Michele Archives

July 3, 2005

Michele: Blood Red Summer

Scratch scratch scratch.

She clawed at the wall, mindlessly engraving lines in its worn surface.

Blood caked on her fingertips like crusted paint. She thought of spilled ketchup and food coloring and all the other things she thought the mess on the kitchen floor was before she remembered - it was her mother’s blood, all sticky and gummy and staining her sneakers; it was her mother laying there, scratching her fingers against the kitchen wall, trying to pull herself up.

She imitated her mother’s movements, right down to the death twitch at the end. Then she started again.

Scratch scratch scratch.

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July 4, 2005

Michele: Gone on the Fourth of July

It was the during the annual Fourth of July Golf Tournament when Todd went nuts. They say it was inevitable, but I guess the kicker was when the old man made Todd dress up like that for the holiday.

You should have seen him, clopping down the street in his stilts, yelling “I got your golf balls right here, buddy!”

They chased him in golf carts, a convoy of caddies and councilmen shaking their clubs and swearing vengeance on poor Todd.

He kept running and clopping even when the carts stopped chasing. We never saw him again.

Maybe you have?

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July 5, 2005

Michele: The Gods Must Be Crazy

[First, I apologize for today's craptastic theme]

The gods were bored. War, riots...they’d seen it all, a million times. They wanted something fresh, new, exciting.

“Nothing says chaos like changing rules mid-stream,” offered Zeus.
“You mean like adding a commandment?” Mohammed, always mischievous, said.

“Well, sort of. But with more impact. We’ve got to be able to see results right away....Oh, SNAP!” He smiled devishly. “Let’s make the Seven Deadly Sins actually deadly! Immediate death. No more long term ramifications.”

Shouts of “Hell yes” “Woohoo!” and “Amen” followed. Zeus banged the gavel, put the law into order, and turned the World Monitor dial to Los Angeles.

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July 6, 2005

Michele: Speak of the Devil

I’m a traveling salesman. Sort of. See, I don’t sell steaks or encyclopedias. I sell salvation.

Yea, I’m one of them. I knock on your door on a Saturday morning. My suit, tie and fixed smile all say “I’m here for your soul.” You appear startled. Must be the tail.

If you try to slam the door on me, I wedge my foot in there and say “Watch this!” I whip out my dick and piss on your bushes, which disintegrate on the spot.

That trick is my boss’s idea. That, and the business card that says: Go to Hell!

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July 8, 2005

Michele: Lullabies to Paralyze

They’re experiments; hybrid infants born of man, animal, insects. Like those children’s puzzles where you move pieces around to create weird animals - an alligator with a chicken’s legs and a bumblebee’s body. That’s what these “children” were.

They look like real babies. We thought we bred superkids, children who look normal but have a bull’s strength or a fly’s vision. Useful children, for a change.

Alas, they were born with poison stingers in their fingers. One little bastard stung me.

Another wasted batch destined for the brain-scramblers and meaningless lives as drones.

Almost feel sorry for the little buggers.

Almost.

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July 9, 2005

Michele: I Am Doll Parts

Grace’s father’s last act before he was shot full of holes by a SWAT team was to lay the motel key down on the ground. That’s how they found her, curled up in a dirty blanket , holding the weeks old "Missing" poster of her mother, and screaming “Daliwali, Daliwaliiiii!!”

The chief found the doll under the bed. It was swathed in the remnants of a wedding gown, and its face seemed almost familiar. His stomach flipped and lurched as he glanced at the poster in the kid’s hands.

No wonder she loved that daliwali. It had her mother's eyes.

Literally.

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July 10, 2005

Michele: Catcher Faerie

My name is Pretat and I am a catcher faerie.

Every few months a faerie - most often a child - will escape through the portal. Child faeries are naturally curious and it’s understandable why they go. Who doesn’t want to see how humans live and work and play?

But we must not mingle. It is dangerous to try to mix among the humans. They are unpredictable and prone to violence and things of that nature. So it is my job to go through the portal and fetch the foolish ones.

Sometimes the job is easy. Sometimes, I must take drastic measures.

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July 11, 2005

Michele: I Called Her Baby When I Smacked Her Ass

I wake up. Sun’s stabbing my eyes, roasting my shoulders. My boxers are wet and clinging to me. My hands are tied and, no...wait, I’m hog-tied. A red Sharpie-d “A” decorates my bare chest.

There’s a sprinkler head jamming into my back and the grass itches and...a golf course! Why am I tied up on a golf course?

My watch alarm beeps. 6am. Last night comes back in flashes.

Oh Jesushchristonapogostick. Today’s the 12th. Company golf tournament. I hear golf carts, our cackling receptionist, headed for the hole I’m currently occupying.

Never fuck your boss’s wife, kids. Trust me.

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July 12, 2005

Michele: The View From Here

The chamber was high and wide, with glass above and below, both giving view to lives they no longer touched. The walls were thick steel and their words, even when whispered, echoed.

The bearded man pointed through the stars. “My wife is drinking my Port. It’s funny, I can’t remember much about her, but I remember the taste of wine as if it were on my tongue.”

“I played the violin. When I was first here, I could still hear the strains of music in my head. No more.”

“So the wine will be gone soon.”

“Like your wife, yes.”

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July 13, 2005

Michele: Frayed Ends of Sanity

The questions served to be little fingers untying a rope. Each answer untied a knot, each elaboration revealed worn and frayed spots where the rope had been strained and pulled.

Fourteen half-hour sessions at two hundred dollars a pop, and I got rope metaphors.

Every Tuesday: ropes, knots, frays, loose ends. Live it, he said. Be the rope.

So I untied the knots, the unraveling an exhausting lesson in self-discovery I wasn’t prepared to learn.

In the end, the rope was thousands of metaphorical feet long.

Let’s finish it off.

My note just says “long enough to hang myself with.”

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