This House is Not Haunted

Air pulses through the halls like blood vessels pump blood to the heart.  The heart of the house is the dining room: flowered wallpaper, ornate oak-table, and cobwebbed chandelier.  Whispers crack and crumble the moldy walls, their origin a remnant of lives that never were.  None stirs the house’s silent song; not even a ghost, as you may have perceived.  Nobody has ever lived in this Victorian house, secluded down a dirt road behind a cloak of trees.  Nothing ever moved in or out, and the few rats and bats rarely stayed about.  Stairs creak under pressures never made.  Doors swing from pushes never pushed.  Death is scarce in this house–but its life is abundant.  The house lives.  All by itself, with not a soul to haunt or body to possess.  It was born simply from the lack of something.  A will to exist as it existed as nothing.  Why was it built?  It does not know.  But who built it, and where did they go?  The house does ponder, abiding in whispers, rasped with hatred.  It pines to not be alone.

Image

Happy Halloween.

Silent but… Armadillo?

Ninja Armadillo– the deadliest animal on Earth (second only to Shamu, the killer whale).  None can penetrate his armored hide; his shell only a casing of his martial art hell.  Born as Rollie Pollie Ollie in the deserts of Arizona, he was raised as any other armadillo.  It was not until he was clipped by a car on a highway that he realized his calling:  Kung Fu– Karate? Judo?  Tiddlywinks?  Well, whatever ninjas do.  Ollie sought out Grandmaster Splinter, the only sensei fit for training the likes of him.  With his extensive knowledge of the ninjas and shells, and numerous Mr. Miagi moments, Splinter refined Ollie into the spherical weapon he is today.  Ollie the Ninja Armadillo aspires to one day ignite the forthcoming of his people:  Armadillogeddon.  He now travels the Mojave desert, fighting for honor, justice, and corn.

ninja_armadillo

The Duck Night Rises

Image

“Kssssch–Squad Lewie is deployed, squad Lewie is deployed, over–ksssch,” Madeline, the ducklings mother, buzzed on her communicator after the group fell through the grate and into the sewers.

“Ksssch–Roger that, Daisy leader; all other troops have been deployed–Operation Waddle-Quack is a go, over–kssch,” the Mallard Regime’s top handler, Mighty, replied.  Madeline shook, her feathers rustling silently in the sleeping city’s darkness.  She chuckled to herself.

Ha ha, she thought, now that our armies have infiltrated their waste canals, us righteous ducks can further grow and strengthen as a secret society beneath the filthy humans’ feet.  By mutations induced by the sewers’ radioactive environments, our super-powered duck-beasts will defeat the human race and take over the world!

Madeline’s quacking cackle resonated throughout what would be known as “The Night of the Duck”.

Chocolate Fountains

Life for me is like a Golden Corral.  There’s food everywhere, people everywhere, and diabetes everywhere (symbolizing disease, more or less–I don’t have diabetes).  There’s sirloin steak, mac n’ cheese, fried chicken, pizza, pot roast, fudge brownies, carrot cakes, and the coveted chocolate waterfall.  Wonderfall. Whatever, it’s a fountain.  It all tastes good for the first few meals, but my stomach punishes me maliciously later.  And over time, it grows bloated and putrid with the cesspool that is constantly shoveled in my mouth.  My mind becomes as congested as my arteries and I lose myself in the “American dream”.  I begin to conform to the simple life–the easy life–as I drown in the sticky torrent of the chocolate fountains in my life.  I slip away from my true self, fading further and further and further…

Then I realize that I have never been to a Golden Corral.  It’s all in my head; I do enjoy the stupid things I do.  But not the actual distractions I condemn, but the fact that they bring me closer to myself and, more importantly, others.  I share the cheap dinners and fast food lunches with the people I love, making memories with those friends, not what we stuff our faces with.  The laughter, the pranks, the slaps, the touch.  The shallow falsities we lightly enjoy can only be reaped because we’re still young.  I can stop eating at my Golden Corral later in life.  But I find that my splurges amongst the rigorous diet of pure hearts and cerebral morals I ingest everyday are all worthwhile in their gross entirety.  Even if my stomach hurts.

Image

A WAY Too Close Encounter

Incandescent light radiates from the rotund saucer; its silver skin breaks a hole through the desert night-sky above.  Its owner, Krak-Mak-Sor-Zeep-Paul-Dip, has a head even more bright and round than his spaceship.  His three-appendage hand gently stretches from the almost transparent, pencil-thin torso of his short body.  He is offering what I perceive as a gesture of peace.

“Bargle-Zipe,” he chirps with a resonant voice.

I take his hand, and immediately am flooded with everything he knows–or wants me to know.  I see his homeworld:  desolated by his people exhausting its resources.  Wars ignite, cities crumble, and almost all of his people die.  I could almost cry at the sorrow  I am now literally sharing with the poor soul.  Krak is one of the last surviving of the Sang-Hali race and is aspiring to restart on planet Earth by reproducing with the first person he–

“No…” I stammer, retracting my now shivering hand.

“But yes,” he states in perfect English, raising a pale eyebrow in my direction.  He fingers his lip-less mouth.

Before he can reenact the graphic ritual he had displayed through our mind connection, I turn and run into the woods behind me screaming, “Shoot him!  Shoot him–oh, please, for the sake of all that is holy, SHOOT HIM NOW!”

A barrage of bullets and rockets fire from the military platoon hidden within the trees, lighting up Krak and his spaceship.  The cacophonous uproar of fiery wrath decimates the foreigner, sending a fist of flames that rips the tranquil silence of the wild.  The gunshots cease after what seemed like hours, and the smoke clears to reveal a smoldering reminder of the alien that once stood there.

“So?  Was he hostile, General?” a lieutenant pries.

I swallow hard.  “More than anyone should ever know.”Image

Affection Connection Correction

When it comes to relationships, it is in your best interest to be happy.  Most of the relationships a person will have, though, are nowhere near being happy.  If you are willing to a) gouge your eyes out, b) gouge your partner’s eyes out, or c) drop a bag of rabid badgers who enjoy Taylor Swift a little too much on their head, then you must do what any reasonable person should do:  dump them.  But don’t dump them over text with “we done” and then play Metal Gear Solid at school (work–wherever) to avoid them until the whole thing blows over.  You must sit them down and give them the news lightly–but not too nicely, because you want to convey a clear and honest message.  Give the news to them as if it were bad-tasting medicine, not like it were a dead animal that has been rotting inside an overused port-a-potty (I shiver at that memory).

Break-ups tend to occur on holidays, which, frankly, is a terrible idea.  On a day that is supposed to be enjoyed, usually in front of dear friends and family, the ending of a relationship just ruins the fun for everyone.  So, either endure one or two more days of the torture or forever scar a holiday as the day best friend became your ex-friend.

To be honest, most relationships are not worth it.  I’ve had my limited share (most of them alien walruses with eagle wings) and I think they always end badly.  They end either because the spouse loses interest, turns evil, or just doesn’t put the toilet seat down.  All in all, when it comes to relationships:  DON”T GET IN ONE.

Unless they’re “the one”.

Image