FINGER SMELL
March 31 2008
Every morning when I'm here, my index finger smells. I can't help but smell it. Not because I enjoy the smell- I don't. The reason I continue to sniff it is that I am hoping it no longer smells bad. At an indiscernible moment in the day, the smell dissolves like a bored phantasm. Every moment before that moment is spent sniffing my index finger, wishing the smell would leave.
What is this smell even supposed to be? I'm too embarrassed to ask anyone to give me their opinion on the smell. In fact, I would be more willing to stick my index finger in one hundred strange anuses and ask my co-workers to smell that, than ask them to endure the scent of my index finger during most Monday-Friday work weeks. Certainly, they would ostracize me, despite my having no control over it. Despite the odour's midday disappearance.
BELLIGERENT BRAIN
March 31 2008
His glinty eyes reflected the dying inverse sun as he stood atop the hill shaped like a font. Looking out over the sea of glass bottles, and then to the west, at the fields of Flavoured Grass, he was reminded of the Great Apple Tundra, once razed by war, but now fertile and abandoned. Trying to express himself with a poem, this man spat into the fading dirt and gave it a title.
Unzipping a narrow zipper on the side of the man's head, his brain crawled out, nicking itself on the metal teeth and leaving a trail of coagulating red snot in its wake. Waving it's little arms around, it began to grow agitated. The brain kicked the title out of the spit's non-arms, sending it rolling down the hill, and the spit into tears.
Next, the belligerent brain agonized over what it was and grew three times it's own size. Then it shrank. Finally, it became brain sized. Using a mouth it bought over the internet, the brain began to eat itself, thus doubling it's own knowledge. Quietly observing this, the man grew sick and gray. Taking off his shoes, he sprint upward, returning to his home in the sky.
THE INCREASING COLD
March 28 2008
I thought about building a sand castle. then I didn't. it was Tuesday. later, I reconsidered, but didn't want to make one out of sand. what else could I use? paper? this old phone? a tennis racket with DNA on it? 10 minutes passed before I broke my gaze from this racket. I wonder who it belonged to. clearly, it was broken, like someone beat it against a tree. it was caked in dust and...
people down the hall started complaining about the heat. their complaints sounded like dogs barking, but not like real dogs barking. more like those fake little dogs that make little yipping sounds. if you put those sounds in a blender with the sound of a hacksaw cutting through a leg bone, then turned the blender on... that's what this sounded like. it made me want to drink until I was so full of alcohol, the fumes killed everyone in the building. the concept reminded me of the bug- killing jars we used in school to kill the bugs for our bug collections. science projects. teaching children to kill. for the next thirty minutes, I tried to wrap my mind around a science project within a science project.
when I'd had enough, I realized my hands were cold. and frost bitten. how could anyone else be hot in here? I began to think they were talking in water-cooler code, but quickly dismissed the idea. it grew colder. my breath solidified in the air and crashed to the ground. by the end of the day, shattered ice scattered the floor. the mailman slipped and died. he was blue before he hit the ground. I didn't care because he didn't have any mail for me. instead, he had come in here to talk, but I did not want to listen to any of his stories because they were all the same.
in the mailman's stories, a protagonist would encounter an antagonist and an object. the object was good or bad. when they met, the antagonist was always much more powerful than the protagonist. over the course of the story, the protagonist would eat an assortment of pills, gradually becoming more powerful and more intelligent than the antagonist. they would meet between 3 and 6 times, and at their last meeting, the protagonist would cave the antagonist's skull in with the object that was good or bad. these stories always bored me, and I would tell him this. his mustache would smile, wink... then, a sucking sound. the mailman was gone until tomorrow.
now, he was dead. and it grew colder still. so cold, I wanted a sandwich. I began to rearrange the letters in "sandwich," trying to form new words. the cold became very distracting, and I gave up. fourty-five minutes passed in buzzing silence.
MEMOIR OF A.R.
March 28 2008
an assignment I once had required me to infiltrate the Bizzzzzzzong Corporation. intel had gathered strong evidence that this mega-company was working on a head teleporter, which allowed the user to teleport his or her head right onto a target's body. I giggled throughout my entire briefing, and finally asked if there was a pile of heads amassing somewhere. this seemed to irritate the mission coordinator, Mrs. Longbody, but her seriousness quickly faded and she began to laugh, too.
she further explained that yes, there is a pile of heads, their necks sliced with the greatest of precision, and though they appeared in no way cauterized, they remained unbloodied. a pile of these oddities marked a back alley on Banglor Street. local homeless minions had taken to calling it Head Pile Alley. I thought this was a terrible name, and told Mrs. Longbody as much. she apologized, but I really wondered if she was sincere. although I don't have exact numbers, I know that her paycheques are large. so much so, that most banks assume they are gag cheques, like the ones you see in those fake prize schemes. this, I thought, raised serious questions about her authenticity.
feh. the rich. with their apologies.
later, we hugged, and I embarked on my mission. the sky looked like a bruise run through the invert filter of a photo-altering computer programme. puddles of rain and synthetic oils mixed into something that smelled like the blood of a sick person. I went back inside, having decided it would be cooler to deploy by helicopter. while I waited, I ate some spicy chicken wings. by the time the helicopter arrived, I was drunk and it was time to do... whatever I'm supposed to be doing. which I did, and I did it awesomely. in fact, I won numerous secret awards for this mission, and got a really high rating.
in my office is a picture of me shaking hands with the real president, not the fake one. the real one is a ghost with cybernetic arms, which he needs in order to sign documents and wield his stamp of approval. it is one of my favourite pictures, though they used Kodak film, rather than Fuji, and it leans more toward an orange tint, while I prefer blue. that aside, it is a good picture that I like to stand around and look at when I talk to people on the phone.
BURSON MCNAB
March 27 2008
Burson McNab's squinty little eyes made other people angry. if not for his eyes, Burson might have been considered an attractive man, but now, in middle age, his face was a puckered bruise. people in general would often become so infuriated by simply looking at Burson McNab that they would punch him in the face. over the years, this has led to the accumulation of an improbable number of medical bills.
in most places, punching a man in the face is considered to be illegal, providing it is mostly unprovoked, and in the modern age, a punched man is likely to sue over being punched. through settlements alone, a punched man can take the puncher's house, shoes, tie, wife, cat, up to one child, and lawnmower, provided it is less than five years old.
people are afraid not to settle. they cannot be blamed for this- a ruling against them in court, which is practically assured, would cost them more money than they will ever own. one man refused to settle and was sentenced to be compressed into a precious stone, like a diamond but brownish-yellow. the judge presiding over the case autographed the stone, and the punched man sold it over the internet for enough money to buy his own hospital. now, he never has to pay medical bills.
Burson McNab would like to buy his own hospital, but his squinty little eyes make both judges, lawyers, and jurors angry, usually resulting in a sort of courtroom brawl, only every fist is hitting the same, single face. this is how the scene differs from an actual brawl.
on days when Burson McNab wears sunglasses, people do not recognize him, and are often curious about his puckered bruise face. when they ask him about it, Burson will smile and say it is a strange birthmark. the asker will then say "Ah," and nod thoughtfully. once Burson McNab is out of earshot, they will confess to themselves that they are jealous of his strange birthmark.
HOCKEY PUKE
March 26 2008
i shouldn't say I ate something I didn't eat. like its rude to do that or something. some. thing. like everything can just be explained away like that. a famous economist was once developing a business model for such a thing as this, but when he explained it to me, I grew bored and dizzy and fell asleep.
this was partially due to his boring equations, but also I had not eaten in... weeks, I suppose. I also had not slept. thing. my stomach had wanted to sleep, my brain to eat, but I wanted to wait until 4:00. this meant 5:00. this meant I didn't like how I felt and didn't feel like reading or like thing writing also.
every time I looked at the clock, it would tell me something I didn't want to smell. instead, I would have to listen to the babbling Brooks, though neither were named that. it was only clever water-cooler code. also. made me feel sick. eyes falling out and throwing up all over themselves. gimp clown thing frizzy haired also thing gimps by, a cloud of personality like swarming bees...
VIOLET MAN
January 05 2008
if I keep talking to myself psychically, I won't have to pay attention to the hideous violet man outside my window. I say "violet" like I know. Like I'm some sort of expert. A wild haired colourologist would tell me it is Lavender or Feldspar or whatever names we've invented to further distinguish molecules and their components.
Under these circumstances, I can't really think about anything too important because it becomes uncomfortable, but I hate to let my mind chase after the stupidest things I waste my time with. Another sharp bump. I vomit into my hands. No one noticed. It's lucky I accidentally brought a second pair.
The old ones go out the window, along with my vomit, and bounce down the highway. My foodless puke surfs the wind, some of it spattering the hideous violet man's neatly pressed tuxedo. He shoots me a disapproving look, and I know that he didn't like me before. Now, he really dislikes me. Discreetly, I equip the new hands. No one saw a thing.
TOXIC MOULD
January 04 2008
the toxic mould told its children to stay close. They were also toxic mould. This irritated their parent, the toxic mould from the first sentence. Scientists did not approve of them, but later changed their minds when they found that toxic mould added to fine cheese created a delicious snack.
TALL BLACK MAN
January 04 2008
He was the tallest black man any of us had ever seen. Towering there like the sort of shadow you don't want looming over you. His legs are like spiders. Spiders themselves, not like spider legs. What I'm saying is that his legs aren't like spider legs, but like spiders.
An old woman sixty years ago might have called him "ghastly," not only for his spider legs, but because he is a black man. Probably, though, she would want to have sex with him. Even she realizes that sex is a powerful force, and this towering, obsidian giant would probably sate a long repressed primal thirst twixt the old bitch's nethers. UGH! The very thought made the black man feel vaguely ill.