his hand and is father glared at him for a moment looked at his red face.

“Help your mother.” And he snatched the balls, separating them into two separate hands



So you have to put your bag somewhere when you get in that tiny stall. They give you a hook, but as you look at it you notice it looks precarious and rusted. You’re having visions of the construction of that stall, sparkling and new, and a man, probably in his late forties, sweating and hammering the nail into that not yet faded blue door. Naturally, it shakes the life right out of him. Heart attack, aneurism, stroke. You can pick anything you want really. It doesn’t really matter. He’s pretty dead.

They–being management– leave his work half done because they have more pressing issues: the man in his late forties is pretty fucking dead and clutching his hammer and the stall in that post mortem body spasm. They sweep the death under the rug and there is that hook, half finished, rusted, and looking back at your for some pity or mercy.

Definitely Not.

Then you glance at the ground and realize that your in a public restroom. And you are pretty sure now that that’s not how post mortem works in a body or anywhere else for that matter. So you’re gonna take your chances on the rusted hook. It squeaks and teeters but for a moment it looks okay and you pull down your pants and squat above the toilet bowl (careful not to touch it with your skin, but fully allow your nether regions to breathe).

You can’t stop glaring at the hook and your bag as if you being able to see it will convince it into staying up there. Gravity seems more convincing though. Okay so you can’t pee because you’re anxious. Even though you’ve resigned to your inability to charm the gravity out of things, you’ve got your 400 dollar laptop in there and its not on warranty. You grab it off the hook and cradle of in your lap and you squat again and like that you can pee.

Step two: Operation Wipe. You maneuver your body so that you can reach the 1 ply toilet paper and try to hoist your backpack into an obviously more dangerous position than on the hook, but its above your head and pride pushes you to things like this. Then you’re free to finish up but your shorts are only being held in place by your legs. If you move now they might fall on the ground. You remind yourself where you are. You are in a germ-a-phobe’s personal pocket of hell that involves fire pokers and clowns. I don’t know why clowns, but definitely them.

So you grab hold of your pants with your freehand and then you realize you can’t quite get ’em on. You tug until you feel like you’re decently dressed. Then when you kick the flusher it juts for a second and your yellow and toilet paper filled bowl stares back at you. You kick it again and already you have created a religion that is only applicable when you need a God to let you flush a toilet and leave a bathroom embarrassment free and social status intact. You pray to him furiously, foot press down on the leaver. The slow flusher continues on its lazy way gurgling like a small boy drowning until eventual it is all gone. At which point you are stumbling out of the bathroom, pants undone and hanging a little low on your ass, clutching your backpack like a terrorist, and hands wet because you washed them as fast as possible be as far as possible from there as fast as possible.

And you bump into your professor outside, and he’s struggling to decide whether or not to pretend he doesn’t see you as you lock eyes from about 2 feet away or to say hello to you and make up an excuse to not go into the bathroom or to ever talk to you again ever. You just walk away. Good on you

Writing 101, Day Nineteen: Don’t Stop the Rockin’


Today is a free writing day. Write at least four-hundred words, and once you start typing, don’t stop. No self-editing, no trash-talking, and no second guessing: just go. Bonus points if you tackle an idea you’ve been playing with but think is too silly to post about.

Chuck was a normal guy. He just had a few issue just like every other person. He was actually exceptionally normal compared to the people who walked around him. He didn’t like to acknowledge their existence for too long for fear they might influence his behavior– All that brain washing was contagious you know.

Maybe we should talk about something else.

Today was the day Chuck was being force to go to the library by his mother. She was a devious one and knew exactly how to push his buttons. She was probably some sort of machine with wheels and dials designed by the government for this very task, but Chuck never looked directly at her so he couldn’t exactly be sure. Sometimes he’d throw pieces of bread at her feet in hopes that she’d pick it up. If she did, she’d be at the perfect, height, lighting, and angle for Chuck to catch a glimpse of her without being infected…that is if he looked away quickly enough. He was talented in this and wasn’t worried.

“You’re going to the library.” He heard her say. The monster pulled his hearing aids right out, before shouting it. He felt woozy and strange, the sound of the infected world filtering in. He need the sound of different things chopped up and rubbed down into a white noise. He needed that because it was the only way the government couldn’t get into your mind–his mind.

Instead of replying Chuck hissed and scuttled back in the living room, carefully taking three steps at a time up to his room. His mother didn’t follow him, so he froze. She was a wild card. She would do anything to get her way. When she didn’t run after him…it meant the worst. She’d already done something

“What?” He said, halfway making a question. She was grinning. He’s never seen it, but he could almost feel the air chilling right through his denim jacket.

“I’ve licked a sock…an american flag toe sock, and i’ve hidden it in your room.” Her voice crushed through, clearly, and it hurt Chuck all over. He grabbed his body and crouched over. Socks were the bane of human strife, forever looking for a matching pair, and american flags are the source of baseless nationalism in young adults. He couldn’t stand such a thing, “Unless you come over here, take your hearing aids, kiss your mom goodbye, and go the the Library…i will hide more and more purple socks in your room.” and Purple was sooooo very evil.

Chuck shot up six feet in the air, bound down the stairs, and snatched the hearing aids, careful not to touch her skin. She could have malaria…or might be part poison oak. He snuggly put them back in, the sound of jackhammers and rivers, and groaning, and cats taking the clear air away, just the way he liked it. She handed him a back of stick pretzels and opened the door for him.

Naturally he took the pretzels and climbed out of the window, careful not to land in the bushes. Bushes were a sign of evolutionary subservience… He shouldn’t trust his mother for a second. So he had never go through a hoop she made…and she made many hoops.

[to be continued?]

Writing 101, Day Twelve: (Virtual) Dark Clouds on the Horizon


Today, write a post with roots in a real-world conversation. For a twist, include foreshadowing.


Hey! Hello!

Yeah me!

Down here, Genius!

No! Not your ass, dumbass!

Fine. Take a seat. When you’re nice and cosy and bundled up in your nice lovely bed we can have a conversation.

Pull up the legs of your pants.


No, why would i even do that?! First of all it’s impossible for a 100 reasons! Two, how could lifting up your pant leg even be a sexual advance?

Nevermind. Don’t even answer.

I just wanted to say two things…

ONE: You treat me like shit and

TWO: i hate you.

Why? He’s asking me why! HAHA! Ankles, do you believe this guy?!

Hey, Steven, when you pick up something heavy, yeah to impress those bimbos, you use me. Dad’s are always saying lift with your knees. Well hey! We need a friggin break, alright.

BACK?! Back! Oh my–I fucking hate Back!

You go to the masseuse and get him all loosened up all the time, because you have “tention”. DO you know what they do for me?! They barely even touch me!

I have tension! I have needs, Steven!

The closest they get to me is behind me. What is that even called? The knee’s ass?

I don’t even know, Steve!

What’s my problem?

I’m depressed, overworked, underappreciated! At least Elbow gets to be in the pictures!

All i want, Steve…is to– to be recognized, to get touched, to know what i am!

What’s my butt called, Steven?!



Writing 101, Day Ten: Happy (Insert Special Occasion Here)!


Today, be inspired by a favorite childhood meal. For the twist, focus on infusing the post with your unique voice — even if that makes you a little nervous.

Everything is Forgiven:

She thinks if she gives me this silly little dish everything is forgiven. Ha. She’s even more stupid than she looks. I don’t mind her making it, thinking that this smile is a smile of forgiveness–but it’s not. It’s the smile of victory. This large cheek ripping grin is the grin of a man who has successfully duped. The grin of a Duper. I don’t mind her rushing around the kitchen, slowly building up a sweat, that is thick and flabby like the butter she’s cooking in the frying pan. oooooh that smell. She is definitely stupid and terrible at all things, but by some miracle of fate, she is able to make this one dish like no other. It’s like the universe is trying to apologize for making her so remarkably useless and unappealing.

She comes to sit across from me at the table, her forehead dark and beading still with sweat, and again i am put off. I can hardly look at her now a days.

“It’ll be just a while longer.” Her voice is soft and raspy, and i can hear the saliva and wind whistling through the holes and cracks in her teeth.

“I know how long it’ll be, Gillian. And don’t sit at the table with me. I can’t stand the smell of you.” I waved her away. She got up promptly, standing next to her seat like a dog…oh for the love of God, “Watch the damn pot, woman!”

“It’ll never cook that way.”

Oh God did she love her own superstition. So she stood there, staring absently out, lost in what i’d inaccurately call thoughts, because i’d hardly call her a thinker. She’s more like a st– no. I’m not a child. I won’t stoop to that level. Good God that smell! It was rising, filling up like whipped cream inside this chocolate eclair room– except the chocolate is probably dried blood or dirt, not the usually crusted shit from Spain beaten down by cream and sugar. She had that look on her face, under her hooked nose and her beady eyes, like she was so sure she’d won a race she couldn’t even run in. I’d let her think that, but i’ll know the truth she hadn’t.

The frying pan popped and sizzled, and i knew what that meant, the woman waddling back into the kitchen, through the old western swinging doors, and i was alone. I sat there, waiting, mouth watering, hands wringing the white napkin in my hand like rope–or better yet, like a wash lady wringing out clothes. The dish couldn’t come fast enough. My mind warped images of the inept woman standing behind the door, counting my breaths, holding back the plate, making me suffer in the only way something like her could.

Then the door swung open and her sweaty body, spun out of my vision, and the plate floated and glowed alone with me in the room, like a being. It floated to the spot in front of me, erasing the worn out wooden table beneath it…..and for a moment i was happy.

“There you are, Mr. Rattle.” Her voice creamy and cured like a fine meat bathed in sauce.

Those browned crowned round dumplings, fried, sat there and soon i blinked and time had passed. My clothes had been ravished. My gloves were oily, my belt buckle pulled, and sliding out of the loops of my trousers, and my shirt unbuttoned. My stomach peaked out from my open shirt,  ruptured and torn, and probably spilling from the inside out. Sweat everywhere.

“Is all forgiven sir?” She whistled.

“Naturally, you beast. Call for my butlers to come fetch me!”

I was ashamed–of her of course. I was pitying her, a woman of such meager means, of such little talents. I was pitying her and this…i will return for her meals. I will “forgive” because that is all she has in the world. All she has is me.


All of the old stories said that the building had a face. Two sunken eyes and a lopsided jaw hanging  off to the side. The wood was waterlogged black, and groaning with the shifting earth. Maybe that’s why everyone was so sure it was haunted. If an abandoned building has a face, a creepy face at that, and was successfully groaning, agonizingly I might add, then it must  in fact be haunted. The logic seemed flawless.

The grass wasn’t as patchy as expected of a excellently haunted building, but Allison would make due. By make due, she had to withstand it. Now that she thought about it, standing in the driveway of the place, it was actually kind of strange how unpatchy, green, and well-kept the lawn looked. Well, it was a shitty lawn overall, but in retrospect and compared to the rickety old building, it looked pretty good.

Grass isn’t the point of this story, though if a little grass was introduced the plot it might be a little more enjoyable. Nonetheless a dare was a dare. A dare was a dare that Allison had to bear.

Allison, the hot headed stereotype that she was, had been dared to spend the night in that god awful building. Glancing back over her shoulders she could see her group standing by the car. Andy and Brian were leaned against the hood of the jeep, probably being too handsy for the group’s comfort. She rolled her eyes. Alex and Dusty were just staring at her in the darkness, grinning. Kind of creepy.

They were such fucking idiots. She thought, her discomfort speaking loudly. This was all so fucking stupid. She was nearly screaming. Her hand was clenched tightly around a flashlight Alex thought could be funny to give her. It didn’t have any batteries. That’s why he thought it would be funny. It wasn’t funny.

The cold air outside showed in her breaths, and her eyes stung. All of these things were excuses she could use ineffectually to get out of this stupid dare. But…. a part of her really wanted to go inside, the curious part.  The other part needed to both prove to them all that she could do whatever she said she could, and that she wasn’t afraid of anything. Both seem trivial if she died in there. And she was definitely afraid of a good amount of things.

“This is fucking ridiculous!” She screamed for the last time at them. She could hear and see them giggling, but Alex, the tallest of the group stepped out of the darkness towards her. Alex had light brown hair and a square head. He was barrel shaped and a foot taller than she was. Alex had a brotherly look in his eyes, but he seemed more amused.  He motioned for her to walk back to the rusty old gate to meet him. She grit her teeth and trotted over. She knew that there was a fifty fifty chance he was going to either ridicule her or console her. She could never tell when he was going to do either so she had to just go with it. He leaned over to her ear, and she listened.

“Stop being a pussy and do it already!” He hit three octaves her ear couldn’t handle and it rang in her head for a bit. She punched him in the arm and shoved him back, but he was grinnin’. He thought he was so funny. There was no turning back and she knew it. Allison would never live it down if she made Andy drive her jeep to such a shady spot with no sort of humiliation involved.

“I’m going.” She turned on her heels and marched right into the front door.

The door was aged. The wood was sleek and the carvings were clear even after all the water damage. It wasn’t locked. She tried to push it open, but it wouldn’t budge. Alison thought about turning around and screaming about how it was locked, but she knew Alex would graciously take that opportunity to immaculate her. He’d open it for her, and make some snide comment about, “Daddy’s little girl”

She shoved the door in. Pieces of woods cracked and spit from the frame, inside of the house, which was a relief.

Two steps in and the ground groaned under her, like it’s had been woken up by her. It was dark. Too dark to see anything, then the door slammed behind her. Shit. She thought. She swallowed hard, balled up her fist, and felt around with her feet. She was stupid. Being dared into this dumb old house was a bad idea. She was always duped into things when they said these silly words, “I bet you can’t.” The competitive blood just fucks up her chances at survival. If she was meant for a long life that’s gone now.

A dim light began to shine off in the distance, a soft, sudden glow. Allison should have thought twice about the appearance of the light, but she was just excited to see. The light danced around the small room, old tables and pencils scattered around the place. It was a bit weird…like a boarding school room. Allison took a few steps forward, her curiosity peaked more than just her fear. She pulled out her phone and started to snap chat with Alex.

She angled the phone for a selfie with the glowing room in the back ground. Just as she snapped the picture and hit send, her eyes settled on the roof of the room. It was white, pasty and bare. Not a single light fixture. Wait. Allison’s skin started to crawl as her eyes darted around the room. Where is the light coming from? She whirled around. Those bastards think they’re so fucking funny. Alex is good but she didn’t think he was that good. She dialed Alex’s number.

The phone rang and rang. He was such an ass.

“Stop calling me, you idiot. You’re supposed to be scared and alone for the night. Not sending selfies and calling me.” His voice slightly irritated.

“Okay shut up for a second and tell me how you did the lights in here, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“What?” He began, the other guys laughing in the background, “What lights?”

Allison rolls her eyes, “You’re a fucking asshole. At least promise to tell me when I’m done here. Bye!”

“Fine bye.”

The line goes dead. And for a few moments the entire area gets silent. Like the eerie silence in movies before something happens. Just when Allison opened her mouth to commend Alex on his perfect performance, the roof caved. The ceiling falling in so fast that she couldn’t move out of the way. A rock smashed into the middle of the room, a few feet from her. She staggered back. A rock, that chipped off flew at her, crushing her against one of the walls. Her head smashed back the hardest. The air got plastery and dusty.

She groaned there for a moment. Through her brown bangs she could vaguely see the moonlight falling in through the hole. Her body doesn’t ache yet, but her head is ringing and everything is hard to focus on. Before she could even move a muscle, let alone get the feeling back in her body, a face appeared in front of her. Big round eyes, cartoonishly drawn. And a small mouth. It looked at her for a moment. The silent fear that built as he glared at her, jolted her body alive. She shoved the creature away from her. It took a few steps and stood there staring. She was terrified and suddenly the pain was coming back and is radiated from her legs and her head.

She was too afraid to take her eyes off of the hunching creature, to see her legs. It eyes never wandered from hers. There was another crash. The room filled with plaster and dust again. A sharp pain hit her chest. Allison couldn’t breathe. She was clawing and tearing at the wall around her, when the strange monster surfaced in front of her again.

“I’m going to help you.” it said.

Then these spidery fingers caressed her. Tears rolled down Allison’s face. A part of her body had gone numb. She just couldn’t stop trembling. The spider fingers went into her mouth and yanked her jaw open. OH GOd oh GOD! She could feel the skin splitting in her mouth. She was screaming  but she wasn’t sure how loud. She was drifting in and out of the pain. In and out of consciousness. Soon her mouth had been opened wide like a jar lid. The creature stuck it’s feet in first into her mouth, her body inflating like a suit to it’s body. Then it’s arms went in, and lastly its head. It used her arm to pull the cap of her head on.

“Allison!” Brian’s voice dragged her out of sleep. Brian is her actual older brother, who was also part of the group of friends she hung out with. He and Alex are childhood friends, “Get your ass up already!” He said, “You passed the test with flying colors.” He he was being  sarcastic, slapping her lightly in the face. Allison would have replied like the snob she was, but she couldn’t shake the feeling. The images of what she supposed was a dream now. She looked around the well-lit building, “You slept like a baby.”

“Alex!” She called out.

“Not your own bother. Wow.” Brian’s tanned face fell out of view and in came Alex’s. Alllison had perfect vision…but the image of Alex had gotten blurry and hard to see. Why?

[incomplete/ dropped]