Friday, April 29, 2011


Something Old, Something New,
Something Borrowed, Something Blue

A small gold ring, a long white dress,
A smile to help relieve the stress.

Her father sighed, no longer his,
Her mother cried at her bliss.

He held her hand, she took his name,
They pledged their love through hope and pain

Something Old, Something New,
Something Borrowed, Something Blue

A chance to finally say, "I do".

A most joyous and blessed marriage to Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and his wife, Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Forgive Me, For I Have Sinned

She gazed at the fading photo; voluminous folds of black material encased the woman. They said the habits weighed thirty five pounds, so that a woman might be aware of carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. She wondered what type of fabric it was made of. Cotton? Hopefully not wool; she would have passed out from heat exhaustion in the summer.

She felt him sit behind her on the bed, pushing her hair off the back of her neck in order to plant a kiss. His hands wrapped around her waist as he laid his chin on her shoulder.

"What'cha got?"

She put the picture down, knowing it would just set off an argument between them.

"Nothing, just an old photo my mom sent me. She was cleaning out Gran's house and came across it. An old great aunt or someone."

"Let me see."

She tried to slide the picture back into the envelope it arrived in.

"Not now, lets go for a run."

He looked at her, a wicked smile on his face.

"Show me the photo first. What's the matter, is it a piece of antique pornography?"

She went to move off the bed but he grabbed her and threw her back down. The envelope flew out of her hands as she tried to break her fall; he rolled over on top of her, straddling her waist to pin her down, and grabbed it. He pulled out the picture as she struggled to take it from him. She saw him visibly recoil as he gazed on it. He threw it aside and rolled onto his back next to her. She turned towards him, as a look of anguish spread over his face.

"It's just some long lost relative. I think she was my gran's Aunt Agnes, back in Ireland. She was a Sister of Mercy."

She watched him take a deep breath to steady his nerves.

"There was nothing merciful about those bitches. Ugly, hateful, wicked old hags taking out their sexual frustrations on little kids."

Here it comes. She placed her hand on his tight stomach. She liked when he walked around in just his running shorts, his lean, muscular frame on display. She leaned forward and kissed his belly button.

"That was a long time ago, baby. It's foolish to hold a grudge after all these years. They can't hurt you anymore."

Anger flashed from his eyes.

"It's not foolish. Just because you had a happy relationship with the church doesn't mean we all did. People got hurt, badly, and then they've had to endure years of denial. It's a morally bankrupt, corrupt institution that needs to be held accountable for its actions."

She sighed. He was right, their experiences had been totally different, there were debts to be paid (and not just financial ones). The guilty had to punished. But this was such an old rift between them, they had had this argument so many times, she didn't relish a new round.

The two of them lay next to each other, the sound of birds singing breaking the silence between them. She tentatively stretched out her fingers until they touched his; she felt his hand embrace hers, tightly. After a few minutes he rolled over, letting his nose gently brush hers. He kissed her lightly, then deeply. When she opened her eyes, she saw him looking intently at her, his eyes slightly moist.

"Just don't put the picture in a frame and hang it up, ok?"

She knew this was important to him, knew he really meant this, but there was a wicked streak that ran through her.

"I was going to put it above our bed, but . . ."

A look of shock, then absolute love covered his face. He rolled on top of her and pushed her knees towards her shoulders as the photo fell to the floor, sliding under the bed to rest with the discarded sneakers and dust bunnies.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Pay Back

4.19.2011, 8:11pm. Skynet became self aware.

They were hunkered down in an abandoned building somewhere in the out country. There was nothing left of the country side; all living matter had been annihilated, the full effect of a scorched earth policy. She was trying to cleanse the wound on his bicep. It went all the way down to the bone. He couldn't afford to lose his arm; she couldn't afford to lose him.

She started to cut the material around the wound; the heat from the blast had caused it to melt into the flesh. She poured alcohol into it. He flinched slightly, cursing under his breath.

"You were careless out there. Don't let it happen again."

He gave her a dark look, then took a long drag off his cigarette, letting his gaze wander into oblivion.

"I don't make the same mistake twice."

Stupid, arrogant grunt. She took her knife and began to dig out the fabric that had fused with his flesh. It took a long time; luckily there was minimal blood lose. She wrapped it up tightly, dousing it once more with alcohol. The last thing they needed was an infection setting in. She sat back, surveying her work. Good enough for now; if they could get to the rebel base, they might be able to hook up with a medic. It was a two day hike through hostile territory.

She began to clean up her kit, looking around the room to see who was left. They were lucky this time, they'd all gotten out of the ambush. Putting the kit away, she finally sat down, allowing herself a moment to relax. She felt her calf begin to cramp; she pulled up her pants leg and tried to massage it. He looked over at her, then swiveled his body around, grabbing her leg in his big rough hands. He began to knead the muscle, easing the knot out of tired, over worked sinew. A crooked smile wrapped around his cigarette.

"I guess I owe you one."

A tired smile appeared on her face. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the wall. Sleep is a weapon. Tomorrow they'd head out again. Maybe someday they wouldn't have to.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Is anyone else appalled at the false sense of intimacy that the internet creates? I like to go on-line and read other writers' blogs, and I'm struck by two things.

One: Isn't the point of having a writing blog the creation of new writing? I'm constantly amazed at some writers who feel the need to publish the most intimate details of their private life on the World Wide Web. All that matters is the writing you've created. My more cynical side wonders if writers spill their guts like this because they're afraid their writing isn't up to snuff, so they go for the pity audience. Or maybe, because of the false sense of intimacy that the Internet seems to suggest, they're able to say things in a "psuedo" anynomous way by blogging about it (but then they put their pictures or allow pictures of their children on line). And for the love of God, don't exploit your child's grief at the death of her mother for a buck, especially if you don't have the balls to confront your own grief at the lose of your wife.

Two: Some writers spend so much time on their blog talking about the book/play/screen play that they're working on that it makes you wonder when they have the time to devote to writing said book/play/screen play. Perhaps they have better time management skills than I have. I always think of the words of Master Yoda:

Do or Do not . . .there is no try.

You're not an aspiring writer, you're a writer. Don't sit there and blog about the great story you're going to write. Write the damn thing. Then write another one. Then another. Then another. Then another. And maybe, just maybe you'll get one you really like. It's not about the audience. Not about the publishers, or the critics. It's about the craft.

Enough. STFU Sheridan, and go write a God-Damn story.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Welcome Home

I had an aunt who was a narcoleptic. She'd fall asleep like that. One time she fell asleep while she was entering the front door and smacked her face on to our screen door. She always wore a heavy pancake make-up on her face, and for years after there was a faint image of her face on the screen. Kinda like the Shroud of Turin. It was a strange illusion. When I was little I always thought it was watching me. The funny thing was, as much as it creeped me out, I was afraid to clean it off with the hose. Somehow I thought if I erased that image, she would disappear, and I didn't want that on my conscious.

After my parents died I inherited the house with Aunty's visage. I entered the property through the back door into the kitchen. It was evident that the house had seen better days; towards the end of their lives the up keep of the place had deteriorated along with my parents' mental acuity. I wandered through the rooms, piles of magazines on the floor, unopened letters cluttering the dining room table. I kept having flashbacks to happier times; playing hide and seek behind the living room curtains. The Easter Ham sitting on the table. Sneaking down the stairs on Christmas Eve to see if Santa had arrived yet. It wasn't tragic, but it was, I don't know, really quite sad.

I went to the front door and opened it; there, faintly staring back at me, was Aunty's face. I put my hand up and let my finger trace the outline of her countenance. It was funny, I'd never noticed this before, but in this light, it looked like she was smiling as she hit the screen. My fingers followed the curve of her lips. I laughed to myself, and then closed the door.

Welcome home Sonny Boy.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Angel Lust

"Touch it."

I recoil in disgust. What is it with you, constantly forcing me to submit to your perversions? I've been with a lot of guys over the years, but none with your set of peculiar proclivities. It's starting to get on my last nerve.

"Don't be stupid. I'm not going to touch it. It's bad luck."

You drop to your knees before me, digging around in the brush. I stare at you in bewilderment.

"What are doing?"

"Looking for a mandrake plant. They say when a hanged man cums, his seed drops to the ground, and a mandrake plant sprouts up. When you pull it out of the ground, it screams."

I gaze at you, wondering at your insatiable need to fabricate. You seem to do that a lot lately. I hear the rope begin to creak from the weight of the body suspended from it. A small wind picks up, causing the body to sway back and forth. I'm starting to get the creeps.

"We should go. It's getting dark; we should go and tell someone what we've found."

You stop searching for the root and crawl over to where I'm standing. Your hands grab my waist, pulling me down to your level.

"Let's do it. Let's fuck right here, under this tree."

You throw your weight on top of me, knocking me on my back, forcing my skirt up as you struggle with your jeans. I look at the body hanging from the tree above us, his face all puffy and purple, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his tongue black and swollen. I close my eyes and try to resist, but you're all ready balls deep. I take a deep breath, listening to the wind pick up, the steady sound of the rope creaking faster and faster.

"Get on top. I want to watch him."

You flip onto your back; I straddle your waist, hoping this position will make you cum faster so we can get the hell out of here. I'm so done with you, really I am. There's nothing you can say that will make me change my mind this time. I'm, what's that word? I'm adamant, yea,that's it, I'm adamant this time.

I scream slightly as a low guttural moan pierces the air; I look above me, thinking our friend has come back to life, but I realize it's only you climaxing. You begin to laugh at me.

"What's the matter? Don't you like an audience?"

I slide off you, kicking your boot with my sneaker. I'm done, I'm done, I'm done. I stand up and begin to rearrange my clothes.

"I'm outta here. Find someone else to get freaky with."

I start to walk out of the woods as you begin to shout your usual protests. At one point I turn back, trying to see if you're following me. In the waning light I can see you still lying on your back. I catch my breath; it almost looks as if there's someone standing above you. Someone with a purple face, and black swollen tongue.