Death of the Author

A team of investigators arrived at the scene, Polaroid cameras and airtight evidence baglets in hand. They split up, two men on the left and the woman on the right. One man snapped pictures, leaning closely over the body.

The coroner poked one cold arm. "She's in near-perfect condition."

"Like the court will care about that." The man with the camera rolled his eyes.

"Hey now, she's of some worth." The woman carefully gathered samples with gloves fitted tightly around her hands.

"Ha, they only care what they can get out of her. She's not really even evidence. It's the samples and pictures they want." The camera man leaned over the body's head, snapping close ups of the untouched face.

"What killed her?" The woman paused to glance at the coroner.

"Oh, well, it looks like she served her purpose. The publisher had no further use of her, so they must have poisoned her water supply. But that's just a preliminary guess."

"They do that?" The woman failed to resume, her jaw dropping an inch. "That's...a lot of dead authors."

"Oh, she'll wake up sooner or later. The jury will need a book out of her." The camera man stood up, finished with gathering pictures.

The Story to End All Stories

We started up Humbug Crick early that day, our rigs and crummies growling before we were halfway up Butte Road. It was an old logging road; Ben never been on it before, and neither had Johnny. That didn't stop us, as we climbed out with our saws and our axes hanging from our shoulders. Our crew piled out behind, ripping and roaring to drown out the sounds of the woods. Johnny heard a hum, or maybe a buzz that seemed to come from the sun itself.

We worked all morning, only breaking for lunch by the rig. Pulling out our coffee, we heard the drone crescendo until it got in the way of our conversation. Chuck stood up first, and left his lunch behind. No flies went after it. Walking a little up a ways, Chuck stopped in front of a large rock.

"Hey guys! It's louder over 'ere!"

Eventually the rest of us made our way over there. Ben was the first to climb the rock to find whatever made that crazy noise. When he saw it he nearly fell off the back of the rock.

"What is it?" Johnny asked, scratching his arm.

Chuck stood up a little straighter and climbed down the other side. "I'm gonna find out."

The rest of us waited until we heard a loud squeal and the sound of human bones being sawed in half. We didn't wait to find out what did ended Chuck Reister. Ben thinks its a bear. Johnny thinks a cougar. Dan thought it was an alien, but no one listens to him anyway.

Burden of Truth

He carried his burden on his back.
She carried it over her body.
Every bruise begged for candy,
every word called for geese.
Each misplaced fold told a story,
the day her man lost his job.
Each wrinkle of hers whispered
of the times he'd been rejected.
"Sorry, hon' I've been havin' a hard time"
She ate his apologies for dessert.

Mr. Anonymous's Wonderful Franchise

May I borrow your face?

May I wear it over mine like a mask?

May I masquerade with your wardrobe,

and shake hands with your favorite clients?

May I borrow a piece of your voice,

and store it in a bottle,

and drink it in,

and vomit out your words like they were mine to begin with?

May I?

Could I?

Can I?

Will I?

Hey you, move.

Get out of my way. In fact, you should get out my way quick. I really can't stand you.

I can't stand your blue eyes, blue as the water in the pool you lifeguard every day. I especially can't stand the shape of your legs, but I'd hate them even if you let yourself go. So don't.

I want you to quit. I want you to leave without giving your notice. You're possibly the worst person I've ever worked with. But if you do quit, I'm afraid I'll have to make you quit your next job so our boss could hire you back. I'd miss you.

Seriously though, move. I've have work to do.

Grave Diggers

Each of the four buttons beeped as he punched in his code. The machine spit out a receipt with a squeak. It read Employee #5, clocked in 5:00 p.m. He stuffed the receipt in his apron, and adjusted his blue baseball cap as he headed to the sink. Squeezing some soap onto his hands he scrubbed for ten seconds, and then washed for them for ten.  Within another half a minute he stood behind the fountain machines, clipboard in hand.

“Susie! You’re doing outside trashes.” “Carl! You have drains.” “Mike! You have windows.” “Louise, you have menu houses.” In a more mumbled voice, Bill glanced down and read. “And I have everything else.”

As the proud team-leader he was, Bill headed over to the drive-thru window, drawing the envy of all his fellow employees. He put on his headset with a flourish. Bill snapped to attention when he heard a faint beep, followed by the rumble of a customer’s engine. “Welcome to Burger Princess!”

“Uh yes. I’d like the Happy Cow Shake with a Fat-Cow Burger.

“Would you like some mad potato fries with that sir?”

“Uh…sure.”

 Bill grinned. Only one more suggested sale and he would break his personal record. He already left his fellow employees in the dust weeks ago. Soon enough that manager would notice him. Soon enough he’d have his promotion to manager-in-training. No one would laugh at him then. Deftly he punched in each piece of the order, then read it off. “One Happy Cow Shake, one Fat-Cow Burger, and one Mad Potato fry. Would you like to super-size that order?"

“Sure….” The customer paused.

Sweat trickled down Bill’s jaw. “Sir?”

The customer replied, “I think I forgot my wallet. Sorry. I’ll be back later.” He drove off.

Unfortunately, the customer also forgot to come back.

When Bill went on his break, he went to the lockers with his head hanging. He towed each foot to one of the empty folding chairs, and collapsed in it. Bill ignored the looks of the other employee on break. Pulling off his baseball cap, he stared at the logo. Could Bill possibly move on? Would he have to quit this lousy job and get one that actually paid his rent? What would his father think? The very father who owned the franchise wouldn’t necessarily get angry over this…but he would be severely disappointed.

Mr. Manager

Mr. Manager raises dreams,

Then kills them with detergent mixed

with capitalistic greed.

It doesn't taste like cherry syrup,

Or blue coconut.

Rather it tastes like greenish-whiteish tomatoes

On a burnt cheeseburger,

That's 30 seconds late.