Thanks for returning to another issue of my literary blog-zine. The summer ending issue represents a transition... from my running series of Miami stories which will segue into several Coventry, Vermont stories beginning this month. My Phishin' trips to Miami and Vermont were inspiration for at least twelve stories. This issue is anchored by two regulars. Sigge S. Amdal, our Norwegian friend, returns with a story called Messiah on a Tuesday. And Tom Love is back with a wicked tale called Vamp. I'm excited to finally publish Part II of Diane Roy's gripping story, Perversion Dispatched. Sit back, enjoy, and please spread the good word about this site. Be sweet, McG.
1. Lost Puppy by Tenzin McGrupp
She was barefoot, her lower legs caked in mud, and her puppy asleep in her arms. Her glassed over eyes were the size of a butter dishes, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in over a week... More
2. Perversion Dispatched, Part II by Diane Roy
Hubert was slapped with reality as Jennica's screams finally hit him. Panicked, he threw his hands over her mouth to silence her, but she wouldn't stop... More
3. Vamp by Tom Love
She owned no clothing of color, nor anything white. Her walk-in closet was a complete unbroken row of black... More
4. Messiah on a Tuesday by Sigge S. Amdal
Most people had problems with Mondays, but Dolores really couldn't get herself to appreciate the second day of the week... More
August 30, 2004
What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...
From the Editor's Laptop:Thanks to everyone who shared their bloodwork this month. I always say that the other contributing authors inspire me, because it's true.
I ask the readers that if you like these stories, then please do me and the rest of the writers a huge favor. Tell your friends about your favorite stories. It takes a few seconds to pass along the URL or the monthly e-mail. I certainly appreciate your support. Feel free to shoot me an e-mail if you know anyone who is interested in being added to the mailing list.
Thanks again. I am grateful that you wasted your time with my site. Until next time.
Salukis,
McG
"Just trust yourself, then you will know how to live." - Goethe
August 29, 2004
Lost Puppy
By Tenzin McGrupp © 2004
She held the depressed puppy in her arms. I had seen the dreadlocked teenager the night before after exiting the concert on our walk through Shakedown back to our campsite. When I got within earshot, I heard the girl mutter, “My puppy for some yay yo.”
I told Molly and she was shocked. Yes, the spun out crusty chick wanted to trade her dog for cocaine. It wasn’t the strangest trade I’d ever heard offered up in the post-modern, neo-hippie marketplace… but it might have been the most fucked up trade I’d ever come across. The next day, I wandered through the crowds whispering, “Kind nugs for your puppy.”
I was willing to trade my marijuana for unwanted pets. I had a brilliant idea to corner the canine market on Phish tour, purchasing as many dogs and other animals, to add to my empire.
“Kind nugs for your puppy.”
Of course, I had no idea what I’d actually do with all those dogs. It didn’t matter because no one took me seriously. I got plenty of chuckles from people who got my snarky commentary on the absurdity of the pre-show and post-show parking lot scene.
So there I was... well past 3:30 in the morning, unable to sleep, jacked up on a couple of hits of ecstasy and the frenetic emotional energy of the last Phish show, standing on an old airport runway in the middle of nowhere in Northern Vermont, when I saw the spun out girl. I heard her trade offer for a second time in two nights.
“Yay yo for my puppy.”
I nearly knocked her over when I grabbed her shoulder and twirled her around so we could stand face to face. She was very short, maybe five feet tall at the most. She was barefoot, her lower legs caked in mud, and her puppy asleep in her arms. Her glassed over eyes were the size of butter dishes, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in over a week. The teenager was jonesin’ hardcore because although we were standing still, she kept rocking back and forth, either to an imaginary bass line or because she was itching so badly all over her body that she didn’t know how to contain herself.
“I’m looking for an eight ball. Do you have any yay yo?” as the words stumbled out of her mouth. She was on the verge of a major freak out.
“Let me get this straight. You want to give me your puppy for coke?”
She nodded her head.
“He’s really cool. His name is Happy.”
She rubbed his head and he wiggled in her arms. He woke up for a few seconds and I saw the pain in his eyes.
“He doesn’t look too happy,” I said.
“He hasn’t eaten in a couple of days.”
“What kind of person are you?” I screamed as my belligerent insobriety took control of the conversation. “Who has a dog, but can’t feed it?”
“I don’t have any money,” she said with a cold, blank stare.
“But you’re willing to trade your puppy for yay yo.”
“He’s the only thing I have to trade.”
“Where’re you from?”
“Colorado.”
“How did you get here?”
“My boyfriend and I have been on tour since Hampton.”
“And where’s he?”
“I lost him. Haven’t seen him in two days. I forgot where we’re camped.”
“When’s the last time you ate?”
She didn’t say anything.
A crowd of people wandered by and she whispered to them, “Yay yo for my puppy.”
“Seriously. What kind of a person are you? You don’t take on a pet unless you know you can give it proper care and attention. Especially puppies.”
“I love Happy. I just can’t feed him.”
A wave of self-righteousness bombarded me.
“You are the reason Phish is breaking up, man. You ruined Trey’s life. Don’t you know that? It’s irresponsible fuckwads like yourself who follow them around for no other reason than to get off. You kids give true fans a bad name in the clueless media. With other music lovers and most importantly, with the fuckin' cops. Kids like you ruined one of the coolest scenes in the world. You fuckin’ blew it for me. We live in an Orwellian America today. And this was the last bastion of freedom of expression there was!" I shouted then pointed my finger in her face, “And you fuckin’ kids destroyed that and are too fucked up to even notice. I should steal your puppy and give it someone who really wants it.”
“I’ll trade you for some yay yo.”
I had a feeling she’d tuned out my bitter tirade. I was disgusted. I was angered. Phish’s success indirectly attributed to the dark side of the scene, an aspect that was a contributing factor on why the band broke up. The shows were no longer about music appreciation anymore and that girl was one of hundreds, if not thousands of fucked up people with selfish, non-community based interests who flooded the Phish tour with their bad karma, foul acts, immature attitudes, and the inability to handle their drugs.
I whipped out a hundred dollar bill.
“I want to buy your puppy.”
She was mesmerized by the bill for a few seconds and then looked back at me.
“He’s not for sale. I want to trade him for some yay yo.”
“Money is as good as yay yo,” I assured her. “You can trade this for blow or food. I suggest you get something to eat before you snort the night away.”
She stared at the hundred dollar bill for several more moments. Eight balls were going for $150 on tour. That was the seller’s rate. She was not getting fair market value for her puppy. I wondered if she was making the calculations slowly in her head.
“His name is Happy,” she whispered as she handed him to me. She snatched the hundred out of my hand, with her dreadlocks bouncing up and down while she ran off down the runway.
Yes. It was almost 4 AM and intoxicated out of my tits, I bought a puppy from a spun out girl for $100. As I slowly walked through the crowd with Happy asleep in my arms, I smiled. I loved getting a good deal.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
She held the depressed puppy in her arms. I had seen the dreadlocked teenager the night before after exiting the concert on our walk through Shakedown back to our campsite. When I got within earshot, I heard the girl mutter, “My puppy for some yay yo.”
I told Molly and she was shocked. Yes, the spun out crusty chick wanted to trade her dog for cocaine. It wasn’t the strangest trade I’d ever heard offered up in the post-modern, neo-hippie marketplace… but it might have been the most fucked up trade I’d ever come across. The next day, I wandered through the crowds whispering, “Kind nugs for your puppy.”
I was willing to trade my marijuana for unwanted pets. I had a brilliant idea to corner the canine market on Phish tour, purchasing as many dogs and other animals, to add to my empire.
“Kind nugs for your puppy.”
Of course, I had no idea what I’d actually do with all those dogs. It didn’t matter because no one took me seriously. I got plenty of chuckles from people who got my snarky commentary on the absurdity of the pre-show and post-show parking lot scene.
So there I was... well past 3:30 in the morning, unable to sleep, jacked up on a couple of hits of ecstasy and the frenetic emotional energy of the last Phish show, standing on an old airport runway in the middle of nowhere in Northern Vermont, when I saw the spun out girl. I heard her trade offer for a second time in two nights.
“Yay yo for my puppy.”
I nearly knocked her over when I grabbed her shoulder and twirled her around so we could stand face to face. She was very short, maybe five feet tall at the most. She was barefoot, her lower legs caked in mud, and her puppy asleep in her arms. Her glassed over eyes were the size of butter dishes, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in over a week. The teenager was jonesin’ hardcore because although we were standing still, she kept rocking back and forth, either to an imaginary bass line or because she was itching so badly all over her body that she didn’t know how to contain herself.
“I’m looking for an eight ball. Do you have any yay yo?” as the words stumbled out of her mouth. She was on the verge of a major freak out.
“Let me get this straight. You want to give me your puppy for coke?”
She nodded her head.
“He’s really cool. His name is Happy.”
She rubbed his head and he wiggled in her arms. He woke up for a few seconds and I saw the pain in his eyes.
“He doesn’t look too happy,” I said.
“He hasn’t eaten in a couple of days.”
“What kind of person are you?” I screamed as my belligerent insobriety took control of the conversation. “Who has a dog, but can’t feed it?”
“I don’t have any money,” she said with a cold, blank stare.
“But you’re willing to trade your puppy for yay yo.”
“He’s the only thing I have to trade.”
“Where’re you from?”
“Colorado.”
“How did you get here?”
“My boyfriend and I have been on tour since Hampton.”
“And where’s he?”
“I lost him. Haven’t seen him in two days. I forgot where we’re camped.”
“When’s the last time you ate?”
She didn’t say anything.
A crowd of people wandered by and she whispered to them, “Yay yo for my puppy.”
“Seriously. What kind of a person are you? You don’t take on a pet unless you know you can give it proper care and attention. Especially puppies.”
“I love Happy. I just can’t feed him.”
A wave of self-righteousness bombarded me.
“You are the reason Phish is breaking up, man. You ruined Trey’s life. Don’t you know that? It’s irresponsible fuckwads like yourself who follow them around for no other reason than to get off. You kids give true fans a bad name in the clueless media. With other music lovers and most importantly, with the fuckin' cops. Kids like you ruined one of the coolest scenes in the world. You fuckin’ blew it for me. We live in an Orwellian America today. And this was the last bastion of freedom of expression there was!" I shouted then pointed my finger in her face, “And you fuckin’ kids destroyed that and are too fucked up to even notice. I should steal your puppy and give it someone who really wants it.”
“I’ll trade you for some yay yo.”
I had a feeling she’d tuned out my bitter tirade. I was disgusted. I was angered. Phish’s success indirectly attributed to the dark side of the scene, an aspect that was a contributing factor on why the band broke up. The shows were no longer about music appreciation anymore and that girl was one of hundreds, if not thousands of fucked up people with selfish, non-community based interests who flooded the Phish tour with their bad karma, foul acts, immature attitudes, and the inability to handle their drugs.
I whipped out a hundred dollar bill.
“I want to buy your puppy.”
She was mesmerized by the bill for a few seconds and then looked back at me.
“He’s not for sale. I want to trade him for some yay yo.”
“Money is as good as yay yo,” I assured her. “You can trade this for blow or food. I suggest you get something to eat before you snort the night away.”
She stared at the hundred dollar bill for several more moments. Eight balls were going for $150 on tour. That was the seller’s rate. She was not getting fair market value for her puppy. I wondered if she was making the calculations slowly in her head.
“His name is Happy,” she whispered as she handed him to me. She snatched the hundred out of my hand, with her dreadlocks bouncing up and down while she ran off down the runway.
Yes. It was almost 4 AM and intoxicated out of my tits, I bought a puppy from a spun out girl for $100. As I slowly walked through the crowd with Happy asleep in my arms, I smiled. I loved getting a good deal.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Perversion Dispatched, Part II
By Diane Roy © 2004
At first she made mild suggestions that they go back. Being grown up and all, she thought polite people suggested and other polite people would respond to suggestions, but Hubert was still not there. Jennica was crying but Hubert couldn't even hear her. All he could do was clutch the wheel, eyes straight ahead and bloodshot. Silence prevailed in Hubert's ears as Jennica continued screaming. Honk!!! At a stoplight Hubert slammed on the breaks.
Finally breathing after speeding off the bridge Hubert was slapped with reality as Jennica's screams finally hit him. Panicked, he threw his hands over her mouth to silence her, but she wouldn't stop. Hubert turned into an alley and tried talking her down, saying everything would be alright, but Jennica just continued to stare at him as if he was crazy. She just wouldn't stop screaming and screaming and he grabbed her and held her tight and just rocked her back and forth. In reality it was about a minute but it seemed like an eternity and she was silent. Very silent. Hubert slowly detached himself from her, her skinny arms now limp, her eyes closed and set her down. Death didn't even begin to register. He just thought of how peaceful she looked. He poked her face; no reaction. He poked her again; no reaction. He sat back and slumped into his seat not sure of what to do next. That's when he saw it. The panties, poking out, almost smiling, winking really. He had already done the worst, he kidnapped and killed a little girl. Not knowing what, he did what he did best, he drove. He drove uptown. He figured that maybe he could go upstate and bury the body somewhere.
Right and wrong weren’t factors at the moment, just clear and unclear. Clearly he was in deep trouble and he needed out; he'd grieve later with that waitress he supposed. A hour later and the panties were still poking out, winking at him. Stuck in traffic they just lay there winking. Huberts eyes grew large and the panties seemed to loom towards him, his hand inching closer and closer to them. Finally two of his fingers touched them and suddenly the passenger door was open and Jennica was trying to get out. She wasn't dead after all and all Hubert could do was grab. The panties ripped in the struggle but Jennica got out and ran ahead. Something made Hubert stay. She wasn't dead, and he hadn't touched her (well, not really).
Something told Hubert to sit tight, lest he get into more trouble. She ran out onto the highway which wasn't moving anyway and she disappeared a couple cars down. It didn't register that perhaps she might tell the cops or that she would have to explain where she was when her parents discovered her missing. All that mattered was that she was gone and there was peace in the car again. By this time the panties were on Hubert's face, shielding it from the sun, but suddenly the heat from the sun stopped. Something was blocking it. Removing the panties from his eyes Hubert looked out of the driver's seat window and saw a navy blue uniform. "Excuse me sir, but are you Hubert Humbert of 225 West 161st?"
"Yes" Hubert replied.
"Step out of the car sir"
"What's this about?"
"Do you know anything about the accident up front?"
"Well I can tell you that I didn't cause it" Hubert laughed "What is this about?"
"Are you sure about that?"
"Why?"
"A little girl was hit by an oncoming vehicle"
"Oh my goodness!"
"Don't worry, she's okay, however there was something odd about her". The officer leered into the drivers seat and looked down at what Humbert was clutching dearly. Several other officers made their way towards the car. Beads of sweat were now turning into sheets of sweet on Humbert’s back, neck, and hand. Especially his hand.
" What was so odd about her?" Humbert asked meekly.
"She's missing her underwear."
Hubert sat exasperated and relieved in the chair. The room that the police had put him in was air conditioned and even though the outcome didn't seem all that great, he was cool at least for the time being. Jen hadn't gotten hit by car, at least not very hard, but she did cause a three car pile up when she frantically tried to flag down oncoming traffic. From what she told the police they figured that Hubert couldn't have gotten out of the traffic and after walking down the highway it was only a matter of time before they found him. Hubert had been right though, Jen had understood. She was scared but she didn't want Hubert to get in trouble, she just wanted to go home.
"I would have buried her nice," Hubert thought, with one arm cuffed to the chair. The police didn't see the need to have both hands tied back. Hubert had gone with no complaint, almost relieved. He wasn't a flight risk, so they didn't see any hurry. The girl was okay and the parents didn't want to drag this out. They took her home quietly and let their lawyer deal with it. The lawyer, penciled in the meeting with Hubert for 1 PM the next day- after his noon fuck with the secretary. He was always up and proper to crush any notion of a plea bargain. After ramming Sarah from behind on the copy machine, he'd be pumped to go straight for a conviction. And so it was, and Hubert ended up spending that night in jail. Quiet, the other inmates left him alone and Hubert curled up in a corner and fell asleep smiling. Hubert thought of Jen's smile. He really would have buried her real nice, maybe in a field in near Poughkeepsie. He was glad that she was alive, of course, but there had been a certain comfort in the peaceful look she had, laying limp in the passenger seat. He wanted her there, still, forever and forever his. All he wanted to do was smile, and as long as he pictured her face while he was curled up in the corner he was fine. Soon an eternity of this didn't seem so bad.
He was sure that lawyer would want the maximum conviction for kidnapping and Hubert wasn't sure if he even had the energy to say anything in his own defense. What would he say? That she made him happier than any woman could? How could he defend that? Besides, in jail he didn't have to work. If jail was like where he was now, all curled up and peaceful, thinking about Jennica for the next 5 to 10 years , it suddenly didn't seem so bad.
Across the room, a different story unfolded. Roran, up for parole, stared at the pathetic ball in the corner. "New fish," he thought, and Hubert turned his face slightly and the moonlight caught his grin. Roran just stared. Roran was in for suspicion of being involved in a couple of rapes in Central Park. Women knew not to go down there, but those office pricks thought that they could go anywhere as long as they were white. Closing a huge deal and the firm and a couple of martinis and you and the boys congratulated yourselves on being masters of the universe. All it took was a couple drinks to really believe that privilege because you were white and male and you hid your fagginess by fucking your wife in the ass after getting your dick sucked by Peter in the office. Roran didn't think so. Roran was no fag but he wasn't a pussy either. He knew the best way to make those office pricks know where they really stood. He wasn't satisfied with bending them over. A man knows that he's being raped when he's licking your asshole with a knife to his throat. Roran, unruffled and calm all day, was drunk with revenge. Sorting mail everday for the past eleven years, he silently hated the laughs behind his back because of his limp. The army had given him honorable discharge but he had lost a chip in his knee and control of his bowls in the plane accident. He had to wear a bag all day and sometimes it leaked, but always, always they laughed. They weren't laughing now were they? The reality was, that even though night after night, he would go out, masked, dressed in black and get them from behind in the park when they would make the drunk walk home, he felt better but not good. He felt powerful, less embarassed but still he never smiled. He hadn't smiled, not even faking it for going on a year now. He thought that his face would freeze in a grimace like his mother warned him. Looking over at Hubert in the corner, smiling, Roran felt that jealousy again. Soon Roran was back in the copy room and they were laughing again. Roran saw red, and his own perversions rose up from deep in his belly. It was like watching his life flash before his eyes. He saw the smelling of his hand when he wiped his ass, the wiping his face with a towel after using it on his genitals, the wiping of his bloody dick on the face of those corporate pricks and he watched himself in awe. He saw himself from outside, not from within and then he saw Hubert again, in the corner, smiling and Roran lost that outside perspective and rushed him. Hubert, that smiley faced goat was his and as usual Roran felt better as he usually did, when justice was dispatched.
Diane Roy is a writer from New York City.
At first she made mild suggestions that they go back. Being grown up and all, she thought polite people suggested and other polite people would respond to suggestions, but Hubert was still not there. Jennica was crying but Hubert couldn't even hear her. All he could do was clutch the wheel, eyes straight ahead and bloodshot. Silence prevailed in Hubert's ears as Jennica continued screaming. Honk!!! At a stoplight Hubert slammed on the breaks.
Finally breathing after speeding off the bridge Hubert was slapped with reality as Jennica's screams finally hit him. Panicked, he threw his hands over her mouth to silence her, but she wouldn't stop. Hubert turned into an alley and tried talking her down, saying everything would be alright, but Jennica just continued to stare at him as if he was crazy. She just wouldn't stop screaming and screaming and he grabbed her and held her tight and just rocked her back and forth. In reality it was about a minute but it seemed like an eternity and she was silent. Very silent. Hubert slowly detached himself from her, her skinny arms now limp, her eyes closed and set her down. Death didn't even begin to register. He just thought of how peaceful she looked. He poked her face; no reaction. He poked her again; no reaction. He sat back and slumped into his seat not sure of what to do next. That's when he saw it. The panties, poking out, almost smiling, winking really. He had already done the worst, he kidnapped and killed a little girl. Not knowing what, he did what he did best, he drove. He drove uptown. He figured that maybe he could go upstate and bury the body somewhere.
Right and wrong weren’t factors at the moment, just clear and unclear. Clearly he was in deep trouble and he needed out; he'd grieve later with that waitress he supposed. A hour later and the panties were still poking out, winking at him. Stuck in traffic they just lay there winking. Huberts eyes grew large and the panties seemed to loom towards him, his hand inching closer and closer to them. Finally two of his fingers touched them and suddenly the passenger door was open and Jennica was trying to get out. She wasn't dead after all and all Hubert could do was grab. The panties ripped in the struggle but Jennica got out and ran ahead. Something made Hubert stay. She wasn't dead, and he hadn't touched her (well, not really).
Something told Hubert to sit tight, lest he get into more trouble. She ran out onto the highway which wasn't moving anyway and she disappeared a couple cars down. It didn't register that perhaps she might tell the cops or that she would have to explain where she was when her parents discovered her missing. All that mattered was that she was gone and there was peace in the car again. By this time the panties were on Hubert's face, shielding it from the sun, but suddenly the heat from the sun stopped. Something was blocking it. Removing the panties from his eyes Hubert looked out of the driver's seat window and saw a navy blue uniform. "Excuse me sir, but are you Hubert Humbert of 225 West 161st?"
"Yes" Hubert replied.
"Step out of the car sir"
"What's this about?"
"Do you know anything about the accident up front?"
"Well I can tell you that I didn't cause it" Hubert laughed "What is this about?"
"Are you sure about that?"
"Why?"
"A little girl was hit by an oncoming vehicle"
"Oh my goodness!"
"Don't worry, she's okay, however there was something odd about her". The officer leered into the drivers seat and looked down at what Humbert was clutching dearly. Several other officers made their way towards the car. Beads of sweat were now turning into sheets of sweet on Humbert’s back, neck, and hand. Especially his hand.
" What was so odd about her?" Humbert asked meekly.
"She's missing her underwear."
Hubert sat exasperated and relieved in the chair. The room that the police had put him in was air conditioned and even though the outcome didn't seem all that great, he was cool at least for the time being. Jen hadn't gotten hit by car, at least not very hard, but she did cause a three car pile up when she frantically tried to flag down oncoming traffic. From what she told the police they figured that Hubert couldn't have gotten out of the traffic and after walking down the highway it was only a matter of time before they found him. Hubert had been right though, Jen had understood. She was scared but she didn't want Hubert to get in trouble, she just wanted to go home.
"I would have buried her nice," Hubert thought, with one arm cuffed to the chair. The police didn't see the need to have both hands tied back. Hubert had gone with no complaint, almost relieved. He wasn't a flight risk, so they didn't see any hurry. The girl was okay and the parents didn't want to drag this out. They took her home quietly and let their lawyer deal with it. The lawyer, penciled in the meeting with Hubert for 1 PM the next day- after his noon fuck with the secretary. He was always up and proper to crush any notion of a plea bargain. After ramming Sarah from behind on the copy machine, he'd be pumped to go straight for a conviction. And so it was, and Hubert ended up spending that night in jail. Quiet, the other inmates left him alone and Hubert curled up in a corner and fell asleep smiling. Hubert thought of Jen's smile. He really would have buried her real nice, maybe in a field in near Poughkeepsie. He was glad that she was alive, of course, but there had been a certain comfort in the peaceful look she had, laying limp in the passenger seat. He wanted her there, still, forever and forever his. All he wanted to do was smile, and as long as he pictured her face while he was curled up in the corner he was fine. Soon an eternity of this didn't seem so bad.
He was sure that lawyer would want the maximum conviction for kidnapping and Hubert wasn't sure if he even had the energy to say anything in his own defense. What would he say? That she made him happier than any woman could? How could he defend that? Besides, in jail he didn't have to work. If jail was like where he was now, all curled up and peaceful, thinking about Jennica for the next 5 to 10 years , it suddenly didn't seem so bad.
Across the room, a different story unfolded. Roran, up for parole, stared at the pathetic ball in the corner. "New fish," he thought, and Hubert turned his face slightly and the moonlight caught his grin. Roran just stared. Roran was in for suspicion of being involved in a couple of rapes in Central Park. Women knew not to go down there, but those office pricks thought that they could go anywhere as long as they were white. Closing a huge deal and the firm and a couple of martinis and you and the boys congratulated yourselves on being masters of the universe. All it took was a couple drinks to really believe that privilege because you were white and male and you hid your fagginess by fucking your wife in the ass after getting your dick sucked by Peter in the office. Roran didn't think so. Roran was no fag but he wasn't a pussy either. He knew the best way to make those office pricks know where they really stood. He wasn't satisfied with bending them over. A man knows that he's being raped when he's licking your asshole with a knife to his throat. Roran, unruffled and calm all day, was drunk with revenge. Sorting mail everday for the past eleven years, he silently hated the laughs behind his back because of his limp. The army had given him honorable discharge but he had lost a chip in his knee and control of his bowls in the plane accident. He had to wear a bag all day and sometimes it leaked, but always, always they laughed. They weren't laughing now were they? The reality was, that even though night after night, he would go out, masked, dressed in black and get them from behind in the park when they would make the drunk walk home, he felt better but not good. He felt powerful, less embarassed but still he never smiled. He hadn't smiled, not even faking it for going on a year now. He thought that his face would freeze in a grimace like his mother warned him. Looking over at Hubert in the corner, smiling, Roran felt that jealousy again. Soon Roran was back in the copy room and they were laughing again. Roran saw red, and his own perversions rose up from deep in his belly. It was like watching his life flash before his eyes. He saw the smelling of his hand when he wiped his ass, the wiping his face with a towel after using it on his genitals, the wiping of his bloody dick on the face of those corporate pricks and he watched himself in awe. He saw himself from outside, not from within and then he saw Hubert again, in the corner, smiling and Roran lost that outside perspective and rushed him. Hubert, that smiley faced goat was his and as usual Roran felt better as he usually did, when justice was dispatched.
Diane Roy is a writer from New York City.
The Vamp
By Tom Love © 2004
It was about 15 years ago when I met her, one of the most stylish women I have ever known. We were in love for about a year. I weighed a trim 175 lbs, she was a petite 5'2" (in heels). Just absolutely, jaw droppingly beautiful... with a personality to match.
She owned no clothing of color, nor anything white. Her walk-in closet was a complete unbroken row of black. Black blouses, black slacks, several 'little black dresses.' Same with lingerie, all black. Her room was painted a Ralph Lauren designer color, Charcoal. Black silk sheets and black comforter were on her bed. Black blinds kept the room in perpetual darkness.
I was invited into her room on Thursdays, and didn’t leave till Sunday. Monday through Wednesday I was not allowed to speak to her, and she actually wished not to be seen by me. But on Thursday afternoon, coming from work, I'd find her in a black camisole and black panties sitting on a bar stool at the counter in her kitchen. "Come here, Darling." she would say in a gravely voice. Then she would hook her leg around the back of my knee, latch on to my tie, pull me to her and kiss me. Thus would start our weekend.
We hid from the world up there. She would scamper downstairs and bring us sandwiches and beer, but for the most part we just lay around in bed had sex non stop. She loved for me to rub her nipples with Vaseline, begged me to do it, then would actually orgasm from breast stimulation. After that she would be ready for me. Her orgasms were as powerful and as pronounced as a man’s, approaching in waves, then crashing, leaving her spent. She would push me off her, turn over and be asleep in minutes. I was left with no one to cuddle!
Every so often we would go dancing. We would get very dressed up, I would actually wear a tux. She, of course, in a black Claiborne knit dress, size 4, sometimes a sleeveless mini, sometimes a DKNY to the floor, but always black. Her skin tone was pale, she never, ever allowed the sun to touch her skin, her face as clear, creamy and white as a Dove commercial. She'd get made up, eyes and lips just so, and we would leave the condo at about 10:00. Sometimes we would go to a very upscale restaurant, where all the waiters knew her. We would be seated, order something like wine and toasted Focaccia Bread. That's all. We would eat, talk, smile, and leave a $20 tip.
At a dance club, mostly she danced like Madonna in 'Vogue,' posing this way and that. That was her scene when we were out. Men would approach her to dance, give her some lame line, she would say something like, "Oh, do you have a lot of money?" I was her body guard on these excursions. I would stand or sit close by, occasionally coming over to ask if everything was ok. I would drink coffee. And I would drive home. We always left together at the end of the night, and once home, we would climb the stairs to her room, have sex and fall asleep.
We were in love for about a year, I lived with her for two. The second year was not as fun as the first. She tired of me, was less tender and romantic about our love making and the Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday routine became unbearable. I made the decision to move out and I did. She was tearful and for a time bitter, but she too had already moved on.
I saw her one Christmas, a couple of years later, it was awkward. She apologized for not being 'dressed' I apologized for gaining weight. That was 10 years ago. I haven't seen her since.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA.
It was about 15 years ago when I met her, one of the most stylish women I have ever known. We were in love for about a year. I weighed a trim 175 lbs, she was a petite 5'2" (in heels). Just absolutely, jaw droppingly beautiful... with a personality to match.
She owned no clothing of color, nor anything white. Her walk-in closet was a complete unbroken row of black. Black blouses, black slacks, several 'little black dresses.' Same with lingerie, all black. Her room was painted a Ralph Lauren designer color, Charcoal. Black silk sheets and black comforter were on her bed. Black blinds kept the room in perpetual darkness.
I was invited into her room on Thursdays, and didn’t leave till Sunday. Monday through Wednesday I was not allowed to speak to her, and she actually wished not to be seen by me. But on Thursday afternoon, coming from work, I'd find her in a black camisole and black panties sitting on a bar stool at the counter in her kitchen. "Come here, Darling." she would say in a gravely voice. Then she would hook her leg around the back of my knee, latch on to my tie, pull me to her and kiss me. Thus would start our weekend.
We hid from the world up there. She would scamper downstairs and bring us sandwiches and beer, but for the most part we just lay around in bed had sex non stop. She loved for me to rub her nipples with Vaseline, begged me to do it, then would actually orgasm from breast stimulation. After that she would be ready for me. Her orgasms were as powerful and as pronounced as a man’s, approaching in waves, then crashing, leaving her spent. She would push me off her, turn over and be asleep in minutes. I was left with no one to cuddle!
Every so often we would go dancing. We would get very dressed up, I would actually wear a tux. She, of course, in a black Claiborne knit dress, size 4, sometimes a sleeveless mini, sometimes a DKNY to the floor, but always black. Her skin tone was pale, she never, ever allowed the sun to touch her skin, her face as clear, creamy and white as a Dove commercial. She'd get made up, eyes and lips just so, and we would leave the condo at about 10:00. Sometimes we would go to a very upscale restaurant, where all the waiters knew her. We would be seated, order something like wine and toasted Focaccia Bread. That's all. We would eat, talk, smile, and leave a $20 tip.
At a dance club, mostly she danced like Madonna in 'Vogue,' posing this way and that. That was her scene when we were out. Men would approach her to dance, give her some lame line, she would say something like, "Oh, do you have a lot of money?" I was her body guard on these excursions. I would stand or sit close by, occasionally coming over to ask if everything was ok. I would drink coffee. And I would drive home. We always left together at the end of the night, and once home, we would climb the stairs to her room, have sex and fall asleep.
We were in love for about a year, I lived with her for two. The second year was not as fun as the first. She tired of me, was less tender and romantic about our love making and the Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday routine became unbearable. I made the decision to move out and I did. She was tearful and for a time bitter, but she too had already moved on.
I saw her one Christmas, a couple of years later, it was awkward. She apologized for not being 'dressed' I apologized for gaining weight. That was 10 years ago. I haven't seen her since.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA.
The Messiah on a Tuesday
By Sigge S. Amdal © 2004
It was Tuesday, a sunny Tuesday, and Dolores was late for work again. She couldn't stand these days, most people had problems with Mondays, but Dolores really couldn't get herself to appreciate the second day of the week. And this particular Tuesday she'd several meetings and lots of paperwork to kill. How did she always end up coming late for work? She'd like three alarm clocks reviving her from her sweetest dreams every morning, but on Tuesdays they didn't seem to mind their duties at all.
At noon, two hours after arriving, she decided to grant herself half an hour off and get something to eat. Tuesdays and breakfast were always incompatible, and she'd learned all about how lousy your work performance is when your head doesn't work due to a lack of energy. Luckily, Starbucks had found it smart to cover every street-corner in the city, so a cupcake and a double espresso should not demand a long walk.
Dolores hurried with an almost empty suitcase to the nearest coffee shop and ordered a lifesaver. When she turned left on the corner of 1st and West, she ran just into this homeless guy with a long beard who - just as she - thumped pretty violently on the dirty sidewalk. She walk up to this peculiar man standing over her chanting something that sounded like a prayer or something. "I'm not dead yet, but thanks," she said and got herself up with his help. What strong, but kind hands. She looked into his face and was stunned by his honest appearance. "Not everyday is a Tuesday," he said and smiled at her, preparing to cross the street. She grabbed his arm, "What did you say?" "Not everyday is a Tuesday, Dolores." She was stunned again. "How do you know my name?"
He smiled. "Dolores, if you don't mind me calling you by your Christian name, I am here to save you." He must've had a look through her pockets, Dolores thought, and checked that everything was there - and it was. "No, I haven't stolen anything, except for a few minutes of your busy life." "What do you mean by saving me?" He began crossing the street, and Dolores, forgetting herself, followed. She wanted an answer to this peculiar accident, she wanted an answer to all of this. "You aren't exactly growing younger, Dolores, and there are things that you should've done by now. You know what I mean?" Dolores was confused. What the hell could he be talking about? She had a lot of dreams that she'd never lived out, but didn't everyone? "Who ARE you?" she demanded. "Who I am is of no importance. What is important, however, is that I am here right now for you, right?" She nodded reluctantly, as they began crossing another street, getting further and further away from the office and the meetings she should've been to by now.
"Please enlighten me, sir, (Why am I calling him 'sir'?) since I seem to neglect the obvious of my situation." "You are rootless, do you know that? Every human being is like a ship, floating without purpose on a vast ocean, and there is nowhere to harbor, nowhere to anchor up." She nodded. Funny, she'd even thought the same herself a couple of nights ago, over a glass of red wine and a portion of self pity. She'd been thinking what to do with her life. Everything had gone so fast: High School, University and now a boring office-job that was well paid, but quite meaningless in the long run. She wanted something more. Not just someone to share it all with, but something meaningful to share also. "There you go," he interrupted her thoughts. "What?" "You need to begin your search, because time is not on anyone's side. Not even mine." He sighed, and Dolores could see that he was waiting for something dreadful to happen. "We all have paths to follow, and I think I could say that you've gotten a bit off track. When was the last time you decided something for your life, except for a cupcake and a coffee?" He was right, terrifyingly right.
They were about to cross another street when he grabbed her arm to stop her, and looked into her eyes. "Dolores, our paths part here, but you must remember what I have said. You can do something meaningful today, all you've got to do is to take control of your life. Don't be the ship, be the captain." He shook her hand, and crossed the street, leaving her standing there, paralyzed on the sidewalk. Halfway across the street, a Greyhound bus headed for Tennessee couldn't break in time, and Dolores saw her savior being run down and killed instantaneously. There was a commotion for a while, cops and recording of witnessess' statements, but then everything was back to normal. Well, not everything. Right in front of a Baptist church there was a red stain halfway over the street, a stain that wouldn't go away. And some woman named Dolores never returned to her office. On a Tuesday.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
It was Tuesday, a sunny Tuesday, and Dolores was late for work again. She couldn't stand these days, most people had problems with Mondays, but Dolores really couldn't get herself to appreciate the second day of the week. And this particular Tuesday she'd several meetings and lots of paperwork to kill. How did she always end up coming late for work? She'd like three alarm clocks reviving her from her sweetest dreams every morning, but on Tuesdays they didn't seem to mind their duties at all.
At noon, two hours after arriving, she decided to grant herself half an hour off and get something to eat. Tuesdays and breakfast were always incompatible, and she'd learned all about how lousy your work performance is when your head doesn't work due to a lack of energy. Luckily, Starbucks had found it smart to cover every street-corner in the city, so a cupcake and a double espresso should not demand a long walk.
Dolores hurried with an almost empty suitcase to the nearest coffee shop and ordered a lifesaver. When she turned left on the corner of 1st and West, she ran just into this homeless guy with a long beard who - just as she - thumped pretty violently on the dirty sidewalk. She walk up to this peculiar man standing over her chanting something that sounded like a prayer or something. "I'm not dead yet, but thanks," she said and got herself up with his help. What strong, but kind hands. She looked into his face and was stunned by his honest appearance. "Not everyday is a Tuesday," he said and smiled at her, preparing to cross the street. She grabbed his arm, "What did you say?" "Not everyday is a Tuesday, Dolores." She was stunned again. "How do you know my name?"
He smiled. "Dolores, if you don't mind me calling you by your Christian name, I am here to save you." He must've had a look through her pockets, Dolores thought, and checked that everything was there - and it was. "No, I haven't stolen anything, except for a few minutes of your busy life." "What do you mean by saving me?" He began crossing the street, and Dolores, forgetting herself, followed. She wanted an answer to this peculiar accident, she wanted an answer to all of this. "You aren't exactly growing younger, Dolores, and there are things that you should've done by now. You know what I mean?" Dolores was confused. What the hell could he be talking about? She had a lot of dreams that she'd never lived out, but didn't everyone? "Who ARE you?" she demanded. "Who I am is of no importance. What is important, however, is that I am here right now for you, right?" She nodded reluctantly, as they began crossing another street, getting further and further away from the office and the meetings she should've been to by now.
"Please enlighten me, sir, (Why am I calling him 'sir'?) since I seem to neglect the obvious of my situation." "You are rootless, do you know that? Every human being is like a ship, floating without purpose on a vast ocean, and there is nowhere to harbor, nowhere to anchor up." She nodded. Funny, she'd even thought the same herself a couple of nights ago, over a glass of red wine and a portion of self pity. She'd been thinking what to do with her life. Everything had gone so fast: High School, University and now a boring office-job that was well paid, but quite meaningless in the long run. She wanted something more. Not just someone to share it all with, but something meaningful to share also. "There you go," he interrupted her thoughts. "What?" "You need to begin your search, because time is not on anyone's side. Not even mine." He sighed, and Dolores could see that he was waiting for something dreadful to happen. "We all have paths to follow, and I think I could say that you've gotten a bit off track. When was the last time you decided something for your life, except for a cupcake and a coffee?" He was right, terrifyingly right.
They were about to cross another street when he grabbed her arm to stop her, and looked into her eyes. "Dolores, our paths part here, but you must remember what I have said. You can do something meaningful today, all you've got to do is to take control of your life. Don't be the ship, be the captain." He shook her hand, and crossed the street, leaving her standing there, paralyzed on the sidewalk. Halfway across the street, a Greyhound bus headed for Tennessee couldn't break in time, and Dolores saw her savior being run down and killed instantaneously. There was a commotion for a while, cops and recording of witnessess' statements, but then everything was back to normal. Well, not everything. Right in front of a Baptist church there was a red stain halfway over the street, a stain that wouldn't go away. And some woman named Dolores never returned to her office. On a Tuesday.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
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