Attack of the fur

on a Monday morning James woke up. Water dripped from an unseen faucet. The low howl of the wind traveled along the pipes. Down in the street a dog barked and a car door slammed.
Stiffly James rose from bed. As he crossed the room he saw something that stopped him in his tracks.
His chifforobe had grown soft, white, bunny fur in the night. It pulsed gently in the corner of the room cooing and moving with in itself. It beckoned to him, yearning to feel his competent fingers assessing its tactile merits. Who was James to refuse? He knelt and began to caress the chifforobe. It shuttered all over with delight.

The phone rang. Reluctantly, James answered it.
On the other end of the line a mechanical voice warned him of a vicious fur outbreak. In the event that he was exposed to an out break he was instructed to saw his own hands off. James did not own a saw.
James ended the call.
No machine could understand how soft the fur was.
He had to protect the fur. It could not be discovered there was a fur outbreak in his tenth floor apartment. The authorities would advance with chemicals. They would exterminate the virus.
He rushed into his bedroom and fell on his knees before the chifforobe.
He plunged his rough calloused into the soft white fur.
Oh the sensation! The pulsing appereication of the clean white fur!
It fed off his adoration.

In response to his solicatious petting it spread. It leapt from the surface of one piece of furniture, to another, than to another.
In a matter of hours it had begun to climb the walls.
In another few hours it covered the floors, the windows, and the ceiling.
That night a soft and cuddly death patiently began to steal over James.
It was so soothing, he could not suspect he had become the disease.
He only wanted to be caressed. To respond to the feel, the pressure of warm hands
to spread infinitely outward always growing, always changing.
James was the virus. The virus was James.
Soft downy fur pushed its way through his follicles. It evicted his corse human hair.
The white fur spread quickly within in a quarter of an hour he was covered from head to toe.
His eyes were changing shape, his vision was both narrowing and expanding.
When he leaned against the wall he disappeared completely. His pink eyes blinking were the only distinction between him and the , soft, white, pulsing fur .
His fingers twisted in there sockets, they were changing shape.
He could not keep his hands off himself.
His senses heightened, he could here the tumblers in the lock of the neighbors apartment door.
He crept out into the hall, a light had burned out providing a theatrical twilight.
He crept on his newly fury feet to stand directly behind Jose, a sweaty Latino he had never cared for.
He snaked his furry hands along his arms and biceps, he flinched and struggled. Than inside the glory of acceptance he gave into to the fur.
They cuddled for nearly fifteen minutes, when James strolled away from Jose soft white fur was rapidly covering his skin.
James made his way down the stairs, trailing his rapidly mutating paws along the hand rail: White fur sprouting where his paws had touched.
He burst through the lobby doors and hit the street. He was all impulse one-hundred percent sensation. Only the sensory experience existed for him there was only the currant moment nothing before this exact moment and nothing after. No consequences only movement only sound..................

The littlest truck driver that could

The family Holiday stood ankle deep in mud outside the gates of the grave-yard. The sky rumbled and dark clouds rolled in, in the distance lighting streaked the horizon, the tallest member of the family flung an arm upward in a futile gesture of frustration, there was an enormous crack of thunder that shook the ground and rattled the gates of the grave-yard. The gates were not locked but the wind from the storm had slammed them closed in the night, and now the thunder shook the air, and the gates swung open. The man dropped his arm, startled at the coincidence, he rested his hand on the broad speckled back of his eldest daughter. He gave her a gentle shove, she was the first through the gate. Once on the other side she turned towards her family and facing them broke into a short routine of light calisthenics, the rain began to fall and after the applause she jogged towards her grandfathers grave. The rest of the family followed stopping at the gate-house to retrieve the coffin. They marched with singular purpose through the storm, in the mud towards the open grave.
The grave was filled with water, the coffin would not fit. The senior male member of the family looked skyward and signaled violently with his hands, planes rushed over head in the distance the slow pragmatic sound of heavy equipment could be heard. Temporarily the wind and rain slacked a bit, the dark sky hung above the muddy grave-yard, and the Holiday Family redirected their vapid gaze, away from the scarred earth, towards the sound of approaching equipment.
The crew appeared , a flotilla of heavy machinery in the thick sea of mud. The tractor lost its balance and had to back up, “BEEP BEEP BEEP” it cried as it pulled itself free from the heavy mud. The driver had decorated the inside of his cab with cheery Christmas lights, the bulldozer behind him had lashed a pink Christmas tree to its grill and streams of blinking lights drug behind it in the mud. The truck with the sump pump pulled abreast of the two greater machines, but what the little truck lacked in stature it mad up for in enthusiasm. The entire truck was outlined in lights and a deer completely comprised of lights was mounted on top of the cab. It was a marvelous sight and a cheer went up from the holiday family as they saw assistance approaching.
They were so eager to show their appreciation that they tore flowers from the funeral wreaths and striped the petals form the stalks, tossing them in front of the tractor. The operator was so moved that he leaned out of his cab and steering with his knees, waved a gentle magnanimous wave, coquettishly turning and glancing over his shoulder to the delight of the mourners, who laughed and clapped and cheered, till their joy turned on them and became a unified sorrow.
The Holiday family collapsed in a heap and begun to wail, so that when the smug festive little truck driver passed them they threw no flowers and raised no cheers, and he took it to heart and was wounded by their apathy. After all, he thought, I am the one who will drain the grave of water so that they can commend their grandfather to the earth.
He pulled along side the bigger machine's, exited the cab of his truck and approached the heavy equipment operators who were loathe to help him unload the sump pump. The heavy equipment operators didn’t want to know the driver of the little truck, they haphazardly helped him to unload than they walked away without a word. Leaving the driver of the little truck alone to complete the arduous task of drainage.
The family holiday continued to weep as a group finding consultation in their shared misery.
The driver of the little truck had to work furiously, against time, against the weather, all alone soaked through to the skin, while the heavy equipment operators relaxed waiting until they were needed.
At last the grave was drained, the driver of the little truck was exhausted. He slogged through the heavy mud to inform the Holiday family, who were moaning and failing their arms in a demonstration of sorrow. But they had grow weary of their own show, and only wanted to get out of the elements and when the senior member of the family saw the approach of the driver, he broke off from the group and met the man, resting a heavy hand on one of his shoulders and smooching a damp twenty dollar bill in his hand. The driver of the little truck spirits were lifted, anyone could see how empty the construction show was, people needed him, he should not get so down he was the one people needed. He strode back to his little truck and hopped into its little cab and sped away from the grave yard, he moved so swiftly that the deer mounted to the top of the cab fell off, he did not stop for it only chased the rest of the morning through the grave-yard gate, leaving behind the family holiday, and the vainglorious heavy equipment operators

Narcissism

With out constant praise I would melt like the witch in the wizard of oz. I am egocentric, I know it, I admit it, and I make no apologies for it. I could quote nietzsche here,refer to ubermensch, condescend to explain where the words good and evil originated, but I am so brilliant you probably would not understand anyway, so let's skip it.

Sara is a woman that lives in my house, she has an eating disorder, she has a great body, I never tell her that I find her attractive. It serves my purposes to feed her low self-esteem, I need to maintain a reliable source of adulation, every time my ego is bruised she is there, easily accessible, ready with the words I need to hear, the pussy I needed to fuck. She hates herself so she builds me up because if I am fucking her, supporting her, living with her, than she can face herself, because she believes in my greatness and if I am great and she belongs to me than she can be part of my greatness.

Thanks to her low self-esteem, I can sleep with other woman. Once, after I let her move in she followed me to a restaurant where I was meeting a young, nominally talented painter I wanted to fuck.

When I arrived I found a booth in the back with a view of the door, if my date didn’t show, I wanted to keep a look out for other pussy. Within several martinis she waltzed in shaking her long red hair, brushing away mist that had accumulated on her top coat, she saw me, smiled and waved. I raised my glass to her and inside a moment she was next to me. She leaned in close to whisper some nonsense in my ear, something about avoiding an ex-boyfriend, I put my hand on her thigh and smiled, she talked to much so I kissed her. I Slid my hand up her back and entwined my fingers in her soft hair, she smelled like something exotic, tropical, her skin was so smooth, so fresh. For a moment I was able to escape myself, delude myself that this time, this fuck would be different, I would gain the secret knowledge that other people, stupid people seemed to be born with. When she pulled away from me her eyes were glazed, reflecting my own desire, she rested her head against my chest. I stroked her hair,she truly had magnificent hair red, thick and soft, most red hair is course if it is thick, or limp and thin if it is soft. Her eyes were heavily made up accentuating the unusual shade of gray, her lashes were stiff and black, perfectly lined. All of this set against alabaster skin. She was prefect. I ran my fingers lightly against the bare skin just below the hem of her skirt, she giggled than leaned in closer to me.Again the tropical exotic scent, the soft mouth, my hand slithered up her blouse underneath her bra and held a warm firm throbbing breast. She exhaled, titled her head back and spread her legs just a little further apart rather than lewd, it struck me as a sweet and vulnerable gesture, I took a little to much, than she gave a little more. She crossed her legs readjusted her position and studied the menu.
"I think I will have the osco bucco and a glass of cakebread."


“Jesus Fucking Christ!” She shrieked, knocking over my drink, at the edge of our table like a spector stood Sara.

I pretended I did not recongnize her. I pretended I did not know her.

“ Can I help you?” I asked lighting a cigarette leaning back against the plush velvet booth. My mouth twisted in an ironic smile when I recalled that I had taken Sara here just last saturday, she had ordered the osco bucco.

“No, I was mistaken I though you were some one else , than like a whiped puppy she turned away, before she left I asked.

"Miss,?" Sara turned back towards the table.

"Have you eaten here before? Have you tried the osco bucco?"

"No, Sir I was meeting someone here, I have never eaten here before."

Than she left.

"What a spooky lady, how long do you think she was watching us?"

"Would you have liked it if she had been watching us, if she watched while I was fucking you?" I asked, a strange light flashed across her eyes like the lighting that lights up the sky in the distance, before the storm arrives.

A waiter arrived placing another martini in front of me, I patted my lap with my napkin, the mood was ruined; I excused myself to use the restroom walked through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the ally.I stood in the ally pulling on my gloves, I shouted.

“Sara, you fucking bitch, you goddamn selfish whore!" I punched a brick wall screaming and crying till my gloves filled with blood. I did not return to the restaraunt, carrot top could pay for her own osco bucco.

Eliazabeth and the good-bye coat

In my minds eye she is leaving wearing her white coat: because we both love the drama of the past, her hand slackens its grip on the door knob of a ancient wooden door, she turns to look at me one last time. I am standing at the top of an antebellum staircase and it is snowing inside the dilapidated mansion, curtains rotting:devoured by nameless hungry insects, floor boards are missing; picturesque tragedy and sadness engulf me, there is snow in her chemically dark hair, my lashes are icy with tears. Only I know the secret of the white coat- of the White coat that came before, her good-bye coat. Forever frozen in her mind: the depth conveyed to me in a field of dead grass. They dressed her like a doll in New Orleans- like a living doll from the later half of the 1800's, her mother and her Grandmother, people would stop them on the street- gawking, marveling, at this child from the past,
"What a beautiful child they would say," and they were right.

July 30th

There has been a noise complaint, I lean in my doorway smoking a cigarette, its humid and drizzling, the kind of sticky weather where you feel dirty all day long- above the clouds are black and menacing the birds are silent, hard rain will come soon.

"Ma'am, I just need to take down some information," the officer says to me. I admire how seriously he is taking this situation and himself it must be wonderful to know your place in the world.

"What do you do?" he asks, all business with his pad flipped open, the corpses of a thousand dead crickets beneath his heavy boots.

'I write, I tell him, " Really?" He seems interested, impressed even, "What do you write about, do your support yourself," I stop him by putting my hand up: "I didn't say I was any good." The rain along with the wind picks up. He goes back to business; " Someone has had their television turned up very loud, telemundo, is the channel that was mentioned in the report..................

Peep hole

There is a knock at my door, I standing semi-dressed eyeing a man I have never seen before through my peep hole.

"Yeah," I say, running my toes along the grit of my cheap parquet floor, when was the last time I swept I wonder.

"Ma'am, I want to thank you for leaving your television on," he says, what the hell is this guy talking about? Through the peep hole I see he holds his hat in his hand, rain is dripping from the upper floor eves, my view of the world through the peep hole has a distorted quality, like the fish lens effect in Heath ledger's last movie, I like it.

"My T.V's not on sir," I explain, more interested in the nifty distortion of the peep hole, " I heard voices, he states flatly:

"I do not understand why you are thanking me for having my television on," this conversation is decidedly strange;

"I just moved in" he tells me, "Oh," I say to him, "the walls are very thin, you will get use to it in time, we all do," "but I heard voices" he tells me- AGAIN: he has officially annoyed me.

"Maybe your a schizophrenic," I suggest, through the peep hole I can see this upsets him, I don't care. I go into the bedroom and turn my television to telemundo cranking the volume full blast, than I sit at my desk and listen to my tomahawk play list loudly, while I write- I wish I was drunk.

Hostage 1st person STOCKHOLM SYNDROME: a love story

I woke up wearing nothing but a glass ring.
A formless shape: a violent noise something hanging behind my eyelids.
It came again- the noise.
Somewhere between my inner dream world and the perpetual twilight of a cheap rented room.
I floated.......lost, confused, my thoughts could hold no shape.
Where was I?,there was some where, some where, I was suppose to be. Than it came again, a noise of great violence.
This time the noise startled me into full wakefulness: I bolted upright. It was thunder, so loud it shook the building rattling the glass in the windows. It sounded as if a giant were cracking a whip... the thunder was followed by a low rumbling, growing in intensity, another violent whip crack and than the rain came. So hard and so fast it seemed likely that the earth would be submerged.
Naked, I staggered towards the bathroom. I confronted my reflection in the mirror: my eyes were blood shot, my face was puffy and the chill of the storm was raising goose flesh on my bare skin, my nipples were hard and engorged with blood: something like desire consumed me. Revulsion and fear had become an aphrodisac. I knew now that it was not that I was suppose to be somewhere but that I was waiting for him. How long had I been an occupant of these rooms? When would he come? I had no idea what time it was. He had intentionally removed all the clocks, the television- anything that could give me a clue as to what the time or date might be. I no longer thought about it. Shaking I opened the mirrored medicine cabinet- my fingers had become thick mutinous soldiers and forcing them to bend was no small feat. A number of bottles clattered off the shelves, crashing against the counter below: the pills exploded falling everywhere..... I made no attempt to pick them up. My fingers sought and found, at long last, a prescription pill bottle with the label peeled off. I cupped my hands filling them with water than I sucked the water into my mouth, threw my head back and dropped four oblong pills into my mouth. I swallowed: forcing them down my throat leaving a chalky after taste in my mouth.For good measure I gathered a few of the renegade pills from the counter and swallowed them, trembling I bent over the sink and drank from the tap.
I turned the shower on, running the water as hot as it would go. I pushed the narrow bathroom door closed, than waited for the steam of the shower to fill the small space. I stepped into the searing down pour and let the scalding water rush over my bruised flesh. I scrubbed myself vigorously with a bar of yellow soap. Than I took a razor and shaved my pussy. Next, I ran the now dull razor along my legs several times, when I could run my hands along my legs with out feeling any stubble I dropped the razor and the soap and shut the water off. I stepped out of the steamy bathroom and revelled in the shock my raw scrubbed flesh experienced upon entering the dark chill of the bedroom. I pulled on a cheap cotton dress, fishing in the pockets I found a cigarette and a pack of matches. I lit the cigarette the match a brief spark in the ever deepening darkness. I exhaled the first drag with sublime satisfaction.
As I crossed the bedroom my feet left wet indentations on the rug.
I paced the short length of the sparse linoleum living room waiting for the fog of the pills to ease my frantic thoughts: thoughts of him. Waiting for the fog to blot out anything other than this moment- I could not tolerate thinking of what lay ahead. I just wanted to lay again on the tattered sheets I had so often shared with him. I wanted to enjoy the timeless, painless, twilight of my own artificial internal night. Arranging myself beneath the ragged filthy blankets I lay face down and listened to the storm. "Please let it always rain." I murmured quietly to myself as I slipped again into the peaceful place between sleep and the waking world. The rain continued , soon I slept.