Fisherman
"I bet it's a damn turtle," Randy grumbled,
gently tugging the line to get it moving,
and hopefully get it free of the weeds.
"If I don't lose my brand-new lure..." he swore.
Even if it didn't outright snap the line,
he really didn't want to have to wrestle
the thing up on the bank, then try and pry
the hook out from its little snapping jaws.
He gave the line a few tugs to test it,
and soon it came up off of the lake bottom.
When he felt it, though, it was obvious
it was merely an object of some sort,
and he found himself suddenly intrigued.
He couldn't get it reeled in soon enough.
When, finally, it broke the water's surface,
and an old, sodden combat boot came surging
up from the murky depths gushing silt,
he stood there bewildered and stared at it.
He picked it up and turned it around in
his hand and examined it for a moment,
and saw that it was caked with mud inside.
Upending it, he dumped it on the ground
and began scrutinizing the spilled contents.
At first, he didn't recognize the bones
for what they were, but saw them in the muck
and scattered them with the toe of his boot.
As he began to make them out in number,
and considered the boot they had come from,
he knew he had to tell someone about it.
The Facility
During our tour through the laboratories,
our guide stopped at a door with a large window
that looked into a room that housed a pig,
that stood in an impeccably clean pen.
The floor had straw strewn about and the pig
was eating dry corn from a hanging bucket,
oblivious to everything but its meal.
"You see that pig?" he said, nodding at it.
"It's not a normal pig, by any means.
That's Phill. He's one of many animals
we have at this facility right now.
But he's important as one of the first
to help us in the harvesting of parts."
Here the pig snorted and huffed at its feed.
"He has a human heart, completely human.
We're trying to find an efficient way
to manufacture parts for human transplant,
and Phill here is going to make it happen
so that someone gets the heart they need
and can live a long and happy life.
"As the first pig to make the sacrifice
he will be making headlines everywhere."
He laughed. "It will be weird to many people,
but to the man whose life it will be saving?
I don't think he really cares about it."
We all shared a moment of nervous glances.
He seemed to sense our general unease,
because he said, "If there aren't any questions,
we can move on. There's still much more to see."
Why, A Man Can Drive!
The old man scowled and then puffed up his chest.
"I have a right to drive!" he said. "I've been
driving all of my life, you can't stop me!"
"Sir," said the woman from behind the counter,
"you failed your driving test. I can't renew
your driver's license. Not until you pass."
The man stood there, the scowl growing tenfold.
"And what am I to do!?" he said at length.
"You're just trying to take my independence,
make me give in to how you folks run things.
I see, now, you're no better than my children!"
The woman sighed and, taking a deep breath,
replied, "Believe me, that's not what we're doing.
That's not our job. It's our job to make sure
the roads stay safe. But we can't let you drive.
Not until you pass the exam. Do that,
and I'll be more than glad to reinstate
your driver's lice..."
"I don't want to hear it,"
the old man cut her off. "I have been driving
all of my life and not one accident!
You let these kids, who are still in high school,
take to the roads. Well, I'm no worse than them!"
"Sir," said the woman, near exasperated,
but trying to maintain her calm. "Again,
it's nothing against you. We know the dangers
of letting people drive who maybe shouldn't.
We do our best to make sure those who wish
to drive are competent and can be safe."
"Why you..." replied the man. "I've had enough.
So, now you're calling me incompetent!?
I'm calling the police, this is harassment!"
"Sir!" said the woman. "Please, calm down. I'm trying
to help you with this issue. You can take
the test again. And, if you pass, I'll be..."
But the man had already turned to leave.
He stopped beside the door and shouted back,
"You're going to regret this!" and walked out.
War’s Over
We shared a toast.
"Thank God, the war is over!"
exclaimed my friend, whom I'd only just met.
I assumed he had been through hell and back
and I wanted to thank him. So, I asked,
"What was it like?"
He answered, "Can't complain.
I killed a man or three, life couldn't be better!"
His response had caught me off guard. I asked,
"How's that? I would think one would have regrets.
It doesn't bother you that you killed people?"
"Not at all," he replied. "They knew the stakes.
It's a gamble, can't take it personal.
It's either you or them, that's how we play.
And when it ends up them, instead of you,
it's the best outcome there can ever be!"
Suddenly, there was something about the guy
that unnerved me, perhaps that he was a real killer.
I simply smiled and raised my glass again,
"Then here's to you! Glad to see you back home!"
After my comment, he screwed up his face,
and I thought maybe I had upset him.
"I didn't mean to offend you," I said.
Just then, he flashed a smile and replied, "Ah,
for a moment I thought you were poking fun."
It was at that time I began to wonder
just how drunk the two of us had become.
"No, no," I said, "what would make you think that?"
"You're kidding?" he replied. "I like to gamble,
but especially when the stakes are high."
"Really?" I asked him. "You enjoyed the fighting?"
"Of course!" he said and peered around the bar.
"But you know what? It's really a dull night,
and I wish someone would come call my bet!"
My heart dropped and I felt myself turn pale.
Then he elbowed me and began to laugh,
a bellowing laugh, "I'm just kidding, fucker!
Like I said before, thank God, the war's over!"
Good Journalism
He set his phone aside and shook his head.
Yet another death threat. Only this time
they'd somehow managed to get his cell number.
Persistent bastards, he would give them that.
He thought about the article he'd published
and smirked, imagining these folks' reactions.
Regardless, he would only write another.
Expose more of their kind, still call them out,
tell all about their dirty little secrets.
In some ways that would be the best revenge.
But the more that they insisted he stop,
the more he felt like he was onto something.
Harassment as such was the risk you took,
but, in the end, you could hold your head high.
Something they'd never be able to claim
themselves. No, he had these pricks by the balls.
Although now that he carried a revolver,
he wished someone would well and truly try him.
It wouldn't happen but a man could dream.
He put on an old record that he liked
and sauntered over to the whiskey cabinet,
then poured himself a drink to celebrate.
Thanks to the scoop he'd already submitted,
tomorrow they would find another story.
And you could bet he'd have his gun on him
if they even thought about getting frisky.
Alone Together
But for the ceaseless chirping of the crickets
the night was still and calm and, perhaps, quiet.
Due to the cab light glaring overhead
the woods seemed darker than they really were.
Sarah stopped digging through her purse a moment
and turned her head and smiled sweetly at Lain.
"Thanks," she said, "I feel better we're out here.
The city makes me nervous, always has."
Lain hadn't wanted to go out to the woods.
It seemed unnecessarily precautious,
but he'd obliged, aching just to get laid.
Sarah went back to digging through her purse.
"Ever been with a prostitute before?"
"Maybe a couple," Lain said. "But not many.
It's not all that often I get the chance."
"Really? When's the last time you were?" she pressed.
"What?" replied Lain. "Not sure that I remember.
Why do you want to know? I'm a clean person.
I mean, if that's what you're trying to ask."
"No," Sarah shook her head, “I'm curious.
I just like to know what I'm working with."
"Honestly," Lain said, "you're incredibly
beautiful and I want to screw your brains out."
She gave him a devious look and said,
"Well, okay! But I still have one last question."
Just then, she whipped a gun from out her purse
and held it pointed at his head, "Don't move!"
"What the. . ." said Lain. "You're going to rob me?"
"No," Sarah said, "I can't tell if you're lying."
"About what?" Lain asked. "I don't understand."
"The women you have been with," she replied.
"I don't know if you're who I'm looking for.
Some weeks ago, they had found my friend dead,
murdered by one of her clients, we think.
But no one knows the man that she was with."
"It wasn't me!" Lain said. "I promise you."
Sarah looked away and thought about the chances.
"It doesn't matter. One way or another,
I'll get him. As for you, you could be him.
That's why I'm going to kill you, right here!"
"Don't," Lain pleaded. "Sorry about your friend,
but I'm as innocent as anybody!"
"Becky," Sarah said. "Her name was Becky. Say,
'I'm deeply sorry about your friend, Becky.'"
He did, repeating it in a shaky voice,
"I'm deeply sorry. . . about your friend, Becky."
No sooner had he finished, and she shot.
He bucked and convulsed in a violent spasm,
brains exploding out the back of his head,
and crumpled in a heap where he was sitting.
The Estate Sale
My sister met me at the house that evening
to help get things ready for the estate sale,
which was coming up in the next few days.
Everything was just as it had been before,
except the fact our mother wasn't there:
a fact which sapped the residence of warmth
and left the two of us rather on-edge.
It felt strange seeing the place as it was now,
nobody home and no one living there,
as if our lives now belonged to the past
and were mere echoes of a bygone time.
My sister started work on the downstairs
cleaning the place to make ready for guests,
and I had gone up to check on the attic.
I thought it was as good a place as any
to look for things that we might like to keep,
having been something of a storage room.
I had been digging through things for a while,
when I found an old box full of film reels.
They had names on them that I didn't know,
which only piqued my interest even more.
Not far away I found an old projector
and took it down to show it to my sister.
"Hey," I asked her, "mind if we look at these?"
"What is it?" she asked.
"Old films," I replied.
"But I don't recognize the names on them.
I'm not sure what to think. But I'm intrigued
and want to check them out. What do you say?"
"Sure, if you know how to work that old thing."
She laughed. "I see you found the old projector."
"Yeah," I said, "and it looks to be in good shape."
It wasn't long before we had it set up
and tried our luck playing one of the reels.
It worked and soon we were seeing picture.
It was blurry at first and hard to tell
what we were looking at, but we saw someone
bound to a chair with a gag in their mouth,
who looked to have been crying for some time.
"What in the world is this!?" my sister blurted,
as I managed to bring the lens into focus.
"This doesn't seem like something we would own!"
"Wait, this is real," I said. "Look, that's our basement.
This person was there… But who's filming it?"
We watched in silent shock for a few seconds,
when our late father sauntered into view,
before slapping the man across the face.
There was a plea for mercy and our father
began striking the man with his bare fist.
And then he walked away like it was nothing.
"Oh, my God!" said my sister. "That was Dad!
What was he doing to them? They were helpless."
"I don't know, I don't want to think of it."
Before we could discuss much more our father
came back into the shot carrying an axe.
No sooner did we see what he was holding
and he was already swinging it full force,
as we witnessed the victim's head get crushed
in a harrowing scene of blood and gore.
My sister screamed and ran to the projector
and violently shoved it off the table
and sent it shattering against the floor.
"I don't like it," she shouted. "We can't tell no one.
You saw it. Father was a murderer!
Did Mom know any of this!? She had to!"
"I don't know," I said. "Let's forget about it!
We're the only ones who ever have to know."
"Promise?" she said. "I don't want to be known
as the child of a family like that!"
"I don't either," I said and hugged her tight.
"We'll destroy it all and get out of here."
And that is just what we ended up doing.
Though we counted eight different names in all,
we just assumed the contents and burned them
so that no one would ever know about it.
Greatest Hit
Randy was hammered and talking too loudly.
He stopped mid-sentence on one of his rants
and raised his beer for his bandmates' attention.
He stood there, frozen like a tilted statue,
sincere in stance yet seeming ready to fall.
"Come on!" he said. "We can make one tonight!
We're all here. Let's just fucking do it, guys!
We should rock out so hard, write a hit song
to terrorize people's goddamn eardrums
when they come out to one of our live shows!"
The others in the band all gaped at Randy
like he had put the fear of God in them.
Then, everyone looked at each other in turn
and slowly nodded their heads in agreement.
"Say what," said Jack, "I like that idea, Randy.
We can jam and worry about the rest later."
"Hell yeah!" said Randy. "Let's get serious!"
Something came over him, his eyes grew wide.
"We're going to rock out like psychopaths!"
he shouted, then chucked the beer in his hand,
so hard the glass shattered against the wall.
"Holy shit, dude!" said Jack. "The hell was that for!?"
"Call it inspired," Randy replied and squinted.
Jack went over and sat down at the drums
and said, "Come on guys, I've got an idea,
a little something that might get us started."
He took his sticks and laid out a vicious drumline
so beautiful and frantically intense
everyone in the band's faces lit up.
"We'll call this one, 'Let's Rock Before We Die!'"
Making Headlines
Hank told his wife that he needed a moment
and took the phone into the other room.
"Pardon," he asked, "what was your name again?"
"Alan Morris, I'm with the local paper,"
the man replied and seemed professional.
"I have a story that might involve you,
and I was wondering if we could meet?"
"Sure, but what would the story be about?"
Hank asked, curiously.
"Well," said Alan,
"I think someone was buried near your house
who, it seems, the city has forgotten."
"I think we should meet," Hank said, quietly.
"I'm not sure how I'll tell my wife the news,
but I think it's important that we talk."
Nobody Really Knows
Darcy approached and took a seat at the table.
She glanced over and nodded at the woman
in the corner quietly laughing to herself.
"What's with her?" she asked Jan. "Is she a loon
or something? All she ever does is laugh."
"Guess you could say something like that," said Jan,
keeping her voice low so the other inmates
couldn't hear. "She has been laughing like that
since she arrived. Just always laughs and laughs."
"That's a strange thing," said Darcy, "to have wrong
with you. What kind of nutter, do you think?"
"Don't know," said Jan. "But it was from some kind
of mental break. They say that, after she
murdered her husband, she just started laughing.
And she hasn't stopped since, as you can see."
"What!?" gasped Darcy, staring at her wide-eyed.
"Yeah," said Jan, "she killed him with a sledgehammer
while he was sleeping. Bashed his skull clean in.
No one knows if she really finds it funny.
Like I said, she's gone through a mental break.
But one can't help but wonder if she does."
Jan chuckled. A grin spread across her face,
"Wouldn't that be something to laugh about?
If so, the joke never gets old with her."
Darcy, herself, let out peal of laughter,
but quickly stifled it, as she was nervous.
The woman, who had been quietly laughing
up to this point, snapped her head around
and nodded at them from across the way,
smiled, then began to laugh hysterically,
throwing her head back to laugh even harder.
Darcy and Jan exchanged terrified looks.
"Think she might be dangerous?" whispered Darcy.
"I don't know," said Jan. "We give her her space.
No one would blame you if you followed suit."
For a Friend (with a Broken Heart)
When my friend lost his wife, I knew that he
had felt it deeply. We would talk about it
now and then, and he liked to reminisce
about their life, but, at times, he would mention
how he felt as if she were still around,
and that he believed he and she still talked.
This always played at my heartstrings and I
would tear up by the way he spoke of her.
One day, he called me over to his place,
saying he needed someone to talk to.
He sounded depressed and, if he needed me,
it was the least that I could do for him.
When I arrived, he met me at the door
and welcomed me, and we sat down to talk.
I could see he had been crying. His eyes
were bloodshot and he had a distant look
that told me his mind was preoccupied.
I had never seen him in shambles before:
and I couldn't imagine what had changed
since last we met to leave the man like this.
But he kept murmuring about his wife,
how she had told him it was time to let
her go, and that was why he needed me,
since he didn't know what to do for her.
This surprised me, and I told him I didn't
understand what he actually wanted of me.
But he stopped me from talking any further
and had me follow him into the kitchen,
where he halted before the refrigerator,
opened the door and said, "Won't you help us?"
I peered in at what he was motioning towards:
there rested a jar upon the shelf, one with
what looked to be a human brain inside,
submerged in liquid to preserve it!
My heart dropped and I couldn't find my voice.
Then, he quickly spoke up, which made me start.
"We discussed matters," he said, "and believe
that you should be the one to care for her."
I took it, despite the horror I felt then,
for I was overcome with such compassion
for the man that I simply played along.
But he had had her brain removed on death,
and the grief must have driven him mad.