Everything Dissolves

Everything Dissolves is a collection of my shorter fiction, published by Horror Sleaze Trash. Order it riiiiiight here.

Quarantine

I wrote this eons ago. It was nothing to do with recent events. I just wanted to exploit the title. From my book Pancreatic Carburetor.

I run into my friend Tommy at Subway and ask him about our mutual friend, Gary, whose sorry-ass I haven’t seen in a while.

“Where’s he been lately?” I ask. “Homeless?”

“Didn’t you hear? He’s in the hospital, under quarantine.”

“Quarantine? Really? What for?”

“I dunno. Something he picked up in a swamp, I think.”

“Is it serious?”

Tommy shrugs. “It must be for them to isolate him like that.”

Tommy’s wife Janice comes out of the bathroom holding their one-year-old son, Jeremy, whose shrill screams echo around the restaurant. “Thomas!” Janice says. “Come on, let’s go!” She marches toward the exit with the squealing baby.

Tommy puts his hand on the side of his mouth, leans toward me and mutters, “Wish I could catch whatever Gary has. I could use a little isolation myself.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” I say only because it’s expected of me.

“Thomas! Now!” Janice yells.

I want to wish him good luck but don’t want to get him into any more hot water with the missus.

Pipsqueak!

Cults that Kill

Dead Flies

I've been posting these little flash fiction vignettes for a while now and I've had a lot of fun but I've recently blundered into a larger project. What began with a short throwaway sentence has bloated to thirty pages and over 10,000 words. The fiction has ceased to be flash. The story, reflecting these troubled times (as it should) has consumed me for days. I don't know how it'll end (if it does) but I'm compelled to see it through. But I also want to keep posting here so here's an old story about LSD and shitting maggots.

 
1969

Flowerbud sat in the corner, crying over the

graves of her dead flies.

      "How much acid did you give her?" said Dan.

      "Just one," Paul said. "I don't know what's

wrong with her."

       Flowerbud picked up one of the flies,

weeping.

     She gazed at its tiny frozen legs, its fragile,

rice-paper wings.

      She began to wail a low mournful wail.

      Paul was searching the overflowing ashtray

for a left-behind roach.

      "She's gonna drive me nuts if she keeps that

up," said Dan.

      Flowerbud tried to breathe life back into

the fly, gently blowing on it. Its legs vibrated

and for a second she thought it was coming

back, but no, it was only her breath that stirred

it.

      She placed the fly in a line with the four

others, sobbing.

      "Shut the hell up!" Dan yelled. "For Christ's

sake they're DEAD FLIES! Get a grip on

yourself!"

      Flowerbud picked up another fly. She

turned it over, shifting it from one hand to the

other, crying.

      Paul gave up the roach hunt and sat down

on the floor. "Leave her alone. She's into a

heavy trip."

      "Shit!" Dan stormed over to her. He

stomped on the flies, mashing them to tiny,

black smears.

      Flowerbud began to scream, shrieking like

a woman in flames.

      "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Dan yelled. He

tried to snatch the last fly from her. She

cupped her hands together, protecting its

delicate insect corpse and said, "Leave me

alone!"
     "Gimme that fucking thing!" Dan said,
trying to pry her hands apart. "Open your
hands!"
     "Noooooo!" she screamed.
     "Open! Your! Hands!"
     Flowerbud forced her voice low and calm and said, "Okay, okay. I will. Get off me first."
Dan backed off.
     Flowerbud opened her hands, popped the fly into her mouth and swallowed.
     Dan looked down at her, disgusted. "Jesus.
You're a crazy little bitch."
     Flowerbud smiled at him. She could feel the
fly coming back to life, tickling the soft walls of
her belly.
     She would shit maggots in a day or two.

P.S. This new Blogger isn't very good, sorry the thing looks so wonky. My patience ran out.

Dead Flies originally appeared in The Membranous Lounge. Still available.

Norman

         

From a great height he descended, did Norman Johnson, a man who thought he had nothing to live for anymore. Annie, his wife of thirty-two years had succumbed to painful pancreatic cancer and the loss was a violent rupture in the sweet center of his being. It was like watching Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory and having snuff/atrocity footage suddenly spliced in.  It was that sudden. It was that rough.

     So Norman plummeted. He was sure Beth, his 26-year-old daughter wouldn’t miss him. Despite their battling past she was still in his will. Her share should keep her in heroin for the rest of her life (meaning not long). Norman knew she wouldn’t use the money wisely; use it to fix her situation. She’d have enough to buy a house, but she didn’t seem to mind living in crab-infested flophouses. Letting sweaty repulsive junkies take advantage of her. What money that doesn’t get sucked into her squabbling veins will go to her lowlife squabbling friends. Beth was gifted with a generous spirit. She always shared her toys when she was little. Now she gave it all away.

      So Norman plunged. The lion’s share of the inheritance would go to his little brother, Albert who would probably lose most of it at the dog track. Oh well, it’s not like Norman would care by that point. And that’s it, all his money would go to the two last living members of the Johnson clan.  And he was sure they’d both use it to fuck everything up.

     So Norman dropped. Going through Annie’s illness, all the things he had to do to get her through Hell—and Hell it was—changed Norman in a profound way. It demonstrated how weak and afraid and ineffectual he was. He couldn’t save her. Every day she slipped further away until she was gone. How ironic was that? Norman Johnson, successful oncologist couldn’t even save his own wife. Let the nattering commence. His drinking problem was well known. There had been incidents. He couldn’t do surgery anymore because of his shaking hands. He wished for one last drink now. He wished for Annie. He didn’t believe in an afterlife. This was it. This was unbearable.

     So Norman descended. He’d climbed the stairs to the top of the medical building and stood on the roof, looking down at the forty stories of relentless gravity below him. Then he closed his eyes and stepped off the ledge.

     Norman fell.

 

 

Schmeckled

 

         “Why did you hang up on me?” the woman inside the phone says. Her voice sounds familiar. It has a metallic taste.

     “I didn’t hang up on you,” I say, which is true. I don’t know what she’s talking about.

     “Don’t treat me like I’m dumb. I’m not that dumb!” she says and I suddenly realize she sounds like my great-grandmother Judith, only meaner.  But since Granny Judy died ten years ago, it’s probably not her.

     “I’m sorry. I think you have the wrong number,” I say, which is true.

     “I said not to treat me like I’m dumb! I’m not dumb!”

     I begin to wonder. “Sorry,” I say and hang up on her, sort of again.

     I think, Boy, the real guy who hung up on her is going to get an earful now!

     The phone rings again. I stare at it through five rings and then pick up. I do so with great trepidation.

     “Hello?”

     “Listen, you ungrateful bastard,” she says, sounding more metallic, less Granny Judy. “You may think you can treat me like this, with all your high falutin’ money. But I’m a person! You can’t walk all over me! I’m a human being!”

    I’m momentarily shocked into speechlessness. She’s supremely pissed. I gird my loins and tell her, “Look, I’m sorry but you really do have the wrong number.” I’m starting to feel sorry for her. I could be a wise-ass and prank her, pretend I’m the guy she’s calling and give her shit but she’s just a confused old woman. My mean-streak has mellowed over the years.

     So I do the unthinkable. I hang up on her for the third (2^nd) time.

     I was on my way out but now I can’t leave. I sit down to watch the phone.

     It doesn’t ring.

     It doesn’t ring again. Maybe she finally gave up. Or maybe she finally dialed the right number. That poor schmuck.

     It doesn’t ring again. I stand up, ready to head out. Halfway to the door and the phone starts up again. I should just let it ring, let the machine pick it up if she makes it to seven rings.

     On ring six I lurch for the phone and pick up. “Hello?”

     “YOU FUCKING DIE!” she shrieks and I slam the phone down.

     Okay, I’ve had enough; I’ve got troubles of my own. I don’t need telephone drama from perfect strangers. There was something obviously wrong with the woman. She might have dementia, schizophrenia, who knows? She was obviously in deep distress and calling me wasn’t helping things at all. I grab my keys.

     And the phone rings.  

     Oh no.

     I move toward it. Another ring. I stand there. Another ring. I stand there.

     Another ring.

     Oh fuck it! “Hello?”

     “The calls are coming from INSIDE the house!” screeches out at me followed by uproarious laughter. “You’ve just been schmeckled!” And a horn honks and another voice says, “I didn’t hang up on you!” mimicking me. I slam the phone down.

    But I smile as I don my jacket. That was a pretty good prank.

     I guess the joke’s on me.