The Moose in the Closet

What the what?

2009-11-24T09:14:00.003-05:00

You may have noticed a lack of updates here. That's because I've been blogging pretty consistently over at: http://thebombbag.tumblr.com/

But I'm active. I have a fantasy story I'm working on with Scott White and I'm working on a romance story, as well, for another anthology. I've also had some reviews posted at The Writer's Center's website recently for This Side of Jordan and The Red Monkey Double Happiness Book.

I think I may try to consolidate this blog and my tumblr blog, or maybe start writing some of my longer pieces here and sending them to tumblr as links. But I figured an update was in order so, updated!

The Wedding Comic on Pop Candy

2009-08-27T13:53:00.001-05:00

I guest blogged over on Pop Candy while our beloved matriarch takes a vacation. Go check it!

I had four jobs for our June 6 wedding: 1) Book a school bus to take guests from the hotel to the wedding site; 2) Pick out the booze; 3) Take the lead on all of the paper craft items (save the dates, invitations, etc); and 4) Purchase party favors.

The first two tasks were easy. The third was quick and fun -- I designed all of the mailings and the autograph book, got Robin to approve them, and sent them out to printers I've worked with in the past.

The fourth task, however ... what does one give for a favor? No offense, but weddings where the guests go home with a Hummel figurine knock-off filled with candy or a wine stopper etched with the bride and grooms names are, you know, a bit tired. That type of favor wasn't fitting for a wedding that had www.theawesomewedding.com as its website. There was only one favor for such a wedding, and that was a commemorative wedding comic.

Read the rest here.

The Drunken Wine Critic #6

2009-08-25T09:49:00.001-05:00

People always ask me to make a new one so here you go. Now pass it around so I'm encouraged to make #7.

Update

2009-08-11T20:58:00.001-05:00

Haven't posted here in a month. Long and short of it - I'm about 25k words into a novel that kind of snuck up on me, I'm editing a comic written by Patrick Sheane Duncan, and I have a couple of smaller writing gigs lining up nicely.

So, I've been busy. How've you been?

Goddamn Kids

2009-07-02T12:59:00.003-05:00

I started a tumblr blog because I have soooooo much free time on my hands.

Obama Drama on eat!drink!snack!

2009-07-01T09:21:00.001-05:00

Here's a piece I wrote for eat!drink!snack! about the one thing I can't stand when it comes to President Obama.

when my wife called last week to tell me that the presidential entourage was staging a block from our apartment my first response was, "please don’t tell me he’s eating at pho 75. i don’t want to imagine my life without some eye-of-round and brisket pho." my response would have been different five months ago. i would have dropped whatever i was doing and headed home as fast as possible for a mere glimpse of the man who’s nothing short of a hero to me. but that was when obama’s movements about the district were exciting and didn’t necessarily infer that one of my favorite eateries was about to be bogged down by a weird brand of people who chose their restaurants based solely on whether or not the president decided to stop there for a power lunch.

Flashing #59: Microfiction

2009-06-30T19:34:00.002-05:00

Taking a stab at 6-word fiction. Hemingway's was better but, you know...I'm not Hemingway.

More flashing at the main page.

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Ambulance by retirement community. No-one's rushing.

What's going on with Flashing

2009-06-29T00:59:00.003-05:00

As you can see I stalled on #58 which, unfortunately, was porno. I'm working on some paying gigs now and trying to get some additional paying gigs so, for the moment, this free-to-the-world stuff will be a bit slower.

They'll still be coming, but the Monday-Friday thing isn't my #1 priority at the moment. Unless someone wants to pay me for this, of course.

Flashing #58 - Erotica

2009-06-24T23:58:00.001-05:00

I was going to call this “Post-Atomic Erotica” but realized that’s the most pretentious thing I can ever call anything. This story is inspired by The Postal Service’s “We Will Become Silhouettes,” the most beautiful song ever written about dying in a nuclear holocaust. I wanted to capture that songs sense of beauty and life and move it into an erotic story. So this is the result – short and to the point.

More Flashing at the main page.

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There’s a calm about her thighs. He finds it out of place as he moves his finger from her neck down to her knees, finding goose flesh and shivers over every inch of her body except for her thighs. They’re smooth and relaxed, accepting, comforted. As the rain cracks and the sky burns red her thighs remain at peace with the air, the grass, the poison, his hand. Her breath picks up, her chest heaves, her heart pounds, her lips quiver, her eyes tear, her skin burns, but her thighs – they’re in a different world.

He turns her towards him and whispers, “It’s time.” Her eyes are wide and her face is red and her hands are clenched and some of her organs are as cooked and painful as her charring skin but her thighs open gracefully. He comes on top of her and wastes no time, his cock slides smoothly into her pussy, moist with heat and rain and a wetness never meant for this but fitting for the moment.

With each thrust of his cock she bites her lip, drawing blood, the flesh is weak. He kisses her and sucks the rapidly dividing cells from her mouth. As their faces lock his hands move to her breasts. He pinches her nipple and the feel as if they’re giving way – as if they’re melting into his fingers. He moves his other hand to her ass, covered with rain and soil, and it once again feels as if he’s pushing through her. It’s happening in their legs, as well, and their stomachs and their chests and their lips. Everything’s losing boundaries, merging together, combining to form a solitary mass of energy and dying skin.

His cock thrusts deeper and faster. She wants to scream but their lips are now inseparable. He pries his hand from her tits and moves it to her hair, pulling her head back to expose her neck, his other hand reaching up to caress it and do the job his lips can’t do. She twists as he moves his searing fingers across her most erogenous area and he twists with her. There’s no longer movement without both of them moving – their bodies are no longer separate. She cums and snaps her head forward, leaving his hand with a clump of hair and scalp, he moves it to her cheek and strokes her until he can’t move it anymore.

His movements become frantic as the pain becomes unbearable. He manages to look into her eyes and he sees a tranquility that’s juxtaposed to his chaotic desperation. He stops his movements and rests inside her, eyes locked, bodies melted – everything as calm as her thighs, now. Everything satisfied and ready.

Flashing #57: Social Commentary

2009-06-24T00:24:00.003-05:00

No intro needed. More Flashing at the main page.

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John and Kate are getting a divorce. I honestly don’t give a shit; I never watched the show and I didn’t even know it existed until this season. But their big announcement was broadcast across every single news site, blog, and twitter feed and the “heartbreaking” news was impossible to avoid.

Before they announced their divorce all I knew about John & Kate was that they opted out of selective reduction, an incredibly irresponsible decision made by parents who claim six viable fetuses was “God’s Will” and not the will of some fucked-up fertility doctor going nuts with a turkey baster in order to keep his stats up. It’s the classic “pick-and-choose” approach to religion and ideals: it wasn’t “God’s Will” to make Kate’s womb a poison valley incapable of cultivating life but it was God’s will to turn 85.7% of the fertilized embryos implanted in your uterus into little bundles of malnourished joy, each with a high probability of premature birth and multiple health problems.

That’s basically all I ever need to know about John & Kate. And now this divorce story is on my radar.

Honestly, if you actually care that these irresponsible fame whores are getting divorced I think less of you. I don’t care who you are. You could be my mom – you could be Santa Claus – no matter who you are, if you’re shedding a single tear for this couple you don’t even know, this walking argument for the necessity of Baby Licenses, I’m pretty sure there’s a part of you that’s missing or at least in desperate need of repair.

You see – normally I’d go on and write a 2000-word essay detailing why I hate you and why I’m pretty sure society doesn’t really need you. The 266 words above – they would have been my introduction. I would have followed it up with a tirade aimed at you and your passing obsession with things that not only don’t matter – at all – but are actually so bad they tend to negate whatever scraps of positive culture America is still capable of producing. I would have peppered the essay with Mark Sanford and Michael Steele jokes because politics is my pointless obsession, patted myself on the back, and anxiously waited for a reply along the lines of “I’m praying for John and Kate” so I could write a meaner (and longer) follow-up essay on how praying for John and Kate will never make them better people because, if there is a God, he doesn’t give a shit about them either.

And the essay would have had tons of run-on sentences, much like the ones you’re seeing here. I like using run-on sentences when I’m in “rant mode.” I guess you could call it a style. I also have a shit load of non sequiturs, pointless anecdotes, and self-referential analysis of my writing style.

But I digress.

I’m not going to write that essay. I’m not going to allow myself to care enough. Something substantial is going on in this world, and I’m not saying that we should focus all of our attention on this thing, but I am saying this thing is making me change my priorities. This thing started in November, when we elected Barack Obama for President. This thing has continued to build from his actions and his words. It hangs in the air. We see the LTTE finally defeated. We see Iranians rejecting their hard-line, fear-mongering leaders, we see Pakistani tribesmen forming militias and hunting down Taliban fighters.

There is an infectious feeling of positivity and hope that you can see if you look past the MSNBCs and Fox Newses of the world. There are millions of people who are coming out from an eight-year haze, shaking off the hate and the fear, and demanding what’s rightfully theirs.

I can go on and on with hyperbole but I want to focus on Iran. I’ve been following the Iranian situation via Twitter since January 14^th or so and the sequence of events that got us here couldn’t be clearer in my mind. Ahmadinejad was Iran’s (Khamenei’s) response to George Bush and the man’s desire to put dysfunctional democracies in the Middle East. Khamenei has made a career out of hating America and George Bush was like Christmas present stuffed inside a Birthday present stuffed inside a Cadbury Crème Egg – he was delicious. Obama comes along and says he’s going to try a diplomatic approach with Iran. Every wing-nut in the world makes fun of him. He gets elected, sworn-in, and several months later he’s giving his speech in Cairo. In the speech he actually makes some concessions to Iran, not big ones, but they were there. He once again repeats his desire to work with Iran and not to hinder them from growing in anyway. But, most importantly, he speaks to the Iranian people. He takes a completely different approach as Bush. Khamenei needs America as an America or else he becomes irreverent so before the polls close, before a single vote is probably even counted, he announces Ahmadinejad is the winner, case closed, “Fuck you Obama, the people don’t want your peace.” But the people see through it and they do want Obama’s peace. I’m not saying they want to be America’s BFF but they don’t want the hard line anymore. It doesn’t have to be Us vs. Them anymore. There are middle grounds, America agrees to meet Iran half-way but Iran’s current leadership refuses to even budge. And the people revolt. And the images and the stories coming out of that revolution have been inspiring.

I’m going to bring this all together now. I know you’re expecting me to say something along the lines of, “So why are you worrying about John & Kate when there’re more important things going on in Iran.” But you’re wrong, that’s not the point of this essay. Here’s the point…

Why are you caring about John & Kate, and all the negative shit that goes with it, when there’s positivity in the air? It may seem bloody and chaotic right now, but change is no longer just being promised – it’s actually coming. Isn’t this what we voted for? Shouldn’t we be changing our priorities to match what’s going on in the world? Shouldn’t we start caring about the good again?

Why are you wasting your time on the negative?

Flashing #56: Pete Hoekstra is a Meme

2009-06-22T21:32:00.002-05:00

The original memoir done as a Pete Hoekstra meme.

More Flashing at the main page.

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Flashing #55: Romantic Comedy

2009-06-21T21:34:00.002-05:00

I wrote this in 15 minutes. I’m sure it shows.

I hate most romantic comedies. They’re insulting. 95% of them have the following plot: Big city girl (or guy) gets forced to live in a small town. She (or he) has trouble fitting in at first but they eventually begin to fall in love with small town life. She (or he) meets a guy (or girl) who at first is the embodiment of everything they hate about small towns but eventually the guy (or girl) wins her (or him) over with his rugged good lucks (or overt cuteness). They have a moment but then she (or he) has to go back to his (or her) city. There’s a montage set to a Bruce Springsteen song and the movie ends with the girl (or guy) moving back to the small town.

So I decide to make a real ending to the above movie. And now I’m going to bed. More Flashing at the main page.

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Harold uses his grease-covered shirt to wipe the sweat from his eyes. His left hand fumbles his wrench and it drops below the four-color, coming dangerously close to the reels, before hitting the ground beneath the press with a clang. He drops down to the floor and reaches his hand below the metal walkway in an attempt to reclaim his wrench, holding his hand out against the side of the press to keep his balance. His loose sleeve gets sucked up by the giant reels and pulls his arm into the behemoth. He screams out for help, but Bobby’s at the other end of the press checking the color levels of the latest sheet and Jimmy’s out back smoking one of his Backwoods cigars. He tries to fight off the reels that seem intent on sucking his entire arm into the machine, praying to God for a miracle, when someone hits the emergency switch, causing the press to come to an abrupt halt, Harold’s elbow centimeters from being crushed.

Harold tries to pull his shirt out from the press but the giant mass of rubber and metal refuses to budge. He hears the unmistakable click-clack of high heels on concrete and smiles, knowing full well who his savior is. “Well I’ll be damned, Zoe,” he says, not seeing the owner of the heels, “Before we get all weepy can you be a doll and hit the reverse button?”

The reels lurch back, spitting Harold’s shirt out in the process. Harold turns to see Zoe standing behind him, her face filled with the spit and vinegar he’s grown to love but missed dearly over the past couple of months. “You saved my life, honey. Jeanie’s gonna wanna hug you for that.”

“Or hit me.”

The old friends laugh as Harold slowly pulls himself off the floor, flexing his shoulder and making sure all the parts still work. “Could be. Can never tell with that girl.”

“Well, if she had any sense she’d hit me. I’m sure she’d do anything to get a worthless slob like you out of her life.”

Harold stops flexing his shoulder and stares, dumbfounded, at Zoe – a girl he thought he knew. “Well that was pretty mean, Zoe.”

“Sorry if I hurt your fucking feelings, Harold. But the thought of having to live another day in this shithole while corporate sorted out another lawsuit makes me want to punch myself in the vagina until I spontaneously impregnate myself and then punch myself some more in order to abort the putrid fetus.”

Harold doesn’t know how to respond. Luckily for him Jimmy turns the corner, cigar ash covering his novelty t-shirt that reads, “Free Mustache Rides.”

“Well I’ll be damned! If it ain’t Ms. Big City coming back down to see us regular folk. What’s the matter, sweetheart, missed us?”

Zoe sneers at Jimmy, wanting to make some comment about his shirt and his choice of pronouns and sexual harassment but she bottles it all up and gets right down to business. “Where’s Sam?” she asks.

“He’s over at the die-cutter today. He’s gonna be mighty to happy to see you, I’m thinking.”

“Thank God we don’t pay to you to think,” Zoe responds as she turns and walks over to the finishing room. She walks in and shrugs off Phil and Johnny and Tony and Greg and Bill and John and Philly and Bob and Jim and Sammy and Chris and Poncho (the token Mexican, as she calls him) before making her way to Sam at the die-cutting machine.

“Oh!” Sam says as he quickly tries to fix up his fantastic black mane, “You’re back?” His perfectly-cut jaw forms a smile that accentuates his deep blue eyes.

Zoe walks right up to Sam and slaps him as hard as her frail hands can slap him. She breaks two nails in the process, but it’s worth it as far as she’s concerned.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop sending me stuff? The flowers, the letters, the chocolates – what the fuck do you think I am? Do you think I’m some horny high school girl oozing over your rugged good lucks, wishing you’d drive by my condo so I can sneak out the window and let you fingerbang me at Lover’s Point?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Stop it. Stop trying to get in touch with me. Take a fucking hint – we fucked! Awesome! You were incredibly mediocre at best! Honestly, I’ve had more orgasmic experiences eating at shitty Indian restaurants than I had in your bedroom.”

“I really thought we…”

“I know what you thought, but I also know you’re an idiot. What did you think I’d do – give up my career and my salary and my incredibly AWESOME life so that I can move down to this Podunk town, marry you, and help you raise you’re two kids – one of which is most likely retarded? Are you really that fucking stupid?”

Sam just stares at Zoe, waiting for the punchline.

“If I get one more anything from you I’m going to come down here with an army of lawyers, sue you for sexual harassment, and have the state take your kids away. And then I’m going to fuck your retarded son while you watch just to prove a point. Are we clear?”

Sam cracks a smile, trying to force some humor into this ultimatum.

“You’re smiling. Of course. I have to go so, in conclusion,” Zoe kicks Sam in the balls as hard as she can. Sam drops to the ground, the smile effectively wiped from his face. All the Billies and Bobbies and Jimmies clutch their own balls in empathy for Sam. Zoe just looks at them and shakes her head. “You fucking monkeys.”

She walks towards the exit. The people in the shop listen to the click-clack of her heels for the last time.

Flashing #54: African Mythology

2009-06-19T00:19:00.003-05:00

Tired - long day. Sorry this is so late. I kind of rushed it, too, so it's not my favorite story by any means. More Flashing at the main page.

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Nafula sat against a tree. The ground was dry and the tree felt weak. Nafula looked up to the heavens and saw a cloud in the distance. It was a small cloud, traveling by itself, but it was the only cloud Nafula has seen in many months. She called out to it, “Cloud!” and the cloud came to her.

“Can I help you?” asked the cloud.

“This ground is dry and this tree is dying. They need water. You must open up for them,” said Nafula.

“But if I open up for the ground and that tree I will no longer be a cloud and I like being a cloud,” the cloud replied.

Nafula’s throat was dry and she felt too weak to stand. “But I need water and the crops in the village are dying. You must open up so I can have a drink and food.”

The cloud looked remorseful but it still refused to help Nafula. “That is very sad,” said the cloud, “but if I open up for you I will no longer be a cloud and I like being a cloud.”

Nafula thought of her brother and mother. “But my family needs water and food, too, or else we will all die.”

The cloud was torn but hardened. “I don’t want your village to die but if I am no longer a cloud than I will die and I do not want to die.”

Nafula, who was wise for such a young child, had an idea that would help her village and the cloud. “Go and get other clouds, as many clouds as you can find, and join with them to become the biggest cloud in the sky. Open up for 30 days. Stop before you get too small and then go find more clouds again. Come back and open up when you’re once again the biggest cloud in the sky.”

The little cloud thought about the idea and saw that it was good. It circled the lands and found thousands of clouds to join with. The little cloud soon became the biggest cloud in the sky and it opened up for Nafula and her people. Rain and lightening came down from the heavens for thirty straight days and after it all the cloud was once again a tiny puff in the sky.

The cloud liked being so big so it went off to look for more clouds and once again become the biggest cloud in the sky. And Nafula and her people had food and water to last them the rest of the year.

And that is why the skies open up once a year.

Flashing #53: Post-911 Fiction

2009-06-17T17:16:00.003-05:00

I always loved how people in small towns, who's lives where in no real danger from terrorism EVER, and who hated New Yorkers with a PASSION, where always the first ones to point to 9-11 as a rallying cry for neoconservatism. So I drafted this little play up, hope you dig it.

More Flashing at the main page.

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Small-Town Con

Shep: …and I known Bobby all my life. He’s a good man and he’s a good dentist. Hell, he fixed up my root canal just right about two weeks ago. There wasn’t a bit of pain. But I’ve been mayor of this town for the past twenty years and we’ve been doing all right. Hell, we’ve been doing better and better every year. If we were in a hole, I’d vote for Bobby. But we ain’t, we’re all doing good, and if it ain’t broke, why bother trying to fix it?

Phil: Thanks, Shep. Bobby – your opening remarks.

Bobby: Thanks. I…I find it funny that my opponent is standing in front of you all and saying “nothing’s broken.” Think about that. Nothing. Is. Broken. I can think of a couple of things that are broken, Shep. How’s about…oh…I don’t know…the Twin Towers. They seem pretty broken to me. And how about the Pentagon, Shep? Is the Pentagon “not broken?” How about Iraq? And Iran? And North Korea and Syria and Afghanistan? Are they “not broken” as well, Shep?

Shep: Uh…Bobby…we usually don’t…

Bobby: I know what you usually do and don’t do, Shep. What you usually do is ignore the threats all around us. The people who are trying to murder our children and rape our wives and convert us to Muslim and take away our freedoms.

Shep: It’s Islam, Bobby.

Bobby: What is?

Shep: Islam – “convert us to Islam” – you can’t convert someone to Muslim.

Bobby: And how would you know that, Shep?

Phil: Bobby! You are out off line. This is a small town election here and there’s nothing…

Bobby: Small towns. The backbone of America. The people who bleed red. And white. And blue. The people who Al Qaeda would simply love to cripple and maim and convert to Muslim. You don’t think they’re planning it? You don’t think some Mohammed is loading up trucks with ANFO and C4, planning to drive them right into churches on Christmas Eve all across the American heartland? Think again, my friends. He is our enemy, and he wants every single one of us dead.

Shep: Phil?

Phil: I think this debate’s a bit out of order…

Bobby: The world is out of order and Shep would rather put his head in the sand than deal with it.

Audience Member #1: Bobby – I don’t think you’re making much sense. I mean, my neighbor Jimmy is a Muslim and I don’t think…

Bobby: Ah, yes. And where is Jimmy tonight? Why wouldn’t Jimmy want to take part in this debate – this staple of American Democracy. Is it because Jimmy hates democracy?

Shep: Now, Bobby, if you’re suggesting…

Bobby: I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just presenting the facts. Fact number 1: Jimmy is not taking part in this sacred right of democracy. Fact number 2: Terrorists hate democracy. Fact number 3: People who hate democracy want to kill Americans. Fact number 4: Al Qaeda wants to kill Americans. Fact number 5: Muslims are in Al Qaeda. Fact number 6: Jimmy is a Muslim. Those are the facts.

Shep: And what about fact number 7: Jimmy has been our friend and neighbor for the past forty years?

Bobby: Every heard of sleeper agents, Shep? Guess not – you just care about pig races and keeping bugs off the crops. You’re living in September 10^th, Shep – that must be a wonderful place.

Shep: Now hold on a minute, I fought in Vietnam for Christ’s sake, Bobby, and you can’t tell me nothing about fighting or war or…

Audience Member #2: Weren’t you a cook, Shep?

Audience Member #3: Yeah, I don’t know what a cook would know about fighting terrorists.

Shep: Need I remind you that Bobby is a dentist.

Bobby: And you’re saying being a mayor is better than being a dentist? That’s a pretty New York-elitist statement.

Audience Member #4: Yeah! Do you think you’re better than me because I’m a farmer?

Audience Member #5: Hell, I’m on disability – I must be real trash to you, Shep.

Shep: What? I don’t know…

Audience Member #6: How’re you gonna keep us safe from Muslims, Bobby?

Phil: I’d like to hear that one, myself.

Shep: Me too.

Bobby: Answer to that one’s pretty easy, folks: by supporting our troops and supporting our president.

Shep: That’s ridiculous!

Bobby: Supporting our troops is ridiculous, Shep?

Shep: What? No, that’s not what I meant and you…

Bobby: Hmph. Looks like we got a traitor amongst our own government. You’re probably Muslim yourself, ain’t ya?

Shep: I don’t know what…

Phil: Come to think of it, Shep, you weren’t at Church this week.

Shep: I had a stomach virus!

Bobby: Or you were activated.

Audience Member #7: I saw him talking to Jimmy yesterday!

Bobby: Well, well – talking to the only Muslim in town. On the week you missed church. Ain’t that suspicious?

Shep: Jimmy was fixing my boiler!

Bobby: Uh huh.

Shep: This is ridiculous! Are you people crazy? How could you actually be buying into this?

Phil: Shep, in all due respect, I think we need to call an end to this debate and open up an investigation. I think I speak for the town when I say some of your acquaintances and some of the things you said here today have been mighty suspect.

Audience Member #8: Hey! I heard on the news that Bin Laden might be hiding in some small American town!

Bobby: Hmph. Don’t say?

Shep: Are you honestly…

Phil: This meeting is adjourned! Sheriff – will you please arrest Shep until we get some more information about what he may or may not know involving the whereabouts of Osama bin Laden.

Shep: Phil, come on now…

Audience Member #8: And don’t forget Jimmy!

Phil: That’s right…sheriff, when you’re done with Shep can you please go find Jimmy and bring him in for questioning.

Sheriff: No problem, Phil. I can’t wait to get my hands on that scumbag to be honest with you.

Phil: I understand your anger, sheriff. You think you know a guy…

Flashing #52: GLBT Sci-Fi

2009-06-16T00:00:00.002-05:00

Wikipedia says it's a genre and that's good enough for me. I came up with this idea a couple of weeks ago - I wondered where bigotry would go next if science kept providing evidence against their claims. The idea that a person has no choice as to how they're born but a choice as to whether or not they can change it intrigued me, and I tried to move that concept into a "fated lovers" type of storyline. I like the result, even if it's a bit heavy-handed at times. What do you expect when you write one of these day? Sheesh!

More Flashing at the main page.

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“I’ll take a glass of the Sant’Orsola.”

“Oh…I love Sant’Orsola. Didn’t know they had it here.”

“Better make it a bottle, then.”

The waiter clicks his heals and shuffles towards the crowded bar. McCovey’s is as busy as it always is on a Friday night, and the couple sitting at the tiny table by the kitchen appreciates the boisterous laughs and drunken proclamations – it makes their awkward silences less awkward.

“So…you work in real estate?”

Henry sits up straight and reminds himself that first dates aren’t fond of long dissertations on how atmospheric pods are greatly depreciating the value of the classic “land-based” homes or how Implanters are destroying the East Side market by virtue of simply existing. He keeps his answer short and to the point. “Yes. Antique houses, to be exact. I’m an appraiser for Sotheby.”

“I’ve always been a fan of four walls and a fireplace.”

“Yeah. It’s too bad they’re being torn down at an alarming rate. You practically need a court injunction these days to stop some upstart developer from raising the land and using the scraps to build some atmospheric pod settlement. Those things are ready in days and sell in…”

Henry closes his eyes and bites his lips. The color comes. A wave of nostalgia and nausea and regret washes over him, ending in a noticeable erection in his suddenly too-tight jeans.

“I’m sorry. I…”

“You were corrected, weren’t you?”

Henry pulls his napkin from his lap, wipes his mouth, and stands to leave. Jordan touches his hand and gives him a reassuring nod. “It’s ok. The twitches go away, eventually.”

Henry looks down at Jordan for a moment and tries to convince himself that he owes his date nothing. He would never have to see this person again if he chooses not to. He takes a look towards the door and then sits back down in his seat. The waiter comes out with the bottle of Sant’Orsola at the most awkward time imaginable, pops the cork, and pours two glasses after Henry waves off the taste. The whole process takes entirely too long.

After the waiter walks away Henry turns to Jordan and whispers, “You were corrected too?”

“In a way, I guess. But I also know people who underwent the procedure.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a good call.”

“And what’s it like?”

“Don’t know, they put me under.”

“Not the procedure itself…everything else. Everything that comes later. What happens when you twitch.”

Henry polishes off his asti and pours another glass. He takes a deep breath, looks down at the table, and tries to paint a picture he’s only seen in bits and pieces. “Hard to say. It’s all flashes, really. Little bits here and there. There’s always a guy, of course – I don’t think that should be a surprise. He’s…frail, I guess. I don’t know, sublime. Sublime sounds better. I get charged up with…feelings…they make me sick, honestly. I begin to feel bad that I’ve even had the feelings.”

“And then?”

“Honestly? I open my eyes, see you sitting across the table, and have an uncontrollable urge to fuck you stupid.”

The couple at the table next to Henry and Jordan give a gasp of surprise before pretending to get back to their halibut. Henry doesn’t even notice the ease droppers. “Don’t be offended by that, though. The correction makes me want to fuck any woman within eyesight. That’s just how it works.”

Jordan doesn’t even seem slightly offended by Henry’s choice of words. “Why’d you get it?”

“The correction?”

“Yeah. Why’d you get it?”

“So I can live a normal life.”

“But your not…normal.”

“I was born not normal. Now I’m normal.”

“That just doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

This time the audience listening in on the discussion has obviously grown. The restaurant is a lot quieter than it should be and every time conversation halts between Henry and Jordan everyone around them awkwardly tries to pretend they were being silent on purpose. Eating their food or reading a menu or doing something else that doesn’t require routine conversation.

Henry collects his thoughts and continues on. “Look, we don’t have a choice of who we are when we’re born. So, in that way, sure – it’s normal to be born…you know. But when you get older you have the choice to live a normal life or live like an outcast. I’ll never understand why some people would want to live without rights or respect or freedom. Especially when they have the power to change it.”

Jordan is shaken up – the conversation is taking a lot of energy and giving back a fair amount of heartache. “That man – the sublime one – the one you see when you twitch. Do you love him?”

“What? No! That’s ridiculous.”

“Did you ever love him?”

“I probably thought I did.”

“You did.”

No-one in the restaurant is saying a word. No-one is moving. No-one is even pretending like they’re not listening. Henry is flustered. He stutters through his words. “I don’t even know how you’d possibly…”

Jordan stands up and looks down at Henry for a spark. “I corrected myself, too. Not to be what these fucking people wanted me to be, but to be what you wanted me to be. Because love – LOVE – is fucking normal.”

Henry shakes his head, confused. Jordan turns to walk out the restaurant and gets halfway towards the door before hearing Henry shout, “Oh my God…Jordan. Jordan. I didn’t…you did this for me?”

Jordan stares at Henry, crying, utterly embarrassed. “Did what?”

“Changed? For me?”

Jordan gives Henry one last look and turns away in disgust. “You’re the one who changed, Henry.”

Flashing #51: Tragedy (Scratch that - Romance Comic)

2009-06-15T06:00:00.004-05:00

Note: I pulled the original story because, in retrospect, it is a bit depressing. I'm usually not depressing and, on top of that, this is a happy time. I wrote it, I know I wrote it, good enough for me. If anyone wants to see it I can email it to them. But I do have something new and unseen up - a romance comic. Much more fitting. Illustrated by Noel Tuazon.

I have some fun stuff set up for the next couple of weeks, though. Rom Com, GLBT Sci-Fi, pirate story, swashbuckling, jungle girl - all of it will be infinitely more fun than today's story but equally dope.

More Flashing at the main page.

___________________________

Flashing #50 - Urban Legend

2009-06-05T07:24:00.002-05:00

Quick intro – have a rehearsal dinner to prep for:

1) Yes, the grammar and spelling is purposely horrible, this is supposed to be an email-style “ZOMG BARACK OBAMA IS A MUSLIN” urban legend.

2) It’s inspired by the original memoir.

3) There likely won’t be any new stories next week. I’m going on a cruise for my honeymoon and I don’t have enough in the bank to autopost. I’ll try to rectify that on Sunday but it seems unlikely.

4) I’m getting married tomorrow – dope!

More Flashing at the main page!

PS - This is #50 - how cool is that?
__________________

Ok, this might sound unbelievanle but I promise you this is 100% true.I have a friend that works at the department of justice. He told me that theres this guy that works there thats kind-of there cover up guy, you know? Hes the guy that you go to when you have a legal problem that cant really get out into the papers. He finds ways to fuck with the legal process and make it so certain little bits of info never get out. You know what I mean, right?

So this guy misses work for a full week, right? And thats kind of strange because this guy never misses work – hes a fucking boy scout. Hes the kind of guy that got the schools perfect attendance award every year. So its weird that this guy would miss a single day, let alone an entire week.

So my friend did some snooping. Turns out the guy was working some case, the details where kind of sketchy, something about some kid in Germany – dissident or expat or something – that was making a bit of trouble somehow. I honestly dont know what was said or what happened or who the kid was but, to say the least, DOJ and the administration didnt really want this guy to go to jail at all. I mean, they were fucking ADAMENT ABOUT IT.

tHE doj GUY, HE DIDNT SEE ANY ANGEL ON THIS KID AT ALL. i MEAN, THE KID ROYALLY FUCKED UP ON SEVERAL LEVELS, HIS ACTIONS WERE VERY PUBLIC (i THINK HE EVEN BLOGGED ABOUT IT), AND PUBLIC EMBARRASSMENT AND HUMILIATION WERE EMINENT. sO THE doj GUY DID THE ONLY THING HE FELT LIKE HE COULD DO ON SUCH SHORT NOTICE. hE TOOK THE FUCKING FALL FOR WHATEVER THIS GUY DID.

nO SHIT, THIS GUY WAS SO DEDICATED TO HIS JOB THAT HE ASSUMED ALL OF THE CRIMES BEING ATTRIBUTED TO THIS CONNECTED FUCK IN gERMANY. sO NOW THE doj GUY IS IN prison FOR A GUY HE NEVER MET, DOESNT EVEN GIVE SHIT ABOUT, AND ALL BECAUSE OF SOME SPOILED BRAT WITH FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES WHO DIDNT WANT TO ASSUME RESPONSIBILITY FOR WHATEVER IT WAS THAT HE DID.

iSNT THAT CRAZY? i DONT EVEN WANT TO STAY LATE AT MY JOB AND THIS GUYS GOING TO PRISON FOR HIS. LOL!!!

Flashing #49: Haiku

2009-06-04T07:33:00.003-05:00

A haiku inspired by the original memoir. This week is going so fast and Saturday's wedding seems to be barreling down and taking more and more of my time. The remainder of my wedding party gets into town today, I need to pick up my tux, and I have to help prepare for tomorrow's the rehearsal dinner. It's going to be a great time, getting there is proving to be a touch stressful.

But that's my life, and this is Flashing, and, as always, there's more at the main page.

_______________________

Night comes to Munich
I abandon bad ideas
And call your number

Flashing #48: Conspiracy Fiction

2009-06-03T09:45:00.002-05:00

Just a heads up – I’m not far enough ahead with next weeks stories to set them to autopost. I’m going to try, but getting married three days from now and taking a cruise next week makes that task a bit difficult. So next week might be another break. But there’re good stories this week so, you know, deal with it.

I once again didn't get to do any detailed editing with this one. Sorry. Off to see a harpist now, apparently.

And, of course, there’re more stories at the main page.

_______________________

“I need to see it.”

Jeremiah stands on the pier, hands filled with stacks of papers fully documenting the psychological profiles of hundreds of missing kids and the families they left behind. The kids all seem to have psychological defects ranging from extreme temper tantrums to outright autism. The parents tend to be young and lazy and Catholic, the types of people who would subconsciously see their missing child as a blessing from God, a reprieve from their suffering, forgiveness for the sins that landed them with a 24-7 type of child. And all of these files were found at the Department of Health and Human Services. And some of the newer files are for children that have not gone missing. Yet.

“See what?”

Hedge Brown seems particularly antsy today. His collar is pulled up higher than normal, his hat lower, and his eyes can’t seem to rest upon any one thing in particular. He shifts from foot to foot as if avoiding a sniper and his voice has an edge to it often reserved for junkies and snitches.

“The pens – I need to see the pens. I have nothing unless I see the pens.”

“Just take what you have and go public with it. You go to see the pens and this whole thing falls apart. You won’t come back.”

Jeremiah tries to argue his case but Hedge Brown swiftly turns around and walks towards the shadows. “Just give me an address!”

Hedge Brown pauses and looks down at the ground. “136 Raleigh St. Southeast. Get in, take your picture, get out. I risked too much for this.” Hedge Brown continues on, leaving Jeremiah alone on the pier holding 95% of his Pulitzer Prize.

____________________________

136 Raleigh Street is in the perfect neighborhood for a secret of this magnitude. It’s across 295 from Bolling AFB, for starters, and it’s in a neighborhood populated with people who don’t ask too many questions and who’s mere presence tends to scare away people who would ask the right questions. The house itself is unassuming – no cars parked out front, no light on, and way too small to house any sort of secret lab or pens. Jeremiah assumes Hedge Brown’s information wasn’t entirely reliable but he decides to check out the house anyway.

He walks up to the front door and notices the types of lock you’d never see in a neighborhood like this. Computerized, with a thumbprint scanner. The door itself seems to be reinforced and the windows, he notices, are actually made of glass so thick it’s practically impossible to see through it.

This is certainly the house, and there is no way he’s getting inside.

As he begins to walk back towards his car he notices that there’s some steel bulkhead entry doors that undoubtedly lead towards the basement and that they’re marked with a yellow piece of tape – Hedge Brown’s signal. Jeremiah goes over to the doors and gives them a tug. The doors swing open and the lights go on downstairs. Jeremiah hears a rustle of hooves, the whining of children, and a hellish shriek that begins as a murmur but slowly builds to a crescendo of ear-splitting wails. Jeremiah enters the basement and quickly closes the doors to keep the sound inside as best as possible.

And there they stand. Despite all of the evidence he’s seen, he can’t even bring himself to believe it. Unicorns, their fur radiating light, their horns humming with life, their jowls coated with blood and flesh, their eyes burning with the hatred of every hell, their mouths letting forth the cacophonous symphony of heartache and misery, their spiked hooves stacked with the dismembered bodies of long-lost children and assumed run aways, looking like the worst shish kabobs ever conceived.

Jeremiah is captivated and frightened as the unicorns slowly move towards him. He notices the device he’s only heard about – the crux of his story – the final piece to a puzzle that includes several government agencies, hundreds of conspirators, and millions of deaths. The AIDS generation machine, powered by Unicorn tears altered by the flesh of children, pumping out vials of AIDS and packaging them into boxes destined for American ghettoes and third-world countries.

Everything makes sense now. But before he can reach for his camera, before he can snap off a picture of the Unicorn/AIDS farm, the bloodthirsty creatures are upon his, impaling him and carving him up – sharing him amongst themselves. The thrill of the kill and the howl that comes with it can be heard for miles. Hedge Brown hears it from his home in Old Town, and he knows that yet another reporter has failed to uncover this conspiracy.

Flashing #47: Space Western

2009-06-02T08:45:00.003-05:00

Posting this one on a MegaBus to Boston. Getting a touch carsick so editing is light. I may touch it up later, but I think it's pretty cool as is. Getting married in four days, by the way, and I'm very excited.

More Flashing at the main page.

__________________

The Sad Hill Ship Graveyard is lifeless and quiet, even by space standards, despite the three active cruisers hovering within several clicks from each other. The Cattivo’s pilot, Tuco, nervously eyes his two viewport monitors, waiting for the slightest movement from either Blondie or Angel Eyes. His instruments warn him that the two ships have full shields and their cannons are charged and ready to fire but Blondie’s a faster shot than the three men and Angel Eyes is more ruthless – better to let them make a move first.

Blondie makes the first move, quickly pivoting the Buono towards the Brutto and firing three canon shots at the ship’s main exhaust port. The first two shots weaken the shields and the third shot causes the ship to explode from the inside out. Tuco tries to capitalize on the Buono’s compromised position by hitting the trigger as fast as he can. All he hears is the clicking sound, the Cattivo’s cannons acting as if they’re not even aware of the firefight going on around them. Blondie’s slow whisper comes over his com, “I took care of those last night.”

Tuco closes his eyes and waits for the eminent barrage of cannon fire. He’d meditate on the emptiness that comes with greed and revenge, on the loneliness of space, and the convenience of dying in a graveyard if it weren’t for the fact that he was pissing in his pants and praying to a God that’s long been disproven. Minutes pass without a shot being fired and Tuco opens his eyes. The Brutto is nothing but debris, it fits perfectly with its surroundings, and the Buono is darting between ships, pausing at each one’s identifier before carrying on to the next one.

Blondie once again activates his com, “I can use some help here, Tuco.”

Tuco cautiously moves the Cattivo towards the Buono. “What are we looking for?”

“Ship’s called the Arch of Stanton. Money’s in an unmarked ship right next to it.”

The two ships dance around long-forgotten cruisers and interceptors and birds-of-prey. They read the names on the ships. Horatio, Yamaguchi, Mekong, Dauntless, Fleming, Yellowstone…there are tens of thousands of broken down and blasted ships in this graveyard and only one worth finding.

“I found it!” Tuco exclaims, prompting the Buono to speeds towards him. The Arch of Stanton is an old Korolev-class starship. The whole aft is ripped off, no burn marks in sight; it was likely involved in a nasty collision. The unmarked ship next to it is pristine and of a class that neither Blondie nor Tuco have ever seen before. A prototype, no doubt, likely of Breen design, possibly built towards the latter days of the Dominion War.

“Dock it, Tuco. You’re gonna have to walk it in, that ships dead as dead. Throw my half out through whatever access port you can find, keep your half on board. Don’t come out from that ship until I’m well and gone.”

Tuco doesn’t like his options because, as he sees it, he doesn’t have any. He lowers his talons and anchors onto the unmarked ship. Suits up and turns on his air. He hits his boosters and thrusts out the back port of the Cattivo, switches on his mags and attaches himself to the dead ship’s hull. He walks towards an access port and puts his sonic separator to cold, hard metal. Within minutes he carved out a tiny hole in the massive ship and makes his way inside.

The ship’s devoid of decoration and frills. Smooth steel and unlabeled buttons and monitors and switches make up the entirety of the interior, as if the ship was designed for getting somewhere, killing, and doing little else. Tuco walks the long hallway, unsure of what he’s looking for or where it’ll be, his footsteps only adding to the deadening silence.

He enters a large hanger bay. It’s massive and obviously designed to drop something out of it instead of letting something inside. It’s empty now, however, with the exception of four large bags in the center. Tuco opens one of the bags, a soft glow spills out, and he closes it up, grabs two of the bags, and heads back towards the exit. He peeks his head out of the hole and sees the Buono floating in front of him. He throws the two bags out, waves at Blondie, and makes his way back to his share.

When he gets back to the exit with his bounty he notices the Cattivo is gone. Blondie has towed it out to the perimeter of the graveyard where both ships now hover in silence, barely visible to Tuco, who waves his arms and curses in as many languages as he can think of. There’s no response over his com, no movement on the horizon, the Buono and the Cattivo just look like two more ships amongst a sea of junk.

Blondie lets the backstabbing Tuco stew for a while. He lets him contemplate how much air he has in his pack and try to formulate whatever version of a plan his tiny brain is capable of contemplating. After several minutes Blondie turns the Buono around and rockets towards the horizon. He cuts the tow and the Cattivo continues to drift in the nothingness.

Tuco hits his boosters and plows towards the Cattivo. He fully understands what lesson he was supposed to learn but he plans his revenge anyway.

Flashing #46: Prehistoric Fantasy

2009-06-01T08:00:00.001-05:00

And we’re back after a week vacation from the concept. Here’s the story, not much set-up, more Flashing at the main page. Enjoy!

________________________

The raptors charge the line, their feet pounding the ground, a sound like thunder filling the air. The riders clench the reigns with white-knuckled fists, guns and swords held at the ready in the event they’re needed. The enemy rides Iguanodons, have trained a few Nodosauruses, and despite the fact that they have superior weaponry their ammunition stockpiles have run low. The raptors should make quick work of the remaining German troops; this battle could be finished without a single bullet being wasted.

The Germans are anxious and they look back to their commander. Despite the fact that they don’t understand a word he says beyond “hold”, “charge”, and “retreat” his cold stare and calm posture relaxes them.

“Winds not right yet,” he tells his troops, “Hopefully the traps’ll slow ‘em down.”

As if it was rehearsed a handful of raptors fall into the spiked pits. The Germans hear the raptors’ cries and their spirits are lifted – it is possible to stop a raptor without heavy weaponry, after all. Some raptors are hoisted into the air; some are catapulted back to the Confederate fort, their riders screaming as they’re launched towards certain death. Underground bombs go off as some of the raptors get closer. The wall of fire resulting from the explosions causes the remaining raptors to pull back, despite their riders instructions to carry-on.

Esau watches the smoke that’s slowly creeping towards his line. He looks to his troops and says, “Winds still not right. Hold tight.”

Meanwhile the Indian line, the only soldiers in this fight with a legitimate hatred of the enemy, lobs flaming arrows at the Confederate soldiers and their raptors. A courier runs up to Esau and hands him a note. It’s a request from the Crusaders, they’d like to charge in and finish the battle. Esau tells the courier to hold tight, the raptors are incredibly dangerous right now and if the winds shift they can end this entire war right here and now without directly engaging the enemy. The courier runs back to the Crusaders with the news – several seconds later the winds make a noticeable break towards the mess of Confederate troops. Esau signals Jerry Moore and the doctor hits the chem valve as his assistants work the pump. The stuff that comes out is mainly liquid and mostly unpure, but enough of the sarin vaporizes and drifts downwind, towards the unsuspecting Confederate troops.

The first raptor drops within thirty seconds. Within a minute the remaining raptors and their riders are on the ground – convulsing and gasping for breath. Within five minutes the elite raptor riders are all dead, no back-ups in sight. The gates to the fort are wide open and the war is all but won. The Germans and the Indians and the crusaders mount their dinosaurs and make their way to the gate, eager to execute the few remaining Confederate troops.

Esau, on the only hand, only has one target in mind. His brother.

The Alliance soldiers enter the fort and put bullet, sword, or arrow to anyone they come across. The Confederates offer little resistance; they resign to their fate and die with dignity. They’re almost in an enviable position, leaving this world devoid of technology and comfort and women behind. As the Alliance makes quick and bloody work of the remaining combatants, Esau heads up to the South tower where he imagines Marcus and Jacob are hiding out. He kicks in the door, his six-shooter at his hip, and smiles at the site of his long-lost brother.

“I told, you, Marcus, there’s the easy way and the hard way and the hard way wasn’t gonna be pretty.”

Marcus has a shotgun on his lap but he doesn’t even attempt to use it. He hears the clamor and the screams coming from his fort and he slumps his shoulders and sighs. “I guess I didn’t realize how much of a crazy son-of-a-bitch you was.” Marcus points to Jacob, who stands in the corner, visibly shaking. “There’s your piece of shit brother. Not even worth protecting, if ya ask me.”

“I only got two bullets in this gun, Marcus, so if you don’t mind I’d appreciate it if you go on downstairs and let my boys kill you.” The suggestion makes perfect sense to Marcus so he stands up, dusts off his gray frock coat, and heads down the tower to be beheaded or scalped or shot or a combination of the three. “Well, Jacob, I guess this is it.”

Jacob begins to say something, explain himself or apologize or something, but before two words get out he has a bullet lodged squarely between his eyes. He’s on the floor in less than a second.

Esau kicks him over to make sure he’s dead. Sometimes you can’t tell – he’s seen guys shot in the head, heart, and lungs that all came back from it. Satisfied with his kill he turns his gun on himself. “I told you I’d get him, Margaret. I told you he couldn’t hide from me. I told you I’d follow him anywheres. And I told you I’d come and see you as soon as I was done.”

Esau pulls the trigger. The sound of the gunshot is buried amongst revenge and victory.

Out Bible 'em

2009-05-26T23:15:00.005-05:00

The anti-gay marriage squad really have four verses they rely on as proof that God totally hates the gays. These verses are:

Lev. 18:22, "You shall not lie with a male as one lies with a female; it is an abomination."

Lev. 20:13, "If there is a man who lies with a male as those who lie with a woman, both of them have committed a detestable act; they shall surely be put to death. Their blood guiltness is upon them"

For starters - Leviticus is a total fucking joke in the bible world. Leviticus is the Old Testament's version of that crazy homeless guy in your neighborhood who screams shit at the top of his lungs while listening to a Sony Walkman. I'm pretty sure breathing is an abomination in Leviticus so, you know, good luck with that shit. And then we have good 'ole Paul:

1 Cor. 6:9-10, "Or do you not know that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived; neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor homosexuals, nor thieves, nor the covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor swindlers, shall inherit the kingdom of God."

Rom. 1:26-28, "For this reason God gave them over to degrading passions; for their women exchanged the natural function for that which is unnatural, and in the same way also the men abandoned the natural function of the woman and burned in their desire toward one another, men with men committing indecent acts and receiving in their own persons the due penalty of their error. And just as they did not see fit to acknowledge God any longer, God gave them over to a depraved mind, to do those things which are not proper."

And that's all they got. Out of thousands of pages a handful of sentences that somehow translate to ZOMG JESUS HATES FAGS YOU FUCKING FAG NO YOU CAN'T MARRY!!!111

Prop-8: The Musical tried to pick apart the Leviticus quotes and more power to them but, end of the day, no Christian of Moral Stature gives a shit about Leviticus. It's Paul, baby. Paul and Revelations - that's what a Good Christian cares about. So let's go to Paul, and see how we can out-bible these cunts. Here are some God Approved lines you can use to counter the bible-thumpers - and they're all from Paul's first letter to the Corinthians!

1 Cor. 7:1, "Now for the matters you wrote about: It is good for a man not to marry."

1 Cor. 7:8, "Now to the unmarried and the widows I say: It is good for them to stay unmarried, as I am."

1 Cor. 7:25-28, "Now about virgins: I have no command from the Lord, but I give a judgment as one who by the Lord's mercy is trustworthy. Because of the present crisis, I think that it is good for you to remain as you are. Are you married? Do not seek a divorce. Are you unmarried? Do not look for a wife. But if you do marry, you have not sinned; and if a virgin marries, she has not sinned. But those who marry will face many troubles in this life, and I want to spare you this."

11 Cor. 7:32-35, "I would like you to be free from concern. An unmarried man is concerned about the Lord's affairs—how he can please the Lord. But a married man is concerned about the affairs of this world—how he can please his wife— and his interests are divided. An unmarried woman or virgin is concerned about the Lord's affairs: Her aim is to be devoted to the Lord in both body and spirit. But a married woman is concerned about the affairs of this world—how she can please her husband. I am saying this for your own good, not to restrict you, but that you may live in a right way in undivided devotion to the Lord."

Here's the truth, kids. Paul hedges the SHIT out of his bets. Paul honest-to-God woke up everyday and thought that Jesus was going to come back YESTERDAY and KILL HIM so, you know, you might as well not do anything that could in any way be moderately offensive to God. INCLUDING MARRIAGE OF ANY KIND. So, if you want to be so true to Paul, you probably shouldn't have gotten married in the first place. Man-man, woman-woman, man-woman, man-dog, whatevs - all marriage is KIND OF FUCKED UP.

And then there's the issue of who really wrote the letters from Paul, whether it was actually Paul or Paul just signed off on letters drafted from his mission. The tone and advice varies wildly from letter to letter and who knows if the homosexual stuffs was just an edit from a self-hating closeted homosexual. The two quotes these nutcases use could be the equivalent of a $148,950 earmark for the Montana Sheep Institute. Of course, that argument would never win because it uses LOGIC.

So out bible them. Now go forth and preach the gospel.

Flashing: Taking a Week Off

2009-05-26T23:01:00.002-05:00

Has to be done - fell too far behind. Between work, a wedding in ten days, and some other writing projects I'm trying to get started something had to give and it's going to be the thing I'm not getting paid for. I have a story in the can and I'll just get a week's head start for next week, especially since it'll be incredibly difficult to write and publish during the Honeymoon.

I'll still post some stuff here this week - just not Flashing. If you want to use this time to catch up on past Flashing stories, head on over to the main page.

Flashing #45: Cheerleading Cheers

2009-05-22T23:53:00.000-05:00

I'm hoping I can get back on a proper schedule with these starting tomorrow...we'll see.

_________________________

Hey, Hey, Hey
Are you ready (clap, clap)
To fly (clap)
Across the sea (clap, clap)
The sea (clap)
We’re up in the sky
Get a beer, say bye bye
Go beer!

You checked out all the sites
You climbed to great heights
But you can’t stay up no more
You got to sleep you got to snore
You got to sleep
(Who me?)
You got to sleep
(Not me?)
You better get some sleep
Go lay down and count some sheep
Bah, bah, bah, bah, bah – Go Sleep!

Oh snap!
(What’s that?)
Snap attack!
(What what?)
The alarm didn’t wake me up
(You’re well rested so what’sup?)
I missed the whole night
(Well go out and make this right)
I don’t know where to go
(Follow that bus, it seems to know)
Techno bus
(Techno bus)
Go bus!

What a night
We’re number one
We drank our beer
We had some fun
We had some laughs
We fit right in
We charmed ‘em all
We got the win

Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh, uh, uh-oh
We went back out, to chill
But there wasn’t, no thrill
We saw our friends they were our foes
They turned on us we said, “Uh-oh”
Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh, uh, uh-oh

I called you up
(Hello)
To say what’s up.
(Don’t know)
You sounded good
(That’s true)
As you should
(My boo)
I said I loved you
You know it’s true
Let’s get married
And start a crew
Sounds good to me
Sound good to you?
(I think we’ll be
A happy two)

Flasahing #44: Supernatural Romance (sort of)

2009-05-21T22:28:00.004-05:00

Hah - this is why you don't try to write romance when you're all depressed and pissed off - because it comes out really, really sleazy. Oh well.

I tried to catch a Time Traveler's Wife vibe but lay it down on some sappy super natrual romance story inspired by the original memoir (somehow) but the end result was kind of delightfully creepy. I honestly dig it and I hope you do to...

More Flashing at the main page.

___________________________

May 22^nd, 2008

The waiter reserved the usual table for us. I pocket my wedding band and take a seat facing the door, waiting for her to enter. I fumble with the sugar packets and drop a fork on the floor, these minutes are always the longest – they’re what cause my gray hairs, I imagine. The years go by so fast, life is stressful day-to-day, and it’s always these couple of minutes - it’s always waiting in this restaurant - that ages me.

But she enters and it’s worth the gray and the blood pressure. No-one notices her, not in the way I notice her at least. She floats to the table. She has bags under her eyes and her skin is paler than in previous years. She doesn’t say a word, she sits down at the table and opens her menu and pretends to decide between the fish and the chicken when we both know she’s going to get the chicken.

She’s as predictable as she was thirty years ago.

May 22^nd, 1979

“I’ll have the chicken,” she says to the waiter “Oh wait – is it white meat?”

The waiter doesn’t speak a word of English and he just kind of nods and she smiles and he walks back to the kitchen to place our order. I’m almost positive the chicken will be dark meat but there’s really no point in bringing that up; there are more important things to do. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she says. Before I can answer she’s halfway across the room and I use this opportunity to take the ring box out of my pocket and place it near her table setting.

It takes her several minutes to notice the box – the entire time I’m thinking that I should have done this more traditionally. Got down on my knee, made a scene. My current plan is probably going to confuse her rather than help make lasting memories.

May 22^nd, 2003

She looks down at the ring box and sighs. “I want you to let me go.”

May 22^nd, 1981

She pauses as she reaches for the box. She looks around the restaurant and looks at me and says, “Woah. Déjà vu.”

May 22^nd, 2005

She opens the ring box and tries to smile. “You know,” she says through gritted teeth, “I never really liked this ring.”

May 22^nd, 1979

“Yes.” He eyes well up with tears. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

May 22^nd, 1988

“Yes?” She says. It’s not meant to be a question but she seems out of sorts on the whole. She can’t stop staring at me. When she first walked in, she said I looked old. I’ll have to be sure to dye my hair next year.

May 22^nd, 2006

She nods a yes. She can’t even look into my eyes. We eat our food in silence.

After dinner we walk to a wine bar at the base of the bridge. In the past we had well over a bottle each and laughed and toasted and rested hands on breasts and backs and shoulders. This time we each order a glass, knowing full well that’s all we’ll drink. People sitting at the café give us disapproving looks. I can’t say that I blame them. I’m old enough to be her father, after all.

May 22^nd, 1981

I lay my arm across her bare stomach and I can’t believe this is happening again. I kiss her neck and she says, “Not now – I need sleep – too much wine, wine wine…” her voice drifts off. I pull her body to mine and resolve to stay awake – I’m not going to let her leave me this time.

May 22^nd, 1996

“Wait – what’s that?” I forgot my wedding band. It’s ok, she’ll forget about it next year. She forgets every year.

“Just go to sleep.”

“Why are you wearing a wedding band? What’s going on?” She’s been suspicious all night.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, just go to sleep.”

"Something’s not right.”

“Just go to sleep.”

May 22^nd, 1984

I can’t stop looking at her. It’s been five years of this routine and I still can’t believe she’s with me right now.

May 22^nd, 2009

“Don’t come back next year. Please.”

All I have these days is this one moment when she walks into the restaurant. For that one moment it’s 1979 and she’s 27 again. But as soon as she sees me, sees how old I’ve become, the past thirty years come back to her in some way. She knows something’s wrong even though she doesn’t know the details. She knows I’m married to someone else. She knows she only exists on these evenings and she feels like I’m the one that’s stopping her from moving on. We go through our motions. We order our meals and I propose and we fake celebrate and we drink our wine and we make love and we go to sleep. And, at the end of the evening, she’s gone again.

And I go back to the states and kiss my wife and tell her the business trip was fine and take my kids to school and go to work and patiently wait for the next May 22^nd.

“I won’t come back. I promise.”

It already seems like an impossible promise.

May 23rd, 1980

She’s gone. I had my arms around her and we fell asleep and she’s gone. It’s like she’s died all over again. I’ll be back next year to see if she comes back to me one more time.

May 23^rd, 1979

At breakfast she turns to me and says, “We should do this every year.” I agree.

May 23^rd, 2010

I return from my trip. My wife picks me up at the airport. She asks how it went and I say, “Same as every year.” I promise myself this will be the last time.