#alexdavey

[thewritestuffuniverse]

Week 18 - “I turned the page and the newspaper was blank....”

Woooo! Here we go! As always, Alex Davey is first followed by Garrett Brown.

Newsworthy

By Alex Davey

It was not so much sold as given away at buses, tube stops and train stations. The paper had sustained itself for years on ad revenue alone, citing the millions of commuters as potential eyes. I picked it up as I always did on my way to work.

By some miracle, I actually had a seat. I settled in and looked at the front, it was an advert for something I couldn’t afford. I turned the page, and the newspaper was blank. Nothing on the front page. Nothing in sports. I flicked through, each page just blank. I looked around, there were other people reading the same paper, but they were blank all the same. This didn’t appear to stop people reading them.

Instead of the paper, I’d have to look at my phone, then. But the news app wouldn’t load. I didn’t even notice that I didn’t have any news accounts coming up on my Twitter feed until I tried to find an article I found the night before. The entire account was deleted. Same for their Facebook page. There was nothing on Google - and by that I mean the sites didn’t turn up at all. They still had Wikipedia pages, but every news site was down.

Again, there were people just scrolling through blank screens. Before I could think about this further, my stop came up. The rest of the journey was made on automatic, apart from the TV screens in the electronics shop showing the blue of a dead channel. That caused me to pause, but I was cutting it fine as it was.

As I settled at my desk, one of my co-workers came up and ask if I saw the news. I said no, I was in a bit of a rush. She told me. I know she told me, but I couldn’t tell you what she said. It was like she had spoken in white noise, but interspersed with actual words. I just nodded and said “oh right”.

Jessica controlled the radio again, set to Radio 2. On the hour, it was just dead air that nobody seemed too worried about. I quickly checked the BBC homepage, it was up, but there were no news stories still. I could see some things about my favourite shows and programmes on my list.

I tried to push it all to the back of my mind. The local paper’s website was still up, but I most of the stories didn’t load. Thanks goodness the industry news website was still up, and I could read the magazine, or I couldn’t do my job.

I managed to muddle through the day, one of white noise and blank pages. My manager asked if I wanted to go home, because I looked unwell. I said I was fine, just having one of those days. He knows what that means, but it wasn’t actually one of those days. Come the end of the day, he made me go home instead of finishing my report. I was secretly thankful.

At home, I pulled out a magazine, one about computer games from last month. Some of the pages I remember reading were blank, but many of the articles remained. The magazine of my favourite tv show was almost full, though lacking adverts. The writing magazine my parents got me was mostly empty. I think I was starting to see the pattern.

When my girlfriend got back from work, I asked her about her day. Her reply was tinny and far away, like bad earphones, but I could hear the words. When she asked me the same question, I could see she had seen a look of concern on my face. So I told her. If I couldn’t trust her, who could I trust?

She didn’t believe me at first, adopting that sceptical look she gets whenever I tell a tall tale. But as I went on, she grew concerned. I pulled the free paper out of her bag. I told her it just look a sheaf of blank pages. She read it out loud, at my request, but it was just static, white noise again.

We experimented. She could see posts from Facebook ‘friends’, people I hadn’t seen in over a decade, on my phone. However, I could not hear her when she read them out. She read a post by an actual friend, and that went fine. News channels were dead channels.

Days passed and nothing changed. That’s a lie, adverts started to fade either away or back into focus. The same happened to a number of articles. I found it tended to be what I was interested in personally, or what would personally affect me and I could do something about. I also started to see things my friends cared about, although they’d sometimes be fuzzy.

Ultimately, nothing of value was lost.

A Day In The Life

By Garrett Brown

I turned the page and the newspaper was blank.

Not because there wasn’t any news.

They just had nothing to say.

Sure there was still war, and famine, and death, and birth, and life.

But nobody cared anymore.

Nobody noticed a man collapse in the street.

Foaming at the mouth, gaping helplessly up into the sky.

An old man whispering

“It’s them. It’s time.”

And his body being carried away by a swarm of starlings.

Being held aloft like a package.

As the blob of feathers, beak, and the flesh of a barely dead man

Gently drifted into the distance.

Until it was swallowed by the setting sun.

The paper didn’t say anything about that.

The blank page didn’t tell me about the man in the tan suit.

The man sitting on the train, to head home from work.

The man who grasped onto his brown leather briefcase.

The briefcase that sat in his lap.

And held evil secrets.

We never knew anything.

I turned the page again.

[thewritestuffuniverse]

Week 17 - “Fish”

Eyyyyy another week another prompt. As usual Alex Davey is first, followed by Garrett Brown.

Fishing

 by Alex Davey

The heat of the air mingled with the coolness of the water across his skin. It was a dry summer day, the sun slowly sticking his skin with needles. He could see children around the small pond, splashing under the watchful eyes of parents.

The line was cast wide, far into the lake. The fact that there were no fish in this lake didn’t phase him. Neither did the fact that the silt at the bottom of the lake was one of the most radioactive places on the planet. That wasn’t the important part. It was the peace.

Long ago, this was a testing ground. Other than the lake, there were reminders all around the landscape. Tall concrete towers with small slits where officials used to sit and observe reach out of the ground like ancient giants.

That was long ago. Different men were in power, but he hadn’t really noticed in all that time. He had a new lake to fish in though, so things weren’t all bad. His father fished. As soon as he could be relied not to drop the good rod and not drive a hook through his finger, his father had taken him out. Every Sunday, after dinner, they’d fish in the river until the sun went down.

One day, they took his father away. Mother wouldn’t talk about. His neighbours didn’t talk about it. Another man took his place at the commissioner's office, but nobody talked to him. New people coming in were always government men.

A quarter of the world away a wall came down and a superpower collapsed. The day after was very much like the day before. But soon the town realised that nobody was coming, not for awhile, not this far out. So they took back control.

Unlike his mother, he had never thought his father was dead . Of course, no son of a traitor would ever hold a position where he could get close to official records. But a friend of a son of a traitor could. While others raided the private stores of the local commissioner, he poured over arrest and prisoner transport records. He then found the old commissioner, and five broken fingers later, found out where his father was taken.

The town he grew up in was in the middle of nowhere, that was demonstrably obvious. But this was on no map. The only sign of where he was going was a sign saying ‘do not enter’ and a stylised angel. Concrete towers reached out of the ground like buried giants.

There were only plants here. No birds, no insects. The only sound was the wind as it played between the towers. He came to the lip of a crater, filled with rain water the colour of the river that ran through town.

Miles from the crater was an office. It looked abandoned, long before the recent change in power. Most of the papers had been shredded and rotted away. He was there for days, only going back to town for supplies. It’s not like there was work going. People were still trying to figure out what was going on.

About a week of digging through forgotten tests, he came to something promising. He father wasn’t mentioned, but other men, part of the same group were mentioned. His father’s name lay rotting under mould, he decided. ‘Studying the long-term effects of nuclear fallout on the human body’. That was their excuse.

The symptoms didn’t sound pleasant. The lucky ones suffered hair loss and nausea. No, he later thought, the lucky ones were those closest to the bombs.

The Smell

By Garrett Brown

“Who the fuck put fish in the microwave?!”

“Jesus, no need to shout, the whole store can hear you.”

“That’s my gooddamn point, the entire store can smell this infernal smell. Who ever put these sardines in the microwave is going to get a boot up their ass. The breakroom smells like Dan when he doesn’t do his laundry.”

“Hey Dan’s your co-worker, don’t speak about him like that.” “You said the exact same thing to me last week.”

“That’s different. We were outside of work, grabbing beers and playing pool. We are in the workplace. And right now this workplace smells like ass. Can one of you open a window?”

“Do I look like your servant?”

“Do you want to be breathing in this delightful stench?”

“Fair point…. Grab me some febreeze…. Customers are going to think that we killed a dude and left his body in the store.”

“Well when I find out who did this we will have a body to hide.”

“It was probably Dan to be honest… he always bring in fish to eat.”

“Goddammit Dan.”

[thewritestuffuniverse]

Week 16: Airplane

This week the topic is Airplane! They fly in the sky and are great writing prompts! As always, Alex Davey is first and Garrett Brown is second.

Airplane!

by Alex Davey

“Before we go on, in film classes we banned the phrase ‘how have you not seen’ such and such a movie. It stifled discussion.”

“But then you saw that movie right? You went out of your way to do your research and come back with a deeper understanding of the discussion?”

“I’d look it up on Wikipedia and TV Tropes. Which is not nothing. You can imagine we had a lot of films to watch on that course.”

“And Airplane wasn’t one of them?”

“No. What’s it about?”

“It’s about a plane where half the passengers and the pilots get ill from eating salmon mousse.”

“Oh. So it’s one of those boring air disaster films?”

“It’s a parody of those films. Almost word for word from this really old one. But it’s hilarious.”

“Right.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say? .Right.?”

“Like, I said, I’ve never seen it. What do you want me to say? Do you want to talk about Vertigo?”

“Blurgh, Hitchcock. What’s next, you want me to watch Woody Allen creep on his daughter-wife? How about we watch re-runs of the Cosby Show?”

“I see, you’re turning this into a discussion on the separation of art and artist.”

“I blame you for not understanding a famous reference. How has nobody used the ‘I am serious, and don’t call me Shirley’ on you in your entire life?”

“I guess I don’t use ‘surely’ enough.”

“That’s probably it. It is a good movie though.”

“I don’t doubt that. But there are so many films to watch. And TV shows. And books to read, podcasts to listen to and games to play.”

“Yeah, we are sort of spoilt for choice. Do you think it’s distracting?”

“All that stuff? Maybe. But someone who immerses themselves will come across something… meaningful. Eventually.”

“You think?”

“Plus, it’s not like people exist in a vacuum. Social media is still media. We’re talking to each other so much, ideas can flow freely.”

“But what happens when they get diluted? Or mutated?”

“I don’t know man. Just enjoy the scenery.”

Airplanes

by Garrett Brown

I always cry on airplanes. I try to prepare myself before I go on: take an ambien, look at some puppy videos, just try to focus on myself. However, I start crying without fail on take off. I don’t even make it to the in-flight movie.

I read somewhere that everyone cries on planes (well, everyone who has a soul cries). It’s difficult to say why. Some studies have said it’s that everyone is crammed together in a metal tube which makes them more susceptible to emotions. Others think it is because people hate being reminded of their mortality as they know that they have a small chance of surviving if the plane crashes. Others just hate flying.

I don’t have an opinion on what is correct or not. All I know is that I prefer trains.

Sometimes you don’t have an option though. Sometimes work needs to go to a conference in New York and they need you there tomorrow. Sometimes someone you don’t love dies in a car accident and you have to go because even though they were a right bastard, society makes us pretend to be cordial and respectful. Even though that man who is now laying on a coroner's table in a cold dark room beat you within an inch of your life.

So I cry on airplanes: so what? I don’t pretend to be anything other than human.

I remember that man, the man who’s dead body is now being prepared to be placed in a coffin, when he took me on my first plane ride. I sat in the middle seat, squeezed between him and a woman who wasn’t my mother.

I think about how much he sweat that day, wearing a suit, bygone evidence of a bygone day where respectability and formality meant something to someone. A suit jacket at work. Khakis at home. A white button up shirt splattered with blood. A leather belt folded over in his hands. A white and red speckled shirt that hid the scars that he inherited from his father, the scars that he would one day pass down to me. The scars that were my birth right.

He noticed how nervous I looked on the plane. He looked over a squeezed my hand.

“It’s okay champ” he soothed, as to not wake the woman next to me. “Everyone cries on planes.”

He leaned in and whispered in my ear. “If you cry though, I swear to god I will beat the shit out of you when we land. No son of mine cries like a fucking little girl.”

He leaned back into his seat, smiled at the stewardess, and went back to his magazine.

I heard about the car accident as I was about to board for a business trip to NYC. Went and changed my flight to make it home for the service.

I sat next to a little child who was traveling alone. He looked sad, and his eyes were on the verge of tears.

I bought him a soda. As I gave it to him, I told him the open secret that everyone knew but no one wanted to admit to others. “It’s okay champ. Everyone cries on airplanes.”

And I went back to my magazine.

[thewritestuffuniverse]

Week 14: “Three Legged Stool”

Welcome to Week 14 where our prompt is “Three Legged Stool.” As usual Alex Davey is first followed by Garrett Brown.

Regular Crowd

by Alex Davey

“Let me tell you something about that stool.” He looked up, bleary eyed from the gin and tonic. The bartender, an almost spherical man topped with thinning hair, was drying a glass before placing it below the bar. He said nothing to indicate he wanted the bartender to continue, but continue he did. “See, that stool is from the old place, before it burned down. Different cushion. And, if you notice, it has three legs instead of four.” Again, he stared into his drink instead of answering. “Folk that sit on that stool, they got a story to tell.”

There was a moment of silence. “We all have our own stories. I’m just passing through.”

The bartender continued to clean glasses. “Most folk do. Or say they are. Some of them end up sticking around. End up becoming part of the regular crowd.”

He raised his head. Most of the patron were like him. Washed-out looking men in crumpled suits. Apparently this place didn’t have a smoking ban, as cigarette smoke swam around the stagnant air. The only real movement were from the waitresses in bright pink too-short dresses picking up glasses and delivering drinks. The oldest waitress was easily half the age of the youngest man. Their passing earned slow leers from grey faces.

“I’ll try not to.” The bartender shrugged. Up on the stage a man in a blue suit played a piano. Whether it was the drinks or the lights, the player was hard to focus on. Did he even have a face? What was he singing? Was he singing at all? “It’s about a woman.”

The bartender chuckled. “It always is. Usually. Almost always. What was she like?”

He leaned back, trying to conjure her. “Apple in her eyes and flowers in her hair.” She was already fading from his memory, but he could clearly see her eyes and flowers in her braids. “A laugh like light on a summer evening.”

“You fell for her?”

“Like a sack of hammers.”

“They always do.” The bartender switched cloths to wipe down the bar. “What happened?”

“She was with someone else.”

The bartender smirked knowingly. “That’s always the way.”

“He was a nice guy as well. A person you could get on with. Not like one of these terrible boyfriends in a rom-com. He was perfect for her.”

“And who are you to mess up perfect?”

“Exactly.” He looked down into his tumbler, a slice of lime and two half-melted ice cubes met his gaze. “How many of these have I had?”

“I don’t count. Not here to judge. Another?” The bartender waved as he reached for his wallet. “No, no, on the house this time. Maybe something with a little more kick.” From the back shelf, an embellished bottle of golden liquid. Scotch whisky. It tumbled from bottle to glass, mere millimeters but cutting his nose immediately. “You don’t look like a guy who takes it on the rocks.”

“You’d be right.” He took the most minute of sips. It burned down his throat, but sat just right when it hit the bottom. The smell overpowered the smell of cigarettes and the silken perfume as a waitress passed. “It wasn’t like I was in a good place at the time. Dead-end job, coffin-sized room in a damp house. Not exactly what a woman wants.”

“In my experience, and you might be surprised,” patting his prestigious belly, “women decide what they want. They know Prince Charming doesn’t exist.”

“Well, they broke up. And before you say that’s when I moved in, there was already somebody there. Kind of. It’s not…” He stared at himself in the mirror behind the bar. “It’s complicated.”

“You think you have a chance? But you’ve been friends with the lady for so long, you’re afraid of losing what you have. You got two choices to make in the darkness. You tell her, or you don’t.”

“I think knowing the answer is worse than maintaining the status quo. Saying nothing of if she doesn’t feel the same way, what if she does?”

“Of course. What if you get what you want? You look like a guy who isn’t too accustomed to that.”

The whisky sat finished, save for the impossible last drops. “What now?”

“I guess that would be up to you. There’s always room at a table here. As you said, you hoped you were just passing through. You wouldn’t be the first to stay.”

He took another look around at the gargoyles that lined his future. He got up from the three-legged stool and walked out the door into the cool evening.

Three Leg Stool

by Garrett Brown

“Look” he drunkenly slurred. “There is three legs to this stool, three avenues in this plan.” The man fumbled for a pencil on the bar, and grabbed a dirty napkin.

“Look” I slipped in, I don’t want to be a part of any pyramid scheme or anything.

“No, no” James laughed. “Believe me this isn’t a pyramid scheme or anything. It’s a foolproof plan, something that has a guaranteed profit for both of us.” He was scratching lines into the napkin with nonsensical numbers. “We just have to put in a little work and believe me, people will be lining up to dump money in our laps.

He slid the napkin across the table. I looked down at his chicken scratch and sighed.

“Step one involves robbing a blank James.”

“Shhhhh not so loud” James hushed. He leaned forward and whispered “Duh. That’s how we get the capital for step two.”

I pushed the napkin away from me. “James you know I can’t do this. I can’t afford to go back. My family can’t afford me being away for another 20 years.”

James chuckled and took a swig of his drink. “You only have to worry about that if you get caught.”

I frowned. “Given our past, I’d be more worried about you and that bottle getting us caught.”

Within an instant, James had soured at my remark. “I’m a professional. What happened that day was an accident.” He flashed a smile riddled with yellow teeth. “Besides, I know that you’ll have my back.” He pushed the napkin back onto my side of the table, forceful and sure.

I looked down and the three step plan stared back at me, like it was burning a hole in my face. After a moment, I raised my gaze.

“Fine,” I answered. “I know my answer.”

James smiled that greasy yellow grin. He was satisfied.

[thewritestuffuniverse]

Week 10- “Camera”

Welcome back! The theme this week is Camera, and as always Alex Davey goes first, while Garrett Brown is second.

Album

by Alex Davey

Ruddy skin and eyes closed against the first light. Minutes old, tired mother. A lineage a billion years long from the simplest organism in the deepest areas of the ocean. He is born in a time of plenty. He will not know famine or plague or war, at least as this tale is told.

Wide blue eyes, mouth open with the hint of a first tooth. What hair he has already has the stubborn tuft that will define his childhood. In the background, a grandfather and uncle talk out of focus.

An elephant in the background, thousands of miles out of place. The slate grey of an urban zoo. Wrapped in amorphous purple, a boy points toward the beast, mum bending down to see from his perspective.

Bright red jumper and black trousers. He beams with pride. The first day of primary school, first day of a new chapter. He’s not looking at the lens, but somewhere off camera.

A family holiday, a caravan on the south coast. Six are still in their pajamas, four boys and two girls, a mixture of siblings and family friends. They have some to the south coast for sea-side holiday in a caravan too small for both families. The cluster pokes from a blanket watching holiday television.

The four boys now stand over a medical cot, looking down at their baby sister. There are ten years between that first baby and this last. He is the only one who notices their picture being taken.

A wedding day or christening, all done up in sharp white shirts and polished shoes. He already looks out of place, hands on hips, a scowl instead of smile.

A school performance. His puberty makes him look half-formed, with one long sideburn from not knowing how to take care of it.

Another performance, but set in a school. Here he is, a full adult. He’s in character, staring out into the audience. He looks pale and too round, and begs the question about why is he here and not elsewhere.

Elsewhere now, far from home. Flash on to compensate for the dark club. He’s with a group of friends, one of a crowd. He’s grown a beard, making him feel better about pictures.

A field, hotter than any can remember. Pale clothes just to keep off the sun. These friends are better friends, needed in this time of uncertainty. Capped for shade, he looks into the distance.

Shutter

by Garrett Brown

“Smile” he says,

The flash blinds me, and I blink the spots away. The suit jacket feel heavy on me, and I wish I had chosen a liter top. The blouse maybe, or a tank top.

“How many more photos do you need?” I ask through my forced smile as the set lights burn me vision.

“Just a few more sweetheart,” the photographer says.

I sigh, and shift my pose.

“I love it,” the photographer growls. “Give me sex. Give me fire.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I ask.

He sighs. “You know that feeling when you eat a really good piece of doughnut? Like that feeling of ecstasy.”

I sit on the ground, my face pouting. “Like this?”

The photographer, pauses, then lowers his camera. “You look like you are constipated,” he sighed.

“Well I’m sorry you suck at directions.”

“Don’t forget you are the one that hired me,” he pointedly replied.

I sat back, thinking through how many wardrobe changes I had left before the day was done. The things I put myself through for the feeling of beauty.

[thewritestuffuniverse]

Week 8 - Traveling!

A day late, but it has arrived. As always Alex Davey is first, Garrett Brown second. Amber Waves by Alex Davey “Well that was disgusting.”

“What’s disgusting about the skeleton of the original siamese twins?”

“Conjoined. That was a cast. It wasn’t just them. It was all the tumours and deformities… You think this sort of thing is fun?”

“That was fun. Seeing all those things in jars. They were once alive. All though in case of the children I guess it wasn’t that long.”

“You’re terrible, you know that? When you said we’ll be stopping in Philadelphia I thought we’d be going to see the Liberty Bell or somewhere else from It’s Always Sunny. This is the birthplace of America, after all.”

“Wasn’t that Boston?”

“I don’t know. My memory’s fuzzy.”

“It’s weird.”

“The fact we spent an hour and a half in a house filled with bones?”

“No, just how European it all looks.”

“It doesn’t look European at all. All the roads are straight.”

“But the brick buildings, with the massive glass towers behind the facade.”

“Façade. I guess you’re right about that. Shortage of Gregg’s.”

“I could kill for a sausage roll.”

“Careful. They don’t get sarcasm here. A good guy with a gun might appear.”

“Haven’t seen that many guns yet.”

“Probably as we go further west. So is this the whole trip? Cabinets of Curiosities and modern-day sideshows?”

“Not… all of it. Like I said, we’re winging it. Look, tomorrow we’ll be in DC. We can go to the Smithsonian, a proper museum.”

“Urgh, fine. Shall we get one of these cheesesteaks? I hear they’re the thing to get here. When in Rome and all that.” Leaving on a Plane

by Garrett Brown  I hate planes. I hate being millions of miles off of the ground, knowing that everything could suddenly crash down in a moment. I hate that because of a few assholes, I have to take my shoes off and be wanded by a rent-a-cop security guard. And because I left my belt on, they make me do a strip search in a private room off to the side.

I am always stuck in the middle. On my left, a woman who always needs to use the bathroom, even when the seatbelt light is on. To my right is a man who is snoring and refuses to move or even wake up.

I climb on the plane, and I look around. I sigh and walk down the corridor, nodding at the smiling flight attendants.  I sit down and sigh. I grab my microphone, and take a deep breathe.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.”

[thewritestuffuniverse]

Next week! Travelling

OH BOY! Next week our theme is Travelling! Stay tuned for that! July 23rd 2018!

[thewritestuffuniverse]

Week 7- Squirrels

Here is week 7! As always, Alex Davey is first, followed by Garrett Brown

Squirrel by Alex Davey

Gery burst into the council chamber. The councillors all turned to see the out-of-breath youth leaning against the door frame. “A squirrel masters, out in the dry!”

“So what? We agreed, it is not worth the risk. Our numbers still haven’t recovered. Did you run all the way from your post to tell us that?” Ewis the master of beasts never liked the young jumpy scouts.

Shaking his head, Gery managed to get out “No sirs, it was hit by one of the Titan’s chariots. It’s dead on the dry and night approaches.”

Jesse, master of scouts, rose. “Are you sure? We can’t risk anyone on the dry.”

“It’s close to the grass. A few of us could lift in from the dry and bring it home.”

The council looked at each other and made a vote.

With practised ease, the group moved through the thick grass between the tree and the dry. As Gery had said, it was starting to get dark, so the Titans and their strange beasts were starting to leave. They ignored worms and ants, only stopping to pick at some daisy petals.

A cluster of dandelions marked the end of the grass and the expanse of the dry. There was the long flat bit, the great trench where the Titan’s chariots rode, to the other flat and grass on the other side. Gery brought them to where he saw the squirrel.

Over the edge of the dry they saw it. Just over twice the size of any of them, a squirrel. It’s head was bent too far backwards and there was a small split along its belly. The senior hunter, Delard, studied the creature. A glassy stare was his only reply.

Delard had Gery and another scout, Ellyn, check the skies. Owls and bats might be starting to come out. The others gathered on the ledge, readying their harpoons. One by one they released and returned until each was embedded in the squirrel’s flesh. Sarand, one of the younger hunters, fell off the ledge but landed on the beast. With help, he managed to make it back up.

The team started to haul the squirrel up the ledge. The Titan’s chariots continued to race like passing thunder. A trail of blood followed where a stone cut the flesh. When the group had reached the grass again, Ellyn called out for an approaching Titan.

The great figured moved with the purpose of all Titans. Like so many, this one had a dog chained by the neck. As the pair passed, the dog stopped to investigate. The smell of the dog overpowered the ripening squirrel. As it got closer, the hunters could see mucus drip in the caverns of the nose, teeth as long as any of them protruding from the lips and insects crawl across its fur.

A voice filled the air. “Stop that Jocasta. Come on girl, don’t touch that.” The dog was yanked away with incredible force, its front paws leaving the ground and making a yelping sound. The Titan and the dog continued their way across the dry.

The hunters returned to the burrow to an adoring crowd. This squirrel boar would feed the clan for over a week, its fur would clothe them and its bones would make good tools. This was a good day. The Squirrel

by Garrett Brown

The squirrel was fat as hell, and was only getting fatter by the day. Every morning I would watch from my dining room window as it shoved in acorns into its cheeks. 

One morning, I looked up from shoveling plain, bland oatmeal into my mouth. The little fucker was back again, sitting on the ledge of my restored 1929 Tudor House. He locked eyes with me. The tiny little rodent gazed into my eyes, almost willing me to try and come after him. Without breaking his gaze, he popped another acorn into his mouth.

That motherfucker.

I grabbed my bowl of oatmeal and chucked it across the room towards the window. The bowl shattered, and the sludge trailed down the wall, staining the sickly yellow wallpaper. The little beast wrinkles it’s nose at me, then scampers off.

I hate that squirrel.

The next morning, I take my tasteless gruel outside on the patio, where I have a great vantage point of the window. As a trap, I have left a pile of acorns, fresh and new. I mindlessly spoon my breakfast into my mouth, not tasting even the little taste there is. I don’t sense anything. I’m waiting for my enemy. Suddenly, I hear a click, clack, clatter of tiny paws against brick, and I prepare myself. I grab a tiny mesh net from off my table, and prepare to capture my foe.

SMASH.

The net has been tossed but my attempts are not fruitful. The squirrel has escaped my clutches once more, and the acorns are gone. I am full of contempt for him. I know that he will be back tomorrow, and I will be there for him. This squirrel is my white whale. But even Ahab eventually made it through.