Sunday, April 26, 2015

886. The Eddie Murphy Suite

All her life, she had dreamed of being a composer.
She'd prayed and prayed and prayed and prayed for one soaring melody.
Try as she might, everything she wrote came out sounding like Axel F.
Worse still, they weren't even good knockoffs.

Friday, April 24, 2015

885. The Thunderer

The locals call it The Thunderer - though I have no Earthly idea why.
It's not much more than a pissy little crick.
Then again, sitting here with my boots off and my feet in the water, listening to the frogs sing mysteries to each other, it might be okay.
It might be very okay.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

884. I came here all the time

"I know this place," he said, rubbing the dust from the bar between his fingers.
The others nodded.
Except none of them did - not really.
One by one, his clone brothers followed him out into the wasteland.

Sunday, April 12, 2015

883. O2

"Ever make it on an air mattress?" he asked, stinking of amaretto.
He pumped like a furious musician on a mute accordion.
Vomit, unconsciousness, and a heart attack - none of them were outside the possible.
Minutes later, he was passed out, snoring in time with the leaking mattress.

Sunday, April 5, 2015

882. Two scoffs

Two scoffs, my grandfather said, would ward off the dark dreams.
"Two scoffs, two scoffs, two scoffs," he'd cackle as he topped up his cup with whiskey.
He died this winter - cirrhosis and old age.
"Two scoffs, two scoffs, two scoffs," his old tool shed seemed to echo as we shoveled out his hoard of broken bottles.