Wednesday, May 13, 2009

So I just watched Star Trek

The collision of galaxies appears to us as the greatest light show in the universe. Millions of billions of stars approaching, merging. The fire of countless suns is a crucible, sometimes forging new creations and sometimes snuffing everything out.

To The Cat, it is two balls of string, one batted into the other.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009


Two posts in and all I'm talking about is death and violence.

Today I'd better write something about kittens.
They didn't even want anything.

Theft, Tommy could understand. He hadn't much to take, but the banged-up cellphone would go for ten dollars, and his shoes at least thirty. Others would have stolen them and pretty much left him alone.

Four blows in, each one sending him stumbling, and they hadn't asked for anything.

The fifth shattered his glasses and his nose; he fell back against rusting chain-link, blinking glass and breathing blood. The biggest kid loomed in triplicate, three clones hazing in and out of one another, and Tommy watched three size-nine feet wind back to kick.

"Hold it."

Tommy looked toward the voice. She sat on the edge of the basketball court and looked smaller than him, swimming in a grey sweatshirt face half hidden by the hood. Her chest, in faded black letters, read BLAM. "He's mine."

"Sam--" whined the biggest kid, foot still poised.


The court clattered with the sound of running feet and he was alone with the girl who terrified the biggest kid.

The helping hand up to his feet was therefore a bit unexpected.

Monday, May 11, 2009

And we're back

Roger Albarn died alone at approximately 3:07 AM in a trailer that wasn’t even his, hunched over a shotgun and clad in a pair of black briefs. A self-inflicted 20-gauge blast traveled through the roof of his mouth and exploded the top of his head, killing him instantly and ruining the trailer owner’s carefully appointed rear wall. Said owner, a distant cousin, paid the cleanup company with Roger Albarn’s Mastercard, maxing it out. The bank responded by freezing Albarn’s total assets ($16.02 minus an unrelated overage charge) well before it was informed of its client’s death.

Roger Albarn died quickly, sadly, lonely. Above all, he died messily.

This last part was foremost in David Roe’s mind as he tried, vainly, to suture together the splayed back of Roger Albarn’s empty head. Three major flaps of scalp just would not fit together, straining the sutures. Roe watched one flap stretch and ultimately tear, flapping for the fourth time against the relatively undamaged side of what was once Albarn’s receding hairline. It gave a sad little splat and rested there, flakes of dead skin fogging the air around it.
David Roe broke for lunch.

Halfway through his sandwich, a maze of salami and swiss that showered his apron with every bite, he looked up to see Anna darkening his day with her sunny disposition. She smiled, leaning in over the breakroom table.

“Working hard on Albarn, I see.” The lilt in her tone suggested this statement was funny.

“You may as well bury him in a baseball cap.”

Anna prodded his forehead with one green-tipped finger. He flinched away, but his glower didn’t seem to bother her. “I don’t think Mrs. Albarn would appreciate that,” she said.

Roe’s eyebrows left their usual unhappy knot and momentarily quirked. “He was married?”

Sort of. Wife lives in Reno, but she’s coming in for the funeral.”

Roe shrugged and looked back into his sandwich. “Tell her he was a Cubs fan.”