Volleyball 2004

[felonius]

GENRE: X-Men

...perhaps we’ll find something worth finding. Mrs. Hattori – Mariko – do you have somewhere to stay in town?â€

[Aunflin]

“…hurry before it’s too late.â€

[felonius]

GENRE: The Twilight Zone

...she was eighty, yes, and Lord knows her old eyes weren’t the sharpest anymore, but so far they’d never played any tricks like THIS on her...

The tall man seemed momentarily preoccupied with his clothes; as Mary watched, flabbergasted, he removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and fastidiously brushed down his dark suit. Her eyes flicked across the street to gauge Jim Schinzing’s reaction but amazingly the old juicer hadn’t moved and remained seated as before, rocking slowly and sucking his can of Coors. Mrs. Redmond was still on all fours yanking weeds, her sizable rear end up and saying hello, and the Johnson boy hadn’t paused in his fidgeting over that loss of an automobile. All three seemed quite oblivious to the new arrival who, apparently satisfied with his appearance, had replaced the handkerchief and was now directing his gaze right toward her at the window –

Mary yelped, snatched the drape across and took two faltering steps backward. That light, she thought, that light was as bright as Creation, wasn’t any way to miss a flash like that right under their noses is was and they didn’t bat an eyelash sweet heaven and Christ in a sidecar maybe you’ve finally gone daft there Mary old girl tell you what you’re gonna open those drapes and take a peek outside again and everything will be right as rain and normal as noodles and there won’t be any man standing in the street who apparently no one else can see LOOKING STRAIGHT AT YOU, we’ll just chalk that up to one of those unexplainable little episodes that we all have from time to time and never mention to anyone else ever again sure okay so it was a little more distinct than your average odd noise or funny dream or strange coincidence but that’s all right we’ll just treat it exactly the same ‘cause there’s no good can come from getting your mind all a’twist over things like this you just had to –

She screamed at the same instant the heavy knock sounded upon the door, a scream which surprised her in its power even as it exploded from deep within her diaphragm. The good China cups on the mantle tinged softly in the aftershock of the vocal wave for a full two or three seconds before their faint ring passed beyond the limits of the human eardrum and all was silent once more. Seconds passed, slow and thick.

“Mary Rose?â€

[Aunflin]

...has degressed to an Amphibian state. No longer is he the man you once knew and loved..." The words hung upon the air like sheets in the stagnant summer heat.

"What do you mean?" Fear and confusion pulsed throughout Mary Rose's being. She could not conceive of such an occurance. This fellow surely had to be pulling her leg--it made no sense otherwise.

"No," replied the man, his voice stern, reproaching. "I am not 'pulling your leg' as you seem to think--I but speak truth." A sad expression crossed the handsome, immaculately dressed man's ageless face. "Your husband has become a frog--and only you can save him from this cruel fate."

Mary Rose frowned, nearly uncomprehending...How could it be? What had occurred to bring about such a change? Was it me...? Was it I you brought him to this? Who is this stranger, anyway...saying such nonsensical things.... A frown crossed Mary Rose's wrinkled countenence. "Who are you?" she asked, her tone even, demanding. She glared through thick lenses, her aged blue eyes flaring.

"I am but a messenger, good woman. That is all." The stranger smiled, trying to soothe the old woman--without much success.

Finally, Mary Rose sighed. She looked at the clock: 3:34...and still no Francis...Wher could he be? A frown creased her face. Finally she said, "Are you are telling me the truth...where is my husband...?"

A look of discomfort crossed the handsome stranger's face. "Well...."

[Ghost]

[Genre: Children - Fairy Tale]

… can I come in.â€

[Aunflin]

"...has been infected with a new super-virus that causes severe evolutionary regression. And if not treated soon, his body will devolve yet further until he is nothing more than a mass of single-celled organisms...that in turn will also devolve into...well--nothing."

"How can this be?" asked Mary Rose, finding it difficult to wrap her mind around the concept. "I've never heard of such a thing..." She continued to rub her temples, trying to eradicate the pulsing headache that thundered in her skull. "I just can't--"

"There's more," continued the immaculately clad stranger, "Your husband was not the only man infected...there are others, many others, though none so far gone as Francis...if we do not act soon, the Earth will be naught but a barren wasteland devoid of life..."

"So, what are we supposed to do about it?" Mary Rose frowned, fear fluttering her heart. Out of habit, she glanced at the clock again: 4:00. It was time for her glaucoma eye drops...soon it would be time to start supper... She shook her head. "Why are you telling me this? Are others being informed, as well?"

"Yes, all are being informed at this exact moment...Several of my Multiples are having this exact same conversation." Mary Rose's eyes widened at this: Multiples...? She could not comprehend the concept. "I am doing my best to get the word out before the infection spreads to an uncontrollable level--time is of the essence."

"That very well may be the case." Mary Rose abruptly stood up. "But before we can do anything about it I need you to help me put in my eye drops--do you mind?"

The stranger nodded...

[Darb]

[GENRE: Diary]

Two hours later ...

{presses button on tape recorder, while reclining in bathtub}

Dear Diary,

I think this is finally it ... at long last, after 40 years in seclusion, and 7 months on skid row, I’ve hit bottom.

Today, in addition to doing that vacuous walk-on gig for “IBDoF Crank Yankersâ€

[Ghost]

… click … click.}

I just loaded that gun; a shot gun doesn’t jam.

{Throwing the shot gun through the shower curtain as it clatters on the bathroom tile floor, he picks up the recorder.}

It’s those f*cking IDBoF amateur writers again – they have more brainless ideas mildewing in their worthless minds than a pack of baboons.

{He starts banging his head against the shower wall.}
{recorder clicks off as it runs out of tape}


[Genre: Sci-Fi Horror]

Meanwhile back at Suin-Olef’s warehouse basement lab. A skinny, naked, oriental woman, gagged and tied spread eagle on a metal cot, is struggling against her bindings. Naomi’s struggles have finally succeeded in knocking off her blind fold and she is glad for a brief moment. However, when her vision clears, she screams into her gag. Across from her, hanging in the air, is a naked female figure, hands tied together pulled up over her head, her feet barely scraping the floor.

The naked woman looks eight months pregnant with 44-G cup breasts, and Naomi knows her. She is acquaintance of the street, Naomi saw Kathy two weeks ago, but she wasn’t pregnant and normally only has 38-Cs. Small plastic tubes attached to Kathy’s nipples extend down into a half filled milk jug resting on the floor. Breast milk slowly trickles down the tubes. Kathy is mumbling incoherently, her glassy eyes are wide open, but are clearly not focused on anything on this plane of existence.

Naomi turns her head thirty degrees to the right, throws up into her gag and has to swallow the bile in order to keep from choking. Another pregnant woman is hanging identically to Kathy except that it looks as if someone has performed a caesarean section on her with a dull pocket knife. Her belly has been ripped open, blood, organs and pieces of flesh are all over the woman’s legs and on the floor. What catches Naomi’s eyes, however; are the bloody baby size finger marks along the jagged opening and one clear small claw print on the dead woman’s hip.

There is a loud groan to the left, and as much a Naomi doesn’t want to, she turns her head. A pallid young man is tied to another metal cot, his bones can be clearly seen through his translucent skin. He has an undersized pot belly and blood is seeping from his nose and ears. His is completely naked and a bulky hose is attached around his genital region to a large stainless steel basin between his legs.

At this moment Suin enters, guarding his energy usage, he has not activated his holo-belt. Naomi decides it is a good time to let rip another scream, “AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!â€

[Darb]

[GENRE: Political Debate]

... one universe over, and precisely 12 years and 1 month into the future, during the 2028 US Presidential campaign, Senator Roy Bean (R-Arizona), and his running mate, Governor Laurie H***** (R-NY) are debating with their political opponents, Senator Al Sharpton (D-New York) and Tawana Brawley (nobody), on live National TV.

We join the fiasco, already in progress.

[quote]BEAN: ... increase spending by 87 billion dollars, in order to upgrade our existing orbital missile defense system, build more hydrogen extraction plants to lower the price of automotive fuel cell recharging, and to complete final development on the Pellegrino ION drive prototype. My opponent has already stated that he intends to cut all funding to these worthy, necessary, and utterly essential programs in order to fund (instead) an ill-advised, unwarranted and politcally motivated bill to pay bribes ... erm, I mean “reparationsâ€

[felonius]

GENRE: Alliteration Ailment

...prologue proper, a practical and pragmatic yet promiscuous and predatory prig named Prat sat prone and prim in his doctor’s examining room, awaiting a promising prognosis without preamble on his present predicament arising from primal proclivity and proficient propinquity with the opposite sex.

He felt a little shabby. He should have showered and shaved before shuddering over his shifty shenanigans, shouldering his shyness, and shuttling shame-faced and sheepish downtown to the doc’s office without any further shirking or shallow shams, his shelf-esteem shattered and shipwrecked, his sharpshooter shaft sheathed, his shady shibboleth lying in shambles. Sh*t, Sheryl!

Brooding, his brazen bravado brittle and broken, he braced for a brutal breakdown and brusque browbeating...oh, braised broccoli, oh Brig Brother, why the brothel, why such brainlessness??

Elsewhere, elevated and elegant, stood...

[Ghost]

[Genre: Humor: Little Johnny Joke]

… Francis. Who then flung himself forward through the foyer.

Mary Rose was shaking and moaning in the wooded rocking chair, tears in her eyes, and she looked up, “You’re not a frog!â€

[felonius]

GENRE: Crime Fiction

...and then I gotta close up."

Francis raised his eyes from his almost-empty glass and beerily regarded Mary's kind, smiling face on the other side of the bar.

"You gotta closse up already, Mary Rose? Whasssat for? Still early, ain't it?"

"On second thought, maybe you don't need another one!" she laughed. She flicked her towel over one thick shoulder and turned to fetch a single half-pint glass. Stepping with it to the taps, she considered, then opened the Creemore, tilting the glass expertly as the golden liquid drew.

"Whas mean I don't needs anuzzer?" Francis said, affronted.

Mary topped the half and shut the tap in a seamless motion. "It's after three, smart guy."

Francis received this information slowly and then swivelled his head to take in the rest of the pub - empty except for himself and Scott still slouched in his usual booth up by the front window.

"Christ," Francis said, gathering himself. "Was off on a tangent there, I s'pose. Trouble ya for some water?"

"Of course." Mary moved about and then placed a tall iced glass before him. Francis's ability to drink steadily through an entire evening and then seemingly shake off the effects in a matter of minutes always amazed her.

Francis drank half of the water quickly, then set the glass back down and lit a cigarette. "What's Scotty doin' up there?"

"Scribbling away like always," Mary sipped her Creemore. "Goes all night. Sometimes I have to say his name three or four times before he notices me and looks up, and sometimes" - her voice dropped a bit - "sometimes when he does look up his eyes are all strange, not at all like they are most of the time. It's like he's got...bad things going on inside him."

Francis grunted. "'Whatever flames upon the night,/Man's own resinous heart has fed,'" he said, and laughed a strange laugh.

Mary's brows knitted. "What's that?"

"Nothin'. Just an old boozer babbling." He drained the last of the water. "Gonna get out of your way, darlin'. What I owe?"

He paid his bill, wished Mary good night, then gingerly lowered his legs from the stool rung and tested them on the floor. Little unsteady, but nothing to worry about. He wished he could say the same for his head tomorrow morning.

Pausing by Scott's booth on his way to the door, Francis looked down for a moment at the younger man who was indeed scribbling furiously in a notebook - the rapid cursive almost seeming to bleed from the pen tip like a graph needle scratching out a seismic event. "Time to go home, Scotty boy," he said.

Scott started and looked up, annoyance creasing his sharp features until he recognized the source of the voice. "Francis," he said, in a voice stale and unused. "What time is it?"

"Glad I'm not the only timeless fool in here," Francis said. "It's late. Let's let Mary close up."

Scott's eyes scanned the bar. "Sh*t. Okay, coming." He closed the notebook, pocketed the pen and stood, swigging the last of his Keith's. They both waved to Mary and then stepped out onto the slightly chilled Chicago street, sparse of people and vehicles at this late hour.

The two men walked silently. It had rained earlier and streetlight glistened on the wet pavement. An L-Train clacked in the distance.

"You ever kill anybody, Francis?" Scott asked suddenly.

Francis looked...

[Darb]

[GENRE: Slasher Movie]

... Francis looked over, momentarily confused. “Say what ?â€

[laurie]

INTERIOR MONOLOGUE (references to The Bishop and the Missing L Train by Andrew M. Greeley)


.....his pocket and handed me the ticket, didn't even look at me, the bum. Christ, I hate this shift, always by myself, no more'n one or two passengers, and them always weird or creepy or doped up so's ya never know what they'll do. An' then the INCIDENT last month, whole friggin' train just DISAPPEARS, no trace, no witnesses, just GONE, an' damn it, the boss says the Cardinal calls him and says some PRIEST was on it, an' he's gone too, so's then we get that little Bishop down askin' questions, the one all the women an' kids thinks is cute, what's his name, Ryan, yeah, Blackie Ryan, thinks he's Sherlock or somethin', but damn, he figures it out, an' all's sweetness 'cept the boss says we gotta keep our eyes on all the pasengers now, no more INCIDENTS 'cause the boss don't wanna write no more reports, don't wanna talk to no more CARDINALS, no more BISHOPS, don't even wanna HEAR the word PRIEST, so I gotta stand here an' friggin' look like I'm doin' somethin' but the only thing I'm doin' is watchin' another nutto scribblin' ta beat hell in a notebook, wonder what he's writin', maybe a reporter, maybe just some loony who thinks he can write a BOOK or somethin', nobody writes good now, all the books are weird, spacy, no friggin' STORY, just a lotta words strung together makin' no sense, an' then they go on OPRAH an' evrybody thinks they're great, an' they make a million bucks, they don't know what work is, just scribblin' away, damn, he's lookin' at me now, why's he smilin' like that, sh*t, I hope he............


*small edit of ending*

[Ghost]

[Genre: Crime Drama: Pulp Fiction/Radio: The Shadow]

… doesn’t do anything stupid. The conductor backs away, keeping his eyes on the lunatic, nearly bumping into a gentleman and lady entering the car. The couple is arm in arm, heads touching and whispering as lovers do. They sit at the bench farthest away from the scribbling killer.

“OK, Margo, you take the train back to the Hotel, and I’ll meet you in the morning for breakfast. I need to collect some more information.â€

[felonius]

GENRE: Recorded Transcript SESSION12 8/10/04

...hehehehehehehehehehehehehehe, I’ll be watching you! I’ll be watching you, Dr. Scott! Dr. Scotty-Scot-Scot! The Shadow knows, only the Shadow knows!â€

[Darb]

[GENRE: MILITARY EPIGRAM]

Just then, in a womb far far away, a tremendous battle was raging.

General Gametus, and his assembled aides, surveyed the battlefield below, from the high vantage point marked on his tactical map as “Hill 69â€

[Ghost]

[Genre: Humor: Mad-Lib]

… across the hall from Lamont Cranston and Dr. Scott, in a chartreuse padded cell, a porous woman in a fuchsia gown, insouciantly laying on the floor with a ochre crayon in her glabrous navel, is quickly writing slime-bally sexually explicit expressions on the floor and walls, while firmly singing "She Talks to Angles".

A doctor wearing ashen lab coat with a tattoo of Carmen San Diego on his brain enters the room, carrying a chia pet, “Kahrey, how are you power-lifting today?â€

[Darb]

[GENRE: Allegory a la Mode]

With the swiftness of a flaneur, Dr. Aunflin jammed the needle into Kahrey’s middle finger.

“Don’t run amok my dear, everything’s going to be just fine.

. . .

(later, after his shift at the asylum had ended)

Like a hungry dog torn between two laden food bowls, Dr. Aunflin sat, just like Humpty Dumpty sat in his nursery rhyme, completely paralyzed. Not paralyzed in a Christopher Reeves quadriplegic kind of way, but more or less in the way that left him wholly unable to act ... and by acting I’m not referring to acting in a thespian (not to be confused with lesbian) sense, but acting in a sense of actually being able to decide what to do.

Dr. Aunflin pondered, much like Rodin’s Thinker ponders in his timeless and inscrutable way, how best to process the small pile of garlic cloves that lay before him ... lay like a cairn marking the trail across his cutting board to the distant nirvana of culinary mastery that had so long tantalized him.

One by one, like a compulsive micromanager burdened with an over-weening sense of the importance of his decisions in the grander scheme of things, Aunflin considered his options.

First there was crushing. Dr. Aunflin LOVED to crush things. Like an angry child preparing to crush the head of a hated tormenter, he lay his chef knife atop the nearest clove, and smugly slammed the heel of his palm down onto it, like the gavel of destiny announcing the doom of mankind. The clove dutifully exploded into pulp and juice - much like a watermelon typically exploded at one of Gallagher’s messy stage performances. Then, like a torturer adding insult to injury, he sprinkled the crushed remains of the clove with salt and then brayed it (not precisely like a mule brays, mind you, but more like a baker brays his dough), leaving a trail of garlic paste on his work surface - much like the trail left by a stray shitzu after getting annihilated by a runaway steam roller. Aunflin subsequently winced, like an unwilling patient being drilled by a sadistic dentist, at the unwanted and (truth be told) rather dreadful mental image evoked in the sentence prior to this one.

In any case, there was slicing to consider next. Aunflin gathered another hapless clove, set it down, positioned his knife above it (like the proverbial sword of Damocles, only with the bolster slightly cantilevered above the board), and then, with the gleeful satisfaction of Dr. Guillotine excitedly demonstrating his mad device before rabid revolutionary onlookers, he worked the back end of the blade up and down across the condemned clove’s body, lopping off slice after slice from its neck and shoulders, until at last it lay in dismembered pieces.

Dr. Aunflin's hackles, like those of a dog defending his turf, rose in response to a sudden presentiment. Moments later, his stepmother arrived unexpectedly, and announced (in her typically imperious way) that she expected to be feted in a manner suitable for a dame of her social stature ... while also adding that she was allergic to garlic.

Aunflin, like Pontius Pilate pretending to wash his hands of an affair that he actually found quite enjoyable, swept the remains of the crushed and sliced garlic into the waste pail, and began pondering instead his options with the chef knife itself.

First, he could stab her with it as she showered in the bathroom, in a manner similar to the scene in the movie “Psychoâ€

[Aunflin]

[Genre: Real Life]

...and he abruptly awoke from the hideous nightmare, sweat drenching his body and his right hand clutched in a menacing manner. Breathing heavily, he glanced at the clock, which read 2:05 in the darkness. Aunflin sighed. Another hour to sleep...and dream.

But no, he thought, rubbing his eyes. He couldn't go back to sleep just yet. Have to go to the bathroom. The pressure in his bladder bulged with painful intensity. Shouldn't have drank all that coffee... Groaning, Aunflin pushed back the covers and rolled out of bed, flicking on the light in almost the same motion. He then made his way into the hall, which led directly to the bathroom.

Half staggering over the pile of dirty towels and used wash cloths (and his roommate's dirty laundry), Aunflin made his way to the toilet. Long moments passed as he happily relieved himself, muttering and cursing under his breath as his urine splattered this way and that off the toilet seat-- never can aim right in the dark... When he was finished, he washed his hands and returned to his room to go back to sleep.

Long minutes passed. He couldn't sleep--it didn't matter that his eyes felt heavy, leaden. After waking up, he always had a heck of a time falling back into the peaceful abyss.

With an irritated mumble, he got out of bed once more, deciding it was best to just take a shower, shave, get dressed--and be done with it...

[laurie]

.......before the words were erased from his memory. He sat down at his desk and began to write:

Genre: Double - Acrostic Poem


NOJSHE DREAMS

never before has man
or woman seen so
jaded dreams, a Raj
sultana's silken dress
harem carpets in which
endless spirals lie
drowning in mud
rotting in vinegar
earthly sins loose
all their prayers at sea
moving helplessly from
sweat to wakefulness


Let them try to figure that one out, he thought, as he ......

[Aunflin]

....proceeded to write another poem:

Japanese tanka verse--transliterated version

A cool breeze wafts through my window
Smelling of morning dew;
I yawn and smile, joyous as the
Dawn-glow gently shines through,
Lighting the world anew.

Not too bad, he thought as....

[Ghost]

… another inspiration traveled from his head to his hand …

[Genre: Poetry: Diamante and Acrostic]

stepmother
cold, callous
uncaring, screaming, scheming
ruthless, devious, thoughtful, appreciative
loving, providing, supporting
affectionate, wonderful
mother

.. and then another ...

STEPMOTHER

She is such a bitch
Treats me so bad
Evil is what she is
Picks at my life
Moaning all the time
Otherwise she’s worse
Time for me to act
Hack her up
Ease my pain
Rest in peace

Boy … am I on a roll this morning … who wants to go to sleep … or shower … when the mind is in the zone! … he thought when …

[Aunflin]

...yet another poem flowed from mind to pen, as if seeping forth from the ancient past:

[Genre: Skaldic Poem]

Cold waves break upon [the] shore,
the smell of salt on the wind
--I relish in [the] rugged chill--
a ship rocks precariously
in [the] near-distance, bringing
long-lost kin once more home;
[and] peaceful respite I pray
they know forevermore.

My goodness, he thought as he finished the last line. I really must be on a roll....

[felonius]

GENRE: Dime-Store Doggerel

I really must be on a roll
The pen’s moving fast, the words have soul
I do believe I will subsist
In my role of poet and protagonist!

Off we go, then! What’s your pleasure?
Some swashbuckling, a little buried treasure?
A rollicking haiku or a lilting sonnet
To fondle your brain and lay music upon it?
Frenetic free verse? A limerick to jaw?
What a puffed-up piece of foofaraw...

There’s still always further relation
Of my own intrepid urination...please, no adulation...

And now it's time for....