11 April 2011


He came to me from across a field. It was midday in September and I was taking a nap under a big old maple. He bleated in my ear.

I opened my eyes and there he was. He was only two-and-a-half feet tall, but he still intimidated me. He had three claws on each foot. His long and knobby legs stuck out from under his small and furry body; his head teetered atop his thin neck. His eyes were huge and bug-like and his snout was a Brillo Pad. I thought he might try to hurt me so I hunched my shoulders and showed my teeth. He bleated again.

"Hello," I said. I lowered my head, promising not to attack.

"Hello," he said back. His voice was like a bicycle horn with a British accent. "Where can a sheep graze around here?"

I looked behind him. The grass was long and green and sweet-smelling. "There," I gestured toward the field.

He turned around, paused, and then faced me again. "No," he shook his rough head. "I want to graze."

"You're not a sheep," I was confused. This creature was strange and possibly crazy, "And that's grass anyway. What else do you want to graze in?"

He let out a long and loud bleat and lowered his head. He stomped his foot and stared into my eyes. I narrowed them and showed my teeth again. He was about to charge. I steadied my weight and pounced; my teeth broke his neck and he collapsed.

I stared at my kill and wondered whether or not I should eat it. I wasn't particularly hungry and I wasn't sure what he was. I sniffed and tasted his blood; it was wrong.

I left the big old maple with the not-sheep bleeding underneath. I would not come back here. It was a silly place.


Hm. Well, I've been a bit off and a bit busy lately. Here's something a little more substantial, hopefully it isn't trash.

05 April 2011

Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump

"I want to climb inside your chest and live there," so I did.

Tiny and dim lights hung from great big blue streamers. The streamers swelled and so did the walls. The walls were red and soft and wet and smelled a bit strange and a bit lovely. The ground was the same as the walls and so was the ceiling.

I walked around for hours. It was quiet and warm and dark and full in there. Your organs pushed me around, but it was in a nice way.


Alright. I'm having a pretty terrible week so here is a very short and late post. I will try to make another (better?) post this week.

In the meantime, you should probably go here and have a nice day.

28 March 2011

The Frustrating Sailor

I never lived by the sea; I was always landlocked. My town had no rivers or streams or brooks or lakes or ponds or swamps or marshes. The only person who had a swimming pool was the mayor and I didn't know him. Most of the sinks and toilets and tubs in my house didn't work because of bad plumbing. I was not knowledgeable about or interested in water.

A man named Clive Gordon moved into the house next to mine. The first thing that was taken off the truck on move-in day was an above-ground pool. Next came fishing rods and a tackle box. I went inside. I would not be friends with this loon.

Later there was a knock at my front door. I opened it to a short and beefy man who was holding a casserole dish.

"'Lo, neighbour," he was jovial. "Mermaid's Imperial Delight!" he beamed and thrust the dish he had been holding into my hands.

"Pardon?" I took a step back and left the dish in his hands.

"Mermaid's Imperial Delight," he smiled wider and revealed a gold tooth. I couldn't believe it. I hated him.

"What are you talking about?" I started to close the door between us. "I'm not interested."

"I brought you a casserole," he wedged himself between my door and its frame. "I'm Clive Gordon, your new neighbour."

"Why did you bring me a casserole?" I opened the door again and took the dish.

"That's what new neighbours do."

"Yes," I paused. "I always thought that the people who moved in were the ones who were supposed to receive the gifts and the people who were already there were supposed to do the gifting."

His grin grew so large that it nearly ripped his face in two, "But you never brought me a gift and you've lived here for who knows how long."

"I've lived here all of my life," I spoke very quickly because I did not want to speak to this man any more. "Goodbye." I shut and locked the door between us. I threw the casserole away.

That evening the house shook. I jumped out of bed and readied my pistol for the intruder. "Who the fuck is there?" I yelled as I ran dramatically into each room.

"Oh, hello," Clive was in my kitchen. I shot my kitchen window. "Careful there, you almost shot me."

"Why are you in my house?" I was irate.

"I used to be a sailor," his gold tooth glinted in the moonlight.

"Oh, well, I really don't care about that," I pointed my gun at his face. "Why are you in my house?"

"I used to be a sailor," he said again. "Enlisted men, we aren't often alone. Lonely, yes, but not alone," Clive looked up at my face. He was crying. "Please, neighbour. Don't turn me away."

"What exactly is it that you are asking of me?"

Clive's tears stopped and he grinned wide, "Can I tell you a story? It always helps me to sleep if I tell someone a story."

"Don't people usually listen to stories to fall asleep?"

"Why would they do that? Listening to a story is much too interesting, but telling one is simply exhausting," he walked over to me and I kept the gun steady. "I used to read Mother Goose to my own mother and I'd sleep much better than when she read it to me."

I was confused and while I was confused, he took my gun. Conceding defeat, I flopped onto my couch and said "Clive, tell me a story."

He settled onto a large red armchair by the fireplace, "One day there was a puppy," he began. "Later there wasn't a puppy any more. The puppy was lost. The lost puppy stayed lost because a lost puppy cannot be found or else it is a found puppy. A found puppy is just basically a puppy---"

Clive had stopped telling his story. I looked over and he was curled up in my armchair, sleeping with my gun in his lap. I roused him, "Clive, get out of my house."

"Neighbour," Clive sleepily held up his hand in protest. "I was asleep. Do you remember when I told you that story earlier? That was so that I could fall asleep."

"I remember, Clive," I rubbed my eyes. "That story was nonsense. I woke you up because your story made it so that I can't sleep."

"Would you like to tell me a story?" his eyes were closed again. I shook my head. He opened his eyes. I shook my head again, "Would you like me to tell another story?" I nodded. "One day there was a sailor. This sailor was strong and brave and smart. He really knew how to sail and he really knew how to fight. He had seen all the seas and had drank water from---"

Clive had stopped telling his story. I looked over and he was curled up in my armchair, bleeding with a gunshot wound in his lap. I called the police but they came too late. Clive the sailor had already bled out. The chair was already red and I didn't like him anyway, so I didn't mind. I was okay.


So, this is pretty all right. The ending is a bit wonky, but that is how it goes.