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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Bigger Man

For Three Word Wednesday. The words are: Grasp, dread, pacify.

  

The Baumgartner girls climbed onto the bus at 42^nd and Spencer, the two eldest chattering while the littlest, Ellie, pressed against them and laughed loudly, trying to be in the conversation.

Mark swung the lever to close the door and pulled back onto the road.

That morning, their ride was full of spring: Nothing blossoms brighter in April than elementary children. The old Bluebird bus bounced over fresh potholes.

The mirror caught a child jumping seats across the aisle. “K-keep your butts in the chairs, please!” Mark called back.

“Sorry!” the boy dropped immediately, and the seat springs sent him smack into a window.

Mark downshifted and ground the gears as he turned the corner onto Lake. They topped the hill on the way to the next stop.

Suddenly, to Mark, the bright jabbering and sunshine faded.