that monster there...

     Lily lay in bed and cursed herself for the habit of wearing socks to sleep. It worked in the winter, but in July the kitchen sent up hot drafts of midnight air through the floorboards.  It was a long-reach or a pretzel-twist; she went for the twist and sent the socks into the air with enough verve to never have to see them again.      “Cmon Earl!”       Not a sound.      “I can hear you down there, Earl! Hell, I can smell you down there, Earl!”      She loved the smell of him. She'd told him when they'd met, and reminded him frequently. He reminded her that she also loved the smell of buffalo manure.  And turpentine. And car exhaust..,       “Earl, your not making things better here! Your making them worse! You know what I'm like when I don't get sleep!”      Lily knew Earl. She’d seen the results of his efforts in just about every arena. It was all bleak, except for his lovemaking. He excelled in that area, or maybe he didn't -  she'd had nothing to

(A story originally created as a submission to "The Big Ugly Review", for which I never received a receipt notification. It seems my little story might have simply been the last ugly straw for a seven-issue flash, but who knows - maybe they were just hiding from me. It's a Horrible Marriage story. - Here it is so I don't feel like I totally wasted a handful of small words.) “We were robbed.”  She pushed the words forward against the carpet as she crawled. “We what?” “Robbed.” Rusty wiggled around on hands and knees, nicked his chin on the edge of a side table and hissed, “This is what I’m talking about, Mare. This kind of thing, it’ll ruin us!” He pulled the black mask up to his nose, felt the damage and eyed his wife angrily.  In the unfamiliar room, soft moonlight crisscrossed with sharp shadows over her black bodysuit. Her full, pouting lips struck through the hole in her mask – those bright blue eyes - Mary filled the image of everything h

     The plane's tight: tight seats, thin air, narrow aisle, narrow folks, pinched faces and Bud.       Bud's wedged into row 21, seat B.      It's an hour before midnight with little hope of finding Chicago through the squeeze of ice and wind without the wings flailing hard enough to make every soul on that jet pray they've done enough good to make a difference in the eyes of a wrathful God. Everyone's preparing. The silence says so. Everyone except for the woman in row 20, seat A. She's not worried. She's done with God, done with good, done with it all - she's all done.       "What!" She shrieks at her husband, "What is it! What! Tell me! What!?" Her voice is hateful. She's putting every ounce of done and nasty into each word, waiting for her husband to finally snap, spin around, break her neck. She wants him to end it, put his once loving hands around her throat - right there, near Detroit, before the plane has a chance

      "Ralph felt it first, the pull."       "Yep, in the bathroom. I felt it in the bathroom."       "What was that like? We're you frightened?"     "Nah. I was checking to see if the hair treatment was working, you know - its been a while, nothing on top moving - and that's when It hit me!"       "Was it a voice, a picture in your mind of this mountainous area or something like that?"       "No, just a tugging feeling. At first it was awful, I thought I was going crazy. Like I needed something, I didn't know what, but whatever it was I needed it bad! Usually I'm watching the high school  varsity cheerleaders over the fence at Regional when I get that feeling!  Har-Har!! Well, The next thing I know, I'm in my car, up here on  Sunset Rock, waiting for the spaceship to arrive."     "That's how I found him! Ha! He was in his car, no pants and shaving cream still on his chin

             Roger sat silently in the dark kitchen with the shotgun resting over one knee. He was perfectly still in the hot, black air. The sweat dripped ticklish down his neck but he didn't flinch, didn't take the barrel of the gun off his mark, and kept his index finger so gently against the smooth black steel tab that he could feel the blood pulsing in his fingertip. The kitchen got hot in late June. By early July it was nearly unbearable. The air conditioners were still in the basement, where they'd been the day the signed the papers on the house. As far as he knew, they worked, but he hadn't bothered. She'd warned him. He'd ignored her. He hadn't bothered; hadn't bothered much of a job either, or kids for that matter. He hadn't bothered with a paint job for the kitchen, which needed it badly. Eight years of high-gloss banana yellow. It peeled about an inch each July, from the top down. He'd measured it once. Ben

"I keep having dreams about beautiful things; flying, finding love, visiting mysterious and beautiful cities..." "Maybe you ate something..." "Childhood crushes come back, grown women, large eyed, asking about me. Don't you have dreams like that?"  "Never. Mostly I'm eating peanuts in a bar, and the bartender can't find me. He's got my beer and I'm dry mouthed and really need that beer." "That sounds like some kind of lacking too." "Sometimes I have dreams about wrestling alligators. I think they're alligators. They could be crocodiles. I'm not sure it matters." "I've never wrestled any kind of animal in my dreams." "I wrestle them about three times a week." "How does it turn out?" "The other night I woke up as a big one was about to chew my face off. I went to punch it in the snout. I woke up just in time to see my fist heading for Gloria.

"This is it. This is our weekend to make it work." "Make what work?" "Make what work? Did you really say that?" "Is this an argument? If this is an argument, I need to know." "It's not an argument, I'm trying to reach you. I can't reach you." "Here, take a bag. Can you reach this?" "What's that?" "I bought you a little something." "For what?" "For our weekend, I mean, for you." "You haven't bought me a real gift in sixteen years. That's one small part of why we're here." "You never asked." "People don't ask for gifts... That's what it means to receive a - Oh, you just don't understand." "I'm just kidding." "About what." "It's for me..."  "It is not!" "No, really, it's for me... Are you crying now? We haven't even unp