Friday Flash: Death of a Super Hero

 It all started with veins.

Shaw Martin sat in his stuffy college Calc 101 class, staring in horror at the inside of his wrist.  He traced the spidery, indigo lines that ran up his pasty arm.  Why hadn’t he noticed them before? God, they were terrifying. Well, not the veins themselves, but the thought of them. Carrying blood round and round our body, through our heart, pumping it back out. Jesus, what a chore, huh? How does the whole thing not go terribly wrong?

Terribly wrong.  Shaw suddenly felt trapped. His sandy curls grew dark with sweat. People began to glance at him as he tried, unsuccessfully,  to quietly gather his belongings and make his way to the door.

“Sorry,” he whispered to the gawkers. “So sorry.”

Four days later, he had almost gotten used to ignoring the veins when the bones started making themselves known.  He went and got his eyes checked.  Something had to be terribly wrong.

*     *    *    *

“You’ve got 20/25 vision.”

“Yeah, but I’m not seeing things right.” Shaw tried to look the doctor in the eye, but kept getting distracted by the sight of his bones.

“Blurry?”

“No. Too clear.”

Shaw watched, fascinated as the bones gripped a pen and notepad.

He left with a reference to a psychiatrist.

It rained that evening which only made the air thicker. Footsteps followed him as he trudged to Scales & Suds on campus. He could hear shoes squeak on the wet concrete right behind him but he didn’t dare turn around. Slipping inside, he pressed himself against the wall and glanced back out the door. Thankfully, they were gone.

What’s going on? He tried to think but the others were so loud, trying to talk over the music. It beat in rhythm with his pulse. Distraction.

Shaw stood at the bar waiting for his order, feeling the crush and bump of the crowd and beginning to shake. Something had to be terribly wrong.  A stiff shoulder pressed up against him. He glanced. Stared. The human body really was fascinating. Humerus. Clavical. Shaw squinted. Hmm.

 ”How’d you break your collar bone?” Shaw asked, trying to start a conversation.

The guy stared hard at Shaw. “What the fuck, man?” he finally said. “How do you know that?”

Luckily, the waitress came out and handed Shaw his Styrofoam box of greasy fried cod and fries with a smile.

“Freak,” the guy threw at him.

He thanked her and hurried back outside. It was drizzling again.

Two days later, he was still at the park, soaked and sipping cold coffee someone had left beside their car.  He had tried to go back to the little cracker box house his parents left him, but the squeaky shoes had followed him. He heard them on the kitchen linoleum and ducked out without locking the door. Why bother? They were already inside.

 Inside.

His gift. To see inside human bodies. Inside was a tree with branches and organs growing on the branches. There were two kidneys, like giant lima beans , two lungs like overgrown fish gills-filling and deflating, filling and deflating, intestines and the heart. Pump pump squish pump pump squish.

“Your heart is beautiful,” he said to a lady pushing her toddler on a swing.

The police came and he finally got to see a doctor that understood him.

“So, you have x-ray vision,” Dr. Mulligan said. She didn’t laugh. In fact, she nodded and looked very serious, a wrinkle forming between her brows, like Shaw’s mother used to do.

“Yes, exactly. I can’t see inside the skull though. Why do you think that is?”

“Shaw, let’s talk about your parents.”

“They died fourteen months ago. Both of them on Highway 65. It was an accident.”

“Yes. I know, Shaw. And that’s a very difficult thing, to lose your parents. You’ve been doing very well, though.” She flipped through her notes. “Attending college. I’m sure they would be very proud of you.”

“They wanted me to be a doctor.”

“And what do you want to do?”

“Well, I do want to help people.” He glanced at her to see if he could trust her with his secret. She nodded, her chin resting on the bones of her hand. “Okay. I want to be a super hero. I’ve wanted to be a super hero since I was nine. I’ve designed a cape and everything.”

“I see,” she said and stared at Shaw for a moment longer. “Okay then. I’m going to write you a prescription, Shaw, for a medicine called Haldol. It is very important that you take it every day.”

“Will it help me to become more of a super hero?”

“Well,” she said, seeming to weigh something and then sighed.  ”No, Shaw.  It will help you to stay in society, to be a part of it and to have a more normal life.”

  *    *    *    *     *

Did it ever stop raining in this town? Shaw came to a corner, where a homeless guy was sitting under a garbage bag, a brown cardboard mush of a sign clutched in the bones of his hand. The sky groaned and lit up.

“You all right, Kid?”

“I don’t know,” Shaw answered. “I’m not sure. I think something must be terribly wrong.”

“Ha,” he groaned like the sky. “You’re the smartest person I’ve met yet. Have a seat, Kid.”

“All right.” Shaw said, lowering himself onto the wet sidewalk. Water rushed by in the gutter, fell from the sky, cleansed the world.

 He reached a wet hand in his jacket and took the first pill.

Best of Friday Flash Volume One is here!

Now Available on Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/21851

So, what is Friday Flash, you ask?

“Friday Flash is a weekly global writing event. Writers worldwide post flash fiction, stories of 1,000 words or less, and announce them via the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter or Facebook. Friday Flash is a true community – a virtual on online writer’s colony. This collection gathers sixty-seven of the very best – from humor to horror, slice-of-life to science fiction – under one cover.”

This explains what Friday Flash is, but not what it means to the hundreds of us that have participated since its inception and the man who started it all, Jon Strother. I’ve personally participated for over a year, not as consistently as I’d like but life does tend to get in the way. Enough, though that it has made me a better writer and helped me find others along the way on the same journey. The writing life has always been an isolated one. Until projects like this come along where you spend a year with other talented, generous writers and get to see the fruits of everyone’s labor all wrapped up in a nice little volume of terrific stories.

You can read my story “Her Migration” in this anthology as well as sixty-six other fantastic stories. Don’t have time to read a novel? Grab these juicy, bite-sized bits of flash and enjoy!

Friday Flash: Alpha & Omega

Their world is white. White walls. White halls. White dressings on my damaged head and eyes. My heart still pumps blood because I can’t yet remember who I am and they think I am someone important, someone with information that they need. The foreign bed my body lays in is an enemy I have escaped. Who are they to say I haven’t?

Sometimes I hear the sucking sound of my feet in the muck, metal ripping my flesh. Sometimes I only see the heron glowing, sailing like a ghost against the blackened sky before a storm. I am learning how to make the switch, it just takes practice and I seem to have all the time in this world. It ticks away in slow motion. Tick. Tock. Eternity is my clock.

They slip into my dream with their foreign tongues, their foreign way of turning thoughts.  I smell them over the infection, the cardamom on their hot breath as they push into my burned flesh, broken English being thrown at me along with threats that ceased having meaning the day I figured out God.

I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. Courtesy of my Sunday school teacher.

I don’t remember my mother, but I do know this. The only way something can be the beginning and the end is if it’s a closed system. A circle. A bubble. God is a closed circle. I have learned how to step outside the circle. Is it hell? You tell me.

Vengeance floats like lethal smoke within the bubble.  Blood swirls like lava, spilling and spilling. Life is pumped full of hot metal, gassed, poisoned, thrown in rusty dumpsters, covered with dirt like an accidental spill. Celebrated when taken.

There is a pinch in the soft fold of my arm and I am jolted back into their world. A memory seeps in.

Hey, boy. Come ‘ere. Don’t be afraid. Hungry? That’s it. I am affectionately stroking loose fur on bone while pure hunger gobbles up my dry bread. Through the dust, I see them converge. White robes, black hands.

Muzzle against muzzle. NO! Laughter. Deafening boom. Dust and pain and the sharp stench of blood.

I don’t remember who I am but I have learned how to step outside the circle. Who are you to say I haven’t?

Fabulous Flash Award

This cool little badge of recognition was bestowed upon me by the fabulous father of #fridayflash himself, Jon Strother. (Also a great writer!) I’m not the most prolific writer in the mass of talent out there, so getting recognized for my flash is like getting smacked in the face with a yummy lemon meringue pie–surprising, sweet, decadent and oh so satisfying!

Now to spread the love. Choosing four of my favorite flash writers is like trying to pick a favorite child, but these are people that I rush to read every week, even if I have to squeeze it in between breaking up toddler fights:

Karen Schindler -  Karen’s flash is saturated with  humor and sharp wit. And she does it every single week. I am in awe of her power. Do you remember pop-rocks? That’s your brain on her flash. Crackle, sizzle, POP! Just brilliant stuff. Go read her now! Follow her: @karenfrommentor

Mark Kerstetter - Mark is not just a writer, he’s an artist. I have a soft spot for artists who can write. I always push away from the table after finishing Mark’s flash full & happy, like I’ve had a full course meal & fed my brain.  He’s excellent at taking a non-fiction piece about an artist or writer and expanding it to create a story. Follow him:  @markerstetter

Cathy Olliffe - I admire Cathy for her ability to write real, honest to god characters. She writes with freedom and understanding and possesses this gift for description that makes me feel like I’ve slipped into the story. I can smell the pie and get wet from the tears. She makes me  uncomfortable, aware and in love with these people because they are so human. Follow her: @Matthiasville

Marc Nash -  Marc is the quintessential genius writer. His insight is sometimes blinding and always rewarding. Yes, most of the time he makes you work really hard for your supper (keep your dictionary handy) but if I had to choose a last meal, I would choose his. Follow him:  @ExisleMoll

Okay, now that I’ve made myself hungry, my work here is done. But I hope you will go have a flash fiction feast with these amazing writers!

WIN AMAZON GIFT CARDS!

INDIE AUTHORS READER APPRECIATION!

Ok, so here’s the deal. During the month of July, if you purchase a copy of STRANGE NEW FEET and make a comment here (include your e-mail address!) you will be entered into the contest. It’s that simple! (You can download my book here in any format, you don’t need an e-reader): https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/16569

But, what do I win?
AN AMAZON GIFT CARD!

For how much?

Well dear reader, that depends on how many people enter! You see…
0-30 entries = one $20 amazon gift card will be randomly awarded
31-50 entries = prize increases to $40 amazon gift card
51-70 entries = prize increases to  $60 amazon gift card
71-90 entries = prize increases to  $80 amazon gift card
91+ entries   = prize increases to  $100 amazon gift card

Make sense?

Ok, but your subject title says Amazon gift cardS. As in, multiple.
Very observant. You see, there are several other authors participating in this contest, too. Buy a copy of their book and head on over to their blog to enter their contest as well for more chances to win.

So to sum it up, buy a $1.99 book and get a chance to win $100 on Amazon if enough people enter. Not a bad deal, I’d say! :-D So be sure to spread the word!
Below are all the awesome Indie authors involved:

Fantasy
Jessica Billings (YA)
      To enter – http://jessicabillings.weebly.com/JULY-CONTEST.html
      To buy – http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003F779P4/

Jason Letts (YA)
      To enter – www.powerlessbooks.com/blog
      To buy – http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003OQUOFI

J.M. Pierce (YA)
     To enter – http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=113897971961168&ref=ts
     To buy – http://www.amazon.com/dp/1451591284/

R.A. Scully
      To enter – http://www.highwizardofsilvinesh.com/
      To buy – http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003QCIQLY/

Danielle Bourdon
      To enter – http://www.daniellebourdon.com/
      To buy – http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003PPDHWA/
       Tracy Alley
       To enter – http://tinyurl.com/28zgf2f
       To buy – http://www.amazon.com/Erichs-Plea-Witchcraft-Wars-ebook/dp/B003HS4V4S

Science Fiction
Imogen Rose (YA)
      To enter – http://www.facebook.com/pages/PORTAL/243074017116
      To buy – http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0035RPGOK

Mystery
T.L. Haddix
     To enter – http://tlhaddix.com/content/
     To buy – http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003ES5S7U/
Karen Cantwell -humorous mystery
To enter:  http://fictionfordessert.blogspot.com/
  To buy- http://www.amazon.com/Monkeys-Barbara-Murder-Mystery-ebook/dp/B003SE7O40

Thriller
Mary McDonald
      To enter – http://www.mmcdonald64.blogspot.com/
      To buy – http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003PPDB8K/
 
Women’s Fiction & Romance
Donna Fasano
      To enter – http://donnafaz.pnn.com/15963-the-front-page
      To buy – http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002ZNJL78/
                   http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/9466
Claudia D. Christian-Dark Paranormal Romance
To Enter – http://claudiadchristian.com/blog/2010/06/amazon-gift-card-contest-july-1-july-31-2010/
        To Buy – http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0036B8YNA
           OR – http://www.amazon.com/Vicious-Bliss-fallen-2010-ebook/dp/B003O68EUU

General Fiction
R.J. Keller
      To enter – http://rjkeller.wordpress.com/
      To buy – http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001MTEN6K/

Kristen Tsetsi
      To enter – http://kristentsetsi.wordpress.com/
      To buy – http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002NPBSJM/
              OR http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002NGO5NC/
Humor
Dave Conifer
       To enter – http://www.facebook.com/daveconiferfanpage
       To buy – http://www.amazon.com/Snodgrass-Vacation-ebook/dp/B002U0KXR8

Contest runs from July 1st-July 31st!

#Friday Flash: Lola

(Warning: mature subject matter)

It’s not her fault. She wasn’t born with the ability to see things as they are. Her world is small and skewed, complete with a turnstile and ticket price that no one can afford, a glittery fantasy in the background. If only I hadn’t fallen for her, maybe I’d still be alive.

What? You don’t think the dead can talk? You’ll see. The world is nothing like you think. Because you’re looking through the same damn filter as her—life. Her name is Lola.

Lola was given her name by a mother who was fond of whimsy and ignorant of 20th century literature. Lola struggled from whimsy like a butterfly, all wet and sticky with new wings to try out. When she turned eighteen, she did just that. She flew. She changed her name to Ekaterina because she liked the idea of being difficult, a struggle for the tongue and mouth. I refused to call her anything but Lola but I paid for that dearly.

This is how she gained a wide berth in life. Like those hoarders who pile things around themselves; newspapers, canned peaches, fat and feral cats. She piled tragedy of her own making. She was the fire that danced within the paper, burning anyone attracted to her flame.

Where did I meet her you ask? Where do you think a girl named Lola with hips that could charm a snake would hang out? Don’t judge me. I was newly divorced. I just wanted a girl to look at me again with something other than distain. I used my full week’s paycheck that night to keep her in the private room. I don’t know what she saw in me, but she agreed to a real date that night.

Our first date happened on a rainy Wednesday, with one of those sunsets that looks like somebody drizzled hot caramel all over the sky. She was soft and pliable, legs like vices. I remember staring up at that sunset–flesh pressed in wet sand while those hips made perfect warm circles—thinking I could die right then a happy man.

I didn’t know then I would die a very, very unhappy man.

By our fifth date, Lola had another life growing inside that tan belly of hers. She said it was mine and we talked about the nursery. I could smell the lemon yellow paint she picked out for the walls, so boy or girl…our baby would wake every morning to a bright sunshiny world. A world full of light and hope and promise.

She seemed surprised when her belly grew taught over the round life. She stopped eating anything but celery sticks and lemons. Her routines grew more and more dangerous, hanging upside-down and sliding toward the ground like she wanted to crack her own skull open.

On a Saturday night at two in the morning, that’s exactly what she did. The hospital lights were so bright. The doctor’s voices, the machines. So loud. The blood, so red.

Flowers everywhere the next morning. God, the smell was suffocating, all sweet, sticky…like a funeral. Of course, it was a funeral. Our baby was dead. Jarred from Lola’s body from the impact and thrown in some hospital disposal unit.  Her tears were real, pooling in the dark crevices under her eyes. I fingered a creamy white petal from a close boquet, not knowing how to express my sadness, feeling like a stranger at my own child’s funeral.

The card was just a card, but to me it was the final blow that shattered my delusion that she would ever be mine. ‘Wishing you a speedy recovery, Katerina. Get back to us soon. Love, Giovonni.’

I plucked it from its plastic stake and tore it into tiny pieces. I stuck my face into hers; the rage, the sorrow, everything piling up and collapsing in that one moment like an avalanche of the soul. “Who are you? I loved you!” I screamed.

My own spit shining on her pale cheeks, she answered, “I never asked to be loved.”

I admit. It was a stupid thing to do. We were ten stories up and the goddamned window would have held if a psycho adrenelin rage wasn’t behind the force thrown against it. For one brief second I was free of her. The silence of pavement against brain was heaven.

Then I was back. Standing in her hospital room, attached to her with some kind of damn emotional  bungee cord.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been attached to this beautiful, tragic creature. I lost track of the nights she spent throwing herself into one hell after another, not with abandon, but with the confidence of a martyr.

She’s right. I see that now. She never asked to be loved.

Friday Flash: Day of the Dead

 

Maria Vega kneels before her husband’s grave, burning herbs in a rusted coffee can. As an offering, baskets full of his favorite food and sugarcane whiskey line his grave.

 The night air is sharp and drastically cooler, though the pungent odor of fresh marigolds still hangs heavy around her. Maria slips on a wool rebozo and pulls a blanket over her littlest one, who’s already fallen asleep on her mat. The child stirs briefly as a loud group of tourists—sloshed on tequila—stumble too close, knocking into the decorated arch over her husband’s grave. It wobbles. One slurs an apology before snickering and shushing the others.  In the flash of wide-eyed tourists’ cameras, Maria sighs and resumes her prayers. A bell rings at the entrance of the graveyard. It’s a call to the spirits. She wonders if her husband can hear them.

                                ******

Among the light of thousands of candles, three men stand behind a knot of swaying tourists and locals, watching the Dance of Old Men play out on a crude wooden stage. They are tall and lithe with pale skin that glows orange in the candle light.  

“The bells, the flora, the food…it’s all meant to lead their dead back to them?”

“It is their way of conquering death?”

“To bring the living and the dead together for a night, maybe.”

“We can help them.”

“No.” The tallest one says. “Come, we will view the fishing men in their butterfly net rituals.”

                               *******

Chickie sticks his sweaty face in front of the camera just as the flash goes off. He snorts at the tourist’s frustration. “Hey, I got a picture for you, lady!” He shoves a dirty hand between his own legs.

“Come on, Chickie, don’t ruin the fiesta!” His friends lock arms with him and drag him down the hill, through the graveyard laughing and singing loudly. Overturned candles, crushed petals and silent curses lay in their wake.

“Wait, wait…” Chickie says. “I gotta take a piss.” He sways, barely standing. The women and children around the graves look on in horror as his stream falls on one lit candle after another, extinguishing the flames with a hiss. “It’s like shootin’ ducks!” he yells to no one in particular.  He’s mumbling to himself as his friends back into the shadows and disappear.

Maria Vega is staring up at him in disbelief, pan de muerto bread in one hand and the other covering the eyes of her eldest daughter. The three tall tourists have stopped and are surveying the scene. After Maria’s youngest starts to cry, one of them slides forward and bends down next to her. He lays a large hand on the wet dirt on her husband’s grave and begins to hum.  Like some magic trick, the candles flicker back on and Maria feels a slight tremor beneath her.  Satisfied, the tourist stands and returns to his party. They begin to argue.

Suddenly, Maria Vega screams.

The bones of her husband, Raul, push through the earth. She falls back, pulling her children with her and frantically crossing herself. Fruit and bread tumble from the baskets, candy skulls are crushed beneath real skeleton feet as it steps forward and brushes the earth from its shoulders.  More screams fill the clear night air as people stumble and flee.

Chickie is standing there with his pants still unzipped and his mouth open, face to face with the inhabitant of the grave he just pissed on.  “What in the hell…”  

In the distance the ringing call to the spirits sounds. Raul Vega snaps off the middle finger of his left hand, steps forward and stabs Chickie in the eye. They both collapse in a heap.

Maria Vega faints and the last thing she sees, as her head hits the earth, is Raul’s bleached grin flickering in the candlelight.

Friday Flash: Eloise’s Secret

Eloise liked to photograph the dead. She would hide in funeral home bathrooms until they were locked up for the night. She used a Polaroid camera because she could watch the faces reappear as if she were bringing them back from the dead. Life fading in instead of out.

This particular Tuesday evening, she fell asleep waiting in the bathroom closet and things were quiet when she awoke. No last footsteps, no doors closing. Just silence. She padded down the hall, slippered feet on thin, floral carpeting. Sallow lights clinging to the paneled walls, glowed faintly. Shadows followed Eloise, sliding along the floor behind her. She moved into the first room. Oh, the sweet scent of fresh sorrow. Carnations and roses, lillies and daisies, condolences and compassion in the shape of hearts and sprays and wreaths of grief. It made her dizzy. Eloise pressed her nose into a large snow white display of Gladiolas. This is what people did when you were loved. They filled the last space they would see you in with beautiful things, fragile things that would die, too. A reminder to press up against color and scent while it remained. Or maybe they just mask the smell of decay?

Eloise ran her hand along the casket. Pine maybe or walnut. Anyway, some tree was chopped up and reshaped, separated from its own life to serve as a last container for ours. Her fingers caressed the casket lining and then she peered in.

 Only the top half of the casket was opened so she could see down to the woman’s folded hands with freshly polished nails. She wore a melon colored polyester suit and pearls, a cloud of white hair lost in the white silk lining. Her wrinkles were hardened, powdered and rouged; her lips painted coral. Eloise lifted her camera. The click and whirl of the photo being birthed interrupted the silence. She sat down on the floor, intermittently shaking the wet paper and checking it for signs of life.

The woman reappeared slowly in her hand—over-exposed from the close flash, glowing and blurred a bit, as if she had moved. Of course, Eloise knew it was only her hand that moved, but no one else knew that. In the photo, the woman was an angel taking flight. She could just see her picture now on the cover of the Statesville Times with the headline “Local Photographer Captures Soul of Dead Woman”.  Satisfied, she slipped the photo into a leather pouch around her waist, thanked her politely and moved into the next room.

This one smelled like disinfectant and damp air conditioning. Where were the flowers? The white marble casket was set up against velvet drapes, open and empty. Eloise looked around the dark room and then climbed up into the casket. Her head pressed into a tiny square pillow, the white quilting cocooning her as she placed her camera on her chest and folded her hands. It was quite comfortable. She lifted her camera, positioned it above her own face and took a picture. As she sat there shaking the photo and waiting, a series of beeps caught her attention. Someone had just turned off the security alarm. She froze. Was it morning already?

The door opened and the lights flickered on. The sound of a vacuum suddenly filled the room. Well, Eloise thought, she would just lay there until the cleaning lady moved on to the next room and then slip out. Being dead was not as peaceful as she thought it would be.

The in and out roar of the vacuum, coming closer and moving away, was a bit soothing. She began to relax, closing her eyes and holding her breath. She wondered if she could make her face as white as the lady’s in her last picture. She realized the vacuum was still running very close to her, but it was no longer moving. She opened her eyes. The cleaning lady was staring down at her and—when Eloise opened her eyes—she screamed and stumbled backwards, tripping over the vacuum and landing with a thump on her back. The plug had been pulled from the wall so they were now silent—the vacuum and the cleaning lady. Though, both the roaring and the screaming were still ringing in her ears.

Eloise climbed down carefully from the casket. She held her finger under the woman’s nose. No breath. She pressed an ear against her gray buttoned uniform. No heartbeat. The smell of outside air still clung to her skin. Eloise could almost see the sunshine in her hair. She lifted her camera and clicked. As the photo spit out, the woman suddenly gasped for air. Eloise jumped back, falling on her butt and then scrambling quickly to her feet. The woman coughed and then lay there, breathing. Just breathing, which sometimes is enough. Eloise shook the wet photo and watched it develop. She shook it harder to dry. Nothing. Just a bright white spot. Useless. She dropped it on the floor beside the woman and tiptoed out.

Two days later, she saw that photo again. It was on the front page of the Statesville Times with the headline “Maid Captures Ghost at Yates Funeral Home”.

Eloise shook her head in disbelief. “People will believe anything.”

Friday Flash: The Pigs

Michael’s assignment of monitoring and cleaning up after twelve pigs seemed easy enough.  At the end of the sixteen week program, he would receive board eligibility for the American College of Laboratory Animal Medicine.

Day 1~  Needles of rain stung his face beneath the plastic hood as he trudged through sucking red mud and entered the long white building housing the pigs. Inside, he was bathed in warm yellow light and the sickening sweet smell of fresh, damp hay. A few grunts and soft snuffing sounds greeted him as he carried fresh water to the pens.

“Ellooo, piggies,” he sang, peering through the wire fence. He dropped the water bucket on his foot, soaking the ground around him. “Je suz,” he whispered. “You are about the ugliest things I’ve ever seen.” He took a step back, shaking his head like a dog trying to get water out of his ears. Their bodies were hairless, pink and fleshy like human skin, with large bulbous growths on their oversized heads. They all stared calmly at him. “Sorry, fellas. But for the good of mankind.”

Day 13~ Time to get a blood and tissue sample from one-six. Michael had gotten used to the pigs’ strange looks, but sometimes their behavior still creeped him out. He spent the first hour or so in their pen as instructed; talking to them, petting them, cleaning and washing down their bowls and rubber toys. He decided to take the samples while they were distracted with eating. “All right,” he said, checking the tattoos on their hindquarters. “Which one of you lovelies is number one?” They glanced up from their trough, chewing and then went back to eating. “I know, you don’t understand any of this,” he rambled as he found pig one and gently inserted a needle into a stubby leg vein. “But, you have important jobs. Helping us figure out how a nasty little thing called Alzheimer’s works.” He capped the blood filled syringe and got out a scalpel and bag for the tissue sample. “Besides, better than ending up as bacon on someone’s breakfast plate.” He laughed to himself and glanced at the other pigs as if they’d get the joke.

His heart did a little flip flop and he froze. The pig on the end was staring at him, two black beady eyes meeting his gaze. Now, he’d seen animals acknowledge people, glance at them warily, but there was something so aware, so purposeful in this pig’s stare that he actually felt the hair stand up on his arms. It wasn’t until he slowly backed out of the pen and shut the gate that the pig broke eye contact and went back to eating with the others.

Day 27~  Michael discovered sow number eight–or Lucy, as he had nicknamed her–dead of a brain hemorrhage. Hay had been pushed over her body. Six of the pigs, including Cujo—the one that always stared him down—were standing around her in a circle with their heads hanging. He would have to make a note of this. Along with less rooting, they were exhibiting expanded social behavior.

Day 42~ During one restless night, when he couldn’t sleep, he decided to check on the pigs. He found them standing in a circle. Loud grunts were coming from the circle. Were they…arguing? When they noticed him in the shadows, they all stared for a moment then slowly walked away and began to root in the hay. Which would have been fine if they wouldn’t have kept glancing up at him to see if he was still watching. He decided to have a talk with the Director.

Day 43~ The Director excitedly showed him scans of three of the pigs’ neocortexes. Larger and more folds than should be there.

“Do you think this is such a good idea?” he had asked.

“Well, why not? Think of the possibilities, Michael.”

“I am.”

“Ack,” he waved his arm in frustration. “You’ve just watched too many science fiction movies. It’s not like they’re going to start talking or knitting sweaters, Michael.”

Day 44~  Michael entered the facility and was trying to get the lights to come on when something smashed into his body from behind. He felt the warmth of the heavy mass scramble off of him.  Dazed, he pushed off the ground.

 “What the hell?” he shouted, pain turning to anger as he stumbled down the aisle. “What’s going OoNnn…” FWAP! He was flat on his face after tripping over a second warm body that rushed under his feet. Turning slowly over on his back, he stifled a yelp. Cujo was barely two inches from his face, his black eyes gleaming in the dim light; hot, rancid breath choking him. Suddenly, he lunged forward and sank his sharp canine teeth into Michael’s neck.

As the warmth and shock flooded his body, Michael stared at Cujo. Drops of blood were dripping from his bottom lip and…was he smiling?

Poem in Your Pocket Day

“Little Girl”

Detached, broke free

A parachute seed

Blown away by Aros to sail

a blueberry parfait sky, clouds–

brushed, swirled, whipped;

You never did

belong to me.

 

photo credit: tibchris on Flickr