Saturday, January 29, 2011
Zaid clutched his father's cold hand and begged him to wake. He didn't move. The son of a genie should never wish his parents were dead.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Fall straight down. Go limp so that you’re perfectly flat on the floor in under two seconds. If you brace yourself from the bruises, bullets will rip your arms apart.
Slither left as soon as you feel the concrete on your belly. Go about one body length. If you overshoot, that’s fine. The blocks you’ve just darted behind are concrete and will absorb most of the gunfire.
Stay there. Ignore the percussion and drywall exploding around you. Look at your watch. Watch the seconds pass. At eight seconds, their clips will be empty. They’re zealous and will need to swap them out.
Run for your fucking life, preferably to the door on left. Stay below the level of the concrete blocks so they can’t be sure where you are. Of course that door is beyond the blocks. There is a stretch of five and a half feet in which they will have a clean shot. So, run faster than they can reload.
Fall through the door. Roll to the right as you hit the ground. Taking the steps would be healthier if you weren’t about to be shot. Get your ass up and behind that dumpster.
Notice how the door opens rightwards and is resting against our dumpster. Shove the dumpster. It will catch the door, close it, and moves side-to-side a lot easier than back-and-forth. Stay below the top of the dumpster because when that door doesn’t kick open like they want, they’re going to start shooting again. This is how they deal with things.
Kick the wheel locks on the dumpster as you sprint out of the alley. Cross the street. Hang left. At the end of the block, hang right. Go three blocks, take one more right, and run until you see the hospital. You probably need it for something at this point.
I recommend dropping the package under the steps of the synagogue that is half a block shy from the hospital. You can pick it up later, when people won’t ask about it or accidentally see inside. I also recommend leaving the ER before they start sweeping for you. You can do whatever you want with it, though. You’ve avoided being shot, and that’s all the advice I’m giving.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Bathroom Monologue: “Am I going to spend all of my thirties insisting that I’m not really old?” –Brenda Kirk, OR, John’s Internal Narrative
“Being in my thirties doesn’t feel bad. I should have accomplished more, my joints are a little rustier, but it’s not much different from my twenties. She’s overreacting.
“Wait a minute. I’m not thirty. Nobody’s called me thirty. Somebody would have.
“Am I thirty? How do I not know this? Where’s my driver’s license? 1981…
“No, I’m not. That’s somewhere in the twenties. Twenty-eight? Nine? Twenty-nine feels right. Yeah, twenty-nine until September.
“God, I’m going to be thirty soon. That is going to suck. Why haven’t I gotten more done? I’m falling apart.”
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
She stroked the bulging little monster between the ears. Still it growled, nostrils flaring and fangs bearing at all the people texting and talking on cell phones in the park.
"He's getting bigger," said Shirley.
Gina beamed and hugged her newest pet. "You know, he was just seven ounces last week. I can barely stand any sort of conversation now that isn't downright deep. Even you're getting on my nerves."
"Seven ounces?" Shirley turned up her nose. "How much is that in kilograms? You know, the rest of the world is on metric."
"Oh, you. That's a pet I haven't picked up yet."
"Well are you feeding him right?"
Somewhere, a nosy vibrate setting went off. The monster barked. Gina stroked his fur.
"Morning, noon and night he gets excessive helpings of attention I should be spending on my job and family."
"Have you tried generics? They can live on emotional table scraps."
"I would do that, but he likes the full meal better. He's so hungry."
Shirley's not-so-clever ring-tone went off in her purse. She jerked to shut it off while Gina restrained the monster, which snarled at Shirley.
Shirley checked the number. No one important. Silenced, she shoved the cell back into her purse. She looked from her friend to the little monster. They had the same fuming expression. It made her wonder about her own little growing hatreds.
"I guess all pet peeves are like that."
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
They said the house was haunted.
He said the house was cheap.
She was scared to shivering.
He turned on the lights.
The lights went out.
He turned on the solar-powered flash.
It flickered and died.
He threw some logs in the fireplace.
An inexplicable breeze kept killing the kindling.
He poured out lighter fluid on some floorboards.
The lights came back on.
“You see?” he said. “Compromise.”
Monday, January 24, 2011
A priest, a rabbi and a minister walk into a bar.
The priest goes up to the man behind the counter and asks, “Do I smell smoldering flesh?”
The man behind the counter points to the NO SMOKING sign.
The rabbi goes up to the man behind the counter and asks, “Do I hear nightmarish wailing from back there?”
The man behind the counter shrugs and turns up the volume on the television.
Finally the minister goes up to the man behind the counter and asks, “Pardon me, but do I see jumper cables in your hands and the real bar tender’s legs flailing behind there?”
The man behind the counter brushes the clips together. They spark. He shouts, “Guilty as charged!”
You probably had to be there.