Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Before my suicide attempt I'd never been lonely in my life, now I've learned what the word really means and I can't get enough of y'all.

Saturday, August 2, 2014

How To Not Kill Yourself


I failed to corpsify myself last Thursday. The Super Sibling Squad is smarter than me. They put together the clues, figured out which social network service I was using to schedule updates, and grabbed the addy of the hotel from what was supposed to be my final update.

Room #666
The Cheap Hotel
On the Local Name Road
Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favo(u)rite.

(My updates have an international audience.)

I also left a note in the room: “I was on Earth all along!”, blowing all my best material on my presumed death.

I was going to die on apple vodka and store brand benadryl, neither of which I will ever touch again. If I had been serious I would have waited out the credit check and gotten a tank of nitrogen, but I get lazy when I’m suicidal. But as the title says, I failed, praise Elvis, Bettie, and all the saints.

Dead is cold, dark, and lonely. I was never happier than when I heard a voice telling my mother that I was breathing on my own and the tube was coming out. When the light and air came back my easy-to-love mother was there. I apologized to her and cried a lot.

There’ll be a real bill to play, but until then my family is paying an emotional price for my idiocy, poor health, stress induced problems, tears, heart-break, all on my head. I’ve even managed to piss off the entire interfacebooknet. Sorry not-imaginary peeps.

Listen to Uncle Ray, kids, find someone to talk to. Unless you’re actually in hospice there’s a way home. You may feel like a giant wuss for, y’know, having ‘feelings’ and shit, but you’ll be a live wuss and chicks dig that ‘feelings’ shit.

And death is a cold, dark, lonely, place, and there is no way, no way home.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Tools (a very short story)

"When all you've got is a hammer, everything looks like a kneecap."

"You mean a nail."

"Nah. You want pliers for those."

Friday, November 18, 2011

Scissors

Chuck Wendig, author of DOUBLE DEAD, issued a flash fiction challenge, Frog Powder Seagull Tower Scissors. Pick one and write 100 words. Here's my 100 (and 8) words and the 179 words it was whittled from.

108

The pair reached the top of the dune and beheld more dunes.

“Michaud?”
 
“Forde?”

“We only have enough water for one of us to return. Or both of us to die halfway there…”

“No, one of us must warn them.”

“What d’you recommend? Arm wrestlin’?”

“No, I think something less taxing. Rochambeau?”

“Fair dinkum.”

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

“Oui.”

“Very well then, let us begin.”

Two fists sat in two palms. Michaud counted.

“Roh. Sham. Bo.”

“Bugger.”

The Australian had paper, the Frenchman scissors. Forde handed his canteen to Michaud. Michaud turned and walked away.


178

The pair reached the top of the dune and beheld more dunes.

"Michaud?"

"Forde?"

"We are well and truly forked, moan amy. We only have enough water for one
of us to return. Or both of us to die halfway there..."

"No, mite, one of us must warn them."

"What d'you recommend? Arm wrestlin'?"

"Hon hon hon. You are very droll, monsieur. No, I think something less
taxing. Rochambeau?"

"Fair dinkum."

"Is that a 'yes'?"

"Oui."

"Very well then, let us begin."

Two fists sat in two plams. Michaud counted.

"Roh. Sham. Bo."

"Bugger."

The Australian had paper, the Frenchman scissors. Forde handed his canteen to Michaud.

"I will send help immediately."

"You do that. Good luck, Jean-Paul. Tell her I love her."

"Tell who, Frank?"

"The best lookin' one you can find, mate."

Michaud smiled.

"Just so, mon ami."

He turned and walked away.

Forde sat in the powdery sand and watched Michaud walk away, but in his mind's eye he was back in the lifeguard tower at Bondi with a sea breeze, sheilas, and shrieking gulls.