Mushrooms

“I hate mushrooms,” Francis said, and dropped his fork on the table. “Why’d you put mushrooms in it?”

He pushed his chair back from the table, walked across the kitchen, and scraped the omelette into the garbage. He reached for a box of Raisin Bran.

“They were going bad, and I wanted to use them up,” Janine said. “I’m sorry.”

“Just warn me next time.” Francis sat back down at the table. He had just brought the first bite of cereal to his lips when he jumped and spilled the spoonful down the front of his sweatshirt.

“What the ...”

A tornado siren slowly but forcefully rolled 120 decibels of panic high and then low through the morning air.

Francis looked out the window. It was cloudless. The morning sun threw long shadows from the suburban trees. Some children drawing with chalk on the sidewalk across the street stopped and looked up at the sky. They ran into the house.

“What the hell?”

Janine went to the living room and turned on the TV. “Honey! Come here. Oh my God! Can you hear what they’re saying?”

Francis turned just as the sky lit up in a bright, brief blast of white. Then another, dimmer, but still brilliant.

He looked back out the window, just above the horizon.

“Mushrooms,” he whispered. “I hate mushrooms.”

This was a writing assignment for a workshop I took recently. Write 200 words or more about the end of the world. The first and last line must be the same.

Secret Rebellion

Jason laid his outfit on the bed: a tan two-button Hugo Boss suit, a sky-blue Brooks Brothers dress shirt, a navy tie and brown Florsheim Welles Oxford shoes. He tossed a pair of brown socks and a tank undershirt next to them.

Jason was not a man of means, but he knew how to dress a notch above his station in life. It had been ingrained in him. His mother demanded order, tucking and primping and tying up the freedom and chaos of his childhood into a neat, presentable package each day.

Now well into his 30’s, he still looked sharp. It was certainly his mother’s look … almost.

Jason opened his underwear drawer. It was brimming with color, wild designs, fire and ice. It looked like a clown had stumbled into his bedroom and vomited in his dresser after a night of drowning happiness in mango mojitos.

He selected a fuzzy beige banana-hammock with lolling blue eyeballs on each side and floppy ears sewn into the side straps. Jason shivered and smiled as he pulled it up over his thighs.

He put on his suit, tied his shoes and straightened his tie. And as he walked out the door, Jason wished what he always wished to start his day: Please let me get hit by a bus and have to go to the hospital.

Fatherly Advice

Autumn covered the pink blemish on her cheek with concealer. She put on eyeliner and lipstick, then tilted her head and kissed at the mirror.

“Hi,” she whispered in a smokey voice.

Sophie laughed. “I’ll meet you down there,” she said.

Jim, her boyfriend, had been waiting 20 minutes. Just long enough. She took one last glance at the mirror and saw the blemish still peeking through. Her teeth clenched; she always had a clear complexion, and now she was getting a zit on prom night, of all nights.

It was a special night, worthy of something special, Sophie had said earlier as they got ready. “Clarity,” she called it, in a pill shaped like Snoopy the dog.

It felt incredible; popularity through chemistry. She had been excited for prom before the drug, but now, oh my, she couldn’t wait to see her classmates. They were all so wonderful, and she was wonderful, and everything was going to just be … wonderful.

She applied more concealer, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. The zit seemed to have grown. Maybe the concealer is making it worse.

As she wiped the spot clean with alcohol, she noticed another pink spot on her forehead and one on her chin. She grunted in frustration.

The zit on her cheek formed a whitehead, and Autumn placed her fingers on each side of it.

Before she could squeeze it burst on its own, splattering the mirror and deflating with a trailing whine.

She squealed and watched in horror as more pimples emerged. Little fizzes burst and sizzled and pocked her face.

Her stomach cramped, and she doubled over in front of the mirror, letting out a deep fart. She wiped her face with a towel. It was damp with puss and left her face streaked in oily white.

Another bellowing fart. Then she heard a deep voice from the doorway. “Autumn, what’s … Oh my God!” Jim rushed back down the stairs and out the door.

“Wait!” she wailed, then doubled over again in pain. She lay on the ground with her knees to her chest, weeping. A crumpled corsage lay in the doorway.

Another zit popped and sighed.

---

“That's a bad story, Daddy," the little girl said, covers up to her nose.


"Well, don’t do drugs,” the father told his 10-year-old daughter, “Sleep tight.” He bent and kissed her forehead.

Five-Hour Charisma

Phil knelt in the dust on the black and white checkered tile. Tiny bottles lay scattered around his knees.

He took another from the shelf, checked the label. Five-Hour Energy. He dropped it and grabbed another. Five-Hour Energy. Another. Five-Hour Energy.

Dammit!

The clerk fidgeted with his green vest and watched with concern from half around the corner.

“Are you sure, sir, I can’t help you find something?”

“No. No. It’s fine. … I’m sorry. I’ll put them all back when I’m finished.”

Phil felt him hovering.

Five-Hour Energy. Five-Hour Energy. Five-Hour Energy.

A few minutes later, he had cleared the entire row. He sat in the jumble of vials and leaned back against the shelves, his head in his hands.

He looked up at the boy, then down again. His face flushed.

“It was here last week, but I guess you’re all out,” Phil mumbled.

He traced a crack in the tile.

“What are you looking for? We might have some in the back.”

“It’s … Five-Hour Charisma. It was here last week.”

Her Neighborhood

Evelyn stirred the lemon wedge in her iced tea and watched through the window from her wheelchair. The dewy glass left her fingers damp. She wiped them on her dress.

It was hard to superimpose her childhood memories over the neighborhood today. She closed her eyes and pictured Betty skipping rope on the sidewalk across the street.

I went downtown To see Ms. Brown, She gave me a nickel To buy a pickle, The pickle was sour, So I bought a flower. ...

Evelyn opened her eyes, and three teens sat on the steps where Betty had lived. They passed around an amber bottle and catcalled at passerbys. One bent to pick up a chunk of asphalt. He hurled it - hard - at a group huddled on the curb below her window.

His aim was poor: It sailed wide and slammed into the apartment next door.

First Kill

Joe had visited the pawn shop every day that summer to make sure it was still there. He had done extra chores at home, odd jobs for the neighbors, mowed every lawn in a one-mile radius of his house.

Now it was his. He sat on his bed and ran his hand along the polished blue metal barrel. Finally. The Remington 1187 Upland Special. He fingered the swirling leaves engraved on the stock.

“Freaking awesome.”

His mother had forbid him from doing anything but look at it within the town limits, but she promised they would visit Uncle Steve’s farm that weekend.

Thursday and Friday crept by heartbeat by agonizing heartbeat. At 6:30 a.m. Saturday he was dressed and ready, two hours before the rest of his family finished breakfast.

As they pulled into Steve’s driveway, Joe bolted from the car, brandishing his shotgun above his head. He met Steve at the porch.

“Hey! Whoa! What you got there? Lemmie take a look at that.” Steve grinned and turned the weapon over in his hands. He looked down the barrel. “Pow!” He shot an imaginary bird out of the sky.

Not a Succubus

“Chet, listen to me.”

“I am listening to you.” Chet jackhammered his index finger on the “B” button. The Gatling Stake Gun roared.

“No, Chet. Put down the controller and listen to me.” Jason picked up the TV remote.

“Turn that off and I will END you.”

“Goddammit Chet, this is important.”

“I’m listening to you. Talk.” He tilted the controller to the right and hit a rapid combination of buttons. “Shit.”

“Fine. Whatever." He ran his hand through his hair. "Listen, Janine is a succubus, Chet. She’s a damned succubus.”

“I know. She’s a real bitch.”

“No, she’s not a bitch … I mean, yes she’s a bitch, but she’s also a succubus. An honest-to-God succubus. I went over to Chris’s apartment, and I saw them on the couch through the window, and I thought they were making out. She looked like she was kissing him. But then I saw his face, and he just had this glazed look in his eyes. She wasn’t kissing him, man, she was literally sucking … something … out of him. She pulled away a little, and there was like a mist, a blue mist or something, coming out of him, and she was sucking it out.”

The Grove

The poplars looked cold. The trunks and narrow limbs seemed more than winter bare. They were stark. They were stripped and bleached.

Abe broke off a twig. It snapped dry.

On the tree, silver sap dripped from the new wound. The drops became a stream leaking onto the frozen ground. A thick puddle grew.

The stream became a spray, and Abe put his hand out to block it. Thick drops turned to rivulets down his wrist and hardened. He flexed his hand, and they cracked and flowed again in new directions down his arm.

Abe, frantic, wiped his heavy arm on his shirt. It stuck to the cloth and tore it as he pulled away. He could no longer flex his wrist or elbow. His shoulder stiffened.

He ran back down the road, but his legs became clumsy, and within seconds they stuck fast.


Tendrils climbed his neck, wormed into his nose, mouth and ears until his cry choked off. He stood a silver statue.

A low grating echoed quietly from his open mouth. A branch emerged, bone white. His fingertips, knees, shoulders and toes crackled as shoots pushed through, branching up and out.

The wind blew, and Abe swayed, stark and bare.

Bee grounded

Tommy coughed, and Bee, hovering just above his nose, wilted a little.

He hadn’t brushed his teeth.

She zipped to the ceiling and sat on the fan, legs dangling, looking down at the sleeping boys. She giggled then tumbled backwards and rolled off the blade, catching herself inches from the carpet and twirling out the door.

Down the stairs and around the living room, trailing subtle specks of fairy dust, she alighted on top of the Christmas tree, jealously nudging aside the angel and, with one hand shading her eyes, surveyed the landscape.

She bounced off a high branch and dove to the floor. Presents spilled beneath the tree as she plopped into the pile in a shower of tinsel.

“Achoo!” a puff of tinsel and fairy dust sneezed from the tree.

The Rise and Fall (and Rise and Fall) of @dunleavy27

Saturday, May 11

0 followers

@dunleavy27: Hey, just trying this out now. Anyone listening?

@dunleavy27: Dominoes for supper! Pepperoni rocks!

Sunday, May 12

12 followers

@dunleavy27: Hey @bristol2! How you feeling this morning?

@dunleavy27: Thanks for the RT @dominoes!

@dunleavy27: Leftover dominoes 2nite! Better than fresh!

Friday, May 17

15 followers

@dunleavy27: Watching GI Jane. More dominoes. Demi Moore is SUPERHOT!

Saturday, May 18

124,532 followers

@dunleavy27: Whoa! Wtf?

@dunleavy27: Thanks for the RT @aplusk!

@dunleavy27: Nice bacon and toast for supper, tweeps! Who likes toast?

@dunleavy27: Tweeting from my toilet right now! LOL!

@dunleavy27: Eating nachos.

@dunleavy27: Still watching TV. Nachos gone.

@dunleavy27: Going to bed.

@dunleavy27: NOT! LOL! Still awake.

@dunleavy27: Going to bed now for real! No more jokes!

Sunday, May 19

110,354 followers

@dunleavy27: Lots of assholes on Twitter.

Live Bait

“Have you ever eaten anything that’s still alive?”

“Yes.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied Easton’s face.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I ate a mosquito once when I was riding my bike down the hill by my house. My mouth was open, and it flew right in and down my throat.”

“Aww, that don’t count,” Jake said. He flicked a flat stone across the pond. It bounced one, two, three, four than a staccato fivesixseveneight “Nine!” he said triumphantly and jumped to his feet. “C’mon, I’ll show you what I mean.”

They bounced up the path, each holding a twig. The air whirred as they sliced at the tops of the tall grass on either side, scattering the seeds.

The campground supply shack had an ice machine and a stack of dry wood on one side of the screen door. On the other side sat a vending machine. Live Bait, it read, with a trout snapping at a lure below.

Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest: Something Not Hunger

The Hungry had clawed for weeks at the walls of St. Martin’s Cathedral. Their fingertips and nails were stripped away, and exposed bone grated against the rough stones. 

It was a fortress for the faithful and had, so far, repelled all others. Each morning and evening they held Mass. Fervent entreaties to God mingled with the low groans from outside the walls.

“Judica me, Deus, et discerne causam meam de gente non sancta. Judge me, O God, and distinguish my cause from the nation that is not holy. Ab mortuis iniquo et doloso erue me. Deliver me from the unjust and deceitful dead.”

He marked the time by these communal prayers, leaning against a crumbled wall across the square.


He was the oldest among them. Boots, hard black leather, and a motorcycle helmet – as luck would have it – were sound armor for an animated corpse. With armor came longevity, and with longevity came experience. He had learned a few tricks and, in turn, followers who trailed him for scraps.

During the prolonged siege of the Cathedral, all but one had left him.

Her hair was the color of food: bright red, frizzed in the fetid humidity. She survived on the fringes, snatching scraps as the others fought bloody tug-of-wars. Her lower lip was split to the chin, and the slack caused the corners of her mouth to curl in a smile.

She crouched beside a bench; her slender fingers grasped the armrest. She watched him watch the onslaught in the dawn.

Canada FAQ

Happy Canada Day everyone! That’s right, today is the 6th Annual Canada Day, a day to celebrate (hassle) Canadians and that country’s wealth of history and culture.

For your enjoyment and, more importantly, your education, I will now inject a little bit of Canadian spirit (Labatt’s) into your day by answering some frequently asked questions about Canada.

Q: Where is Canada?

A: Canada, or North North Dakota, is a long, 160-kilometer (mile) wide strip of land sandwiched between the United States to the south and someplace else to the north.

Q: Who lives in Canada?

A: Beavers.

Q: Does Canada have a government?

A: Canada has (borrows from England) a queen who dictates everything from the food they eat (bacon) to the clothes they wear (flannel).

Q: Does Canada have an economy?

A: Yes! Canada’s economy is focused on beer. More specifically, it’s focused on serving beer to American college freshmen who hop the border on weekends. Many Canadians claim that they brew some of the best beer in the world. Of course, they also claim that they burned down the White House once, so take it for what it’s worth.

Canada’s main trading partner is the United States, and their main export is cold fronts. I can personally attest to the high quality of their cold fronts.

Phantom, P.I.

“Is this case out of your league or what?” she said, slouching on the stained beige sofa, hands behind her head.

She wore a black leather miniskirt, a pink tube top, and a lazy, brainless stare framed by six coats of eye shadow. She kept her hair across half her face, thought it was coy, I suppose, to leave something to the imagination.

I knew she wasn’t leaving until I figured this one out. It was powerful motivation.

“Max Packer, private eye, stumped by the case of the missing nylon,” she said. “Seriously, what are you good for if this is too much?”

“I play a mean harmonica.”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her nyloned leg over the bare one.

Of all the places to die, it had to be here. I had let her down fast and hard that morning, almost a year ago. “You liked me well enough last night!” she had shouted as I walked to the door.

“Jimmy Beam liked you well enough last night,” I replied and turned the knob. That's when it hit. It couldn't have waited two more seconds. Pain seared my chest and I dropped in darkness.

My spirit was chained to a scorned woman’s studio apartment. My talents were tested with mind benders like finding car keys or ratting out the cat.

Twelve Items or Less

We don’t ask much of customers, only one thing, in fact. One sign atop one lane out of 100 square yards of store.

That gentle request: 12 items or less.

It’s simple, it’s easy, and human decency can usually be counted on to enforce it for us. Usually.

My checkout banter had run its course after two items with this guy – bald, big and dressed to the ones in a slashed and sleeveless black hoodie. Piles of household goods jerked forward on the conveyer belt as I filled another bag in the silence.

Customers in line are usually quiet, but now it was different, thicker, bloated. Their eyes and postures hinted at rage. But Midwest sensibility corked it, bottled it up to fester and swell.

I lowered my eyes as I punched the code for bananas, scanned a six-pack of Gatorade. The list grew on the display above the register: Nutri-Grain bars, $5.45; Dove, $2.99; Dawn, $6.99 … The whole time the line kept growing, snaking now around the tabloids. The man stood tall with his head high, tapping the counter with his wallet as he waited.

A Noble Profession

For Three Word Wednesday. This week’s prompt: roam, noble, hidden.
--
“I chose this life,” he said.

I was checking email on my Blackberry, waiting for the bus. The growing reek of sweat and smoke preceded him as he scooted closer.

“I don’t have to be a tramp. I want to be one. It’s a noble profession,” he said.

I cocked an eyebrow. Greasy wisps of hair spilled from a black stocking cap set high on his head. His face was pock-marked and gritty, as if scrubbed by the pavement. He wore a tattered USC sweatshirt and an unbuttoned trench coat. Despite his layers, he looked comfortable in the 80 degree heat.

“Profession?” I said.

His eyes bulged.

“Oh yes. We’re the sages of the 21st century. The tramp scorns the very tenet upon which modern society thrives, the notion that a prosperous life is built on the rubble of friends and co-workers sacrificed in the unholy pursuit of the corner office. I roam the streets, observing the shameful state of humanity and offering a chance at redemption. I give reprieve from greed, an opportunity to rediscover human kindness through the smallest token: the gift of a dollar, perhaps.”

“So you want a dollar?” I said.

“But that’s not the point,” he said. “I want you to rediscover the joy of helping a fellow man. Mencius once said, ‘He who attends to his greater self becomes a great man, and he who attends to his smaller self becomes a small man.’ I want to make you a great man.”

I pulled out my wallet. “I can spare a buck.”

He smiled as I held out the dollar.

“Or you could just give me all of it,” he said.

“All of it? I don’t think –” He had a pistol hidden in the pocket of his trench coat; the barrel protruded from a hole in the lining.

“And the Blackberry,” he said.

A Lucky Hunt

My late submission for Three Words Wednesday and #fridayflash. This week’s words: budge, nimble, theory.

The dogs were off the truck before it stopped. The men piled out next, but Alex waited and then carefully handed the 20-gauge shotgun to his brother, Jake, before exiting. He could still see that bloody, careless teen in the hunter’s safety video from last week.

Alex’s new blaze orange vest was creased along the back, and every pocket was stocked with shells, 40 of them. He wore his lawn-mowing jeans, his mother’s red flannel and new boots. He bent and pulled a burr out of the laces.

Jake handed him the gun.

“You look good, but you need a hat,” Jake said. “Take mine, it’s lucky.” He placed the orange and grey cap on Alex’s head. It had a camouflage pattern formed from silhouettes of naked ladies.


“Thanks!” Alex pulled the brim low.

Jake was back from college for opening weekend of pheasant season. He had been recounting hunting stories to Alex while their dad had driven to their uncle’s farm. Once, Jake had flushed a bird at the end of a field and it ran into a power line and dropped dead at his feet. Another time, he shot a pheasant from the back of the truck as they were driving.

Fruit of Thy Womb

The Sunday Scribblings prompt for the week: mantra.
--
She rolled the cool bead across her thumb to the beat of her mantra.


Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee. 


“Ma’am, we’ve seen some strange activity on your card, and we just wanted to call to make sure you’re aware,” the caller said. There had been three cash advances of $1,5oo over the last three days. She closed down the card.


Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. 


She hadn’t been able to find him in the few places she knew to look. He wasn’t home or at the bar. His friends claimed they hadn’t seen him. She wandered the park with no real hope of running into him there.
Finally, she called the number tacked to the bulletin board in his room: his bookie.


“If you see him, tell him he’d best be stopping by here soon,” the man said.

Home Security

He was through the window to his waist when his elbow clipped the plate, causing a clank from the kitchen sink. He stopped with his legs dangling in open air, his face near a dish that reeked of asparagus.

It was quiet.

He slid the rest of the way through at an angle onto the counter and then stepped lightly to the floor. He tilted his head, waiting as his vision gradually adjusted to the dark.

Still quiet.

This wasn’t a bad part of town; it was on the fringe of a district with character, in fact. But three blocks down and you’d start thinking about iron grates on the windows. He supposed his presence tonight made a good case for iron grates here too.

The lawn had gone to seed, and the house needed some paint, but it was otherwise maintained. A man and a woman lived here. No kids. No dog. He’d monitored the house for a week.

The husband had a physique fit for a desk job. He dressed neatly and worked 8-5, and he drove a 15-year-old Accord with rust eating the bottom couple inches off the doors.

First Kiss

NOTE: The folks over at Write With Pictures gave me the Featured Post winner for this one! Thanks to all who took the time to read it.
---

The air twirled with Maple seeds.

They sat quietly near the bank together. Her fingertips danced on the back of his hand. Her palm was damp and warm, and the heat climbed her wrist, up her arm to her elbow, which was nestled in his. Everything else was numb.

She took in his smell of dirt, sweat, peanut butter, and honey.  It was so uniquely boy.

She studied his knee, a smear of dry blood on dark green, and the threadbare hem of his khaki shorts. She studied every blemish on the back of her hand as it lay on his.