Thursday,
May 3rd, 2012:
The infant was found near a
waterfall. Subjected to the noise, it was assumed to be deaf. On the contrary,
it cried in the face of stillness as its new parents carried it home through
the woods.
The mother and the father took turns with certain responsibilities. When one held it, the other would collect twigs and break them, throw stones against the thick trunks of trees, and rustle the bushes that surrounded them.
The mother and the father took turns with certain responsibilities. When one held it, the other would collect twigs and break them, throw stones against the thick trunks of trees, and rustle the bushes that surrounded them.
Friday,
May 4th, 2012:
I used the rice cooker, but realized
after learning how to use it I did not know how to clean it. I asked my friend
how to do it. She said “It’s really simple unless it’s the Aromax 9-T Model.”
That was my rice cooker. “What makes it different?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Usually you remove the inner pot and handwash it, but you can’t do that with this model.”
“But what about my Aromax?”
She shook her head. “Search me. Don’t clean it though. It won’t work.”
“What do I do then?”
“Leave it.”
“What if it gets moldy?”
“Don’t throw it out?”
“Why not?”
“It’s cursed.”
I rubbed my forehead impatiently. “You could have said that from the very beginning.”
The pot sits in my basement. It’s been several weeks and I got myself an older model. Occasionally I check on the new model to see if anything has developed. The mold has begun to creep out and onto the cement like flat fin-like appendages. Ever since it’s been down there, things have been falling from the shelves, the lights flicker on and off, and occasionally I hear a table saw revving in the night. “Leave it be,” my friend tells me.
That was my rice cooker. “What makes it different?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Usually you remove the inner pot and handwash it, but you can’t do that with this model.”
“But what about my Aromax?”
She shook her head. “Search me. Don’t clean it though. It won’t work.”
“What do I do then?”
“Leave it.”
“What if it gets moldy?”
“Don’t throw it out?”
“Why not?”
“It’s cursed.”
I rubbed my forehead impatiently. “You could have said that from the very beginning.”
The pot sits in my basement. It’s been several weeks and I got myself an older model. Occasionally I check on the new model to see if anything has developed. The mold has begun to creep out and onto the cement like flat fin-like appendages. Ever since it’s been down there, things have been falling from the shelves, the lights flicker on and off, and occasionally I hear a table saw revving in the night. “Leave it be,” my friend tells me.
Saturday,
May 5th, 2012:
Hours
into his departure, the boy who ran away from his parents found refuge in a
church. The front doors were locked, but one of the windows in the back was
pried open, and so he climbed in. There was a terrifying thundering noise
coming from above his head. The chorus of voices yelling back and forth at each
other, arguing about what was valuable and what was not, gave the boy no
indication that the outside world was any different than home.
Sunday,
May 6th, 2012:
In
an effort to make himself more visible during Halloween, he planted L.E.D.
lights into his mask. When the both of them broke on the bridge of his nose,
nobody could help but laugh at what he had done to himself: two scars stuck to
his face like fat red leeches.
Monday, May 7th, 2012:
Out at sea
for seven years, I got your letter in Tangiers. Thought that I'd been on a boat,
‘til that single word you wrote. That single word it landlocked me, turned the
masts to cedar trees and the winds to gravel roads. Idaho, oh Idaho.
It was always easier to be taunted by the thought of a coiled snake nestled in the nook of a dune when you were still alive, and somehow it was cooler the closer we climbed to the sun. The wind blows its hardest at the top of those hot treeless hills that come into existence by pure chance.
It was always easier to be taunted by the thought of a coiled snake nestled in the nook of a dune when you were still alive, and somehow it was cooler the closer we climbed to the sun. The wind blows its hardest at the top of those hot treeless hills that come into existence by pure chance.
Tuesday, May 8th, 2012:
Tom
Waits left behind the husk of his career that leaned on perpetual intoxication,
but somebody possessed the genius to dig it back up, dust off the dirt, and make
it every Monday night’s reliquary at The Shakedown. Now I and the other
non-smokers smoke as if the sort of sacrifice we were making was worthy of his
abandoned image.
Wednesday, May 9th, 2012:
Being
immortal skewed Zed’s perception of time. He saw those who were alive and saw
their future at the same time. A corpse hung onto the shoulders of every person
like gravity. The rotting double cuddled closely at their backs when they slept
and even came between two of them during sex, secretly meeting the pull and
thrust of every couple. The only solution, Zed decided, for this problem of witnessing
people’s unawareness of duality is to take control.
When he began murdering people, he started with handguns and, but as he became more and more desensitized, he resorted to tomahawks, hammers, his own hands, and finally to the tediously repetitive motions of a small pin, which usually took an entire day to complete.
When he began murdering people, he started with handguns and, but as he became more and more desensitized, he resorted to tomahawks, hammers, his own hands, and finally to the tediously repetitive motions of a small pin, which usually took an entire day to complete.
No comments:
Post a Comment