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Archive for the ‘Fantasy/Scifi’ Category


people windy picnic

Every morning my obnoxious alarm goes off. Blinded by daylight, I slap it a couple of times and stumble to the kitchen. I stand in front of the open refrigerator door, drink milk straight from the carton, and grab a hard boiled egg.

I love cold hard boiled eggs so I makeĀ them on Sunday afternoon and put them in a container ready for the week. It adds to my mindless routine. I love mindless in the morning.

But one day it was different. Saturday morning, my siblings decided to get together. Early. Really early. They know I don’t do early, especially not on Saturday. Early Saturday in Deidra time means I’ll be 2 hours late. Whatever time you set.

To help me with this, they decided to meet at my house and for my convenience, they let themselves in. They’re really thoughtful that way.

An issue arose during the early morning gathering which has forced me to issue the following warning.

To the person who replaced my boiled egg with a frozen egg,

I’m narrowing the suspect pool. The noose is tightening. Feel my breath on the back of your neck as I close in. In the words of the immortal wicked witch of Oz.

“I will get you and your little dog too.”

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5 (2)

Cheese should be service room temperature. I learned that is France. I just took the cheese out of the frig, so I’m sitting on it trying to warm it up with the bun power. See, I am a super hero with super buns.

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109

Jim was a nuclear physicist, a brilliant man. Much to his own detriment, he didn’t know when to stop thinking.

He had been through a series of interviews. The job was basically his. All he had to do was pass a drug screening. I don’t know if they said drug test or not. I’m assuming not, they must have been vague.

The company had an on-site clinic where the test was performed.

So, Jim comes toddling in. The tech hands him a cup and tells him to return the sample to her desk.

Does Jim think “They want to see if I use drugs.”?

No.

He thinks “It’s a nuclear facility. They want to take a baseline reading now so they can measure the affects of potential radiation exposure over time.”

So instead of urine, he gives them a sperm sample. He is still trying to figure out why he didn’t get the job.

Can you imagine the technician’s reaction when a cup of sperm lands on her desk?

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I woke this morning from a dream turned nightmare. It starts colorful and bright, euphoric and exciting.

I’m carrying my baby so beautiful no one can take their eyes from her. Her face shines up at me from my arms as I walk through the store, showing her everything and she taking it all in.

A knowing look from a familiar face catches my eye. The world is illusion, replaced by reality. The bundle of joy in my arms turns to a wad of filthy rags. There is no baby and there never has been.

The world turns grey and dark, sharp and hard. I feel their eyes on me, like pawing hands pulling me apart seeing everything I really am. Most look on horrified or disgusted, a few pity me. I want to disappear, to cease to exist. But I don’t. I’m on display, my crazy rantings are on display.

Hands are gently pushing me towards the doors.

My sister come rescuer whispers, “Everything will be okay.”

I feel reality so sharp, my body is bleeding from cuts no one can see. I’m covered and cannot move without wanting to cry out. But I don’t, the pain of humiliation is too great. I keep silent.

I woke this morning from a dream turned nightmare. I don’t know where it came from. I tell myself I’ve never had delusions. At least I don’t think I have.

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cutting apple

I wish I was a food designer. I’m sure they’re out there. People paid to come up with flavors of things like chips, jelly beans and protein bars.

I think a girl named Twig makes all the protein bar flavors. They all come in some kind of animal feed flavor – oats, wheat, or rice (crispy’s) and sugar.

Sure these things are good for a day or two and then they begin to wear on me. Fruit and grain, fruit and grain, day after day. Sure they throw in a few nuts every now and then, but it’s the same basic taste.

With my flavors I could open a “Protein Bar” Bar. So this is me ordering in my Protein Bar Bar.

“I’ll have the Chicken Fried Steak and Gravy Protein Bar, a side of Shrimp Fried Rice Protein Bar and a Margarita Protein Bar. Oh what the heck give me two Margarita Protein Bars. I’m not driving tonight.”

The waiter would chuckle and say, “Excellent choice, Madam.”

My sister would say, “Do you have the Lobster Dipped in Butter Protein Bar on the kids’ menu? I’m not very hungry. Can I substitute a Martini Protein Bar for the drink?”

I would roll my eyes behind her back and the waiter would chuckle again.

When he left I would say, “You know they have a special key on that computer that says “Spit in the Food” protein bar and he just used it on your order.”

She’d squawk, “No they don’t,” but she would closely inspect her food.

She thinks I don’t notice, but I do.

After she devours her little, tiny meal, she’d want a bite of mine which in reality would be half my food.

When I’m sick, I would have a Chicken Pot Pie Protein Bar and think about my Grandma.

And sometimes late at night when no one’s looking, I would have 4 or 5 Chocolate, Chocolate Truffle Ice Cream Protein Bars and maybe 2 or 3 Turtle Cheese Cake Protein Bars. The next day I would pretend I didn’t know who ate them.

Yeah, my protein bars would be like meals at the Jetson’s.

(This story does not in anyway reflect the things I might or might not do in reality. As for my sister who thinks your friends might see this and think it’s about you, you might want to consider why.)

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99nnbI love paper – old books, pretty patterns, and foreign magazines. I rescue broken books and posters from the garbage heap. And then they’re all just here and I don’t do anything with them. Tonight I have the urge to rip them all apart; keep the best parts; shuffle them around; and bind them back together, making something different.

It’s this souped up hyper feeling and all I can think about is tearing into these books. It’s an itch you can’t scratch. Why can’t I get some obsessive urge to do something positive? Will I spend the next three days ripping up books to find myself surrounded by piles of paper?

Already I know this feeling will be followed by a round of anxiety and then exhausted depression. That part I’m afraid of. If I knew I would wind up with something; a great novel, a painting, or some break through research, I would plunge ahead, depression be damned.

Maybe just tonight under the cover of darkness I’ll free some pages from their old bindings. I’ll take my medicine and in the morning I’ll try to redirect myself in a positive direction.

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magic cat

I have an idea for a story where the voice of the universe talks to a guy through his toilet. So what kind of guy would hear voices from the toilet —

I’m sitting here waiting in a cafe because the voice of the universe spoke to me through my toilet. I know, it sounds crazy.

My name? Now that’s a story. My father was a hippie. My mother was Native American, Comanche actually. When my mother was pregnant with me, they went to the medicine woman, who told them they must name me after the place where I would be born.

They planned to be in Phoenix, Arizona when I was born. I was going to be named Phoenix Arizona, kinda cool. Instead, when my Mom was seven months pregnant, they decided to go to a peace march in Washington. I was born in Washington, DC. So my name? It’s District of Columbia, District of Columbia Campbell or DC for short.

I’d like to think my parents were dropping acid, smoking a little too much ganja, or at least on a three day bender, butĀ  they say they were high on love.

She also told them I was twins, girls, but they didn’t think to ignore her just because she was wrong on number and sex. No, they followed her instructions to a T. I’d like to kick the ass of a medicine woman about now.

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389

Could this be the future?

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green jewel

Shapeless lumps of teeth and flesh surround me, clawing and biting at my arms. Their talons are careful not to tear the green, Grecian gown I wear. Together we rise slowly from the pit.

A great flash of light.

I drop to a crouch, hugging my knees to my chest. The creatures ignite falling in columns of ash around me.

I wake to blazing lights cutting across the sky, punctuated by a barrage of thunder. The storm rages outside and I am sweat drenched in bed.

If I could paint the images in my head. The cavernous hall, filled with sights and words I cannot banish. I try to chase the ravens from my window sill, but they always return wanting more.

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horse forest

(I know it’s not a flying horse. Use your imagination.)

Instead of falling asleep last night, I was wondering if Pegasus was a flying horse. As in the only flying horse or a species of flying horses. I pondered that for quite a while before thinking, “God should have made some of those”.

If there were flying horses, would anyone have bothered to invent airplanes or would they have just been off flying around on their horses?

Would I have flown to Baltimore on my horse this week? And what kind of apparel would we need for horse flying? My outfit would have been red, linen, matching the trim on my flying horses saddle and the ribbons braided in his hair. Yeah with white pompoms on his wing covers. (It was raining, so yeah I said wing covers.)

Would there be horse flying sports and recreations? Would hotels have flying horse stables?

That’s about the time I realized one of us didn’t take our medication to stop obsessive thoughts. No wonder one of us wasn’t falling asleep.

P.S. I had an anxiety attack on the airplane and was nauseous all day long. I bet I wouldn’t have been anxious riding my flying horse.

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