Spring, Unwinding

The flowers clicked gently in the breeze.  Intrigued, I plucked one. 

The stem was oddly stiff, and it broke with a metallic ping.  Inside, it was hollow, a tube with a long, thin cam shaft running down it.  The petals, blunt and angular, gleamed copper-bright and polished.

I looked up from my prize.  The blossoms were opening as the sun rose.  They meshed, gear linking to gear through the flower bed.  The clicking became a rattle, then a hum.  A rumble echoed haltingly from deep underground.

It’s March now.  The flowers are still sprouting.  The machine is not finished.

Yet.

Sing Down

This is the song that ends the world.  Because it is about the end of the world, it is a sad song.  Because it is a song, it is joyful.  This is not a contradiction.

The song that ends the world must contain the world.  To end is to stop; to stop is to oppose; to oppose is to be equal to.

Do you suppose that you are equal?  Will you sing the song?

It’s too late now, of course.  You’ve already begun.  We all have.  That is why we must make the choice now. 

This is not a contradiction.

The Optometrist

I’d seen the sign taken down and gotten worried.  When I went inside, my fears were confirmed: The Doctor was packing up his machines. 

“You can’t possibly be going out of business!” I exclaimed, ignoring the sobbing from the back.  “You’re one of the best eye doctors in the country.  Possibly in all the world.”

“That was the problem,” he said, closing the case with a snap.  “Too good.”

In the back, the sobbing turned briefly to screams.  “I can see everything!” the poor wretch shouted.  “Oh, God, the emptiness, the dark between the stars...  Those eyes!  Those terrible eyes!”

Here There Everywhere

Joey says he’s being hunted by a therewolf. 

I tell him to stop being a smartass.  The “were” in werewolf means “man.”   Same root as “virile.”  Joey’s a dork.

No, says Joey, it’s not like that.  It’s not a wolf that turns into a man or anything.

I tell him that doesn’t excuse the pun.

No, says Joey, it’s not a man at all.  It’s a wolf, and it’s there.  It’s always just there.  Watching.

I turn around, and there it is.  It’s there.  Watching us.

I can’t sleep.  All I can think is: what happens when it’s seen enough?

On Saturday Night

I left God in the hospital waiting room, and mostly I was honest when I told myself it was politeness.

Satan was reaching through the slot on the vending machine.  I stood over him, arms akimbo.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Came for a visit,” he said, rolling one eye up at me.

“God doesn’t need your shi-stuff,” I scolded.

“Cheer him up,” said Satan, waving a joint and a handful of porn.

“What the fu-heck is wrong with you?  Jesus!”  I froze. “Shit.”

“Blasphemy!”  Satan’s eyes gleamed, and he grasped my arm.  It burned.  “Owe me a Coke.”

Flashbacks

The explosions were starting again.  Every year, the same thing.  The lights in the sky, the flashes of color, the clouds of smoke, the distant pounding as of cyclopean feet.

“Gompers is such a scaredy-cat.  You’re a sixty-pound dog, Gompers!  Get out from underneath the chair.  Honestly.  They never hurt you, do they?”

“Does he get like this during thunderstorms?”

“No.  Only fireworks.”

Under the chaise-lounge, Vvvrikx Ararar, general and final survivor of the proud Gargibar battle fleet, currently in deep cover as a companion animal on an alien planet, closed his eyes and whimpered as the memories overcame him.