Friday, June 28, 2013

Mermaid (not a musical)

Mermaid breast (artist rendering)
(source)
She woke up feeling her lungs drawing-in yet another mouthful of water. As the liquid went down her windpipe, she started panicking. Coughing did nothing but cause more water to flood-in. Swimming for the surface was out of the question, the reef she was lying upon was probably 30 meters deep.

A couple of startled heartbeats later, she came back to her senses. She screamed. Shouting wouldn't reach far, what with all the water around. She didn't care, that much joy couldn't stay in. "Viix you idiot! Mermaids don't drown!"

After stretching her arms and tail, Viix darted up, leaving behind a flourish of bubble, rolling and looping in the stream.

Finally, she'd made it. She was a Mermaid.

Not that long ago, she would have spent yet another day repeatedly diving in her bathtub, face down, dreaming of corrals and current until she finally grasped for air, frustrated to choke on soapy water.
Not that long ago, she hadn't known what the sea was like.

Her parents, who had tremendous expectation about her career and very poor views upon social life, hobbies and other futilities,  had found her daily immersion useless. After all, she was sixteen years old already. Being able to hold her breath for 15 minutes straight wasn't going to get her any academic achievement. She used to answer that being named after a brand of cough drops didn't really help either. As a response, she would be sent in her room to derivate integrals. So was her daily life.

Then, one morning, she received an email.
"Mermaid wanted. No experience needed, internship available. Hydrophobics and manatees won't be considered"

A couple of parent-daughter fights later, she had passed the initial interview, been given a tail and assigned a place to sleep not too far from the coast.
That morning was her first morning. The tide was rising, bringing coiling cool currents around her body, while she kept on marveling about everything she saw.

"Viix!" A tiny, squeaky voice called.

"Viix! Come back down there! I can't swim like that! I swear I'm done with mermaids! It's always like that, they wake up, they take off, and you end up on all six, caught in the turbulences… come on that's not funny… VIIX!"

She turned around, barely hearing it. She couldn't see too far, the water was still rather dark and would be that way until later at noon. Swimming back down, she realized the vociferations were coming from a rather small crab.

- "Oops, I didn't see you there. You know my name?" She was giggling.
- "Of course I do! I'm your mentor! You think you can just put on a tail and go gambol in the big blue like it's sea world? NO!" The crab's eyes were protruding at the limit of their possibility, the left one occasionally flickering in what could have been a nervous tick.
- "Oh, yes, they did tell me at the interview. I have to go through an adaptation course or something, right?"
- "Right enough, right here, right now. My name is Fern, don't ask about the plants and I won't ask about cough syrup. Deal?"
- "Deal…" She wondered how a crab could know so much about the surface world. She took a pause to consider.
- "I know because I answered an email, okay? Like, you think all sea creatures are born like that?" Apparently, others had been asking.
- "And, we're going to have to do something about your grooming. You look like a sponge!"
- "What do you mean I…"
He didn't let her finish.
- "First, you can't go around showing your nipples to everybody like that. We'll find you some scallop shells. Then, you'll have to grow this hair. It's already bad enough that they're dark, but wearing them short is unacceptable. You're carrying a message here. Then… oh well, swimming around will take care of the extra weight anyway."

She didn't know how to react. She was still too happy to be outraged, but too surprised to keep on smiling.

"I think I get why you chose to be a crab. Although, being so irritating I'm surprised you chose to leave underwater"
- "Oh yeah? So you think I'd be better off somewhere else? Tell me what suits me then, I'm curious" He managed to look smug.
- "A crotch"

Fern stepped back and brought his dominant claw up, wide open.
After holding that position for a moment, he started laughing.

- "Good one. You've got some bite in there. I like that"

The atmosphere suddenly relaxed, Viix circled around Fern a couple of times and went on asking.

"Alright then, what's the program?"

- "We'll start with the scallops, if you don't mind. Then I'll show you around, while giving you a little briefing about the local customs, your assignments, and then...then we’ll see. If you mention crotches again I'll snap your nose off."
- "Alright sir" She managed to scoff out a bubble.

After finding appropriate shells and learning how to make them stick in the right position, she took the crab in her hand, letting him guide her further from the shore.
Wandering around, still bathing in the bliss of her new life, she though she was really going to enjoy her job. Only, every now and then, an unknown sensation seemed to poke at her. Something missing. She hadn’t been smoking, but she imagined that the urge to light a cigarette wasn’t far from what she was experiencing.

She was about to ask Fern when he started his introduction, forcing her to leave her question aside.

- "Look, you won't have to worry about many things here. Don't poke your head at the surface when there's a storm, that's rule number one. Then, try sleeping when rocks or crevices can prevent you from being dragged by the tide. At least for now. You want to wake up at the same place where you fell asleep.
As a mermaid, you're on the apex here. Not even sharks will bother. Just stay away from dolphins."
- "Dolphins? Aren't they supposed to be friendly to people?"
- "To people, yes. You're not people anymore. You're people plus scales. You don't wanna hang around them."
- "What would they do to me anyway?"
- "You know how they have the reputation to mate for fun?"
- "I've heard about it"
- "Yeah. It's true. Only they don't understand that consent thing"
- "Oh…"
- "But don't make a big deal out of it, I'll show you where they hang out… for now you'll be fine"
- “I got it… but wait. Why only Dolphins? Why should all the others give me a berth?”
- “Erh…” Fern looked pensive. “It’s particular to mermaids, you’ll find out later… by yourself.”

As Fern delivered his instructions, hours went by.
Viix particularly liked the part about her role. Surprisingly, fern had be very sensible about it, putting aside issues pertaining to appearance.
He told her about how she should be the emblem of  the seas, carrying the grace of the surf, the mysteries of the deep. She would follow his words in a glee, almost entranced by these concepts, the newness of if all.
Her, the teenage girl solving equations in her house down nowhere lane, dreaming her bathroom as an ocean…
She was where she belonged.
As the lesson went on, he sensed the change in her mood and stopped talking. He left the cradle of her hand to sit on a protruding rock, giving her time on her own, to glide around, enjoy the water and comprehend her environment better.

She was smiling when she came back to him.
- "Thanks for, Fern. I see you're not that bad after all. How long will you mentor me?"
- "You're a natural, it won't be long. But hey, I'll be around. I'm always glad to see a newbie enjoying the job."

Again, she felt the urge tug at the back of her mind,  harder than the first time.

She opened her mouth in another tentative to finally ask Fern, when she was interrupted by a low, deep, almost solid vibration.

Viix twirled around, confused, looking for the source of it.
- "What is this" she asked, getting slightly worried.
- "Owh, that's just a boat." He paused for a couple of seconds, then went on "Actually, that's a good time to get on with the next lesson. Grab me, please, and swim ahead of the boat until you've passed it. A couple hundred meters should do"

She complied, delighting in her ability to reach the required speed.

- "We're far enough now. Now, we're going up. You'll need to maintain yourself above the surface, say, from the waist up"

She ascended and erupted in a spray into the midday light. Water left her lungs to be replaced by the salty sea air. She found it surprising to be able to breathe outside.

She asked "So… what's should I do now"
- "You'll find out soon enough"

As she saw the boat slowly sailing toward them, details became clearer. It was a yacht. A couple was on the deck, enjoying a champagne in the sweltering noon heat. As she worked out their figures, outlined against a cloudless sky, she felt the unknown urge rising from her core.

- "Fern. I feel weird. What's that lesson about.
- "Well… you know that email you received… we write ‘mermaid’ because people relate better. But really, this is more of a Nereid thing, siren, if you will… let's just say it's lunch time."

As Viix  suddenly understood what that new feeling was all about, she thought she was definitely going to enjoy her job.

She started singing.

Fin

Note: This story was written based on a request from my friend Chanel. Hi there!

More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page


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Mermaid (Not A Musical) by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.


Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Chapter 4 -End - Corpse Whisperer

Corpse Whisperer: Chapter 3.
All chapters here.

G
rass spirit was the kind of alcohol that gave you a hangover just by looking at it. Grass spirit was a drink that had hangovers at you.

"Look, Tronton, I'm sorry my lad, but I need to look for it later tonight. I've lost it again and this time it can very well be permanent."
Norman gave a startled look, then enquired "Have you stared?"
- "For the best of the afternoon, yes"
- "Have you looked in the kitchen? Missing chairs?"
- "None"
- "You, sir, need a drink".

The answer hung in the air before going through his lips. He didn't feel like going home for a second round of searching. He didn't feel like spending a restless night thinking about it, and most of all, he didn't feel like being sober.
"I think you're right."

- "Have a sip then, and don't spill will ya? It kills the lawn if you spill and I have a hell of a time growing it back."
He quaffed the content of both cups, in a row, almost snatching them from Norman's hands. The liquid tasted obviously grassy, somewhat piquant, and in the same time had a sort of dull , warm presence. It tasted like a bee sting at the base of your neck.

At the temporary cost of several dozens IQ points, he immediately felt better. "Boy, isn't this a most needed slap in the face of an exhausting, belaboring day!" was how he thought he expressed his gratitude. To everybody else, it sounded like "Wharbl". Instant drunkenness had struck.

Henri looked at him with an annoyed expression.
"I limp, you lurch. How's that for you?"
- "You're jsut jaeluos beacuse yuo gonna ooze out if you drnik taht"
- "Yes, so there this is low"
- "Adn you're bieng all Fnrech agian!"
- "And you're being dyslexic!"
- "And yuo, yuo are daed!"

Tronton, suddenly feeling several time zones away, decided to leave that place where everybody spoke in tongues and went on opening the gate as a sign that everyone should call it a day.

The pair left, staggering and bickering so eagerly that the distance home was covered in no time.

Arrived at destination, they unlocked the apartment's door and, too absorbed by their discussion, went directly inside without disarming the door's spring trap.
A short pang of noise exploded in the air,  a crossbow bolt surged from the end of the room, pinning their dispute right off their mouths, straight into the opposing wall.
The bolt kept vibrating for a while under their nonplussed gaze.

- "I think we'll leave it at that" Henri opined.
- "Brilliant idea. I'm suddenly a lot more sober"
- "I would say, slightly more sober, you're still lurching"
- "Whatever, let's get inside and look for it, I won't have dinner before I've found it."
- "As you wish." Henri pause for a split second. "Hey, do you remember that time when we made it come back with some loose change? Maybe it could work?"
- "Ha! Yes!" he almost shouted, brightened, while almost instantly reaching for coins in his trousers pockets.
His fingers burrowed down.
He was expecting the greasy, cold feeling of spare change, but instead he came in contact with a very familiar shape.
He couldn't believe what he had found.

- "Henri! That's it! In my pocket, I've found it!"
- "You mean you had it with you all along?" Henri asked, baffled.
- "No, of course not. It must have gone to the Somehow Dimension. You know how object lost there tend to reappear when alcohol is involved? Problem solved."

He raised it to eye level, a content smile on his face. He would be able to sleep tonight, and tomorrow would be an easy day at work. Hell, the whole week would be easier. He'd got it!

Glowing with joy, breathing deeply with relief, he entered his bedroom to store it in his closet. In a tighter box, this time. Where it would be safe, still, and waiting there for further use. No more losing it, no more wandering.

He opened the closet's door, still holding it… then he lost his grip.

He had pulled it out of his pocket in a rather clumsy way, and hadn't been holding it firmly enough. It slipped through his fingers, starting its inevitable course toward the floor.
It wasn't fragile, trying to crush or squeeze it would never damage it.
It was, though, very unstable. In the way of some very capricious chemicals.
The ones that have their very own deflagration scale.

A drop from more than a half a meter would definitely make it burst. And probably the whole building with it.

He had not time to react. It was over in a blink. Everything went noisy, then white, then black…
…then Henri, upside down, his face in a dubious close up.

- "I'm about to spit out a cliché about this being heaven and you being a very ugly angel…"
- "Oh, but not at all, chief. This is earth. You've been, hm, asleep for a little while"
- "How long?"
The disembodied voice of Norman Tronton spoke from somewhere above him. "Around two weeks I'd say, sir. Long-ish, if you ask me. But then you don't look too bad."
- "Tronton where are you? I can't see a thing but Henri's face!"
- "I'm above, sir. I didn't close your box, or your hole. We bet, Henri and I that you'd come back. Seems that he won."
- "Come back from where? What hole, what box?" He was disoriented, his brain only marginally faster than a narcoleptic slug.
- "Sir… half your building's turned to dust, all the windows in the block got shattered by the blast. You didn't think you'd survive that, did you?"
- "So, you're trying to tell me that I've turned into one of my clients? How are Henri and I not some splatters and a plume of smoke then?"
- "Somehow, we didn't get dismembered" Henri replied with a wide, yellow grin, giving a strong inflection to the word "somehow".
- "Owh we're lucky bastards aren't we" His tone was joyless.

The Somehow Dimension had still been open in his pocket, and had sucked them both in, to let them come out at a random place and time. Just like a couple of almost empty lighters at the end of a party.
It was a poor consolation; If the whole transition had prevented them from being quite literally all over the place, the explosion had still killed him.
And now he was back. He fell silent.

"Where did we reappear?" he asked after a moment, in an almost disinterested tone.
- "A couple of streets away, two weeks ago, we popped through a man-hole. I brought you here. A jar of war pickles made it, too. Useless to say they threw a fit."
- "Ah well… let them. They'll calm down eventually…" his words trailed off.

Henri and Norman's voices faded into the background. He was slowly realizing what had happened to him. He was at the bottom of his own grave, for the excellent reason that he was legally dead. After years and years interacting with awakened corpses, he had become one. Poetic injustice were the words he would have chosen.

But at the moment he didn't feel like talking.
After all, he had been diligently working for most of his adult life, and now that he was dead, he had the right to feel like doing nothing at all, and do it well.
Maybe, at some point, he'd become a picketer, a marketer or, who knew, a necrologist again. But that was for later.

He let out a yawn. Now was time for some long, long holidays.



FIN.

This is it... bonus material and more info about the Corpse Whisperer 
here.

More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page

Friday, June 21, 2013

Chapter 3 - Corpse Whisperer


Corpse Whisperer: Chapter 3.
All chapters here.

Her death had occurred since a maximum of two days, leaving her skin several shades of grey but none darker. Her hair was still fixed on her scalp and so far she'd only lost the nails attached to the fingers cut off during her fatal car accident. There was a slight depression on the left side of her torso, but she was still nimble and didn't limp.

"The limps is for posers" she said, as she noticed him looking at her ankles.
- "In a couple of month, when your foot falls off, feel free to call Henri and tell him about it."
- "Who's Henri?"
- "My corpse helper, the one with a limp"
- "He's lost a foot?"
- "No, he's a poser and that would teach him a lesson. Now, I wanna know why you've been giving Norman such a hard time, and I wanna know why you'd skip the 4 p.m. appointment he took for you." Is wasn't a question as much as an order.
- "To piss you off, livestock."
He gave her an even look. "Two days on the field and already picking up bad habits. I'd watch your mouth with soap if I weren't afraid to melt it"
- "Bad habits? I remember my mom dragging me out of my bed by my ankles to get me ready for school. That's a bad habit. Just like you're trying to drag us out the grave to send us work in factories."

He wondered whether she was that fast a learner or if she had actually practiced being dead just in case. Then again, runners were graveyard bullies, naturally bad tempered. He'd have to play the game to the end.

"Nobody said anything about factories. You could very well become a companion corpse. Or even a lawyer, nobody would notice"
- "And we could all find our place and work days-in days-out for the greater good" she said in a sing-song tone.
- "And it would be perfect." he replied, in tune.
- "And we'd never get any rest".
He snickered. "Tell me, if you stay under your tomb until you turn to dust, what are you resting from?"
- "Life!" She sounded as if he'd overlooked the obvious.
- "Tell me, how do you feel when you're not picketing?"
- "Bored, why?" While she seemed to have taken the bait, after a moment considering the questions, she realized she was giving in.
"Look", she continued, aware of her mistake, "if the dead and the living mingle together, terrible things will happen. Have you never heard of the prophecy?"
This time his curiosity got genuinely aroused. That was something new.
"A prophecy?"
- "When life and death entwined in the flow of the day, will bring a new era despite of nature's way, Dur Shargath will descent upon the earthly realm and engulf all that's known and all that is unseen. Really? Never heard of that?"

Henri, who'd been listening in the distance, busy with head-aching protesters, burst out into the most honest -yet slightly maniacal -  laughter he'd ever heard.
"I've seen creative ones, lady, but you beat them all" Henri shouted, half choked.
-"Thanks, really, thanks for ruining it! And I thought I had him!" she retorted, furious.
On his knees, half gagged by his own giggling hiccups, he managed to add "I can't more… ah! A prophecy… what's next? Vampires?"
-"How did you know?!" She was fulminating. Henri was literally rolling on the ground, muffling his voice in his sleeves.

"I guess I'd file this one with the last two doomsdays and my discarded rapture cards then. You almost got me interested though."
He was smiling, knowing that sarcasm was more helpful against a militant live-again than a sharpened shovel.
"Look, I can even see a bright career for you: you could be a marketer."
- "I could?"
- "Well, you use slogans, fear, and an outstanding sense of hyperbole to pass your point across, it's that or politics"
- "You're being nasty for the sake of it."
- "No, I'm just trying to help. You're wasting your time here. Think of all the things you could have done during the last 48 hours."
She paused to gather her thoughts. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I have a talent in death I didn't have while alive." She was visibly brightening.
- "Dying does that. You have less things to care about, so you can focus on what you really like. Beats sitting in a wooden box."
- "I'd never seen it like that. It's true, I can do whatever I want now! Oh I'm so glad I wasn't cremated!"
She ran away, smiling.

Henri was still recovering from his mirth attack when he was helped back on his feet by his smiling comrade.
"Either runners are getting dumber, or I'm getting better at this job. That one was fairly easy".
- "Runners are getting slow, sir. It's the limp."
- "Henri, you're going to receive a phone call one day, and then I'll chop off your foot and chain it to a tree so it doesn't come back"
- "I am afraid I am not entirely following you, sir."
- "It's the limp."
They locked their gaze on each other and Henri started to growl.
- "You growled first, you lose, tonight beer is on you."
- "Strumpet of brothel! Again!"
- "That's my job, Henri. I am paid to make your kind do things"
Realizing his last sentence sounded wronger than a pit-bull in a kindergarten, he sighted and, eyebrow raised, waved a hand to signal the retreat.

Norman caught them at the gate, bringing grass alcohol with him, a cup in each hand and half a bottle in his stomach.
"Sir you can't leave just like that you can't! You've evicted the green lady and she made me ashamed and I couldn't look at meself and now I feel so relieved you oughta drink and celebrate with ol' mister gravekeeper and a jug of greener!”


Realizing ethanol had melted nearly all punctuation out of Norman’s speech, they looked at each other and though at unison that drinking that particular beverage was definitely a bad idea.


FINAL CHAPTER HERE

More about the Corpse Whisperer here.

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Corpse Whisperer: Chapter 3 by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Chapter 2 - Corpse Whisperer


Corpse Whisperer: Chapter 2.
All chapters here.


He came out of his daydreaming as they came near the graveyard.
His heart was laced with the acid adrenalin spike caused by the morning events. Nothing could distract him long enough to dislodge that one fact from his thoughts: he'd lost it, again.
And the pickles were mad, to the boot…
Maybe the place, familiar and, in a very literal sense, prone to resting, would offer a more peaceful environment to help his mind focus on something else.
It was immense.
People who where new to the town would always wonder how such a huge necropolis could have formed. The truth was hidden in history: several small villages had held the terrain as a the "common boneyard" for centuries. It had not been a problem until the tenants started complaining of leaks, and men who could handle a growing population of complaining revenants were suddenly needed.

Men like Norman Tronton.

Norman was the local corpsekeeper. A tough job if there was one, which consisted not only in keeping the awakened deads steady, but also in preventing them from forming unions. If Necrologists were engineers, corpsekeepers were their much needed artisan counterpart.

Tronton was at the main gate as they arrived, warmly greeting them.
"Good morning Doctor!"
- "Good morning, Norman! So, how are they today?"
"Pretty quiet if you ask me, sir. I'm a bit surprised actually. 'tis the angry season alright but they're all euthanasic… aenestitic… asthenic, that's the word!"

"Do you think", he asked, "that there's a cause for it, or could it be some abnormal behavior?"
Norman's expression changed to a thoughtful frown.
- "What I think is that you're doing a mighty good job, sir. The more you come, the quieter they get. Honest,  now I'm wondering if they could go dead a second time".
- "Only if you chop their head off. Plus, they are still picketing  at sunset aren't they?"
- "This picket thing, that's their only past-time sir, they won't stop until they find something better to do. I reckon you won't be needing to chop, sir. And it's tougher than it looks, really."
- "I wouldn't doubt you opinion, Norman… Now, tell me, where's my 4 o'clock?"
- "Ah, yes. I wouldn't know sir."
He looked at Norman's complexion, going increasingly redder. Norman was a very tall man. The only feature equaling his height was his weight. Fat Norman, as the residents would creatively call him, was momentarily looking like a tomato about to burst out of shame.
That incident was a first. The misplacement of a tenant meant extraordinary circumstances; Norman liked could sometimes be a tad heavy on the bottle, but he was not the careless type.

- "It's not like you to lose track of a corpse. How comes?". - "Well… say… You know, she hadn't been dead for long when she awoke, say, ehr… maybe a day or two. Still looking pretty green if you allow me the expression."
- "She tried to seduce you?" he asked, slightly disturbed by the thought.
- "Why, no! They'd do that sometimes, but look at me! 'Been doing the job for 27 years and shan't fall for beginner's tricks." With indignation in his voice, he continued. "When I say green, I say spry. She ran, see. Very, very fast. Now she's hidden in some mausoleum, but I'd be damned if I knew which one."

Trying to visualize Fat Norman running after a lively she-corpse was a horse short of an epic. Norman knew his trade, but wasn't of age anymore and his knees would have given-up after a couple of steps.

"That's alright, that's alright. Don't bother yourself too much. She'll be out at dusk along with all the others and I'll have a little chat with her."

A runner. Of all the thing, he'd have to go after a runner. Had he brought it with him instead of losing it, the matter would have been completely different. Getting to convince a runner while empty handed was an agonizing task.
Henri proposed to get on with helping the regulars as a warm-up. Dusk was still a couple of hours away and, in any case, the only other choice was a round of Norman's home-made grass alcohol.
After venturing a "Liquor or succor, dear sir?" Henri recovered from a heavy duty scowl and proceeded to fetch the remaining remains for his employer.

Said employer had a hard time focusing. The usual babble occurring during his consultations,  about the dead proletariat, peace for passed, and other gimmicks was getting under his skin. He found himself relieved when the sun ultimately set.
Nightfall woke the picketing corpses from their theoretically eternal rest  (actually a 6 hours slack break) and, as usual, they gathered toward the graveyard's gate to continue with the protests.
-"How do we rest?"
-"In peace!"
-"When do we want it?"
-"Forever!"
The same slogan went on and on, with infinite patience, hoping to get what they wanted by wearing-out any available listener. The heavy iron barrier they were standing near to had actually started to rust out of boredom, proof of their marginal yet increasing success.

The running dead girl was there, shouting with the others.
He approached the mass of protesters with the intent to deliver his usual speech. It would send a third of them back to their grave, another third back to work and irritate the remaining ones enough to give them a migraine.
Everything happened exactly as planned, save for the runner, who came at him with a dull look in her eyes.


CHAPTER 3 HERE

More about the Corpse Whisperer here.

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Monday, June 17, 2013

Chapter 1 - Corpse whisperer

 CORPSE WHISPERER

The story of a man who, somehow, lost it.
(Featuring a thousand elephants and one big lie)
-DOWNLOAD THE WHOLE STORY AS A FREE EBOOK (PDF)-

CHAPTER 1 

He was staring at the content of his cupboard.
Four full hours had already passed, and he couldn't get himself  to acknowledge the fact that he'd lost it.

How, wasn't the problem. Things in cupboards disappear. Thieving  frog-rats, paper-mouthgaps, and other abducting or devouring pests see to it. The somehow dimension, where lighters, keys, and small change regularly transit, is also a usual suspect in case of spontaneous disappearance. Really, the means didn't matter.

"Why me, why now" was another question altogether. A question with an aftertaste of depletion.

It was his only one, hard earned, well kept, still in prime condition. And it was gone, gone, gone.
Once again, he let his gaze run along the wooden, narrow shelves, packed with a lifetime of collections.
23 pots of war pickles, neatly aligned on the top shelf, were answering his scrutiny with tiny muffled squeaks.
A pair of twin perpetual motion engines were occupying the two following rows. One had stopped working and its counterpart would sometimes intterupt its routine to point and laugh at it.
Then came the collectible underwater cheerleading cards, a fully operational defenestration kit and a medium-sized pile of heaps.

"It will durate again a long time?"
The question pulled him out of his trance.
The second most praised piece of his collection, Henri the French Corpse, was getting impatient and calling from the living room.

"You can drop the French accent now, Henri, I'm not in the mood"
- "Ah, sirah. Shall I then entertain you with a selection of amusing noises?", Henri replied, annoyed.
- "Cut it, dead man. I've lost it again and this time I'm not sure I can get it back. At least not before long"
The French carcass fell abashed. "Have you stared?"
- "I've been doing nothing but staring for hours, the pickles are on the verge of mutiny."
- "Merde… are you sure it hasn't fled to the kitchen like last time?"
- "I checked, no chairs are missing, so it's not there"
- "Indeed".

Silence loudly interrupted the conversation, to finally leave when he slammed the cupboard shut, in a firework of expletives from the pickles.

"Staring won't work. We should take a walk, in any case we're late" - And he was right. His 4 p.m. appointment was already waiting since 4 p.m.

Henri looked mortified. "I know not how you are going to make without it". His French accent was thickening and, this time, authentic.
"I know you're nervous, but with or without it we should carrion"
- "Oh so funny, as always"
- "As always. Now let's go."
And so they left. Unheartedly, they armed the door's spring trap before going downstairs and started pacing slowly toward his next appointment.

He was a necrologist, specialized in post mortem psychology, and was heading, as he did every Thursdays, to the town's cemetery for his routine evictions.
Corpses were particularly resilient when it came to leaving the graveyard's premises, and it always took all of his expertise to convince them that, yes, they could be once again productive members of society.
To many a commoner, their arguments against mingling with the living were sound: they had been working most of their lives and they wouldn't be deprived of a well deserved rest. But he knew better. A deceased should always contribute. They had spent years abusing other's resources and now that they had no need for food nor sleep and were ignoring weather conditions, it was a long overdue pay-back time.

A long preliminary walk was always necessary to empty his mind and stock enough patience to interact with his clients. "I Deal With Undeads" was written on his business card; it was more than a skill: it was a demanding calling.

As he passed the novelty shop, 4 block away from his flat, he remembered that place as the background for his first encounter with Henri.
That day, his routine afternoon walk had come to a stop before the shop's front window. Henri was there, on sale, a disgruntled look on his face and a discounted price tag pinned on his lapel.
"Companion Corpse, French breed, 5 years experience"

Once inside, he insisted to inspect the goods himself. Many companion and recreational bodies advertised as French were in reality cheap Canadian spin-offs or, worse, Swiss.
"Oui, non, la baguette, la tour Eiffel, go get intercoursed. That is enough as proof or you need again?"
A tart, snappy answer with a dash of vinaigrette and a rotten syntax. Genuine! It was a deal.

From that moment on, he and Henri became inseparable, united in a mutual hatred that soon became the driving force of the best Necrology office in town...


GO TO CHAPTER TWO!

More about the Corpse Whisperer here.

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Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Legwork

No animal has been armed
during the production of this flash fiction
(source)
I've heard that I get carried away, sometimes.
What can I say? I got dragged-in.
Well.
I could say: "I don't particularly like it when my woman gets abducted by third grade thugs to be used as snuff material."
I could say: "If you're dumb enough to forget turning off her phone, I can track her GPS".
I could say a lot of things, really. But in this case I'd rather shut up and listen. That's not really me, I know. But I'm in front of their door right now, and the safety is off. Not a gun. A hand grenade. My brother brought some weird souvenirs back from Syria.

My girl? She's safe in the car. With snacks and water. Not that I'm thoughtful or anything, I keep them in my car anyway. Damn, when I'm done with this she's gonna cost me a fortune in therapy.

See, my girl gets in all sorts of trouble, what with her being really pretty and having a mouth twice as big as mine. But this time these lower life forms, these unwashed ethanol sacks, they've pushed it too far.
They really made it easy for me though. All I had to do was gear up and follow the directions. Didn't even have to look, I love talking gadgets. "In 4 miles, turn right", "In 1 mile, turn the place upside down and set it on fire".

I ended up in the middle of nowhere, in the parking lot of a motel so badly kept it looked about to collapse. I thought they would keep her in their bathroom or something. I realized they went a step further when I saw two rooms lit up, and only one other car in the lot. Later she told me they'd been waiting for someone to pick her up. They'd put her in the adjacent room to "keep the meat fresh", she heard one of them say. They hadn't met the tenderizer yet. 

From the car, I went directly to the front desk.
I'd though it'd take a while to get what I wanted; Sometimes you have to be patient to get things out of people. Not that time. The dude behind the counter was over a massive bong, higher than the space shuttle. "I'm here for the blonde my friends brought in, they have the keys, I need the spare". The pothead fumbled his hand into a drawer and presented them. Just like that. Dear President, please legalize weed.

I found her tied up, soaked in cold sweat, terrified. Someone was going to need prosthetic fingers to pick their broken teeth. I untied her, hugged her, and told her to keep the story for later, go to the car and get ready to start the engine.

Communicating room are fun. When the door is not locked, it opens up a world of possibilities. So here I am. Gauging. Eavesdropping.
They're as drunk as a bad marriage.
They're slamming something on a table. Cards. I'm surprised they are clever enough to remember the rules. And, sweet mother, they are loud.

"Yeah, just like my coffee, cold as death and stiff as a corpse, that's how I like them!"
That voice… at least 10 years of cheap booze and tobacco.
He sounds like he's about to throw up gravel.
"Yeah, spit it out, Teddy, you just like them dead!"
His partner doesn't sound much better. There's something more to it though. Smug.
"I don't like them dead! I like them… Submissive!".
Submissive. Three syllables, bravo, Teddy.
A third voice cracks a laugh that reminds me of an angry chimp.
Then he starts talking. He's pitched so high he could be a choir boy. And after the mass, he'd probably sell weed in the confession booth.

"If you want submissive, you've got to get yourself an amputee. Look, look, I got myself that one legged chick once. And she tells me 'be gentle, be gentle'. So I answer 'Or else what, you're gonna run away?'"
Another round of laughter. I've heard noises like that once. At an animal shelter.
"Yeah that's a good one. But when it comes to counting legs, Teddy's the winner. Right Ted?" That's Smug talking.
- "Shut up Marvin, I told you to forget that story! I was drunk okay?"
- "What'd he do, come on Marv!" The chimp gets all excited
- "He tried to fuck a golden retriever. Four legs at once."
Chimp gets hysterical. Calm down, don't choke now. I have plans for you.
Marvin's not done yet.
- "But now I think of it, his brother wins."
- "You can't beat four legs Marv" Chimp is half choking.
Then I hear a thump. That's Teddy getting up and his chair falling on the floor. They're getting busy, at last.

They don't hear me lowering the door handle. They don't see me pushing the door ajar.

They don't see the grenade slowly roll to the middle of the room. I don't see it either,  I've got five seconds before the rooms turns into splinters.

I never though I could make it to the car that fast. My girl start's the engine as soon as she sees me rushing out. I get in and just as I shut the door, like a bad movie cliche, the frag goes off.
As we leave the parking lot, I catch myself thinking. "Chimp, Marv, Teddy… that's six legs.
I win".

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Monday, June 10, 2013

Walking Down The Dragon's Back

It was a dream.

I was in the mountain, in a jungle, in a village, in a tribe, my tribe. All of these.
I had been living with them for a while, I knew them and they knew me; we had, since a long time ago, accepted each other.  That noon, as the sun was high and burning, I was lead, among others, to a clearing at the start of a steep, short, downward path.
Where the rite of passage was performed.
Vested with no more than a short cloth covering us from the waist down to our thigh, barefoot, we gathered around the way, and they explained me.

You are now about to become a man, following out tribe's tradition.
You will simply have to, along with our young ones, walk the path, from end to end.
Just walk, do not run, do not jump.

I saw the first boy walk forward, and only then I noticed the ground under him, paved with stone scales similar to a giant snake's skin, pointing toward the entrance, slightly lifted... and sharpened. My turn came and in engaged myself, stepping on the scales.
As I went down, they bit into the sole of my feet. Lightly at first, leaving no more than shallow cuts.
But the further I went, the deeper they dug into my flesh, thanks to the steepness of the path.
It was a dream, that bears repeating, but I remember the pain as if it were real, digging, sharp, lancing up to my calves.
The last steps were a torture. Blood spilled from my feet when I finally managed to step out.
Then they told me
You felt the scales hurt you, and you know now that the last steps are the most difficult.
Yet you carried on, endured its whole length.
You just walked down the dragon's back.
You are now grown.
I woke up hurting and feeling my feet, with the dream still vivid in my mind, regretting that I was back in bed and missing the cheers of my fellow tribesmen.
But hey... as every morning usually greets me, that one said: welcome back to life. Stand! And keep on walking down, to grow up.


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Friday, June 7, 2013

Two Minds And A Cactus (Part Two)

Click here for part one!

After he woke up and got ready for work, Alfred processed to open the window and move Igor into the sunlight. "I'll be out now, I'll put you on the ledge because Victoria needs her sun, but don't you try being a naughty boy and -OUCH!"

Somehow, a spine had found its way deep into his finger.
"YOU PRICK! YOU LITERAL PRICK!"
He hadn't been that mad in years. He slammed Igor on the ledge and stormed out, raging. He didn't quite know how yet, but he would take care of this alter-ego problem as soon as he came back.

The day went by.

Returning from work and still fulminating, he was about to enter his studio when he heard rapid footsteps coming up the stairs. He was in no mood for small talks and had almost closed his door when an unknown woman hailed him.

"Wait!… Hi, I'm from the 3rd floor. I don't think we've met before. Look, earlier today I found something on the courtyard's floor. Since it was just down your window, I think it fell off…"
She was holding his cactus. Confused, he gently took it from her have closer look.
His face paled.
The poor thing had been badly damaged by the fall. Half of it was sunk-in, needles in disarray, and all the flowers were gone.
Noticing how flushed he looked, she added, "It was completely out of its pot when I found it, but don't worry, see, I put it back with all its soil and all."
He couldn't reply. His thoughts were racing to give the fall a logical explanation. No wind came in the room, the notion of a draft pushing the plant outside was preposterous…
Maybe he'd put it too close to the edge? No, even if he'd slammed it down, he'd never be that clumsy.

"Are you alright?" The stranger's voice brought him back.

"Yes...no. I really like this cactus. Thanks for your help… "
He closed the door even before finishing his sentence. Serious thinking was required.

Talking wouldn't help.
He couldn't even know Igor from Victoria now the plant was shapeless.
Igor.
Victoria.
Two minds, one cactus.
Which one was the dominant one anyway?
Igor, albeit clearly evil, had shown up pretty late in the relationship. Victoria would never hurt a fly, but she could stand her grounds when needed. They surely gave each other a hell of a time.

It dawned on him in an instant: they did give each other a hell of a time. They'd had fight. It had to be! Victoria had probably realized what Igor had done, and attempted to take over.
Igor, as the bellicose bastard he was, had then refused to give in. That's when Victoria leaped off the ledge, choosing to end it for both of them rather than further expose Alfred to her vile alter-ego.

What was now a shell empty of both personalities would dry-up and die soon. It wasn't important.
Victoria had sacrificed herself to protect him, and he was to honor that gesture the best he could - He'd move out of his rickety room, apply for another job and never again entertain his days at the price of a cactus' sanity.

The last day before moving out, he found a piece of paper slid under his door.
A handwritten message.
"Hi, Haven't been able to catch you, you look like you could do with more going-out. Here's my number if you need a friend, Mr. I'm-nice-to-potted-plants. Text Me.
-Vicky, 3rd floor."

Alfred immediately typed a reply.
"Free for dinner, tell me what time. PS: Cute name."

Sometimes, even small details can be life altering…

Fin.

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Thursday, June 6, 2013

Two Minds And A Cactus (Part One)

(credits)
It hadn't been such a good month for Alfred.
All in all, the whole year hadn't been such a good experience.

First of, he should have never moved to a city he knew nothing about. New job or not.
Most importantly, he should have never rented a room in such a hurry. Bad lighting, scarce furnishing and four flights of stairs were not his idea of comfort.

It was alright, he thought, things would be better soon. New workplace, new life, his girlfriend supporting him…

By winter, things had gone from good to utter failure. After a couple of weeks behind his desk, the company employing him had filed for bankruptcy. The next job he took was lifeless and underpaid; If he could cover his expenses, his hope in acquiring new furniture vanished.
As the months passed, fatigue took its toll. Apathy slowly replaced his usual good mood and the change in his humor hadn't pleased his girlfriend at all. Fights became more and more frequent. Inevitably, they broke up.

His room was still a mix of Spartan comfort and forsaken Zen retreat when summer came back. One window, one curtain, one mattress, one table, one chair.
A new life indeed.

Something was needed to dissipate the gloom before his bad year turned into a bad decade.

A woman was out of the question. Too early.
A pet, would die of boredom after a couple of hours.
Maybe plants? Affordable, alive, fresh… Everything he wasn't. Perfect for motivation.

On his way back from the florist, he wondered why he was currently bringing a cactus back home.
True, you didn't have to water them too often. Also true, the one he had chosen was particularly cute; no bigger than his fist, round and fuzzy, freckled with a score of pretty purple flowers. Even truer, he couldn't afford anything else.
It was done, anyway; a little green patch now sat in his grey room.

Sometimes, even small details can be life altering.

The little cactus brought just enough life to Alfred's studio to let him start breathing again..
In the morning, he would greet the plant with a smile as soon as his eyes opened. Back from work, he would enquire about its mood. In a matter of days, he gave it a name.
"All those spines and flowers standing on your back look like they're cheering. You look victorious, my dear. Victoria! That will suit you well."


His window, opening above the building's inner courtyard, turned into a place of interest. He would gently put Victoria on the ledge, stroke its sharp fur with the back of his thumbnail and leave her in the sun until dusk. When in a talkative mood, he would share the ledge beside her to rest his elbows and tell her stories about his childhood, sometimes pretending to answer her questions.
Victoria soon came to assume many roles. As a pet, a friend, a confident. Or on some occasions, as a much needed therapist.

One day he was at the window, going on about his pet peeves and favorite topics, Alfred felt an unusual tension building up between them, for no apparent reason. Was he nervous? Or was Victoria upset?

"You look quiet today, Vic. It's almost like you're frowning. What's wrong with you?  Oh come on! Don't look at me like that, I'm not being annoying or anything."
The feeling didn't recede.

He tried a more playful approach. "Hey Vic, watchu want? Wanna fight? You sure you can win this one? Watchu gonna do anyway? Force me to hug you?"

He laughed at his own joke and stared at the sky. It would be dark soon. Time to close the window.
He was starting to pull the curtain when he gasped at a sudden, stinging pain in the palm of his right hand.
Victoria.
A whole handful of her needle sharp spines had gone straight through the curtain, straight into his flesh.
"OUCH VIC! That's not funny! Hiding behind the curtain like that!"
He untangled the cactus, stuck to the fabric like a strip of velcro, and moved her to his table, holding her carefully by the pot. This unruly behavior wouldn't go unpunished. There would be no ledge for her tomorrow. After all if she wanted to voice her concern about something she was free to do it without resorting to violence.
"It's really not like you, you know. Think about what you've done, while I tweeze-out your thorns!"

He took a moment to observe her. Something was definitely off. Maybe it was her color, slightly darker than usual. Maybe the little purple flowers had started to wilt.  Soon enough, he came to a gruesome realization.
"You have a problem don't you?
You… you're not Victoria, are you? She would never do something that armful. I can see it now. You're some sort of alter ego aren't you? Oh dear… So what shall I call you, dark side of my cactus?"
The plant seemed to assume an air of passive aggressive smugness.
"Oh alright then, you want to play it like a villain, I'll give you a villain name! Igor! Happy now?"
It was probably a trick of the decreasing daylight, but the plant's expression seemed to have shifted from smug to satisfied.
Alfred, not really enjoying his friend's new personality, left the conversation to be continued the next morning.

Click For Part Two


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Sunday, June 2, 2013

5 Tips To Stop Being Invited At Parties

Social goiter: actually a symptom of
over partying. (source)


Has your popularity deprived you from the me-time you so badly need? Are you longing in nostalgia for these sweet evening spent softly crying yourself to sleep?

Our solution will restore your freedom by turning the act of inviting you to a party into a potent, disturbing mental disorder.






All you have to do is to slightly alter your behavior in the 5 following areas:

  • Attire
  • Hubris
  • Overreaction
  • Lethargy
  • Exhibition

Let's get started.

1) Attire


If knowing that a bright green high heels won't ever match your beard and your size 19 feet is important, attire means more than mere fashion.
Choosing the right attire is about showing to your potential tribe that your ritual bone is going through the right nostril.

Of course, the message YOU want to deliver is: "My tribe will eat yours and pick their teeth with your tailbones".

If the host has issued flyers, the dress code is probably somewhere there; use it at your advantage.

"Casual chic"? Come in a tux.
"Dress to impress"? Bathrobe and hotel slippers will do.
"Formal"? Come in costume.

The shortcut

Always come in costume. On every occasion.
Even during a costumed event, showing up in a full Klu Klux Klan dress never fails, especially when they find out the swastika tattooed on your forehead when you remove the mask.

Viable alternative.
(credits)


2) Hubris


You've managed to look adequate enough to actually pass the door? All is not lost.

See, everyone there has one thing in common: they want to spend some good time, at least until they find out you've spiked the punch with Ruphilin.
To do so, they try staying polite, listen when talked to, share food and drink, needles… and all these little thing contributing to a lovely ambiance.

All this nancy-pamby good mood and social smoothness isn't what you're looking for.
It has to be about you, and will become so.

Move around, tell the crew who you are and how parties are done, intrude into conversation and one-up whoever is talking.
Driking from other's cups, eating from other's plates, do not forget keep the conversation going by repeatedly mentioning passion for dermatology, bring pictures.

The Shortcut:

Every time someone emits an opinion, pat them on the shoulder and say: "That's my boy!". If your condescending tone doesn't do the trick, your inability to differentiate genders will.

With Every.Single.Guest.
(source)

3) Overreaction


The crew was too drunk/high/tolerant to react to your overflowing ego? This, requires action.

Assuming you still have any friends, what they intend to do when throwing a party is to get things moving and, if possible, let their entourage interact-under-influence.
The social norm in such situations is to either take the temperature of the place and react accordingly, or discreetly observe the crowd of real people having fun from a corner of the kitchen. It's time to go full Hugh Laurie and take that temperate in a precise, rectal way.

Someone tells a joke? Jump up and down while spilling your drink, then apologize on your knee for soaking your interlocutor in light beer while babbling indistinct words about how 'Ma would be ashamed of your behavior and please not the phone book, not again.

Someone get vocal about the war? Give them a military salute, stop the music, and climb on a chair to deliver a 20 minutes speech about how right they are. Do not forget to point at them while mentioning their name through tears of pride.

The Shortcut:

Find a music instrument (or better: pry it away from whoever is using it) and amaze the crowd with your singing. "Tonight's gonna be a good night" is generally considered a good choice, and better sung at the very top of your voice.
Singing while playing is essential, especially if your newly acquired instrument is a saxophone.

Portrayed: "Out of pickles"
(credits)

4) Lethargy


Any party worth naming can be remembered by its hotspot. Like that couch where every single has been pretending to relax on at various times of the evening. They are, in fact, patiently waiting for their prey. After several hours of inebriated dancing, one is bound to finally stop caring about crooked teeth and haircuts from the 80's and collapse by their side, exhausted and ready for abduction.

Go occupy that couch right in the middle, assuming a prostrated position while playing an online RPG on your smartphone. It will allow you to prevent a good percentage of the crowd from getting even semi-intimate (or end up in a weird, razor sharp love triangle).

The Shortcut:

Mexican food ingested 30 minutes prior to the event will greatly enhance this already straightforward strategy.

[picture placeholder, to busy to upload ]
[caption: about to level up, leave me be]

5) Exhibition


If nothing else works, there is still the option of getting naked from the waist down. Make sure to proceed before the alcohol starts flowing. This strategy might result in some adverse side effect depending on your gender and environment.
Warning: Doesn't work with naturists,  or with anyone after 3 a.m.

The Shortcut:

You do not want anything either short or cut there, believe me, I talk from experience.

From the waist down.
Donate to scroll.




You are now set to recover your lost free time, read Proust and tell me how much help I need in the comment section.

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