Friday, March 31, 2017


Offering of the day...

Penny gasped.  She looked like she was trying to swim the hardwood floor.  One foot kicked at the floor and then stiffened like the mother of all muscle spasms had taken hold, its mind on setting the record.  She produced a sound, a real rip, her bowels turning into an enemy, dumping any and everything, a concentrated flush filling the seat of those grey slacks. 

Thursday, March 30, 2017


Paragraph of the day...

Asking would be like going back in time and grilling the school janitor or the mailman about their hopes and dreams.  There were all these people working in shadows regardless if it was day or night, responsible for tending the pillars of society, and their numbers sprouted and fell so regularly it was all part of the process.  One day not so long ago, and without prior notice, it'd been decided it didn't matter that they didn't matter.      

Wednesday, March 29, 2017


A bit longer than the paragraph-a-day sampling.

Weird thing about writing.  Even with an outline, the story just kind of does whatever it wants...

The day Kohler came in with his pitch, instead of a booth, he sat at the counter.  Instead of noon, he came in at the slow time, between lunch and dinner.
All he ever ordered was coffee.  His face craggy, his voice matching the face, it seemed off he didn't take the coffee black.  But he always wanted sugar and cream.
When she asked him if he wanted a refill, Kohler looked her in the face. 
"When this place closes, what are you going to do?"
"No," said Kohler.  "You know what I mean.  It's got what--a month left?"
Sloan shrugged.
"Haven't thought that far ahead."
"Sure you have."
There was one old fart rattling a newspaper in a corner booth, and Jeff had NPR on back in the kitchen.  The way Kohler looked at her was a little intense like one more errant newspaper rattle or one more NPR story with a music bed and Kohler would start the killing. 
"You in good health?"
"Like what?  My girl parts?"
"Legs.  Arms.  Brain."
"Can't complain."
"How do you feel about making some money?  A one-time thing.  Kind of scary.  But if it goes sideways, you have an out."
She smiled and laughed.
Kohler waited for her to shake off the uniqueness of the line of inquiry.  She knew he knew he'd piqued her interest.  She had to at least finger the pie just out and steaming on the counter.  Finger it if not eat it. 
What did it was when he got into particulars regarding the money.
Enough to fuel a rocket and blast off into orbit, her and Harvey, far, far away from Buttfuck, Egypt. 


From today...

Waiting on Sloan to get the last of her shit together Kohler and Harvey maintained a steady low maintenance echo, man to dog, dog to man.  Peaceful distance and coexistence, like between celestial objects, gases and solids negotiating the void, birthed of the same ignition event but forever separate, textbook chin nod acknowledgment.

Monday, March 27, 2017


Today's offering:

Helping amp up communal agitation, Saturn had been sleeping with Spencer more or less right before things between the alpha-males went belly-up.  Mario was kind of a small little guy, and Spencer was more Saturn's meat-and-potatoes body type, but Spencer was divorced and one of the boys from his marriage suffered severe mood swings.  He'd bitten Aunt Saturn.  Twice.  Took a pea-sized chunk out of her the second attempt. 

Sunday, March 26, 2017


From the efforts of the day...

(For the sake of clarity, the character mentioned below - Holland - is a former sci-fi writer.  He produced a kind of sleazy, erotic sci-fi series before the publishing world changed on him.)

Some wet-behind the ears type in New York had advised Holland to use the C.S. Lewis Narnia series as a model for what the new publisher would like to offer the chain stores.  Bristling at the directive, Holland took a cast of attractive clean-cut teens and ran them through his own personal wood chipper.  One creation, a straight A-student and athletic wonder was saddled with a panty sniffing fetish; the greener the skidmark the better.  Another suffered acne, bubble gum sized abscesses bubbling an amber drip non-stop.  Yet another had been molested by no less than a half-dozen foster parents, and lastly, there was the witness to her father shooting her mother dead before blowing his own head off on no less significant a date than the girl's very birthday. Not only did daddy's brains splatter the cake and the party clown, but grey matter slopped onto her face and dribbled down into the space between her budding pre-adolescent breasts.