Rain in the Parking Lot

Amanda sat in a large puddle in the supermarket parking lot. She couldn’t remember how she got there, or why she didn’t get up out of that growing puddle and head inside out of the rain. Or why the rain drops were falling so slowly, or why they were all different colours, or why they sang as they fell. There was a lot she didn’t know just now, but mostly she was content in not knowing. Besides, these rain drops, so big now, the size of baseballs and shining like diamonds under the fluorescent lighting, would surely answer any question she might wish to ask, so friendly did they smile.

‘Why are you so happy, anyway?’ She asked a raindrop as it hovered about her face laughing and flicking little droplets of glitter that tasted of static.

‘Anyway’ it said, and crashed into the grey slate asphalt of the car park, exploding and drenching Amanda to the bone. She felt like ants were pulling on the fine hairs all over her skin.

‘It must have been a nitwit’ said Amanda to herself. ‘All these raindrops are nitwits, it would seem.’

She watched them fall, toothsome grins and vacant eyes glazed over, their innocent chuckling now mindless braying as they bounced about, too dim to know to burst upon hitting the ground. Flecks of foamy spittle shot forth from the droplets as they ricocheted around the car park, soaking Amanda to the bone and filling her mouth with an unpleasant metallic tang. She turned her head and spat, most unladylike, and tried climbing to her feet, but every time she shifted forward the rain would bowl her back, leaping at her like an overly friendly dog.

So she sat in the growing puddle and watched the dusk approach, the red sun reflected in the puddle and spreading, staining her fine dress. Where was her mother? She wouldn’t be happy to see the mess the raindrops had made of her fine blue dress. The rain had stopped, and the drops what remained were content to roll about the parking lot, pitching back and forth as if on the deck of a ship at sea. And their strange dance wove a curious dizziness about Amanda, so she lay back in the puddle, now forgotten, and thought about the best way to climb back up, and find her mother, and why her body itched just so, and the drops were shining not like diamonds but globes with candles inside and they no longer sang but hummed, and how to find her mother, and dry off and warm up, and to climb out and up and see the sky again instead of this hard grey asphalt.

‘Anyway.’ she muttered to herself. Anyway.

A Small Boy Watches His Father Chop Wood.

When I was six I remember watching my father. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was setting, and he'd line up block after block and swing that axe and the wood would split and fall to either side of the log, and he was still strong then and untouched by the cancer in his belly, and when he'd miss a block or fail to split it in one go he'd glance at me quickly, afraid to disappoint me even then.

And I wanted to tell him, but I was six and I didn't have the words, and he went on chopping until it got too dark to see and we walked back to the house hand in hand, and now as I try to thread a worm on the hook of my son's fishing line, my hand trembles slightly and I glance at him and he looks back, and I still don't have the words.

The Boney King of Nowhere

This is a story about a boy named Peter, a girl named Jill, and the Boney King of Nowhere


No-one knows who or what the Boney King is, except the Boney King. It is his secret, and if there is one thing the Boney King loves, it is secrets. He hungers for them, he lusts for them. He longs to know all the secrets, and to be the only one who knows them all.

The Boney King knows the secret about secrets. He knows they hide in the flesh. You can taste them. He can taste them. He chews the flesh from the animals and in doing so he learns all their secrets. He devours the little insects whole; they have but a few secrets. He spends days peeling the flesh from the elephants; their secrets are many, and powerful.

So the Boney King stalked through his jungles, and one by one he learned the secrets of all the animals, till there were no animals left. And then he returned to his cave, to sit and dwell on the secrets he knew. For years he sat, lost in his own thoughts, till a noise outside his cave roused him. He crept forward, and just outside the entrance to the cave he spied two young children.

"I told you we should've gone back." said Jill, who was never any fun.

"And I'm telling you that we should keep heading north, which is this way!" replied Peter, who tells awful lies.

"You don't even know where we are!" said Jill, who was often too much to bear.

"I do so! We are here!" shouted Peter, who had very few friends.

"And where is here?!" screamed Jill, who had fewer.

"Here," said the Boney King, "is Nowhere."

The children screamed, and drew close together. The Boney King stepped out of the cave and into the light.

"Tell me, young ones, who are you, and what are you doing in my jungle?"

The children were badly frightened, but Peter managed to speak up.

"My m-mom says never to t-talk to strangers."

"Oh, you are tellling me that your names are a... secret?"

His eyes flashed with hunger.

"How delicious. I wonder what else you know."

The children turned to run, but his arm shot forward and grabbed them around the legs, and he dragged them screaming into his cave.

Inside the cave he threw the children into a small bamboo cage. The floor beneath them was covered in old, dry bones. The Boney King walked to the opposite end of the room and sat on the floor, and looked at the children. They screamed and shook the cage bars, but he just sat there in silence, watching them. For what felt like hours they shouted, till finally they fell to the floor of the cage exhausted.

Finally, Jill asked in a small voice "Who are you, and what do you want from us?"

"I am the Boney King, and I want to know your secrets."

"Well too bad!" said Jill, gaining some courage, "We won't tell you anything!"

The King laughed, and stood up.

"You will tell me everything, young girl." He said as he prowled over to the cage. "You don't have a choice."

In one quick movement his head darted forward and his jaws snapped shut, and he bit the two middle fingers off Jill's hand. She screamed, and fell back onto the cage floor, clutching her bloody hand. The Boney King chewed slowly, his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. Then he swallowed loudly.

"Dear oh dear." He said, leaning down. "It was you, Jill. It was you that got you both lost, and you know it. You tried to blame it on Peter. How terrifically naughty of you. I don't mind though. Naughty children have the best secrets. Lets see what else you're hiding."

The Boney king bent low and reached in as Jill scrabbled up against the back wall. Suddenly Peter jumped forward.

"Stop it, i'll tell you wh-" he started to yell, but the Boney King wrapped his hand around Peter's head, silencing him. And with a horrible slowness, the Boney King dug his clawed thumb into Peter's left eye, and popped it out, like a plum. Peter fell to the ground with his hands pressed against his eye, screaming in agony. The Boney King admired the little ball of jelly still quivering on the tip of his thumb for a moment, then stuck the whole lot into his mouth. He stood stone still, eyes rolled up into his head, sucking on his thumb like a baby. Then he groaned.

"Oh Peter, you wicked thing!" he said with glee. "You killed the cat. You hit it with sticks and stones till you broke its bones, then you threw it on the road and blamed the man in the car." The Boney King let out an awful cackle.

"Please, don't do this." whimpered Jill.

"You know Jill, some of the best secrets of all hide in the tongue." He moved forward again. "Lets see what you're hiding."

The Boney King again bent down low, and reached his arm into the cage, his cruel hand seeking out Jill's head, when Peter let out a beastial snarl and leapt on the arm, sinking his fingernails deep into the skin. The Boney King screamed, and tried to pull his arm out of the cage, but Peter's grip was too tight. The Boney King grabbed Peter with his other arm and pulled at him, but Peter bit down hard into the flesh, his one remaining eye insane with rage.

The Boney King roared with agony and lifted the cage from the floor. He staggered back and forth swinging the cage around, and finally started bashing it against the cave wall. The cage broke, sending the two children flying and the Boney King stumbling back onto the floor. He sat up, panting with exhaustion and nursing his bleeding arm. He looked around, Jill was lying unconscious against the far wall of the cave. Peter was standing nearby.

"You horrible little beast! You'll suffer for this." he snarled, but Peter did not move. He was standing perfectly still, and his eyes were rolled up into the back of his head. In the sudden quiet, the Boney King heard him swallow.

"I know." said Peter. His eye locked onto the Boney King. "I know your secret."

"No... No! You cannot..."

The Boney King looked down at his wounded arm and saw the teeth marks, the tear in the flesh. He looked back up at Peter, who was already advancing on him.

"I know what you are."

---

When Jill awoke it was nightfall. Someone had lit a fire in the middle of the cave. She sat up and looked around in a panic, but then she saw Peter sitting at the entrance to the cave, looking out. She rushed over and grabbed him by the shoulder with her good hand.

"Quickly, lets go before it comes back!" she said, but Peter didn't move.

"It's not coming back, Jill. I killed it."

Jill looked back into the cave. Against the far wall she could see the slumped form of the Boney King.

"Oh Peter, you've saved us. But how did you manage to kill it?"

"How?"

Jill looked at the corpse. In the flickering firelight, it looked strange. It almost looked like some rats had been chewing on it.

"How? I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Jill." He said, and he turned to face her.

His eye flashed with hunger.

"It's a secret."

The Life and Times

The music in the club is deafening.

I can't make out any lyrics or melody, at this volume only the rhythm exists. I stand elbow to elbow with young gel-slicked men, all clustered around the outskirts of the dance floor. Each clutches his beer, the only lifeline in this sea of sweaty swaying bodies. Suddenly they seem pathetic, voyeuristic. Why are they standing back, huddling into the dark corners while out there the young women are dancing wildly. The dancefloor, the one place outside a female gym and a lesbian bookstore where the ratio of women to men tips finally in our favour, and these young bucks shy away, one hand in a pocket, the other gripping firmly the glass safety blanket.

I didn't come here to dance, or to hook up, but I can't stand to be grouped in with these popped-collar cockheads any more. I down my drink and lurch towards the dancefloor. I can't dance, it's no secret, but what most men don't understand is you don't need to actually dance when dancing. You just gotta move. Shrug the shoulders, wiggle the hips, it doesn't really matter. The only thing you can't do on a dancefloor is stand still. I've had a lot to drink, so standing still is quite beyond my abilities. I start shuckin' and jivin', eager to remove myself from the bad vibes I felt at the bar. I shuffle in to the centre of the cluster of bodies. Before long a young woman starts dancing with me. This requires a touch more finesse. The only move in my arsenal for mackin' on the dancefloor is the two-hand raise, but damned if i'm not good at it. I raise my fists like im boxing a nine-foot man, and the girl goes in low. We're cutting it up nicely, and she yells something to me. I can't hear a word she's saying, but again, it doesn't matter. All you need to do is smile with your eyes and yell something, anything back. I yell

"You look like you suck a mean dick!"

She shouts something back. I can't make out a single word, but it seems clear she said I could suck a bowling ball through a straw.

She starts grinding into my crotch, and I get a small chub. I want you to ruin me she says.

"I want to shit on your face" I shout back. She smiles. Lets get out of here.

Hours or minutes later we're on the beach, making out. I stop for a breath, and she looks up at me and says something. It's hard to hear her, for some reason her voice is out of sync with her mouth. Pack my skull with sand she says.

"What?" I shake my head to clear the cobwebs. The ocean sounds far too loud. Something is definitely wrong. She looks troubled.

I'm full of poison she says, her forehead creasing. I'll melt your cock. The words are coming from a long way off. I feel something cool in my hand, something solid. It's a rock. Where did it come from?

She has tears in her eyes now. There's treasure inside she says, but i'm wary. The rock is too convenient. Staggering to my feet, I hurl the rock into the ocean. I wander off down the beach, leaving the pitfalls far behind. Salt crusting the skin, dried in the sun she shouts, but it's too late. I've seen behind the curtain. I scold myself for my lapse in awareness, but it's only half-hearted. Mostly I am proud, yet another obstacle successfully avoided.

The sun peaks over the ocean and already i'm laughing. Today will be a good day.

Silence of the Lamps

The smell of fear filled the front office, as thick and powerful as a fart in a shower. Cutbacks, layoffs, and redundancies all floated about in the ether, waiting for the chance to be made real. The staff gathered, as per instructions, around the door of Helen Bach, the Junior Regional Vice Manager of Sales and Distribution, and watched the hands crawl towards ten o'clock.

Helen was already inside, of course. They could see the dark shillouettes of her feet on the carpet as she stood behind her office door, counting the second so as to emerge at precisely ten. Always a stickler for punctuality, she had become almost obsessive in the week since she had returned from her unexplained five-month medical leave. The office pool had chronic stomach ulcers as the odds on favourite. Maternity leave was coming in at 20-1.

The hour struck, and the door opened. Helen emerged wearing an olive-green pantsuit, short hair pulled back tight in a ponytail. Her chin showed a faint hint of blue, like that of a freshly-shaved man. She looked, in other words, the same as always. She gathered the crowd's attention by eye.

"Robert, can I speak to you please?"

Robert got to his feet and shuffled towards the door. The atmosphere in the room shifted as the gathered workers all sighed inwardly. Creepy Bob was going to get the axe.

~

"Have a seat please, Robert."

"Thank you."


He moved towards the only spare chair in the sparsely decorated office. Apart from the desk and the plastic ficus in the corner, it was empty. No paintings, no photographs on the walls. She didn't even have photos on her - Robert recoiled in surprise at the small photo frame adorning the corner of the otherwise sterile desk. Sometimes pigs do fly. She caught him staring at the frame. She reached out and flipped it around. Under the glass was a photo of a screaming, red-faced infant.

"His name is Jeremy." She said, with the faintest whisper of a smile on her face.

"Jeremy... Tell me, Helen, did you nurse him yourself?"

The smile disappeared along with the photo. Helen cleared her throat.

"Robert, I went to head office yesterday."

"And what did you see, Helen? What did you see?"

"I saw John Fitzpatrick, the Chief Regional Manager. He had troubling news."

"They were slaughtering the spring lambs?"

"Please Robert, i'm trying to talk to you here. I saw John, and he said he was starting to recieve complaints from customers and from inside the company itself."

"And you ran away?"

"Robert, i'm trying to help you here. I'm sure you can guess who the complaints were about."

"Enthrall me with your acumen."

"It's that, Robert. The endless quotations. Listen, I know you love this film. And it's a good film; I've seen it myself, twice. But you have to stop with the constant quoting. We're salespeople, and you can't sell product if you go around spouting movie dialogue all day. It's unprofessional, and it's very strange. People are starting to talk, Robert. You're starting to sound like a... well, like a crazy person."

"You know what you look like with your good bag and your cheap shoes? You look like a rube!"

"I'm not the enemy here Robert. Frankly, John wanted me to fire you."

"Oh my, does he hate us."

"No he doesn't hate you. He's concerned about the business, and so am I. But I talked him in to giving you a second chance."

She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a thick form.

"This is a psychiatric evaluation consent form, Robert. If you agree to attend a two day review at our facility in New Hampshire, you can keep your job, pending the results of the evaluation, of course."

Robert leaned forward and grabbed the form. He started flicking through it.

"Shady Pines is an excellent facility, Robert. It's really more a resort than a medical centre."

"Shady Pines Animal Disease Research Center. Sounds charming."

"Please Robert, you're a good salesman, and I don't want to lose you from my team. Sign the form."

He sat for a minute, then scribbled his signature on the paper.

"Thank you, Robert. You made the smart choice."

"You know, a census taker once tried to test me." He said, placing the pen and paper back on her desk. "I ate his liver with some fava beans and-"

"And a bottle of chianti, yes, thank you Robert, you may go now. And could you please tell Julian I need to see him? Thank you."

Robert rose and made his way out of the office. He paused at the door.

"Oh, and Helen, just one more thing..."

"Yes?"

"...love the suit."

She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. It was already a long day, and it was just going to get longer. After a minute, a sharp rap came at the door. It was Julian.

"Come in, Julian, have a seat. Now, I assume you know what this is all about."

"You shouldn't use my name."

"Julian, we have footage of you stealing company property."

She pivoted her computer screen to afford him a view of the black and white footage. Onscreen, his tiny double was walking through the parking lot with an armload of supplies.

"We installed hidden security cameras in the garage, foyer, loading dock, and supply room, and they all caught you in the act."

"You spared no expense."

"Indeed. Now, you can still get off relatively lightly if you co-operate with us. Only managers are supposed to have access to the supply rooms. You tell us who gave you the keys, and we'll leave the police out of this. Now, who gave you the keys, Julian?"

He stared at the looped footage a moment longer, then turned toward her.

"Ah, ah, ah, you didn't say the magic word."


It was going to be a very long day.

Apologies to all.

The deep blue ocean stretched out before them like the spandex on a Sweatin' To the Oldies background extra. High above, the sky was clear and empty, like a mormon's urine sample. First mate Semaphore stood at the prow, the silence hung heavy about his shoulders, like a leaden shawl.

Finally, like a irish workman, he started.

"Captain, three long weeks we been out here, sailing round and round the Cape of Simile like a turd that won't flush. When will you give up this fool's quest?!"

"Fools quest?" replied the Captain.

"Aye, a fools quest! We're running out of food, we're dangerously low on water, and the crew's morale ain't been this low since you made Johnny Metaphor walk the plank!"

The Captain snarled at the crowd that had gathered, like a tiger with a tick on its nuts.

"Don't mention the name of that filth to me! He was a lead weight around the neck of this crew! Next person to speak his name to me will join that dog in his watery hell."

"But Captain!" shouted Semaphore, gesticulating wildly, "What are we doing out here?"

"We're here to find the lost treasure of Abrams!"

The crew of the Ambience gasped.

"But.. but the treasure is a myth!" stammered Semaphore, like a retard at Peter Piper's Pickle Patch. "Why, no one has ever seen the island it on which it was set!"

"Aah, there ye be wrong! Before we left port, I had an interesting chat with Old Man Irony."

"That rusty old gimmer? He's crazy. He just sits in that old hovel on the hill and counts his spoon collection all day."

"Aye, he is mad. But he weren't always. No, he used to be a ships' psychologist, back before he was driven mad by the over-saturation of the psychologist market. Couldn't find work, you see. Anyhow, he told me about his first voyage, aboard the Chickenchaser. Aye, the Chickenchaser, Abram's fabled ship. He told me all about it; and more importantly, how to find it. First, he said, you sail into the Cape of Simile. Be on your guard, he said, for the Cape of Similie was like nothing i've ever seen."

A cry came down from the crow's nest, interrupting the Captain, like a girl.

"Avast! Freudian Vikings, starboard!"

The Captain gazed out across the ocean. The merciless Freudian Vikings we're coming straight for them. Their long, powerful craft surged through the water, each mighty stroke of it's oars pushing the craft onward, tearing through the waves, breaking them apart.

"Man the cannons!" shouted the Captain, "We'll give these dogs a taste of our long nines!"

Bright Lights and Long Knives

The crowd gasped as the knife thrower flipped the seventh blade high above his head. The whirlwind of knives cut a beautiful arc through the air. Then, as suddenly as it all started, the shining blades came to rest, three in each hand, one in his mouth, and he bowed to the applause of the crowd.

"Now, for my final and most deadly trick, I will require a volunteer from the audience." His eyes swept the crowd. "You there, the fat redhead in the green dress!"

He guestured sharply at the woman, sitting in the third row, as a soft murmur rose from the crowd. The woman sat, dumbstruck.

"Come now, madame, we can all see you, even if we can't see all of you." He smiled a wide, toothy smile. The crowd had gone silent. "I know it's hard, but I need you to hoist yourself out of that chair and waddle down here into the ring."

She rose from her seat and walked down into the spotlight.

"Now, do you have a name?"

She mouthed something, inaudible despite the silence.

"Jennifer? Ladies and gentleman..." he cried, his rich voice carrying easily to the far corners of the tent, "...I give you, Jennifer!"

He waited for the applause to die down.

"Now Jennifer, lets speak plainly for a moment. You are tremendously fat."

She again mouthed silent words of protest.

"Come now Jenny, speak up for the crowd!"

"I'm not that fat!" she shouted, her shrill voice straining to be heard.

"Not that fat? My dear, you are a pig. You are a gross spectacle of human decadence! You are a walking tribute to the power of the Buffet! To stand this close to your putrid, sweaty hulk of a body, to feel the heat rising off it's disgusting corpulence, to breathe in the rank odour of your heaving, fleshy bulk, why madame, it makes me want to vomit up my own lungs and shit my pants, all at the same time."

"However!" he said, talking over her protests, "I have a solution. Go stand against that board."

"Now!" he turned, and adressed the crowd. "I'm assuming everyone here has heard of acupuncture. Yes, the secret art of the slant-eyed devils from the wild and far east."

He walked a slow pace, away from the fat woman, now trembling up against the large wooden board on one edge of the ring.

"Sadly, like most men, our saffron brothers shied away from true power. They reached the edge, and were afraid to make the bold leap into the unknown."

As he spoke, he drew two long, cruel-looking knives from within his sleeves.

"I, however, hold no such fears. There is a thin woman hiding inside you, Miss Jennifer..." his back was still turned as he spoke, "...and I intend to free her!"

He suddenly spun, and hurled the two knives toward her. They punched home with a sick, wet slap. She screamed in pain as the knives stuck, hilts wobbling, each positioned perfectly between shoulder and collarbone. The woman slumped, but the knives held her fast, pinning her to the board. Her screams echoed round the tent, high and terrible, the screeching death knell of a wounded beast. Several audience members were violently sick in the stands.

The knife thrower shook his head.

"Dear oh dear, such a racket you're making, Miss Jennifer. You're upsetting the crowd! Let's see if we can't do something about this."

A smaller, broader knife appeared in his hand, and he hurled it with blinding speed, striking her in the throat. Instantly her screams were silenced, replaced by a small gurgling, then nothing.

"Much better. Now, let the real work begin!"

He produced knife after knife from the hidden folds and recesses of his outfit, hurling them one after the other in quick succession at the struggling woman. She may have been silenced, but the fierce struggling, the terrible aspect of her eye let the crowd know she was still very much alive and aware, despite the spreading pool of gore below her.

The knives sliced in cleanly, staking out a wide circle around the enormous girth of her stomach with geometric precision. As the seventh and final knife struck home, directly below her sternum, the woman gave a mighty shudder. Fresh gouts of blood spurted from her wounds, and she seemed on the verge of shaking herself apart. Blood frothed out her mouth, and her eyes flushed red as the capillaries burst from the pressure.

Finally, a loud tear cut through the deep and terrible silence that had descended upon the crowd. Her stomach split open, and wave of blood washed out onto the floor it. and with it, a naked human form. It rose unsteadily to it's feet, and looked about the tent in a drunken haze. Long copper hair shone bright like a living flame under the spotlight. It was a woman. A young, thin woman, clearly beautiful despite the scarlett blood still dripping from her skin. Perhaps because of it.

Behind her, the skin of the fat woman remained stuck to the board, looking like an empty suit haphazardly hung in a closet. The knife thrower strode forward and grabbed her by the hand.

"Ladies and Gentleman, I give you the new Jennifer!"

Hand in hand, they bowed to the thunderous ovation of the crowd.