OBSERVING THE FORMALITIES

Copyright: OCT 21, 2009
Word count: 1988
You should know that there really is no excuse for this story.  I'm just getting that out there right now.  The idea for this one came after I witnessed what passed for a recent reality show. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living OR dead is purely coincidental. This is what happens to my brain when I get locked in a small room for hours on end with nothing but a keyboard and caffiene. It certainly isn't my best work, and at some point, I really need to go back through and sort it out, - but it amused me at the time and it wouldn't let my head alone until I wrote it out.


The room was small, with two chairs, a table, a time clock, two occupants, and an intercom that kept sputtering out a static-y. version of Sam Cooke's “Chain Gang” – the only song it ever played. The male occupant of the room had long learned to tune it out. The female occupant only heard herself, and she had been chattering inanely for quite sometime before she finally said something that got the distracted old man's attention.
“I'm sorry, “ he said. “I don't think I heard you correctly. What did you say you did again?”
“I said, I protest chickens. You know, Bok! Bok!”
Sisyphus simply stared at her, trying gamely and politely to not shake his head in disbelief. She was in her early twenties, blond in every conceivable sense of the word , with a voice like an excitable dolphin being ground into cement with railroad spikes. He could feel the bones of his inner ear flinch back in dismay every time she opened her vapid, effusive mouth, and had he been giving her his complete attention, his knew his whole body would have been cringing uncontrollably against the walls as well. She was above average pretty, with the requisite blue eyes and clear skin of her sort, but there was something off about the size or positioning of her nose that made her face appear out of balance, heightening the blithely out-of-focused look in her eyes. She was still pretty enough that even a dead man had to look her over, especially when she was wearing the most bizarre costume he had ever seen. Initially, it had been a gray suede catsuit that hugged her hills and valleys in a way that would make any self-respecting succubus rage like a Puritan grandmother. However, it was now an even more one-of-a-kind designer outfit – thanks in large part to the “improvements” the girl had taken upon herself to add to it. He did not know why she had chosen to affix row upon stringy row of tampons in squishy white spikes to the soft gray material. Or why she wore a double bandoleer of blown, colored eggs across both shoulders...but he knew, with a sinking, awful certainty that she would tell him, and he knew he would rather have another hundred years of his boulder crashing down onto his head and grinding his bones to dust on a daily basis than hear that particular explanation
He closed his eyes, and took three deep breaths. His trials had taught him patience, hell, his trials had literally smashed it into his head...and he had the feeling he would need every ounce he had earned: but the question was hanging in the air, and she was looking at him like an expectant puppy, and so... he was forced to ask.
“Why would you do that?”
“Oh, they're just filthy, nasty, useless things. I just can't tell you how much I just HATE useless things. It's bad enough that I'm allergic to chicken feathers, but seriously, they are just covered with bugs! They crap on their eggs. You can try to forget their bad attitudes, but they are so damned attention-seeking, and they still get so much press! I just don't get the fascination. Fried chicken, chicken cacciatore , blackened chicken...Blah! You can't walk out of your own home without being constantly bombarded with more advertisements for chicken. You can't even turn on your own radio or television without having someone try to shove this garbage down your throat. “
“Constantly bombarded...” mused Sisyphus, who was pretending to be reviewing his notes, but had really just noticed that two of his knuckles were sparkling. He absently brushed off the specks of quartz dust, and continued the expected conversation – in a tone miraculously devoid of any irony. “I can understand how that might be uncomfortable. For you.” He paused again, shuffling his notes.
“And when you are not, ah, protesting all things Chicken, what was your profession?”
“Profession?” she asked blankly? “Look, I don't know what you've heard, but any money I got was overboard and all that. For appearances.”
“I think you may mean 'above-board'. “ he answered calmly, thinking that had never missed every single ton of his boulder so much.”I was speaking of your career, your, ah, former jobs. Your work?”
And here, she laughed at him...it sounded the way tinfoil on molars felt.
“Oh, honey. I don't work. I told you. I appear. I get paid for showing up.”
“Ah.” he responded with another shuffle of his papers, ignoring the part of his mind that had was pointedly registering the fact that the groin seam on her cat-suit appeared to pull in all the way up to her nostrils. “Is that steady work?”
“Eh, so-so.” she answered. “Usually, Lenni – That's Lenni with an “I”, ya know-- my hubby-boy sets it up. On a slow week, we pretend we're fighting and leak it to the press. Sometimes, I buy him a hat – I got him this fabulous sombrero just last week -- and then we call the paps, and let them dish on it. It's a good gig, except for the week that they reported that I had crabs.” She sighed.” But right now, I'm really working my creative outlet --”
And here, Sisyphus's brain chimed in, “Is that what you're calling it now?” He kept his gaze fixed on the papers, forcing his face to remain a mask of interested politeness.
“-- and I've taken up singing.”
“Oh? Have you been singing long?” His voice broke slightly on the word, “long”, but she bubbled on without noticing.
“Hell, no! I had never sung a note before Lenni began producing my album two months ago. He says I'm a natural.” And even though Sisyphus had been given fair warning, and even as the question “a natural-WHAT?!” exploded across his cerebral cortex, she proceed to show him the full extent of her vocal abilities. Sisyphus only barely managed to keep his sanity by concentrating on the familiar memory of his boulder as it crushed his ribs into bone shrapnel that ripped splinters of raw agony through his internal organs. Somewhere, in the very depths of hell, demons paused in their work of torturing the damned, and as one, the creatures of Hell observed an awed moment of silence to the creature making that horrific and ungodly noise, for they knew they were truly in the presence of a Master.
She was convulsing so violently before his eyes, that he feared/hoped that she would just rip herself to shreds right there. Her body thrashed about as though each part was a separate, brainless entity – she could have been dismembered octopus tentacles undergoing electrocution – as she rubbed and sighed and wailed on the chair, on the walls, on him. Gradually, it dawned on him that what he had taken for a grand mal seizure of some kind was actually her attempt at evocative dancing...just as it gradually dawned on him that no matter which direction the rest of her body splattered into, her size 44D breasts NEVER moved an inch. For one horrible, horrible moment, Sisyphus panicked. He couldn't stop himself from thinking that the centuries of pain he had gone through before had only been a warm-up for the real punishment he was about to receive – but as suddenly as she had begun, she stopped, and with a few last jiggles and sloshes, the rest of her flesh settled back into a resting state underneath the sleek skin of the catsuit.
“Plus, the damn things never seem to get that they are supposed to be dead.” she gurgled. Sisyphus felt his back teeth twinge violently at her sugary tone, noting that somehow they were back on the topic of Chicken Protestation. As a protective defense, his brain began throwing him random non sequiturs – one of which was that an ostrich's brain was actually substantially smaller than an ostrich's eyeball...and he began to wonder about the size of her brain in comparison to the size of her eyes. With great effort, he pulled himself back to the task at hand. He glanced at the cheap clock ticking quietly on the wall, and felt an unfamiliar expression on his face...There it was again...the barest, most minute, most fleeting, shred of a hint of a shadow of an actual smile. As the seconds ticked away, he looked again at his papers...and then at the young woman in front of him.
“And what would you say is your favorite kind of music?” he redirected gently. His tone was nonchalant, but there was something about his eyes that would have made a more perceptive person vaguely uneasy. She just exuded a more-pronounced sense of barely restrained bounce.
“Hmm? Oh. I sing Pop...but really, I'm huge into Rock N' Roll. I mean I've been backstage at concerts that could just make your eyes pop right out of your head.”
Sisyphus grinned. He actually grinned. It had been so long since he had grinned, that it was a strange experience for him. He felt it akin to attaching a live eel to his face with Velcro, and it took several minutes for his facial muscles to remember the proper movements.
“Rock and roll? That seems remarkably appropriate. Yes, I think you'll be perfect for this position.”
“So then I'm hired?!” She squealed, bouncing her jiggling self up and down in delight – again, his brain noted that her sizable torso remained adamantly in place, with barely so much as a bob of assent. Out of the corner of his eye, Sisyphus noted the clock's second hand click firmly onto the black number twelve. He straightened, and for the first time in centuries, he held his head upright and looked a person firmly in the eye.
“Oh, yes.” He affirmed, gathering up his papers., and walked over to the time clock “This interview was simply a formality.”
“Oh, Lenni will be so proud! When do I start?”
“Oh, the job starts immediately. Just punch in your time card, and step through that door.”
“Punch a time card? “ Her eyes glazed over in confusion.”But, but, we haven't even talked about my fee yet. My Lenni is very insistent that I get proper compensation for my efforts.”
“You have my word that once you punch your card and open that door, you will get absolutely everything you could possibly deserve, and more.”
Her eyes widened as her body of its own accord stood up and walked to the wall beside the innocuous brown door. A moue of discontent marred her features as her hand reached out simultaneously with his, as they each picked up a thin piece of cardboard, and punched the cards into the clock. Sisyphus sighed, and a complete change came over his demeanor. He seemed taller. More relaxed.
The door opened, and her body took her inside. As it closed, Sisyphus calmly placed his sheaf of papers on the table, tidied them up, and then walked to the other door. Behind him, he could hear an ominous rumbling. In his head he ticked off the boulder's movements...here, it would hit a small crag and change direction...there, it would almost roll off the side of the cliff – but, NO! There it eddied around a bush...scattering pebbles in its wake...and now it would come, a maddened bull, all smash and noise....the first slow crush becoming a fast-moving brawl as it joyfully ground its victim into microscopic elements. A three minute pause for the reassembling process...and then the rumble began again... he shut the door behind him, muffling her choking screams. He couldn't help but note that her squawks and shrieks sounded like that vocal gyrations of agitated chickens.
“Rock and roll.” He mused, straightening his tie. “I think I'm finally starting to appreciate the gods' sense of humor.”

Bun In The Oven

A Bun In the Oven
Copyright OCT 6, 2009
Word count: 659
Now, settle down everyone, this isn't what you think. This story came about because of a w.g. challenge, namely to make a spooky story using elements that weren't actually scary. Um, I believe some "Thanks" should go to a BBC documentary, for dwelling on a subject that just messed with my head for weeks after. A certain amount of thanks should also go to my son's doppleganger, for getting me started. This is my first official attempt at Flash Fiction.



As usual, The timer went off just as the phone rang.


Liz-Beth sighed, and reached for the timer with her left hand and the phone with her right. Izzy dashed through the kitchen wearing Liz-Beth's best heels and favorite dress, and her brother, Bo, charged after his three-year old sister, whooping and leaping like an old-movie Indian --his spiky hair held back with a feathered headband --waving his neon T-Rex and a toy hatchet behind her screaming curls.


Liz-Beth did a quick spin-step around her brood, and laughed into the phone. "...Oh my God, I know -- Izzy! Get out of my dress...I'm wearing it when Daddy and I go out to dinner tonight. Yes, yes, I know... Kids. Can't live with 'em...can't send them to Abu Dhabi." With practiced ease, she arranged the infant's arms and legs on the cookie sheet, head in the center... but as usual, she had to wipe her hands off on a towel after she arranged the little boy's head. She never could keep that stuff off of her fingers, and it was so damned sticky. She realized after the fact that she had stained one of her best dishtowels. It just never failed.


She opened the oven door, and gently placed the cookie sheet in, checking that the oven temperature was at an even 265. Then, still wiping at her hands, she leaned against the island and nudged the oven door shut with her shoe...As an afterthought, she leaned over and flicked on the stove light so that she could keep an eye on things, and set the timer again. A soft orange glow covered the body parts, and she was particularly fascinated by the angelic glow around the little one's face. She couldn't help it, she started humming, and then she actually started singing.
“Well you must have been a beautiful baby...you must have been a beautiful boy...---Hmm? What? Oh, sorry, Mags...just a lot going on right now...He did? No. I don't believe it. That doesn't sound like Barry at all.”


Shoulder to phone, Liz-Beth made her way to her table, and pondered an assortment of ice-pick like devices, short, stubby handles, with nails of various sizes wedged into them. She tested one with her finger...admired its heft for a moment, and then selected a longer, thinner version of the same tool.


The timer went off again, startling her...and the reverberations of her children's' howls echoed down from the second floor.

“Oh, hold up a sec., Mags...You kids better knock it off. If I have to come up there, SoHelpMe – No, Bo, I don't care if you captured her fair and square. There are rules in this house, Hiawatha, and one of the big ones is that we simply do not scalp our little sisters! --Mags, seriously, you want some kids? Have I got a deal for you...one matched set, cheap! Bo! Leave her alone....if you two play nice for a few more minutes, I'll come up and read that new Hansel and Gretel book Nana got you.”


She grabbed her oven mitts and carefully, oh-so-carefully, removed the cookie sheet from the oven, then she gently placed the infant parts on a baking rack to cool.


“You're not even medium-rare, are you, little guy.” She mused. “Mags, I'm so excited....yes...I just finished baking my second one...he looks so sweet and innocent, even in this state...I swear I could just eat him up right now.” She shifted the phone to her other ear, and began rearranging the paints on the table, holding a skin-tone up for further consideration. “Ya know...when I first got into “re-borning”, I thought it was the silliest thing I'd ever heard of, but who knew you could make so much just re-sculpting and repainting dolls? If I can sell six more of these little cuties, we are totally going to the Bahamas!”

The Barn

The Barn
Copyright AUG 2009
Word count: 882
This came from a challenge: We were supposed to describe a barn through the eyes of a man who had lost his son in "the war"...We were to try NOT to mention the son, the war, and if we could avoid it, we needed to avoid mentioning the man. While I had trouble adhering to the rules of the challenge, I still liked what came of it. This story is fiction, but the place was real. Any similarities to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.


The farmhouse smelled of pancakes, bacon, and the low musk of eggs and butter in the morning. Each room carried the lingering odor of furniture polish and old, dark wood. And the sounds of muffled sobs.

He knocked softly on the door again, calling her name, but the door remained shut to him. His feet creaked along the floor boards, head down, mind-blind, his thumb felt for another latch and he stepped out into the dawning air, his breakfast offering untouched. The clouds, not content to relinquish the cold earth yet, curled about him, brushing cold fingers along his coatless neck. The thick treads of his work shoes crunched through the twigs and drying leaves left from the last night's storm.

He felt, somehow, that things should at least have the courtesy to look differently, but the farm was still much as he had left it the night before. The little farm house looked neat and crisp, the black-eyed Susans – the last of the season- swayed gently among the delicate swarms of baby's breath in Esther's garden. Colors of white, yellow, purple and brown waved gently at him. In the calmness of the waking day, he could hear the low grrrrrUP! of the bullfrogs taunting their rivals among the cattails. Sparrows and chickadees hopped about, brazen and fat from Esther's sunflower seeds. A cardinal flitted through the branches of an old pine – a glint of red in the corner of his eye.

The shape of the barn surfaced in the fog...an ancient gray whale in clouded seas.

Out of habit, he opened the barn door – with a movement that was a combination of a heave and a push. It succumbed to his efforts with a wheezing groan of aching wood, and he moved from the bright perfection of Esther's world and into the soft charcoal of his own. The interior of the barn smelled of oats and warm hay, oil, iron, and dust. Light shifted in angles from the cracks between the boards, catching motes by surprise mid-dance. Mourning doves rustled in the eaves, and there was the occasional dark streak from the corners as a rat or mouse dashed from one pile of straw to the next.

Little Fella, the crotchety sixteen-year-old pony, whickered impatiently, and stomped in his stall. Without a word, he went over and removed the wooden beam from the end of the stall. Little Fella backed out, and then walked in arthritic clomps to the rear doors of the barn, where he snorted disdainfully and nudged at the door, jerking his head up and down to make his point. The man made his way to the pony's side with no particular haste, shifted the latch, and patted Little Fella's hindquarters to send him out into the back pasture. He felt in his pocket for a crumple pack of cigarettes, and as he pulled it out, a piece of paper fell from his pocket and landed on the floor in front of him. He froze, eyes locked onto the folded creases...the dark shadows of neat type bled through the creamy white...and even upside down and backwards...he could still read the words...those awful...unbelievable words.

He had never backed down from anything in his life, but he backed away from that letter...never moving his gaze from it. He turned, eyes unseeing, brushing against an item in the second stall...knocking a dusty child's saddle off of a sawhorse. It fell to the boards with a startling loudness that echoed through the barn, and disturbed the cooing doves in the rafters. Somehow, his feet found their way to the stairs. He climbed up in slow, measured steps, and each board creaked and gasped more warnings than the last.

Though most of the second story flooring was weak, questionable, or gone altogether, one could still cross via a few well-placed beams. He was on the far side in minutes...oddly enough, positioned just above the offending paper, sitting on an empty orange crate in front of a nearly forgotten box of family artifacts.

Something gleamed dully near the bottom of the box, and he reached for it numbly. His hand came out covered in dust and cobwebs, and clutching a solid bronze figure.

The weight of the six-inch figure felt good in his hand...it felt right. The figure had once been part of a trophy...a small child holding a bat in mid-swing....The detail on the figure was stunning – the expression was open, excited, grinning and filled with pride. He remembered the day that trophy had come home...remembered...how happy...that day had been.

As he held the figure, he noticed that time and exposure had left a green-black patina He scratched at it with a thumbnail, but it wouldn't come off. He tried harder, with increasing desperation...in his eyes, the patina mark seemed to grow...until he couldn't see the smiling boy's face, only the damage that had been done to it.

A low moan left his mouth, as he held the tarnished piece of brass to his chest. The moan continued, louder and louder.

Below him, a folded piece of paper skittered gently along the floor, dancing in the soft morning air.