Category: Fiction

Rollbacks

Elektraphrog

I shot the greeter at Wal-Mart, just after he said “Hi, Welcome to Wal-Mart.”  I figured if Wal-Mart could slash prices, I could slash lives.  Besides, these employees had been reduced to slave-like labor, underpaid, and underappreciated.  I was doing this guy a favor.  He didn’t really want to “Welcome” me into Wal-Mart.  He wanted his shift to end, so he could stop being ignored by mindless shopping drones.  I was doing him a favor, ending his exploitative work-shift, indefinitely. Yeah, I know my killing this guy was drastic, but these are really tough economic times, and damn, I had to do something.

I got the idea to kill the Wal-Mart greeter yesterday, while I was shopping at Wal-Mart.  The little yellow smiley face on the sale signs, which I believe is the same face, and honestly I don’t know how he travels between isles so fast, were mocking me as I perused every isle. This shitty yellow smiley face was laughing at me, telling me: You’re an idiot to pass this up, look how much money your saving! Buy it! I know you don’t need it, but this sales not going to last forever bud! I know it’s a piece-of-shit CHIA PET, made in Indonesia by underage, barely paid, sweaty hands. But MAN, it WAS $19.99, now ITS $10.99!

Fuck you, I said ripping the sale sign down, tearing out the yellow smiley face, and then stuffing him into my pocket.  I left my shopping cart in the middle of the isle.On my way out, I stopped and watched the greeter. He smiled, welcoming each consumer drone.  At least ten shoppers passed him, completely oblivious to the person,and voice merely saying “hello.”

This is just one big fucking trap, I thought to myself,walking past the greeter, I know how to get you noticed. I left Wal-Mart as a freeman, for the first and last time.

When I got home I opened my lockbox, and took out my Beretta.  I was about to pick up the box of 9mm ammunition, but paused before my hand touched the box.  I bought the ammo a few years ago, on sale…at Wal-Mart, before they stopped selling bullets.

It’s alright, I grabbed the box of bullets, it’s actually fitting. I loaded the clip, and then took out the yellow smiley face from my pocket.  After taping it the muzzle of my Beretta, face pointing outward, I set the gun down.

When I walked into Wal-Mart the greeter smiled and said hello to me.  I smiled back, pointing my smiling gun, and fired.

“You’re Welcome.” I said aloud.

While I ran from the store, before being obtained by the police, my mind was flooded with images.  I pictured massesof people, rushing to Wal-Mart, simply to say hello, and thank you to the greeters; much like after nine eleven, when people garnished military service members with unconditional praise, recognition, and thanks.  That didn’t happen.  What did happen was a new uniform policy at Wal-Mart.  All greeters were required to wear bullet-proof vests.  The employees had to pay for them, which could be conveniently deducted from their pay-checks, in three lowinstallments.

I’m in prison now, and I don’t have to pay for anything. $10.99

Faerwald

Elektraphrog

‘The amount of knowledge Faerwald possesses is too much!’ Col pronounced with authority. ‘He has too much influence over this village! Why should a man who has never stepped a foot outside of home be allowed to counsel our lord?’ As the crowd surrounding Col shouted their sentiments and clanged goblets of beer together, Col leaned into his friend standing beside him and spoke quietly, ‘We must do something now, Thornton. I hear our king is to be seeking counsel from Faerwald tomorrow evening. Are you not tired of our lord going to Faerwald for advice and not us? We used to be the wise men of the land! Do you not remember those times, Thornton?’

Thornton echoed his sentiments, ‘Folks! This is dangerous times when our leaders walk into one man’s home, takes councel from him, and obeys him! Our lord ought to be listening to us, the people of the village! It is our duty to the lord, our land, and our rights as men to steal Faerwald’s collection and kill him! And I propose we do this tonight and end this atrocity immediately!’

Aelfric rose as the throng shouted ‘here-here’, and ‘aye’ towards their leaders. The noise from the mob allowed Aelfric to slip out of the building unnoticed. He hurried across town to Faerwald’s home.

Aelfric rapped upon the threshold and was greeted by William, Faerwald’s servant and apprentice. Upon entry, the scent of books saturated the air and would overwhelm any newcomer to the home. Aelfric, on the other hand, was not a newcomer, and paid no mind to the scent nor the multitudinous amount of stacks of books measuring from the floor to the ceiling; which, not only spanned the length of the foyer, but the hall and every room within the home.

William led Aelfric to Faerwald’s study; and as usual, found Faerwald reading a book and taking notes with his quill and parchment. William left the two alone and resumed tending to his duties around the home.

‘Faerwald,’ began Aelfric, ‘we need to leave immediately!’ Faerwald held his hand up to his intruder, indicating he must wait. ‘This cannot wait, Faerwald. We must…’ Again, Faerwald indicated to Aelfric he must have patience.

Faerwald was not elf; he was pure human. Yet, the elfs of the land, along with the lords of the land, have gone to Faerwald for many years seeking wisdom and direction. Faerwald is a man who believed books hold more knowledge than any one man could posses; and therefore, he read books. Every book in his home he has read; and most, he has read multiple times. The last count William performed for Faerwald totaled over fifteen thousand works of literature that had taken him nearly two scores to collect. It is rumored he has not ever been outside of his home since first moving there thirty five years ago with, what was then, a small collection of only seven hundred works. What is not rumored and is agreed upon by all folks of the village is no one has ever seen the man other than elfs and lords over the years. Often times, Faerwald receives invitations to embark upon a journey with folks of the land; however, each time he declines with the reply, ‘My journeys do not consist of walking upon land. My journeys are within books and literature; and there is where I shall travel alone.’

After a few moments, Faerwald set his book and quill upon the end table beside his bed. He looked up to Aelfric and questioned, ‘Now what is so important that you came to my home unannounced, and screaming like a mad-man we must leave?’

‘I apologize for my rudeness, sir; however, I have been listening to Col and Thornton, and they have gathered a large mob determined to kill you. They are on their way over this very night to burn your books and take your life. You must flee my counselor!’

Faerwald responded to Aelfric’s advice, ‘You know these books are my treasure, Aelfric. I cannot abandon them. And you know I have never once left my home for a journey of any sort. No. I will not leave my home. I will die with my books.’

‘Faerwald, they are not intending to destroy your books. They want your knowledge. They seek to have what you have; the respect of your lord, and the wisdom of your intellect. Your books will be theirs once you are dead. You must leave and come with me. We, the elfs will protect you in our forest just outside of the village.’

‘I will not abandon my collection. I would rather watch my books burn before I have them ripped out from under me. No! I will not leave for those fools to rule this land from the makings of evil.’

‘I understand, counselor. But what you must understand is our land needs you! We need your guidance as long as you are with us; and it is the elf’s duty and privilege to protect you. I will not leave this home without you, Faerwald. We must go!’

Faerwald contemplated this in his thoughts. He spent a few long, hard minutes debating his options, and when he came to a decision, he spoke, ‘Ok, Aelfric. I will leave; however, these men cannot have my collection. We will burn my home to the ground at dusk, with everything in it, and I shall embark on a journey.’

For the next few hours, Faerwald, William, and Aelfric packed Aelfric’s horse and another two horses they had purchased from the kind couple living next door. Most of what was included were some of Faerwald’s treasured artifacts, pieces of literature, and his own writings. When dusk came, the two finished packing and began rigging the house to burn.

When they were setting up the final piece for the home to burn well, they heard a mob off in the distance. Aelfric looked up, ‘They are coming. We must hurry!’

Faerwald, in agreement, spoke, ‘You and William wait with the horses; I will finish this task.’ Aelfric left Faerwald to perform what had been asked of him. Faerwald walked to the front of his house, grabbing an unlit torch on the way, and waited for Col and Thornton to arrive with their zealots.

When the crowd arrived a few moments after Faerwald began waiting for them, Col spoke up, ‘There he is! Get him!’

Before the crowd could advance upon him, Faerwald lit the torch he held, and held it near a stack of books standing beside him. The crowd stopped and listened to the words of Faerwald, ‘You seek my knowledge and respect from our lord by presuming you will receive both once you commit murder upon my soul. You fools live in folly. You can murder me, you can even gain my knowledge; but what you cannot have, is the respect of our lord. He will not respect you, or any other fool in your crowd for murdering a man he seeks counsel from. If you wish to seek me and my collection of knowledge and literature, then you are more than welcome to come into my home.’

With that, Faerwald lit the stack of books on fire and proceeded to enter his home as it began to burn. The crowd stood motionless in front of the home, watching it burn, unsure of what to do next. Faerwald walked to the back of his burning home and spoke to William and Aelfric, ‘Go! Tell the elfs and lord I cannot abandon my books. Take what I have given you and learn what you may. Goodbye.’

Aelfric jumped off his horse screaming, and pleading with Faerwald. There was, however, nothing Aelfric could do. With the thousands of books within the home, flames engulfed the house forcing any intruders to remain distant. The crowd, Aelfric, and William watched as Faerwald walked into his study where most of his books were gathered. He sat in a chair, opened a book and began to read. Just as the flames were surrounding him, he looked up from his book and to Aelfric. The last thing Aelfric saw before the flames consumed Faerwald’s soul, was a smile gleaming across the face of Faerwald, and then his head bowing towards his new journey.

Duplex

Elektraphrog

He beat his wife. Yet he still had the gall to go for his morning jogs and wave at me as I stood in the yard with my dog. He’d smile at me, slow and sticky like golden honey. Did he think I couldn’t hear what he did to her in there? We lived in a duplex, for god’s sake. Our bedroom walls were kissing; I could hear everything that happened on their side.

The first time I heard them was a month after they had moved in. At first they were just talking, their voices blurred through the walls as if they were talking under water. I paid no mind, simply turned my TV up a bit. Then he raised his voice, and the louder he spoke, the softer she did. Just a fight, I told myself, turning the TV up a little more. Just a fight, every couple has them. No big deal. I won’t listen, it’s not my business.

Then a slap and a startled cry. I could hear it all, even over the TV set. I sat up, an urgency in my every limb. Do something! But I was frozen, my bed a block of ice that my ass was sticking to. I was afraid if I turned the TV down that they’d notice, maybe even realize I was trying to listen. So I left the volume up and instead just strained my ears. But they weren’t talking anymore. I imagined him breathing heavily on one side of the room, eyes wide in terror at what he had just done, while she sat on the bed with her open hand pressed against the blooming print on her cheek. She’d be staring down in wonderment, wondering if what had just happened was real.

I heard doors slam, first one and then the other. I could see through my open blinds as his car roared down the backstreet. He was gone. He hit her and left. And she was no doubt still sitting on the other side of the wall, still staring down, her hand like a ghost against her hot face.

I was afraid she’d hear even the smallest creak of the bed as I moved, so I ever-so-slowly turned and faced the wall. I placed my trembling hand against it, reaching out to her. We were under the same roof, living in two completely different worlds.

–

That was the first time, but of course not the last. It happened more after that, at least once a week. He’d get home from work and for a while it would be quiet and I’d think, He’s in a good mood tonight, nothing bad will happen. Then their voices would appear like smoke, wafting in through the vents, moving menacingly in swirls up near the ceiling. Sometimes she’d argue, try to defend her case, but it never worked. There would always be a crash, a lamp falling over maybe. And the slaps, sounds like glass in my ears. I could imagine her skin reddening under his strikes, as if his hands were covered with paint and leaving little fingerprints on any surface he touched.

He’d always storm out after. Doors would slam and his car would speed away. He wouldn’t come back for hours. She’d stay in the room, right on the other side of the wall, and she’d cry the most painful tears I’d ever heard. She tried to stifle them as if she were ashamed for the pain to escape her lips, but even crying into a pillow couldn’t silence her cries. I’d lay down in bed and wouldn’t make a sound, but I’d be crying with her, silent tears rolling down my cheeks.

–

I decided to go see her one afternoon while her husband was away at work. I made cookies, as lame as that sounds. I just wanted a friendly excuse to get into her world. I planned on being the oblivious neighbor girl, arriving on her doorstep with freshly baked cookies and no ulterior motive.

I never made it over there though. Her husband came home early from work, much earlier than I expected. I was in my bedroom, getting dressed, when he slammed into their house. I heard his voice travel from the front door to their bedroom, octaves rising by the second. When he reached their bedroom, there was a moment of deafening silence. I wondered what he saw that made him finally shut up for once.

Then a single gunshot. I barely had time to register the sound, because it came through the bedroom wall, finally splitting the barrier between us.

Binky

Elektraphrog

My cat started barking last Wednesday. At first, my wife and I thought it was rather unique. We invited our neighbors over, they thought it was freaky.

“Honey,” I said, jumping off the sofa, “look at Binky!”

“Holy Shit,” Mary said, watching Binky lift her left hind leg, beginning to piss on the side of her litter box.

“Mary,” I asked, “Binky hasn’t gotten into any of your Vicodin…has she?”

“Shut up.” Mary finished cleaning up Binky’s piss “ya know what…I am missing a few pills…I thought it was you...guess it was BINKY!”

“I think we need to take her to the vet.” I said, looking for Binky, who had vanished once again.

“WHY?”

“It could be a virus.” I left Mary’s side, and continued my search for Binky, “Binnnnky, where are you?”

The next day, I brought Binky to the Vet’s. Mary didn’t want to come. She told me that it was foolish to spend all the money on a vet visit, because Binky was only experiencing a temporary identity crisis. When she first told me that, I almost believed her. My opinion changed when I had to stop Binky from humping my ankle the previous night, which I never told Mary about.

I carried Binky inside the Vets office. Once inside she began barking, like a rabid dog. The receptionist looked at me.

“Sir, I think you may need to wait outside with your dog.”

“Um, actually,” I looked down at the animal carrier in my right hand “it’s my cat. That’s why I’m here.”

“Okay,” the receptionist said, with a tone suggesting that I might be the one in need of a doctor.

Binky continued to bark, and so I didn’t have to wait long. The vet entered the exam room, and Binky stopped barking.

“How long has your cat been barking?”

“Since last Wednesday, so a week now. I think.”

“Well,” the vet said, feeling Binky’s stomach on the exam table, “she looks and feels like a cat.”

No shit, I said to myself, beginning to think Mary was right about not taking Binky to the vet. I continued to watch the vet, poke and prod, open binky’s mouth, examining her teeth. I tried not to think about Binky’s future, living as a dog, being trapped physically in a cat’s body.

“I’m afraid,” the vet said, “there’s nothing wrong with your cat. She wants to be a dog.”

My heart sank, and would have drowned, if Binky had not looked at me, wagging her little tail. She was panting, with her pink, thumb-sized tongue rapidly gliding upward and downward from her mouth.

“Well,” I asked the vet “is there something I can do about her shitting on the carpets?”

“Buy a leash, and take her for walks.”

While driving home, I was concerned about Mary. Something told me she was not going to tolerate raising a cat who wanted to be a dog. Honestly, I wasn’t sure about the whole thing myself. When I exited the highway, Binky started barking.

“What is it girl?” I put my finger through the front gate of the animal carrier. I was then struck with an idea. I opened the carrier. Binky ran out, and planted her back paws on my lap, with her front paws on the bottom lip of the drivers-side window. I opened the window. Binky LOVED it! She stuck her head out, catching the breeze with her open mouth. As I continued to drive home, I continuously checked the rearview mirror, making sure Alfred Hitchcock was not sitting in the backseat.

When I pulled in the driveway, Mary was walking out the front door. She was carrying Binky’s litter box. When she saw Binky, with her head hanging out the window, she looked away, shaking her own head, like a bitch.

I opened the car door, and Binky ran out. My first instinct was to run after her. But Binky simply ran up to Mary, who had just placed the litter box in the trash can. Mary stood still, looking down at Binky, lying on her back, waiting for Mary’s hand to rub her stomach.

“Mary,” I kissed her “why did you throw out the litter box?”

“In case you haven’t noticed we’ve been picking up shit all over the damn house. What did the vet say?” Mary asked, ignoring Binky, still vying for attention beside her feet.

“Let’s go inside.” I picked up Binky.

“Buy a LEASH!” Mary slammed the refrigerator door.

“I think he was joking.”

“Really,” Mary gulped the last of her Martini, “I think SOMEONE needs to go out.” She slammed her martini glass down on the counter, while staring blankly into the living room. I looked in the direction of Mary’s eyesight, and saw Binky sitting by the front door, wagging her tail. I should have bought a leash.

Later that night, after I had taken Binky outside to do her business, I joined Mary in bed.

“I hope you didn’t take her out front, for all the neighbors to see” Mary said, flipping a page of People Magazine.

“No, Mary” I slipped in bed beside her “I took her in the backyard. No one saw.”

“Thank God.” Mary said, tossing her magazine on the floor.

“Mary” I said, rolling on my left side to face her, “we have raised Binky from a tiny kitten. So what if she wants to be a dog now?”

“SO WHAT?” Mary sat up with violence. “SO WHAT?”

Attempting to find the right answer I hesitated with a reply. Finally, without realizing, I found the perfect one. The essence of my response may have been altered, had I known the resulting catastrophe which ultimately ensued.

“Yeah, so what,” I said.

“You know WHAT! I’m not going to live with a cat shitting on the floor, pissing freely around our house! We bought a cat. NOT A DOG!” Mary left the bedroom, slamming the door.

Thank god we didn’t have any kids. I thought, and somehow, I fell asleep.

#

I woke to Binky barking at the bedroom door the next morning. At first, I missed the litter box, but then I felt the surge of parental responsibility. When I opened the door, Binky began jumping up and down, licking my ankle.

“Hey, Girl…wanna go for a walk!”

Her body language answered yes as she jumped up and down, forming perfect circles.

When I came back inside from walking Binky, in the backyard, I expected to see Mary in the kitchen. I thought she had slept in the guest bedroom. I decided to wait, pouring a cup of coffee, before I attempted to wake her.

Thirty minuets had past, and I looked toward the staircase, leading to the guest bedroom. Binky, sitting on the floor beside me, looked in the same direction.

Climbing the stairs, fearing the silence, I walked toward the door. I lifted my fist, about to knock, but my knuckles recoiled. I then placed my ear upon the door. I heard nothing.

“Mary?” I said, after I summoned the fortitude to knock on the door.

“What?” Mary asked, but not really, it was more like a “you’re still here” response.

“Can I come in?”

“Whatever.”

Mary was lying on the bed, looking coma-like, staring up at the ceiling. I walked toward the bed and sat beside her.

“It’s me or the cat-dog” Mary said, stabbing the ceiling with her eyes.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

Binky, who had followed me upstairs, jumped on the bed and attempted to lick Mary’s face.

“Get that THING away from me.” She shoved Binky away, causing her to fall on the floor. Binky ran, whimpering, from the room. Mary rolled on her side, facing her back towards me.

Without speaking to each other, Mary and I readied ourselves for work. Binky was still hiding in the house somewhere. I was not able to find her before leaving for work.

While sitting in my cubical, at work, I went on Google. I typed: FELINE RE-TRAINING SCHOOLS. I tried to find a local school, with not too much religious rhetoric. I found what I thought was the perfect school: Feline Identity Management. PERFECT. It was less than ten miles from my house.

When I arrived home, Mary was waiting for me outside.

“What?” I asked, attempting to hug her, but she pushed me away.

“Binky needs to go for a walk.” She said, looking at her feet. Mary never told me that Binky pissed on her ankle, shortly before my arrival.

“Mary, I found a school for Binky, they can make her want to be a cat again!”

“Whatever” Mary said, walking away from me, toward the side entrance of the house “just keep Binky in the backyard, I can’t deal with the neighbors.”

#

Two years have passed since my divorce from Mary. The feline school was a disaster. Binky was actually expelled, because her bark was actually just as loud as her bite.

Binky and I still go for walks, but not in the backyard, because I bought her a leash. Proudly, we both walk the streets of our neighborhood, and Binky asserts her chosen identity by lifting her hind leg, pissing on the neighbor’s mailbox post. Our neighbor’s, my neighbors rather, have once again visited, enjoying Binky, my cat-dog. Mary still hasn’t called or written. I think she bought another cat.

The Tale of the New King and a Rich Soul

Elektraphrog

There is a king who rules his land with ruthless tyranny. He taxes his people for most of their wages, while the innocent remain in poverty. Most of the land is parched of water, and the poor people planting their crops are forced to give the food to the king for rations; while he, the king, lives in his palace with his close advisors in richness and health.

It is, by chance, the king suffers from a fatal heart attack before he had the chance to bequeath his power and stolen fortune upon another. There was an argument amongst the advisors as to of whom shall claim the throne.

A knight who was not pleased at all with the behavior of the king, marched into the palace with his raiding party and forced the advisors to submit to his claim as new king. The new king imprisoned the advisors who were unable to escape before the arrests were made.

The next day, after assuming power, the new king made a decree for the land, it read: ‘During the time before today, there was a king who ruled us mercilessly. While we lived in hunger, thirst, and poverty, he lived with glorious riches; riches beyond anyone’s imagination. It is unfitting for any man to acquire so much wealth without sharing any of it; which is why I say unto you – For those who are weary of the old ways, come to me; for I will give to you gifts from my palace. Bring your weary souls to me, and I will fulfill your heart’s desire.’

That day, and for days following, the new king’s courtyard was lined with folk from across the land. Most people asked for money so they could buy the things they needed. Other’s asked for rare artifacts from the palace. Some people asked for food and water; while a few asked for more property for farming.

Although many asked for things their heart’s desired – to which the new king did much oblige and deliver – only one person brought his soul before the new king. This man came and knelt before the new king when he spoke, ‘I am one of those advisors who escaped the day you took the throne. I have forsaken this land and am not worthy to kneel before you. I assisted the previous king in wickedness, and now my relatives pay the price while I live with riches in my estate. My relatives are poor and suffer from starvation. My nephew is nine years of age, and he slaves in the fields to earn money for my brother and his family. I beg of you, take my life for the wickedness I partook in; and for my life, give my relatives everything they need to not go hungry, nor worry for the remainder of their lives.’

The new king looked upon the former advisor and spoke, ‘Go home, my friend. Your wish shall be granted in due time. When that time comes, my servants will come for you.’

The man went home to his estate and sat at the window. From his window he could see his relative’s hovels. He watched and waited for a few days to see when the new king’s servants would come and deliver the promise made to him; however, no one came. Not to his relatives, nor to himself.

He went back to the king and questioned, ‘When, my new king, will you deliver to my relatives and come for me?’

The new king replied, ‘When the time is right I will. Trust me when I tell you it is not the right time just yet. Go home, and wait some more.’

The man went back to his estate and waited by the window some more. He let a couple of weeks pass by before he decided to go back to the new king once more. This time, however, the man was frustrated with the new king, and he bellowed out before the throne, ‘What is wrong with you, New King? You promise to deliver what I desire, and here you sit upon your throne ignoring my request! Do you not understand the brokenness in my heart? The desire I have for my relatives to prosper? Is something wrong with your ears, New King? Tell me! Speak to me! What say you?’

The new king patiently looks upon the angered man and replies, ‘I understand what you ask; and I know what you need. Go home and trust me; the right time is coming soon.’

The man goes back to his estate and sits by his window once again. Due to his anger boiling, and frustration mounting, the man decides his new king will not do a single thing for him. He thought to himself as he paced the room with the window, ‘Trust me’ is all he says. Trust in what? Lies? He ignores me! That is what he does! He ignores me because of who I once was. I begged for him to take my life so I cannot see my family suffer; and yet, he desires for me to suffer because of my sins against the land. Well I will not let my family suffer any longer! If the new king will not do anything, then I will do it alone!

The man left his estate, walked to his relative’s hovels and offered them to stay in his home. He helped them move in, and set a feast to welcome them. After that feast, the man set out for a job in the fields so his nephew no longer had to work. The man had sent his earnings to his family, keeping only what he needed to feed himself. He wore the same clothes every day, and slept on the streets. He bathed in the puddles from rain, and rested under the scorching day.

Finally, after living a couple of months in deep poverty, the new king’s servants came up to the man, ‘The new king says it is time. Come with us.’

The man followed the servants wondering what the king wanted from him as he had been ignored for so long.

The new king says to the man, ‘Good to see you, my friend. What have you been doing with yourself these last couple of months?’

The man, not out of respect for the new king, but out of exhaustion from working so severely, fell upon his knees, and as tears streamed from his eyes, he replied, ‘I gave everything I owned to my family. I got a job and gave them every piece of my earnings, only keeping enough to myself so I could eat one meal a day – sometimes not even that! I gave them my home, and I have lived on the streets since the last time you saw me. I figured, since you would not do anything, I did something myself. Can you please, take my life so I no longer suffer?’

‘You have done well, my friend. You seem to have forgotten from your times of loyalty to the old king, that from the palace, I am able to see all things across the land. I watched you every step of the way, and you my friend are an amazing person! Of all the people in the land who came to me requesting something, you are the only one who requested something for someone else; and yet, you are also the one who needed something the most. You needed to know forgiveness, patience, humility, and many other great characteristics you now possess.

‘You say you want your life taken from you; I can do much more for you. I will not take your life away; I will give it back. Come into my palace, and work with me. I will provide for you everything you need for the remainder of your time. I will also see to it your family is provided for. Come, my friend, I already have a room waiting for you.’

Leap of Death by Rachel DeYoung ~ep

Elektraphrog

The man straps himself in back of me like a baby harnice. I slide on the goggles over my head as the wind is literally blowing us around inside the plane. I officially hate my husband now. His sick humor lead to a surprise skydiving appointment for my 30th birthday. At this point I am ready to knife the instructor and the man holding the camera in front of me and tell the pilot to land the plane. If only I had a knife. As I am imagining my plot of escape the man strapped behind me starts stepping forward and I begin to stumble. My legs turn into jell-o. I can’t move my body, my arms feel like the bones are literally shrinking and I am no longer able to hold up my own arms. He continues to step forward as my feet refuse to move, I wish I had put crazy glue on the bottom of them. The wind is so harsh I can barely talk to tell him to stop, that I can’t do this, and go on about getting a lawyer and sueing him for every penny he has if he jumps off of this plane. The guy in front of me insists on filming this entire ordeal and gets two inches away from my face when we approach the side door of the plane. My head is almost entirely out of the door. All I see is blue, the blue sky and the cause of my death, the ground. I turn my head to look at his face and see his huge grin of enjoyment. I would pay to smack it right off of his face. My eyes begin to water up and my heart is no longer racing, it’s going too fast to even be beating anymore. That’s it, I can fake a heart attack, just pass out, have my body become completely limp and end this whole–
“You ready?” he asks suddenly.
“NO! WAIT!” I said drastically. I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t even remember what I thought about for my excuse to get out of this.  I was going to die, this is it. I’ll never go to Bermuda or take that 14 day cruise to Alaska and see the polar bears. I’ll never be able to get the chance to fit into my favorite bathing suit. My kids! I’ll never see them off to high school, college, marriage, grandchildren. I hate my husband, I hate him! 
“Here we go!” He says and takes the leap to my death.

The Tale of Love’s Magician by P. J. German ~ep

Elektraphrog

The fog clung to the forest ground like a tree’s roots cling to the dirt for dear life. Deep in the middle of this dark, foggy forest is a tower where a magician resides. For years, in the highest rooms of the tower, he has been creating potions upon potions and selling them to folks in the town, mostly for healing and love. The latter was requested the most from him, and it began to take a toll upon the poor magician’s heart. He decided he wanted a true love for himself, specifically meant for him. He said to himself one day, ‘If I am going to create a female, I must get parts of a female.’ He went to the graveyard, looked at some sites and found a woman he once knew of and dug up her grave. He took from her a fingernail, hair, and a piece of her heart. He went back to his lab in his tower and began to create a potion with her parts in the stew. He said to himself, ‘I must create this woman to counter me.’ He plucked a strand of hair from his head, and with his wand he withdrew a piece of his heart. Tossing those pieces of him, and a bottle of his love potion into the stew, he began to whisper words as he stirred all the ingredients together, ‘Firt don lee tun  sifth’; which means, ‘Life unto death, I give.’ He continued for a few days checking in on the cauldron, stirring it often.
      After a week of tending to the potion, he awoke one morning with a beautiful young lady beside him in bed. That day, and for many days after, she followed him wherever he went: into his lab, into town, into the forest, and many other places. She took orders from him and did whatever he wished. She cooked him meals thrice daily, baked special deserts, went shopping for him, and cleaned the house, among other tasks to fulfill his needs.
      Months went by and the magician began to feel lonely once again. His heart grew empty the more time he spent with his lady. When he was able to sneak away from her for a few solitary moments, he said to himself, ‘What I have is not true love. True she tends to every need I desire; however, there is something missing in my life. Clearly this female is not my true love. I will create a concoction that will take her spirit away and back to the grave.’
      That evening he created a magical poison that did such powers as he intended. He awoke the next morning, alone and depressed. He spent some time mourning his loss of love until one day he awoke and said to himself, ‘There is no reason for me to be so sad. I have proven I can create a female with my magic and I ought to try again.’
      That evening he returned to the graveyard to dig up the remains of another female he once knew of. At the graveyard he spoke with himself as he searched for another female, ‘Despite all the attention I received from the previous lady, not once had she pleased me in bed. I must find one who can do such things for me, for that must be where my heart is lacking in happiness.’ He walked the sites and paused at one he seemed pleased with. He dug through the earth, opened her coffin and spoke, ‘This time, I will not take fingernails from her as I do not need her attention from her hands.’ He instead took hair, a breast, and a piece of her heart. He returned to his lab and placed into the new stew the ingredients of the female, a strand of his hair, a piece of his heart, and a bottle of love potion.
      In a week, he awoke to a female lying beside him. Immediately when he woke, she wanted to please him physically. She pleased him every way he desired in bed, and he was very happy.
      As time drew on, however, he realized most of his time was spent with her and the relations they had together. He was unable to complete many tasks including creating potions for the townsfolk, fetching food from the grocer, and cleaning his tower. As much as he enjoyed his time with her, he still felt empty deep within.  Once again, he created the poison that would send the lady’s soul back to the grave and had her partake of it one evening.
      For a second time, the magician woke in the morning alone and depressed. His soul was heavier after the second female as he had an intimate relationship with her, and connected in ways only two people who are truly in love ought to connect. He tortured himself with his thoughts day after day as his depression only deepened. It was not until a wise wizard who was a friend of the magician came and visited. He spoke to the magician, ‘Why do you torture yourself in such ways, friend? So you screwed up. Forgive yourself and move on. Give true love another chance. It will come to you; I am sure of this.’
      When his wizard friend had left, the magician thought upon the wise words of counsel for a few days. He finally came to the conclusion his friend is correct, he ought to give love another chance. Thus, he visited the graveyard a third time.
      He spoke with himself when he found a site he thought would work, ‘I took fingernails of the first for service. I took breast of the second for pleasure. Neither of those worked; therefore, it is clear that love must come from the mind.’ He withdrew from the third female, hair, heart, and a slice of her mind.
      After mixing the potion with the new ingredients along with his hair, heart, and a bottle of love potion, he awoke the next week to another female. This relationship lasted longer than the first two. She was able to stimulate the intellectual growth of the magician. Through her, his healing and love potions were made stronger than before. He created, with her help, many new potions; potions so affective he became rich and famous. Folk from all across the land near and far came specifically to his tower to purchase his incredible potions.
      The days turned into months, and the months turned into years. Nonetheless, for a third time, he became unhappy once again. He discovered fame and fortune cannot fulfill the demands of the heart. So once again, he concocted that poison, and sent her soul back to the depths of the earth.
      At this point, the magician became very angry in his depression. He cursed the heavens and the earth. He blasphemed all the things he once believed in; magic, potions, astronomy, and many other things magicians believe. In his fit of anger he destroyed his lab. He threw everything out of the window, burned them to ashes and dust, and decided to sell his tower. He wanted nothing to do with magic, nothing to do with potions, nothing to do with love; and worst of all, nothing to do with anything at all. The magician simply did not want to live without love.
      Later in the week, a young lady stopped by the magician’s tower. She said to him, ‘I hear you are selling your tower. I am interested in purchasing it. What is your offer?’ He told her his offer and she agreed to it; however, she continued with a request of her own, ‘I, Magician, am a lonely young lady. I have never lived with anyone but my own family, and my family is a tragedy in of itself. I have been lonely for many years and I simply could not bear living in this great tower all by myself. Could you be so kind and to dwell in this place with me, as it was once your home as well?’
      The magician thought upon this request and came to the conclusion, ‘Ma’am, I have nothing going for my life. I gave up my craft, I gave up on love, and simply put, I gave up on life. I have nothing left to live for, but find it meaningless and foolish to end my life. I will stay here and serve you.’
      One morning, after many months of service to the young lady, the magician woke up to a revelation. He arose from his bed, showered, dressed, groomed himself, and proceeded down the staircase to the young lady’s bedroom. He rapped upon her door and waited for her reply, ‘Yes?’
      ‘May I come in Ma’am? Are you decent?’
      “Yes, I am. Please, come in.’
      The magician opened the door and found her tending to her hair and face as she often liked to do. He went beside her chair, knelt down, and spoke, ‘I love you!’
      She replied, ‘Thank you, Magician.’
      Her reply struck him deep within, ‘Thank you? That is it? That is all you have to say?’
      Although his frustration churned, the young lady kept her composure, ‘Well, what would you like me to say?’
      ‘How about, ‘I love you too’?’
      She turned to face him, ‘Magician, you have sought to produce true love thrice times. Thrice times did you fail. What makes you so sure this time?’
      ‘Thrice times I tried to produce true love. Thrice times did I fail. Thrice times did I seek to make myself happy. This time, with you, I never once sought to bring happiness upon myself. I only sought to make you happy; and when I see you happy as a result of the things I do for you, I am happy. That is how I know it is true this time.’
      The young lady smiled at the magician and aptly replied, ‘Then Magician, I love you too!’
 

Carousel by Rebecca Varley ~ep

Elektraphrog

Gloomy day. Typical. The children are never satisfied. Screaming and fighting against youth. Little do they know this is the time to treasure. The tracks are especially irritable today, all the corners are jarring. The turns, especially fast. Every passenger too consumed to revere the beauty around, yielding even gloomier perceptions. Even the parents are particularly obnoxious today. They aren’t even pretending to admire their children. One is screaming business on a cell phone, remembering to look up at his now downtrodden little redhead only once, just in time for her to let out a bloody wail. One of the mothers is too consumed with hedonistic details of the previous evenings outing to notice her only son has burst into a violent tearstorm, having accidentally chosen the deceptively beautiful front horse, adorned with gold and flowers, but undoubtedly the fastest, most dangerous of the bunch. He continues to scream and she continues to disgust me. And life goes on. And the cycle continues.
      Another group of unsatisfied mongrels, sticky fingered and rotten, cotton candy escaping from their mouths, climb aboard mocking the shrill carnival music and its attempt to bring cheer to a world of decay. Chuggachugga skiiiiiirt.
      Fastforward to another group. This one full of pukers and pouters. Fastforward to ungratefuls. Fastforward to gloomers. Screamers. Fighters. Ignorants. Spoileds. Each their own little unfortunate downward spiral. Skiiiiiirt.
      And all along, I’m stuck here witnessing it. Alone. Completely. Totally. Utterly.  Alone. Never, do they choose me. I ward them off well. Chugga shriiiiek.
      Rewind to before they switched me to the back of the inside track, right behind the bucket seats. Before I stopped rising and falling. Rewind to when I was in the middle behind a beautiful gold number, on the outside track, perfectly positioned. When tempos and speeds were right, the corners were always a delicate balance of fast and slow. When I rose and fell gracefully, in synchronization with the then loveable sounds that resonated in the air. The children were children then. Innocent. Sweet. Laughing and gay. Enough to make one envious of their purity.
      Fastforward to right now. The last group of kids for the evening is stumbling around, their stomachs full of tilts and whirls, attempting to find some balance by riding out an old childhood memory. The music is slightly less brash than usual and for some reason the shrieks seem dulled. And I see her.
      She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Her eyes are intense and sincere and tell me she’d spotted me long before now. Long before today. She is not a fluke. She is purpose. My purpose. She is here to set me free.
      She is heading my way. She is humming melodically, sweetly, some gorgeous big band number full of brasses in tender embrace. She gracefully positions herself, side-saddle and faces outward to the world, seeming to admire the bright lights and fresh air. No one is around but she and I and it could be no more perfect.
      Gingerly, she runs her fingers of the smooth metal of my positioning pole, running her fingers down to admire the crevices of my mane. She is admiring the idiosyncrises.
      She is a see-er. She sees life. Beauty. Balance. It is obvious in her mannerisms.
      Scooooot Scooooot. The turns are gentle. Scooooot.
      We ride together for what feels like three minutes of endlessness.
      And to me, it is.
      My existence starts and stops today. Now. In this moment. Completion.
      Silence.

A Morning on the Elevator by Meredith Fuss ~ep

Elektraphrog

      Someone bumped the back of her four inch heel as they shifted to the rear of the elevator as she moved her foot and stepped forward slightly, waiting for her fourteen floor ride to be over so she could escape the mixed scents of people and their obnoxious slurping as they sucked down coffee and all their talking as if each person were the most important person there, when the same person who kicked her heel pinched her butt, and she brought the point of her heel back and up as she bent her knee and nailed her intended target, for she heard his gasp of pain as she reached the seventh floor where old Mr. Williams stepped in and joined the ride, but the poor man was so old he has lost some important functions in his aging, such as control of the muscles in his buttocks because all the people who regularly rode this elevator had to fear his flatulence and though they had become accustomed to holding their breaths, they all still wanted to pass out, so today she was just happy she was standing next to Ms. Potts, an old lady she was sure spilled a whole bottle of perfume on herself every morning in a failed attempt to disguise the horrible odor of moth balls which permeated her clothing, but at least she didn’t have to smell Mr. Williams’ gas which nauseated the rest of the elevator crew making them thankful to step off to their various floors to begin the work routine, yet here she reached floor nine and Bill got on, no doubt on his way to floor fifteen to harass the barista at the coffee shop, but she was glad it wasn’t her anymore because she’d gotten into enough trouble six months ago when they’d run into each other at that very same coffee shop and he’d uttered a few pretty words and in her vulnerability fell for him, but only because Michael has up and left her without warning, but now Bill was here and she was trying to avoid his open gaze, for he was always so blunt and open and didn’t care who saw what, so he tortured her with that stare floor after floor, reminding her of those few months that she slept with him because she was angry with Michael and thought that would be an effective way of getting back at him but it didn’t work because Michael ended up with a pretty little brunette and married her and got her pregnant, and Bill went after the trampy barista, and she just smiled in bitter relief when she reached the fourteenth floor and could escape the elevator.

The Objective by Jeremiah Shearer ~ep

Elektraphrog

      The objective lay on the other side of that wall. Creeping toward the door I put my ear against the frame. Stillness. Pistol at the ready, I enter the room swiftly and silently. Clear left. Clear right. Turning, I close the door as quietly as I opened it. The room was ordinary in every definition of the word. The only things worth noting are a single king-size bed and a dresser. A picture hangs on the wall to the left. It’s the only thing on that side of the room other than the entrance to the bathroom. Pistol leading, I open the door. Bathroom clear. I make my way to the side of the bed. The objective is there, sleeping, peacefully ignorant of his intended fate. Reaching into the velcro pocket of my vest, I take out the silencer. Satisfied with its integrity, I attach it to the barrel of my pistol. I present the pistol before me, intending to finish the mission. A glimmer at the corner of my eye distracts me. A single picture sits on a desk next to the bed’s headboard. The picture contains two people. The objective and his son. My thoughts are turned inward as I think of my own son. The pain of always saying goodbye, broken promises, and missed opportunities courses through my mind. I told him I was getting out, and I meant it. This is the last job. The final mission to secure our future. We have lost so much already. My wife. His mother. Forcing my focus back to the mission at hand I once again present the pistol before me. The sound of two shots quietly echoes across the room like the mournful cries of a lonely dove. The sound of a padded step on carpet whips my attention towards the bedroom door. I fire off two more rounds and hear them thud into the darkness of the other room. My aim was high. Standing there in the doorway is the objective’s son. He stares at me with a questioning expression; his gaze drifts back and forth from me to the bed. I am shocked into immobility. My thoughts are groggy. My mind is dull. They said he would be alone; his son was with their mother. The boy makes his way to the other side of the bed as I try to sort through the detonating realization of what had happened. He hugs his father. The corpse doesn’t hug back, and the boy begins to cry. His crying turns into a pitiful howl. He stares at me accusingly, knowingly. His eyes haunt me. With a numbness I haven’t felt since her death, I leave the room. One thought flares in my mind like a burst star. I never have to say goodbye to my son again.