Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Rooks


            I read in a magazine once that a person’s residence is a reflection of their inner being.  Aside from wondering how that applies to kidnap victims in illogically tall towers made of stone, I often wonder what my home says about me.  My home is much like those of Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty, and other such fairy tale victims, but I chose to be here.   The high walls, the bleak stone, the thick doors, the single spiral staircase in the whole damn place, I love it here!  But what does that say about me?  That I hate the outside world?  That I need to shut them out?  I wouldn’t say that.  I enjoy reading about the goings on of the world via various newspapers as I drink my morning ale beside my fire (I love fireplaces, too).
            If I had to really dig down and analyze why I like living in this tower, it would have to be the power of it.  Nothing will knock this place down; I can always live here.  When I go up to the roof, for lack of a better term, I feel like Simba at the beginning of Lion King, imagining that I am in charge of everything I survey.  It’s exhilarating! Now, in truth, I know I don’t own anything, but it’s nice to get an imaginary power trip every now and then.  It just makes my day all shiny and warm.  It even moves!  I couldn’t really explain the logic or mechanisms by which the tower moves, but it most certainly does!  It’s the damnedest thing!  Every once in a while, I move my tower to a different county.  I love to see the look on my new neighbors’ faces when they discover that a massive cylinder of stone masonry has appeared beside their humble abode overnight.
            Now, with that in mind, imagine my consternation when I heard a knock on the door, only to find a peasant with pizza and poorly concealed pistol at the portal to my tower.  He dared attack me?  These xenophobes were all the same: uneducated, hideously simple, and, I figured this out as I slit his throat with a dagger with the most exquisite garnet on the hilt, terribly susceptible to knife wounds.  I got the knife many years ago, I forgot exactly where now, but the garnet matches the blood that spills across the blade so perfectly, it’s as if it were meant for this very purpose.  The problem with this little hobby of mine, by that I mean killing the human detritus that happens upon me, is that I have to move quite frequently to keep authorities off my back.  Wouldn’t want some rabid bitch of a queen to come roaring up my ass, would I? And I can’t seem to quite quit killing these poor bastards, so I must keep on the move.  I wasn’t entirely honest about my motives of moving, when I told you before. 
            I’m afraid some people in the world just don’t understand the art I am trying to accomplish here.  I pity them as I sweep their foundation out from under them.

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Donut Shoppe


            Selena rubbed her eyes, leaned back in the old, squeaky chair that her boss still hadn’t put in a replacement for, and yawned. “Come on, just one more half hour and I’m out of here. “ She said to herself.  Night-shift shift security at a bank really wasn’t what Selena had wanted to do as a child, but it paid the bills and she didn’t need a fancy degree to get the job.  Still, she wished that she could find something that didn’t include watching 7 screens that only gave her insight into how many raccoons lived in the area.  The dullness of the work was numbing.  Her boss bitched more than she did, and he didn’t even have to worry about his chair being a fragile antiquated thing that had trouble even supporting itself sometimes.
            One of the screens blinked for a split second, calling Serena’s attention to it.   Her head piqued with a mix between curiosity and annoyance, she focused on screen 5 and kept an eye on it for a minute.
            Nothing happened.  She rewound the video 4 minutes, as the books called for, and watched again.  Maybe she was imagining things, she thought.  The screen went blank for less than a second at the same time it had before.  As she inspected it closer, she noticed that the clock had advanced 13 minutes in that split second.  To make sure it wasn’t just a system malfunction, she checked the time stamps on all of the other current feeds.  Screen 5 was the only one with an incorrect time, and it remained 13 minutes ahead of the others.  She leaned back in the chair again.  The chair squealed like a dyeing poodle, and she jumped back up to the edge of the seat.  Not a moment after that, there was a knock on the office door.
            “Who is it?” Selena called. She checked the time again. Still 27 minutes left on her shift. Arlen didn’t usually show up early to his shift, he was too busy drinking most of the time.
            “It’s Arlen. Open up, I’ve got donuts!”
            Selena opened up the door, letting Arlen in.  “What brings you in early this time?”
            “Eh, I was bored. The donut shop was open, and I thought you could use some. You’ve stayed here too long, you know.” He said with a grin.  There was something about it Selena thought was slightly wolfish tonight. She couldn’t really be sure, though. It was only a hint.
            “I’m sorry, what?”
            “You’ve been here too long. Relax, I’ve got it.”  Still, that grin.  Something was different about it.
            “I only have about 20 minutes left in my shift, I can finish i-“ Before Selena could finish her sentence, Arlen exploded, taking the entire office with him. 
            A few seconds later, a raccoon crawled atop the smoking remains of the security office, softly chuckling to itself.  It pressed a button on what remained of screen 5, and beamed the ‘ok’ signal to its brethren in orbit.  Then, it fashioned a chair out of ceiling tiles and muttered to itself, “I told her she had been there too long. Did she listen, noooo.”

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

You've Stayed Too Long


            “You’ve stayed too long.”
            “What?”
            “I said you’ve stayed too long. Get the hell out of here!”
            Realizing what the security guard said, Randy turned around and walked out of the Petsmart with his head hung in dejected silence. How could this have gone so wrong, he wondered to himself, passing by the cash registers.
            Suddenly, his pants flew about his head.
            “Take your pants with you, asshole. We don’t need them here.”
            “Oh. Thanks. I guess I forgot about those.” Randy half mumbled to himself as well as the guard. Truth was, he had never really liked wearing pants. They had made him feel enfettered by society, and that always got him down. He sighed, and slowly slipped his pants back as the automatic doors opened and closed in front of him, as if they had forgotten him as he had forgotten his pants. He looked at the dogs that passed by and looked at him. They didn’t judge him like the people they came in with did. They seemed as frightened of this place as he was of his proctologist. That thought made Randy shiver a bit, but he continued buckling his pants, anyway.
            “I just really like the vitamins here.” He told one of the cashiers. Her name was Lisa, judging by the nametag on her shirt. “You understand, don’t you, Lisa?”
            “Those vitamins are nice, yes, if you’re a chameleon. I don’t think they work so well for us. Have you tried doing this sort of thing at, I don’t know… GNC?”
            “You know, I just might give that a try. Thank you!” She was surprisingly helpful, Randy thought as he walked out of the store. This new idea might just work. Hopefully he would avoid jail the next time, too.