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Very short stories to read at the bus stop.


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Look out for Charlie, up in the trees

(viewed 2223 times)
My nightmares from Vietnam are totally second-hand.

Not only have I never been to Vietnam, I've never served in any of the military branches. I don't spend much time at all stuffing my head with military history or watching the Director's Cut of Apocalypse Now.

And yet.

I have dreams where, just far enough from the beach that the wind in the baobabs and banyans are louder than the ocean, angry old white men psych themselves up into monsterdom and climb trees with rifles slung, drawing beads on unsuspecting foreheads in tropical neighborhoods.

Their daypacks are filled with sandwiches so they can make a whole day of it.

I know what it's like for frustration to build day after day with no outlets except the ones you had drilled into you over and over. Deep breaths, young man. Cry if you feel you need to. Take a deep breath and visit your Happy Place.

Some people have different training. Some people have much, much different Happy Places. Some of those Happy Places involve the sound of wind in the leaves, a slung rifle, and a daypack full of sandwiches.

Is it possible to envy your nightmares?

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

13th Jul 2008, 18:48   | tags:comments (4)

The Fimble Winter

(viewed 1989 times)

“It’s the Fimble Winter dude.”

“The what winter?”

“The Fimble Winter, from old Norse legends. The super-winter that lasts three years. Three years of no summer. Brother will kill brother and all the usual kinds of hectic shit. And at the end of it, the apocalypse, the earth destroying war fought between the psychic powers. Anyway, the Fimble Winter. That’s what we’re working up to.”

“Far out.”

“Aye. Personally, I’m looking forward to it.”

Posted by cyberpunkdreams

12th Jul 2008, 15:36   | tags:comments (5)

Waiting. Brooding.

(viewed 1060 times)
Waiting. Brooding. He stands, waiting. Crushed clouds. Dark. He waits. Wet concrete and the sand grinding beneath heavy feet. He waits. Waits. Dark, throwing out, sitting beneath. The weight. The wait. Crushed beneath ten thousand tonnes, layered, deep, sheets of concrete and steel, curses, curses, lingering malice of a thousand years, breathing, slowly, crushing molar with molar, grinding hatred, waiting out the pain, the fear, core of dark steel in hand, dark death, surrounding, feeling, touching, it reaches out. He waits, brooding.

Posted by cyberpunkdreams

12th Jul 2008, 14:56   | tags:comments (1)

Mourning Glory

(viewed 1379 times)
"Darling. Drink this. It's mango juice. It won't be sore on your throat and
it will wake you up." She looked lovelier than ever and the tenderness
flickering in her eyes beckoned the slumberer into some daylight reverie.



"Are you going to write your book today?"



"My novel? Honey, I am too happy to write! Who has ever heard of a happy
writer? There are no stories about happiness, only happy endings."



Now it's only mango juice that wakes me up, he wrote. The ink dispersed
through tears splashing the page. He wished he had started his book back
then.

Posted by jc1000000

11th Jul 2008, 23:44   | tags:comments (11)

Rural Legend

(viewed 1438 times)
In Sri Lanka everyone gets their horoscope charted from the moment of
birth. One great-uncle of mine gravely trusted these oracles; never quite
shaking the curiosity to plot the exact day of his death.

Inevitably he was overcome with consternation. An arid day, Uncle spent it
all indoors believing he might avoid a fateful car crash. No doubt the
pressure of such morbid thoughts drove him to pass the balmy evening
outside, on the balcony, with a gin and tonic.

Certainty is normally bitter sweet. Grandma said a snake fell off the roof
adding, "These things happen in the tropics."

Posted by jc1000000

10th Jul 2008, 18:30   | tags:comments (7)
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