MAGIC GIRL

I will be the Magic Girl of the Peachland County Festival. For even beauty is different than magic. Only one girl can have the magic. Only one, wear the Freestone Crown, the instant after midnight.

The women will fill the stage. I will wait, until they are all on stage. And then … I will not enter. I will instead change the stage. I will replace it with another stage, a fresh stage containing me. If I can sing, like a swing in a garden; if I can then turn, so that the world itself turns, and I remain; if I can then truly turn, and the men catch their heads in their hands, all of them, then….

Then it would truly be magic.

 

 

WULLUS

A new story. A small story. About a sad kid. And a river. Read it here.

 

 

FRESH AUDIO – THE ANGEL LADY

The wonderful audiobook narrator Xe Sands has recorded a rendition of my recent flash fiction, The Angel Lady. You’ll find it over at the Going Public Project. Slip on your headphones, and listen.

 

 

THERE’S A SWAN IN MY SCROTUM

When I was younger my younger brother found a duck nest and picked out one egg. Then the mother bit him in the kneecaps and the rectum but her beak got stuck. He squeezed her out like he was shitting and some shit came out. Then he stomped on the nest and ran home with egg guts on his shoelaces.

He didn’t know what to do with the egg when he got home so he inserted it into my sleeping penis, and worked it down into my scrotum. When I woke up he told me.

Why would you do that? I asked him.

Eggs have to stay warm, he answered. My brother has autism.

I was so careful then. I had to protect my scrotum. I had to cover my scrotum whenever my brother walked by. I felt too guilty to masturbate.

Then I heard a crack one night and thought the egg had cracked. I imagined my balls rolling in egg yolk. But then I heard cheep cheep and a beak poked my scrotum. My brother climbed up the bunk ladder and said, Is it seven-thirty?

Over the next month the duckling got bigger and bigger. I couldn’t wear boxers because my balls would fall out, just my dad’s old blue gitch and my black joggers. At school I got teased but I also got more popular with gays.

The duckling grew huge fast. Its wingspan was huge. When I took a shit it bobbed in my balls on the water. It didn’t quack, it made these wacky sounds.

My mom looked online and said, Evan?

Yeah, I said.

It’s not a duck.

What is it? I asked.

A swan, she said proudly.

So I’m proud it’s a swan and not just a dumb duck. I’m proud of my swan even though it ate my nuts. I’ll never be a father, but I’ll be its father forever. It’s going to be a beautiful animal.

Life is kind of shitty, but it can be beautiful, too.

 

                                                                                                   

First published in Heavy Feather Review

ROBOTS ENTERED MY UNIT…

Alas. Read about it.

 

 

 

 

THE SOFT ROOM

Okay. One time I was wheeling down the hallway at the Rehabilitation Center, waiting for my dad to pick me up. He usually goes for coffee across the street till I’m finished my exercises.

There was an open door that’s normally closed, I went through it down another hallway that was darker. I turned once, and just before the second turn I saw one half of a long glowing window in the wall that went down almost to the floor. There was a man and woman standing in front of the window, looking through it. They seemed pretty worried and caring like parents. As I moved closer I could see more of the window, and a man in a lab coat standing beside an empty wheelchair. He was looking through the window too, and sometimes writing something on a clip-board.

This was all none of my business, but I was curious, so I went closer. The people didn’t seem to notice me. They were talking about something in quiet voices, I just wheeled up quietly behind them until I could see in the window, too.

It was a big white room. There were lights, but not much else. The walls and floor were all white foam. There was a guy, maybe ten years older than me, with a beard, on the floor. He was just rolling around on the floor groaning. All he seemed to be able to do was roll. If he came up to a wall he just kicked it or flailed against it. Then he rolled the other way.

The mother said, “I really think this will help with his rage.” Then she waited a while and said slowly, “If only he’d had this when he was younger. He really could’ve used this. Things would’ve been … so different.”

The father shook his head, but didn’t say anything. Then he said, quietly, “No. They wouldn’t've, Helen. They wouldn’t've one bit.”

Then the man with the clipboard looked at me. He was about to say something I think, but I just kept going around the corner like I had somewhere to be. Also, I felt sick to my stomach and wanted to at least get to a water fountain.

The empty wheelchair was sitting next to a door. As I passed by it I looked up. The sign on the door said “The Soft Room.”

I’ve always thought I’d be a happier kid if I’d never seen the Soft Room.

 

 

THE DROWNED WOMAN

She lay there. He came into the room.

 

“Tea?”

 

“Yes,” she said.

 

 

An empty cup sat between them.

 

He seemed to keep drinking.

 

 

“You’re staring.”

 

He leaned forward.

 

“Can you do something for me?”

 

He was solemn.

 

“Can you promise me something?”

 

She laughed.

 

She stopped laughing.

 

“You ask me. You always ask.”

 

“I’m asking again.”

 

She laughed again.

 

“Please?”

 

She ran her hand, through her damp hair.

 

“I won’t even know it’s happening. You won’t. It will happen so slowly again. Again, and again. It will happen.”

 

“Please.”

 

 

Her green dress.

 

 

She stood up. She was unsteady. Feeling her way. Making her way, to the door.

 

He seemed to keep drinking.

 

She opened the door.

 

The waves were breaking.

 

He turned his head.

 

The edge, of her green dress.

 

 

He stood up. He was unsteady.

 

He moved to the doorway. Feeling his way.

 

Then he walked out the door.

 

 

CHERRIES…

A new story about fumbling love, and the brotherhood of the Pointillists. Read it here.

 

 

THE GHOST OF A COMPUTER

One night, not too long ago, the ghost of a computer rose up from the garbage dump. When he was a real live computer, he’d had so many adventures. Perhaps, he thought, there was time for a few more.

Over the garbage, over the trees, he flew. Soon he came to a little town. He saw a restaurant, and a fire hydrant, and a – what was this? An old man? Shouting? The computer decided to investigate.

“What’s the trouble?” the ghost asked the old man.

“This,” said the man. “This is the trouble.” He held up a flat, shiny object the size of a playing card. “It’s my new computer,” he explained.

“That’s a computer?” gasped the ghost. He’d never seen one so small. “I really have gotten old,” he said to himself.

The old man continued.

“I’ve been trying to type, ‘How are you doin’, Jeremy?’ on this thing for over an hour, but the buttons are just so tiny that it looks more like ‘Jpe str upi fpom, Krtruu?’ Now how the heck is my grandson supposed to understand that, may I ask?”

“Hmmm,” said the ghost. “You have a point.” He thought for bit, then said, “I may have a solution.”

“What is it?” asked the old man, excitedly.

“Just a second,” said the ghost. “I’m processing.” He was a very old computer, so it took him a while to finish. Finally, he said, “Processing complete. My solution is this: why not send the message on me?”

“You?” The old man almost fell over.

“Of course,” said the ghost. “I may be old, true, but I have a large keyboard on which you could easily type your message.”

It was the old man’s turn to process. Finally, he said, “Well, Mr. Ghost, I guess it’s worth a try.”

So he typed out his message, and pressed SEND. A minute later, an answer popped up on the screen.

“What does it say?” asked the ghost.

“Well, let’s see,” said the old man, adjusting his glasses. “It says, ‘I’m doin’ … just … fine … Gramparoo!’” The old man chuckled. “Gramparoo! He called me Gramparoo!” And he walked away, laughing and laughing.

The ghost moved on. He flew over a church, and a baseball diamond. He flew over a parking lot. There was a woman in the parking lot. She was crying.

“Why are you crying?” he said to the lady.

“It’s my cellphone,” she sobbed. “I can’t find my cellphone.”

“There, there,” he said. “I’ll help you find it.”

“But how?”

“I have a very large monitor,” said the ghost. “If I turn it on, the light it gives off will allow us to see better in this dark parking lot.”

The woman agreed it was worth a try. She and the computer looked everywhere in the parking lot. At last they found the cellphone, in a shopping cart. The woman was so happy that she kissed the computer. His monitor glowed even brighter, after that.

The ghost moved on. It was getting very late. Perhaps, he thought, there would be time for one final adventure.

He flew over a park. A young boy was sitting on one end of a teeter totter. No one was on the other end. The boy looked very bored.

“May I be of assistance?” said the computer.

“Naa,” said the boy. “I’m grounded from my video games. There’s nothing in the universe to do besides video games.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said the ghost. He sat down on the other end of the teeter totter. And the boy, who was on the low end … rose up into the air!

“Hey, how’d you do that!” he cried. “My computer can’t do that!”

“New computers,” the ghost explained, “are far too light. However, because I’m much bigger and heavier than new computers, I can teeter totter quite adequately.”

“Awesome!” said the boy. He was actually smiling. The two teeter-tottered and laughed for a long time. But then the boy said, “Well, I’ve gotta go home now. But promise me one thing, okay?”

“Anything,” said the computer.

“Promise me … you’ll never get too old to go on adventures with me.”

“I never will,” said the computer. He didn’t even need time to process.

“You’re the best!” cried the boy. Then he ran home.

The ghost moved on. It had been a long night, full of adventures. He flew back over the park, over the parking lot, the trees. He flew back to the garbage dump, and settled down in the big pile of electronic waste.

He may have been old. But he would never be too old to go on adventures. Never.

THE WHITE CAT

The crystallized version of a familiar feline. Examine it here.