A breathing sigh of repugnance

Postcards from the End of the World
7th fit: Bad Circus Night/ section ii.
‘a breathing sigh of repugnance’

374112_10150475755354595_182892415_n“It is a dark summer evening looking much like a winter evening on acconda all the snow,” Never bending logic bespooled from Freon’s gaping maw as he conveys his distinct memoirs of the bad circus evening.

In the mind of Freon, the night is filled with dreams of lonely melons, but he is embarrassed of oedipediacal implications, and instead makes up a wild exaggerated stinky.

The inquisitors of the waffle headed pope on a rope dessed up like rats and began to cover him with Fat Elvis stamps. His faces were covered with their thick moorish saliva, frying his flesh like a big, wet cow being shoved into an electrical outlet.

“Meester Freon!” they shouted. “Tell us what we want to know!”

Freon spun the thin spools of his memory, but it had run out again. ‘Damn,’ he thinks, ‘I wish I could remember to refill that damn thing.’

“Meester Freon!” one of the inquisitor rats steps forward, whipping him with the six whips he holds in his six arms, obviously the buddhist of the group.

“Stop whipping me!” shouts Freon, “I’d tell you what you want to know, but I can’t remember. Do you have any skull filler paste?”

“Why Yes! Of course!” an especially cheery and handsome rat steps out from the crows, holding a large blue plastic bottle. “We always keep a large supply of Krompelfesterheeganman’s concentrated skull filler. For all those times you need to remember, and better than a brain enema.”

There is a whisperous tremor amongst the inquisitor rats.
“What the shit man! It’s a stinkin’ commercial!”

The rats all walk off mumbling things about lawyers and unions, leaving everybody disappointed because it was just about to get to the good part.

©Robert Emmett McWhorter

Departure

Postcards from the End of the World.
Fit 7 Bad Circus Night, part XI

‘The long glow on iron days. Your ways face the rising sun,
but in the midst of the meddle wrest, you hold on…’

ab erode

When you leave this place, think of it no longer. The windows are cracking in Autumn’s tidal heat, yellow birds of indignation, the claims we keep on our key-chains. I am here no longer, think of me not.

I would have given the right answers if I had been asked the right questions. The suffrage of your interrogations is the basis of your turmoil now. When you forget my name, the wound will already be and appendage of your paranoia. It will no longer need a name.

When you go, you will be reborn in the actions of those you affected. The permanent energy trade, the neural-communicator, flashing on the surface of a mirror reflecting itself.

They will think of you no longer, ultimately forgetting your name. But, you will be the way they walk.

Advertising Animals

374112_10150475755354595_182892415_nPostcards from the End of the World (excerpt)
Fit 2 Whereabouts, Section VII

You are standing in the sundial garden. It is dark. Presently, you look about you and find that you are enclosed by walls and a high ceiling, you are underground.

You see now a dim, distant light, probably originating in the middle of the giant, horizontal clock. Intently listening, you hear whispering. Half inaudible, silence and rustling of leather, and… something gelatinous.

You are blinded by a sudden light. When you are able to refocus your eyes, you inexplicably find yourself standing in the parking lot of a supermarket, surrounded by shopping carts and cars. You compose yourself, deciding to legitimize your visit by going in and buying something.

“I’ll beat them at their own game.” you mutter under your breath, grinning at old frozen ladies drolly rolling past you with full carts, “I needed to go shopping anyway.”

Entering through the auto-let-in Transec X-ray carbonizing smell-o-vac system, you find yourself surrounded by large, colorful species of advertisements, jumping around their metal jungle, feeding on the weak shoppers; welfare prunes and food-stampers.

These strange animals (known commonly as Andees) are the result of scanning living organisms, such as rabbits and chimpanzees, onto a computer. The mad scientists and IBM jerks mess around with the animals digitized genetics to form new and peculiar animals whose main purpose is to catch your attention at any cost and sell you their clients product, whose name is usually spelled out, along with their logo, in the animals hide.

“Oh, look at the cute monkey! What does it say on his back? Oreo’s? Oh, let’s get some!” Also, some Andees talk.

Wondering around to the pay lanes, you quickly scan the headlines of the newspapers and magazines, only one catches your eye: a news article reporting the mad escapades of several gangs of dogs who, ex-domesticated and forced to earn their own keep, have taken to breaking into humans homes and stealing food and such.

You pause, not stopping but just barely walking with your head turned to read about how some of the dogs had adapted nicely, and were working government jobs, child care occupations, and tobacco farming.

Suddenly, a small green blobby melon-shaped cat catches your eye and immediately starts toward you. You veer to the left, picking up your pace as you head for the produce section. Almost directly behind you is the feline Andee, digitally intent upon making a sale. Vegetables are much safer.

“Hey, darlin'”, the cat purrs from behind you, “C’mon baby, gimme a chance!” On the cats back you see that against its green fur is a patch of purple that reads: “Instant Death brand cigarettes” with their world famous logo; a man intently and calmly contemplating a rather phallic looking cigarette while simultaneously being stabbed, hung, drawn and quartered, guillotined, axe-murdered, drive-by’ed and biochemically annihilated. The cat light up a smoke and offers you one. You decline with silent contempt.

“Have you ever even tried Instant Death brand cigarettes?” the cat looks away and purrs lithely, blowing out sensual blue smoke rings.

“Shut your hole and get outta my face! I’m not interested,” you quicken your pace.

“Aw, come on, you fachin’ hypocrite! At least give it a try before you piss on it and condemn it to hell! That’s all I’m Asking!”

You try to get ahead of it, heading for the onions and apples. More people are being harassed by a large group of dog-like Andees, which is gathering around them, barking and dancing, trying to desperately entertain. But causing the people to freeze in fear, screaming, shitting and pissing themselves.

“Isidro!” you shout, seeing the little man wearing the stores uniform, sweeping up the produce aisle, “Get me out of here!” You see the cat still approaching, but it is becoming nervous because of the ill entertaining dogs. Isidro smiles and nods at you in utter incomprehension.

“Um, uh…¡Necesito me voy!” you say.

“Oh… ¡oh, si!” he drops his broom, still smiling, and rushes over to the lettuce display. You walk up to him and see that Isidro has uncovered a secret passageway behind the bin that hold the lettuce. You stare at him, dumbfounded, as he gestures for you to climb up into the bin.

Quickly, you climb up onto the rack, over the desolate lettuce, crushed, and set yourself down the hole, sliding.

© 1993 Robert Emmett McWhorter

Kill Your Characters

flipiconI belong to a few online writers groups, one of the newest ones I joined is a bulletin board style site, with categories for posting stories, asking for help, giving critiques, and writing advice. There is a lot of good advice there, such as keeping dialogue real, write every day, don’t waste words, never start a story with the phrase ‘it was a dark and stormy night’, etc…

Here is my contribution to the Writing Advice section:

The importance of killing off characters
————————————————————————–

I wrote my first novel between 1992 and 1995, It’s a psycho-trippy jaunt through the last days of the earth just prior to Apocalypse, and focuses on one character, Hector, and his attempts to save the world. I put him through heck in this story, I say heck because this board has a built-in censor.

During the course of some Fifty thousand words, he is shot, stabbed, electrocuted, has involuntary sex changes, an accidental lobotomy due to a misuse of power tools, a very intentional lobotomy to steal information from his brain and swap it into a body that will find good use for it, he is urinated upon by dogs, etc…

Anyway, at the end of this story, I left him alive. A mistake I am finding out now, because he is mad. Mad is not the word, but again, I refer you to the built-in censor (I like to call him Mr. Frumpy; good job on catching the profanities and replacing them with less offensive homonyms, Mr. Frumpy!).

The phone rings late at night, with no name registering on the caller id, I pick up the phone and it is Hector, the character from my novel who I tortured but failed to kill off. He swears he will exact revenge.

I walk home at night and feel as if I am being followed. Even now, as I look out my window into the pitch black of night, I can make out the shape of a dark van parked in front of my house, and can almost feel a set of fictional eyes watching as I type, and I am afraid.

©Robert Emmett McWhorter