Archives for May 2015

#173 Online Dating Despair

#173 Online Dating Despair

Joe worked in Photoshop and finished touching up a shot taken of him ten years earlier when he was forty. The resulting picture showed an image of a twenty- something. He admired the solid black hair and wrinkle-free face he had created.

He hurried to upload it to to see who he’d hook with this enhanced photo. His original, truthful photo hadn’t garnered one response in the three weeks he’d had it posted. “Is this fraud, putting a picture up that is a forgery of my actual looks? Well, can’t judge a book by its cover they say,” he thought, and pressed upload.

Within minutes, he received his first reply. “Hi Joe, Saw your picture, read your profile, think we may click, let’s meet, Honey Bunny.” With a name like, Honey Bunny, she must be a retard, he thought, until he clicked her profile and her voluptuous image almost knocked him off his chair. So beautiful he couldn’t imagine her in his bed, but when he read her likes and saw her number one favorite activity was oral sex, he did fall off his chair.

Not one to turn down an opportunity, he replied. “Honey Bunny, Read your profile, our favorite activities are the same. Let’s get together and get active. Meet you at Starbucks tonight, 8 PM.”

Almost instantly she replied, “See u at 8.”

Joe danced to the shower and stayed in it long enough to finish singing the entire opera, Elegy for Young Lovers, in German. The opera is a bitter indictment of the romantic notion of the artist as hero, feeding remorselessly on those around him, both in the name of art and to satisfy his own monstrous and inhumanely egotistical appetites. A fitting analogy of what he was about to do, feast on a young girl’s innocence to satisfy his perverted desire for flesh much younger than his.

After shaving and dumping an entire bottle of Ralph Lauren’s Polo Blue cologne over his body, he dressed in his $6,000 Brioni Suit, $1,500 Testoni shoes and put on his $30,000 Jaeger-LeCoultre watch, looked in the mirror and saw his gray hair.

“Shit,” he thought, took his jacket off, wrapped a towel around his neck and grabbed a bottle of Gray-No-More and dumped it on his head, and massaged it in until every hair he had left on his head was solid black. After rinsing, blow-drying and styling, he saw patches of white scalp showing through the dark hair. He reached into the medicine cabinet and grabbed a can of spray color that matched his hair. He spray painted all the thin spots, and he was pleased with his new look. If it was dark enough, she might recognize him as the man in the picture he posted.

He walked into Starbucks anticipating that Honey Bunny would stand out from the crowd. Thankfully, the place was almost empty. Other than a group of students, the only other customer was an older woman around his age. She looked past him like she was expecting someone to come through the door at any minute. He sat at a table next to hers so he could watch the door for his Honey Bunny.

An hour passed. She didn’t show up. He heard the old lady sniffling. “Is there something I can do to make you feel better?” he asked.

She looked him over and said, “If you were twenty years younger you could.” She got up abruptly and left. Joe left soon afterward and went home.

He composed an e-mail to send to Honey Bunny, “If you were here, you’d hear moans emanating from a wrecked and despondent man singing out his blues because you didn’t show up. I was there and you weren’t. I sat over an hour waiting, with a sniveling old lady for company.” He clicked send, and a few minutes went by before he received a reply.

“You must have gone to the wrong Starbucks. I was there and waited for over an hour with an old man who spray-painted his hair and stunk of perfume that smelled so bad I could hardly stand waiting there. But I did wait.  You never showed.”

Joe looked at her picture and knew he’d never meet the one who had captured his heart with only electronic words and a picture. He’d never hear her voice but envisioned it a joy to hear, and he’d never get to touch her soft silken skin, or see the color of her eyes or gather in her scent, or feel her beating heart full of love for him. His lights began to dim, and he thought, “I’ll never love again and the goals in my life will certainly change. I’ll have to find another, and when I do, I’ll have my hair professionally done.”  The End#173 Online Dating Despair

#172 An Occurrence at Prescott Public Library

#172  An Occurrence at Prescott Public Library


On the afternoon of Sunday, April 1, the cloud-filled sky emptied onto the desert, and as usual, the gloomy weather brought on my blues, changing my world, from a happy place to a dreary and god awful. As I drove to a meeting with my critique group in downtown Prescott, Arizona, I went past the regional airport off  the  89-A. The silver streak in the sky didn’t strike me as unusual at all. In retrospect, it should have when it climbed 10,000 feet in two seconds and dropped the same distance in a blink of my eye.

I figured it was some trick the desert played, something like seeing an oasis that isn’t there. Even though the craft followed me all the way downtown to the library, I paid it no heed. Six dedicated writers met to learn the craft of creative writing. We sat at a long conference table overlooking a large window facing the street in the library’s Elsea conference room.

Pat, Sue, Linda and Mark sat with their backs to the window. Carol and I sat facing the street. We began to discuss  H.G. Wells’ Valley of the Spiders.

Pat commented on the amount of times Wells used colors in his writing and the conversation moved around the table. When Linda opened her mouth, I became mesmerized. Her voice titillated all my senses. As I watched her lips enunciate words, my heart rate rose and my entire being became aroused. I leaned forward as far as I could to be closer to this woman who affected me so strangely.

I looked into her eyes, and what I thought were blue irises spun in a hypnotic fashion. She spoke about Ambrose Bierce’s An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge. As I listened, I could see past her teeth into her mouth and down her ruby red throat where her uvula danced with her words. Thoughts of rolling spiders and a hanging somehow mixed with this image in my frenzied mind,

So when I saw the bright light coming through the window, I believed I imagined it.

The light surrounded Linda. Her hair rose like it floated on water, and then her body began to rise from the chair. I wanted to shout, but not a word would come. I looked at the others. They carried on as though nothing strange was happening. I looked back to Linda. Now she floated above her chair and started moving toward the window as though the beam of light drew her in. I reached out and grabbed her ankle to stop her from floating away, but as soon as I touched her, I became weightless and rose off my chair like gravity was nonexistent.

I tried to let go, but my hand stuck to her ankle as if dipped in superglue. Scared by this weird development, I rationalized that if we couldn’t float through the window, once we were pulled up against it, whatever force held us would break.

When I saw Linda’s head reach the window glass and pass through as though it wasn’t there, her body continued to pass through solid glass without a crack appearing anywhere. Dragging along behind her, I too passed through the glass and followed her on up the light beam that I could see came from that same craft I had observed before. It now hovered above the library. We passed through the craft’s metal-skin like light through glass and once inside, the beam of light disappeared. We dropped to the floor. Linda wrapped her arms around me and hugged me like a frightened kitten. I became aroused again and returned her hug with passion. Surprised to find passion at a time like this, I pulled away. I needed a clear head to try to understand our situation, but when I looked at her, a cloud full of erotic images surrounded her, and her erotic thoughts flowed through my brain like a movie. Her thoughts enticed me to respond and I couldn’t stop my

thoughts from flashing through my mind no matter how hard I tried. But I stopped trying and started enjoying them as she slowly disrobed.  I felt compelled to do the same. She reached for me; I took her hand in mine and became overwhelmed with a desire so strong I couldn’t resist it.

Wait, I told myself. This is some kind of alien trick. I have to keep my senses. I ripped my hand from hers and erotic images disappeared. I put my pants on before it walked in.

“You’re not cooperating, ” said a tall spider. “I need to finish my research by .0000.7000, so I guess I’ll need another like this one.”

It pointed at me, and a light surrounded and lifted me. “Wait, wait, I’ll cooperate,” I yelled.

The light shut off, and I fell to the floor. Linda held out her hand. I tenuously took it in mine, and at the touch, lecherous feelings overcame me. I put my face to hers, touched her lips to mine, stuck my tongue between hers,

and tried to massage her dancing uvula. She in turn gyrated against me in such a satisfying manner, I lost control.

Though entranced with our love making, a part of my mind wondered if this creature was studying us or making a porn movie. Maybe if I perform well, the spider will make me a star, and use me in lots of scenes like this one. I pictured myself shaking the tall spider’s leg, sealing the deal, when I heard Mark’s voice.

“Joe, Joe, are you letting your imagination run away with you again?” It was then I realized I had an experience like the protagonist in An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, but unlike the hung man in that story, I lived to realize it, didn’t I?

The End

#172  An Occurrence at Prescott Public Library

#171 Internal Disintegrating Words from the Id

#171 Internal Disintegrating Words from the Id

I’m usually a mellow guy and get along with most everyone. Sometimes, though, I come across a person who clashes with my energy field so much that being in the same room sets off sparks of animosity, hatred, violence, and vengeance.

Ms. T. is one of those. The sight of her white hair and sardonically lined face puts my emotions into an altered state. She and I belong to the same writing critique group, and she savors her opportunity to tell me how insignificant my work is compared to hers.

I watch in trepidation as she lurks in her chair, waiting to critique my work like a hawk looking for a meal. Her beady eyes set upon me as though I’ll be lunch if I utter a sound.

Her turn to critique comes and she swoops in with cutting words.

“Your work is thrown together without much thought,” she says, and turns my peaceful nature into a violent volcano. Inside, my collection of synapses, flesh, and bone erupts and my emotions flow like molten rock.

I fire hot language right back at this white piece of feminine saline salaciously craving to emasculate me with her list of things I wrote wrong. I’m mortified that a shrew like her can bring forth my loathing.

Her fury is awakened by mine, and her next words slash my thrown together first drafts—according to her—comparing them to her carefully thought out Greek odyssey that she’s been writing for most of her life.

I’d like to be cool and intellectual and say I’m better than that, but I feel pitted like a dog, and my nature causes me to respond in kind. The replies that are backed up in my mouth come out laced with wicked words that flow through my lips, calculated so that she will taste the bitter flavor of my anger.

I feel like a fool for arguing with this demon that passes for a woman. I remember what my mother always said: “If you get into an argument with an idiot, it’s soon hard to tell who the idiot is.”

I try not to argue with her, but when I don’t, I have to pay the price holding my rage inside. It eats away inside at any pride I own when that spiteful woman spews her sardonic wisdom, saying it’s my problem and not hers. My volcano wants to explode and if I had the power of God, I’d certainly repeat his action and subdue her into a pillar of salt, shipping her off to Sodom or Gomorrah for repeating her disintegrating words in a hostile manner that calls for a reaction from my Id.

The End

#169 Burn Bitch Burn

#169 Burn Bitch Burn

#169 Burn Bitch Burn

I dropped a flaming match into the hay stacked around Matilda. Flames rose; she screamed. My mind jumped back to the beginning of the day.

At work, I couldn’t stop imagining how much fun we’d have together. Thinking about her was the answer to my prayers. The one I’d always wanted to hang from the rafter’s in the barn and do to her what I’d seen done to fair skinned women on TV.

I’d pretend to be an Indian attacking a wagon train and snatch her from under the wagon and take her to my teepee I built in the yard. I’d teach her to love the wild man I’d be and then I’d change into her white-man rescuer and she’d show me her appreciation by making passionate love to me.

Next I’d dress her like a bride and take her to the Baptist Church down the road and make her marry me. Then she’d have my kids and be a mother to them and me. She’d dress me and send me to school with the other kids, but when bedtime came around, she’d remember how well I made love to her.

“Joe, Joe!” my boss yelled disturbing my rambling thoughts as I daydreamed about Matilda. “How about working instead of dreaming?” He gave me a disgusted look. I began pushing the broom across the floor of the office where she worked as a receptionist. My eyes didn’t leave her for a second. She must have known. A slight blush spread across her cheeks when I hovered close to her.

Should I ask her for a date? Would a beauty like her go out with a retarded janitor? I could read and write my name, so maybe I wasn’t retarded, just a bit slow. I gathered my courage, swallowed, and said, “Matilda, will you go to see the Twilight Movie with me?”

The other two girls in the office heard me ask and laughed. “Go on, Matilda; better grab him while you can.” The other said, “He’s perfect for you.”

Matilda turned toward me with pity in her eyes. “I never go to twilight movies.”

My eyes begin to water and at first didn’t believe it when she continued speaking and said, “But I’ll make an exception for you, and go to any movie you want.”

I dropped the broom when she said that. Maybe my fantasies would become reality. That night I picked her up in a taxi. After the movie, we went to my house that my mom left me when she died. Matilda oohed and aahed when she saw how meticulously kept everything was.

“Would you like to see the barn?” I couldn’t wait to tie her up and play Cowboys and Indians

“Is that where you hid the money?”

“What money?”

She put her arms around me. “Show me where it is?” she whispered into my ear.

“After we play,” I said. “We’ll go to the barn, and then I’ll show you.”

“How much do you have left? Did you go on a spree after you won the lotto?”


“Susie told me you won the lotto and promised to give her thousands if she’d date you.”

I had lied to Susie so she’d go out with me. During that time I thought she was the answer to my prayers, but it didn’t work. The story about me winning the lottery had spread though. Since then, all my co-workers treated me with respect. Some asked me to donate to their charities, some asked for loans. I had thought Matilda didn’t care about money and went out with me to be nice. It didn’t matter what motivated her. Once she entered the barn, my fantasies would become reality.

“That’s true. I told her that.”

Matilda’s eyes grew bright. “Show me the money?”

“It’s in the barn.” Once in the barn, I’d have her right where I wanted her. “Let’s go there and I’ll show you where it is.”

She followed me into the barn. I picked up the rope I had ready in case my fantasy of bringing her here ever came true. I spun around with the rope held ready to wrap around her when I felt a pain in my chest. Next thing I knew I was on the ground convulsing from electricity coursing through my body. It stopped. I lay on the barn floor in a daze.

“Tell me where the money is.”

Another jolt of electricity had me dancing on the floor. After a few seconds, the juice turned off, but my muscles continued to twitch.

“You’ll be dancing until you show me.”

She pressed the trigger. I convulsed until I passed out. I awoke tied to a wooden beam that stabilized the barn roof. It wasn’t right. She was supposed to be tied up. She approached with a Taser in her hand.

“Tell me.” She touched my neck with the device.

“I never won any lottery. I lied to get a date.”

She kicked me between the legs. “How do I know you’re not lying now?” She opened all the cabinets lining one barn wall. I tried to turn my fantasy around where she’d save me, but my imagination failed.

She emptied every container in the cabinets while I twisted and turned trying to loosen the ropes like I’d seen the guys do on TV. Once I got free, things would be different.

Matilda yanked on a rope attached to a ceiling panel. Greenbacks rained down on her. She stood in a shower of bills. “Yes, yes, you idiot. You did win the lottery.”

Just as she said that I broke free, wrapped the rope around her and tied her to the pole. “I didn’t lie to you. That,” I pointed to the pile of bills lying on the floor, “belonged to my mother.” I piled many of the bills mixed with hay around her feet.  Pulled a book of matches from my pocket, dragged one across the striker and when it burned well, dropped it at her feet and watched the flames shoot up around her and her screams were true , just like in my fantasy.


#168 Dream Train

#168 Dream Train

Things happened when I was five that I can’t forget. When I go to bed, I try to think of something else, but a vision that’s always in my head appears. I see a steam engine with its whistle blowing, belching smoke and soot as it rolls down the tracks hauling a string of boxcars loaded with freight. Though distant, the whistle lets everyone know a train is coming, a warning to be careful if you were on the tracks.

A warning we boys always ignored. We’d never let a little thing like a whistle stop us from hopping aboard a slow-moving freight train. We had no toys, especially electric trains like other boys did, but we didn’t need them. We had the real thing, coal burning, smoke spewing, choo-chooing freight trains that we not only watched, but hopped aboard and went for a ride.

When one rolled slowly by, we’d climb aboard a ladder on the side of a boxcar and the roof and onto the platforms attached to the roof of each car. We ran and jumped from one moving car to another. What fun!

My friend Ronnie McIntyre and his brother were with me one day when a freight train came and we climbed aboard. Once we climbed to the top, Ronnie ran ahead, and gracefully jumped from one car to the next. He made it first to the car nearest the engine, turned around to claim victory for getting there before us, but he didn’t see the bridge the train was about to go under.

“Watch out, Duck,” I hollered as loud as I could, but the engine made so much noise he couldn’t hear me. I watched as the bridge knocked Ronnie from the train and he fell in between cars. His brother and I scrambled for the ladders on the side and climbed down to see if he was okay.

It wasn’t too far back down the tracks that we found Ronnie, dead. His brother burst into tears. I puked my breakfast onto the tracks when I saw that Ronnie had lost his head.

His brother saw it beside the tracks and picked it up by the hair. Still crying, he ran home and showed his mother that Ronnie wasn’t coming home ever again.

After that when I’d go to sleep, I’d dream of a train rolling down the tracks.  I’d see McIntyre losing his head, and then I’d look up and see another train coming at me. In fear and dread, I’d try to run, but my legs got stuck in deep mud. The engine kept on coming. I heard the squeal of brakes when the train tried to stop and steam enveloped me in a cloud before it ran over me. I always moved and woke an instant before I died. No one had to carry my head to show my mother I was dead and wouldn’t be coming home for dinner again.

After years of torment by this dream, I couldn’t bear to go to bed without taking a drink, well, more than one. Enough alcohol to wipe the thoughts from my brain was what I needed before I could sleep.      One night as I sat in a local pub, I decided to face my fears for the first time since Ronnie died and go to where I used to play on railroad tracks.

I staggered down the tracks and saw a train hauled by a steam engine, whistle blowing. It belched smoke and soot as it rolled down the tracks, heading for me just like the train in my dream. I turned to look and saw another train coming at me. In fear and dread, I tried to run, but my legs felt like they were stuck in deep mud and the engine kept coming. I heard the squeal of brakes when the train tried to stop, steam enveloping me in a cloud as I heard Ronnie’s voice.

“You could have yelled louder,” he accused me.

I wasn’t drunk, so I must be dreaming, I told myself as the train knocked me to the ground. My neck hit a metal track passed over by an iron wheel that cut my head off as neatly as a butcher’s saw.

“Welcome to our exclusive club,” Ronnie said.

I turned and saw seven other boys holding their heads in their hands. Was I really dead, I wondered, did I simply return here to die, or is everything just a dream? I didn’t know, so I picked up my head by the hair so it wouldn’t get run over by the next freight train when it came.

The End#168 Dream Train

#167 Gracefully aging

#167 Gracefully Aging

Her angelic look mirrored her innocence the first time I saw her. I knew she was the one for me. Her radiant face lit the entire place, warming my heart while I watched her twirling around the dance floor. I stepped onto the floor and demonstrated my dance moves to impress her with my macho stance, dance.

Her face colored with desire and adoration. She whispered, “I think I’m in love.”

I open my eyes to a rising sun and a wonderful world of sounds and colors greets my eyes and ears, sending warm feelings through me. Lovely shades of pink light the mountainside. Singing birds pour out musical notes as they go on their daily search for food. Worms scurry to hide, trying to avoid becoming breakfast to those chirping songbird chicks, cuddled in crowded nests.

Jumping out of bed with glee, I start this day with whoops of joy, lucky to be alive and in such a fine place. I don’t need to eat and rush out the door to go play. Oh, to be youthful, alive, and in love – how I yearn for those bygone days!

After many years have passed when morning comes, I see her and close my eyes, so I don’t have to gaze upon her guilty face, darkened by my deceit and the other sins I’ve committed over the years. I listen to her arthritic shuffle and think it serves her right for draining my years with her incessant needs.

When I awake now, that damn sunlight bothers my eyes as it bathes the mountain in glaring crimson light. Those noisy birds never shut up. I’ll invent birth control for them, so there won’t be so many damn chirping chicks. Or maybe I’ll just burn their nests.

When I open my eyes that can hardly see this spiteful world, my body aches and getting out of bed is a chore.

Why bother getting up I wonder, nothing to do but watch TV and eat stale bread. May as well just stay here in bed, I don’t need to eat and certainly don’t want to go out the door.

I’m so unlucky to have lived this long. My mind is alive, but my body aches and my wife is a shrew. This is what it’s like to be alive long after hope has gone down the rabbit hole, leaving behind a lifetime of unfulfilled dreams. I know there is no relief until that day comes when my wife dies, and I can marry a younger one that can still dance and has the sex drive of a girl!

The EndAging,

#166 Rejected

#166 Rejected

A letter from Shuster Publishing is in my mailbox.  My heart races, I can hardly breathe. I tear open the envelope anticipating an acceptance letter for my sci-fi story. I see the form letter, and my heart almost stops. “We only publish literary fiction. Please don’t submit again. Thank you. Signed, 1st reader.”

My story didn’t even get past the mailroom boy. To me it’s a mystery why highbrows deem literary mainstream superior to any genre. It’s something that intellectuals simply say, “We’ll know it when we see it.”

I address a letter to the editor and say, “Your reply to my manuscript – that I believe to be an excellent piece of work –, is rude and very crude. I want you to know that to me, literary fiction is meaningless drivel, just printed matter. Why, I just look to the past and see books that were banned and disparaged that are now considered some of the best ever written. I’d rather read brochures or flyers with artistically crafted graphics helping me to envision a holiday, a car, a girl, or maybe one of a million schemes to encourage me to buy a product.

“Today, some writing that’s considered pornographic should be recognized as having artistic value by readers like you, who claim to recognize intellectual value in common words. I know literary fiction focuses on style, psychological depth, and character, but so does erotica and pornography.

“Academics contend that formerly cheap novels are now literary works. Did you ever stop to think that the reason for this change may be because readers like you can no longer comprehend the difference between literature and common prose?”



The End

#166 Rejected

#165 Saturday Night


#165 Saturday Night

Today is Sunday, and my life will finally end. Something most men dread, but I anticipate the peace it will bring. I’ll never forget the good loving we almost had last night when we first met.

How we walked on the beach, held hands, and watched the sun set and the moon rise. The stars shone so brightly that their light burned through my heart at a blazing speed, and I became star-struck for you.

Together we watched the moon set, the sun rise, and all that time I thought you were a woman, and I fell in love. You and I lay in bed all night long enjoying one another; until the sunrise lit the room and revealed that you, just like me, are a man.

How could it be that I enjoyed your embrace? Someone who needs to shave, has a cock, two balls, and looks a lot like me. My stomach churns. I want to puke at the thought of touching you, but my little brain remembers the delight and wants to forgive and do it over and over again.

Impossible, I think. I’m a man. Even to think of touching another like me is so unnatural that I can’t believe my little brain is thinking like that. You deserve to die for what you’ve done. Changed me from a heterosexual to a bisexual who, I believe, doesn’t have a place in the human race.

I sharpen the straight razor on the leather strap that my father left me when he died because he thought I was a real man. What would he think if he saw you lying in my bed? I stroke the razor back and forth and press a bit harder with every stroke as images of my family points fingers of ridicule and shame at me.

My honor was at stake. To redeem myself, I did what any real man would do. Took your deceiving cock and balls in my hand and stroked them hard with the straight razor. It cut them off on the first swipe, and when you tried to scream, I filled your mouth with your own body parts.

Your eyes wanted to know why before their lights went out and slowly died. I told you I did it to prove I was still a man. But deep inside, my star-struck heart broke and sent remorse through my blood and it filled my brain.

Why couldn’t I accept you and admit that life with you could have been more than all right? The need to repent for what I had done was too much. The only penance I could do would be to take the razor to my throat and pray for forgiveness before I died.

I gaze into the mirror and put the blade to my throat, wondering if I should cut through my Adam’s apple or leave it intact. Pressing on the razor caused blood to flow. Could I cut off my head before I died, or i should I even try.

Looking into my eyes I saw fear not the relief I sought. They told me I might go to hell for killing myself. I pulled the razor from my neck and told myself there were other ways to redemption. I know you’re dead and it’s too late for you, but to prove I was still a man, on Saturday night I’d wear your clothes and do what you did to me, and if he’s a real man, he’ll end my life and I won’t have to do it myself.

The End#165 Saturday Night

#164 Genocide

#164 Genocide

Professor Spindle started his demonstration. His class of advanced high school science students viewed a monitor ablaze with a thermonuclear explosion that expanded in slow motion, observing it from ignition to the brilliantly lit end.

“Fascinating stuff, huh guys,” Spindle said. “Listen up now, I’m telling you the reason we could observe the explosion is because I controlled the event. I slowed the neutrons to a snail’s pace.”

“What I have here for each student is an indestructible globe with a vacuum sealed interior for you to grow your own miniature universes over summer break. Watch how I insert a single seed.”

He demonstrated by immersing his globe with the light of two energized laser beams, one white and the other blue. They exploded and released a cloud of sodium atoms.

“What you have observed is how the lasers energy created ultra-cooled temperatures inside the globe to a fraction of a degree above absolute zero, thereby uniting the atoms into a single quantum mechanical condensate body.

“Shooting a laser onto the created cloud tunes its optical properties so that it becomes like molasses when a second light pulse enters it, the condensate body slows the light to a leisurely 38 miles an hour. When I shine a second laser beam into the cloud and slowly turn it off the beam of light comes to a complete halt. Using this method enables me to slow the speed of the explosion to the point it becomes observable.

“After the controlled explosion, the vacuum inside the globe becomes an incubator for growing a miniature universe. Accelerating the growth factor to a googol – for those of you who have forgotten, a googol is the numeral one followed by one hundred zeros –  is accomplished by spinning the globe at almost supersonic speed.”

Professor Spindle demonstrated by locking the globe into a desktop accelerator and slowly turning the lever until the spinning globe became a blur.

“Doing it this way steps up the time factor within the globe and will allow a complete and functional universe to grow within the globe during our break. When you return from vacation, the amount of time passed inside the sphere will be equivalent to five billion Earth years. I expect each student to bring me a fully functioning universe at the beginning of next semester.”

Brad, one of Spindle’s star students, spent his entire break working on and cultivating his experiment. He fell in love with this experiment and his globe became his reason for living. His parents were proud, but his girlfriend left him for a boy who had time for her. His dog found another best friend. Eventually he observed that the only planet he could grow life upon in his experimental universe changed from a bright blue to a sickly green.

When the new semester started, Brad became overjoyed at the prospect of getting help from Professor Spindle. First day of school, he rushed into class. “Professor Spindle, Professor Spindle, would you please look at my globe? There’s something terribly wrong with the third planet from this small sun.” He pointed to a small blue colored planet with disgusting brown clouds enveloping it and green moldy veins growing around it.

“Oh, I see the problem,” Professor Spindle said. “I hope you’re prepared to do what has to be done because this whole section of your universe is being corrupted by the planet that’s changing colors.”

“What do I need to do to fix it?” Brad asked.

“Looks like it’s too late for a fix. This planet is contaminated with a virus.”

“Can’t I cure it somehow?”

“Once your planet has started changing colors and contaminating the space around it, it’s too late for a cure. The virus has spread and there’s no stopping it. The only solution is to destroy the entire planet.”

“But that’s the only planet in my entire solar system that has life on it.”

“I’m sorry,” Professor Spindle said, “but I’ve seen this before and once a planet gets this virus, if you let it go, it will contaminate your entire solar system. You need to destroy that planet if you want to save your universe”

Brad aimed a high-energy laser at the third planet from the small sun and felt a tinge of regret. “Before I destroy the world, tell me the name of the virus?”

“Homo Sapien.”

With regret, Brad fired the laser that exploded in blue flames killing the only living organisms he had been able to create.

The End


#164 Genocide

#163 Art


Being alone breeds discontent. If only I could find the right one, my life would be filled with joy. Love has eluded me and slipped away so many times before. Hope had disappeared because I was never smart enough to detect what was required to remain a duo.

I always felt I needed more, more of what I never knew. Then one day while surfing the Internet, Tethy’s helmet came into view. A metal sculpture created by my classmate, Laurie. Its brilliancy filled me with unfamiliar passion. The creator of this piece must have a zeal surpassing even mine, a better mind by many degrees and the ability to create beauty I only daydreamed of.

If I could only be with a genius such as this my need would be filled, and I could love the conceptions inside her head. They’d fulfill my dreams of loving splendor that never aged and never died.

After this, I saw Laurie in a different way. Her soft skin and her eyes, a brilliant blue, sucked me in. She had moist and yummy lips, shapely legs, and a gorgeous body I couldn’t live without. Before I met her, no one woman was ever enough for me to be dedicated to.

But an artist like her had beauty bursting through, and my desire was aroused like never before. I thought we would have been the perfect pair. She’d be my muse and I hers. I wanted to work with her and imagined what we’d create with my industrious work and her creative mind. I visualized statues reaching to the sky, armies of knights wearing helmets like Tethy’s, and of course I’d sculpt her in many forms, so her beauty could be shared with the entire world.

She thought differently than me and didn’t want me in her life. A travesty I thought. All the works building in my mind came crashing down. Rejected and dejected I built a goddess to adore. She stands in front of my house holding a spear and a snake to let everyone know a broken hearted artist lives here.

If Laurie ever drove by and saw the things I had built out of love for her, I wonder if her cold, cold heart would melt and invite me in. Or was she in love with Art and no one else? Would she think me a fool for loving what she can do without knowing who she is? Did it really matter that I had seen so many more years than her?

I dreamed one night that my goddess Boadicea came to life and her heart beat beneath her breasts of stone. Her emotions rose with each beat and her love for, me, her creator grew and grew, until that heart of stone was ready to burst.

When I awoke, I knew I was no longer alone and had found that special one. But a problem arose when I wanted her to come to bed. It was then I knew I could only worship her in my psyche and had to be content with her standing there guarding my front lawn.

Was it weird to adore a woman made of cement, I wondered; until I remembered all those I saw on their knees praying to a stone statue of some long dead saint. My Boadicea was alive in my mind and heart, so if I wanted, I could get on my knees and ask her to be mine. And I did.

Now I wait for night to come when Boadicea joins me in my dreams.


#163 Art