Tag: narrative

the middle ground

themiddleground_try1

The second entry in the “Shotgun Room” trilogy. For mature readers.

“A family with a tragic history tries to survive during a global food crisis.”

The world is a hard place: hard ground; hard life. We are all tethered by gravity. When the government officially announced the start of a new phase of food production, some people wished they could defy it and simply float away. No one was prepared for the food shortages, other than the Preppers; but they had bugged-out long ago, holed-up in their compounds with whoever they had decided to allow entry. Climate change had permanently affected crop growth and no new wheat was being produced. No flour; no bread. Milk was a premium reserved for those who still owned viable cattle and even then, reproduction levels had severely decreased and no owner was sure their herd had been affected. It was simply too soon to tell. That was the consensus from the Men In Suits: “We are still working on a solution to the problem, and we assure you that we are doing everything in our power to ensure the future survival of mankind.” The broadcast from one of Virgin Galactic’s completed shuttlecraft took a week to breach the atmosphere and by then, the chaos had already run its course. Crime in the major metropolitan areas was at an all-time high. Seniors and the weak either starved-to-death from isolation or were home-invaded for supplies, or worse. The titular shotgun was stolen from the hospital and used in a shooting spree. There were even reports that some had resorted to cannibalism, as more-and-more half-mangled bodies with teeth marks and handkerchief-thin slices carved out had been popping up all over the city. An alternative had to be found, and it wasn’t Soylent Green.

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susanna

A short story for mature readers.

“Despite nature working against him, a stepfather learns to take responsibility for his new daughter.”

the stepfather didnt assume anything the day his girlfriend told him that she had a two year old daughter. that was fifteen years ago. things were different. he wasnt bombarded by calls to shelter youth the way he is now, by the government and other parents. people are scared. and in many ways the stepfather agrees with them. modern life is a breeding ground for deviants. he wonders if he would have the same opinion if he had walked away, during the date at the restaurant where she told him. he liked lucille. the night of the fifth date they finally had sex after fooling around as far as a young couple could without performing the act itself. he couldnt wait to see her the next night, but sitting down at the table with her already waiting for him felt eagerly pessimistic. she told him about her daughter. who was the father? she told him that too. he could tell she was nervous, the way she held him tight with one hand and collected herself with the napkin she held in the other. when the dinner was over they hugged it out and went to a movie. it was too early to go home. what if he said no? then he would still be in his forties now, still trying to reconcile the missing pieces of his own adolescence. but he would be single. and he wouldnt have susanna. by all accounts he is her stepfather. and try as he may to do the best that he can, she is seventeen now and it is almost too late. evenings spent just the two of them kindling their bond were only embers. he is okay with that. she isnt his kid, as much as he feels like she is. there is still a beacon that goes off inside him any time he wants to question that blossoming independence. maybe he should have been harder on her? more of a disciplinarian? lucy couldnt handle that. no, he decided to leave most of the parenting to her. he just had to. lucy had problems of her own. has. she has to be his primary responsibility, and susanna hers.

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olivia

A micro-story for mature readers.

coffee weed and fucking the perfect day. the dream. my dream not everyones we all have different dreams. i dont dream much anymore but when i do its the same dreams ive always had. im somewhere remote, somewhere beautiful, and im driving. i know where im going and i can never get there fast enough. then i find out im not going anywhere, that im running. and i dont see who im running from but its someone in another car and they are always one step behind me. but i dont see them. so do i really know who im running from? maybe im running from myself. it always felt like a doppelganger, knowing my every move like that even on some of the lower roads ive driven on, still drive on twenty years later while my body sleeps. one time i dreamt that my father left me. that he disappeared in to thin air and i had to go looking for him. i travelled the world in a gyrocopter with two bumbling midget sidekicks like a live action disney movie from the eighties and it was all to find him. but he left me. just like i got used to everyone leaving me. running from everybody. sheltered. but i knew what i needed. if i could just have another joint another cup of coffee, with the special creamer, get my dick sucked while i played video games it would all be okay. but i never had enough not even when it should have been enough i needed more, no weed id have a pot of coffee no coffee no weed i would lock myself in my room and masturbate all day, watching the same videos id seen a million times before. had to stay in my comfort zone even when watching porn. i love watching porn but i dont watch it anymore or else im not sharp for olivia.

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the shotgun room

theshotgunroom

The first entry in the “Shotgun Room” trilogy. For mature readers.

“An overburdened mother starts her first day of work for a new legal euthanasia program.”

No one wanted to admit to the idea, even when it was passed unanimously through Congress. The right to die. Lethal injection was tried and passed-on: there was never any real guarantee those people were conscious enough to legally decide whether to press the shiny red button – nestled atop a comfort handle in a debilitating grip; not to mention specialized staff that required specialized training that only a country in a recession could fantasize of. “Heaven forbid,” said the Men In Suits who decided everything for everyone else. They had to be sure these selfish casualties knew what they were doing, and that there would be no court action. No future action, period. A shotgun. One slug to the face would take anyone out; and anyone ballsy enough to shoot themselves in the face were prepared to die as far as the government was concerned. Every hospital was given a modest sum – taxpayer-supported, of course – to retrofit an unused area of some set measurement in the most private area of their grounds. Each was to be insulated with an industrial-sized FDA-approved compostable vacuum bag made of one-hundred percent consumer-grade recycled plastic, connected to a high pressure suction system powered by a sponsored vacuum system by Inc in an adjacent room. After willing participants were “sure this was what they wanted” and all the proper paperwork was signed they were escorted to this room. The bag would be zipped open for the volunteer and inside was a chair and the single-shelled shotgun. All they had to do was sit down and make the necessary adjustments: the federally-mandated sign that hung off the back of the door facing the chair helpfully suggested in a clear, legible font that your eyes should stare directly into the barrel.

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in memory of gregory hoblitt

A short story for mature readers.

“A celebration-of-life for a departed friend turns into a public spectacle.”

everyone hello, and good evening! i hope you are enjoying yourselves at my expense! for those who dont know, i am paul! yes, yes your applause pleases me greatly. thank you. once a year we open the manor to our closest friends in celebration! celebration of another year! another school year! another year of steves bald head so fucking shiny it looks like his moms waxed asshole! another year just to say we made it. we call this the long night! thank you, thank you, but remember this was a team effort. so from the bottom of my heart i want to thank each and every one of you, newbies included, for making the last four years devoid of any police intervention! as you all know i am not one to pass off an opportunity to get everyones attention and less likely to give it away once ive got it, so as you can see our good friend andrew is going around the room handing out shot glasses, you will want to keep those and a shot of warrens dads everclear brought to you in a stylish, glass gallon jug, just let me know when everyones set up. good? ok first a toast to the long night, to four successful years and, i hope whoever lives here in september can find their own thing because this night is ours! to the night!

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