Saw him in a Jason Mask at the Halloween party last week, walked over and greeted, “Hi”, but there was no response. “So … ”, I said, from under my devil’s mask, my pitch trying to cut through the stereo woofing by the window, “I am Zach and you are?”
He walked away, out through the main door and disappeared somewhere near the driveway.
Called my girlfriend, “Sweetie, come over here”, she came close, half tipsy, breath smelling like vodka and cigarette, tail wagging like Catwoman, “Do you know who came to our party in a Jason Mask?”
“In a what?”
“In a Jason Mask”
“What’s that? Are you drunk?”
“I am not drunk,” I said, pulled off my Devil’s mask and kept it on the corner table, “You are drunk … and Jason Mask is … have you not seen Friday the 13th?” Continue reading
Detective Dumpty crinkled his nose at the smell of scrambled yolk that was emanating from the sidewalk. Another day another rotten egg cracked open on the pavement. He had reached the crime scene where his deputies were still drawing the outline of the dead body in chalk and others were holding back an eager crowd. Dumpty could make out the egg white and the yolk of the dead egg that were already beginning to cook in the heat of the sun. He could see a young newspaper egg carrying the morning edition, “Extra Extra, Jack the Cracker strikes again! Another rotten egg cracked open! Prime Minister to declare resignation today! Extra Extra.”
Dumpty glared at the newspaper egg and then noticed Benedict Singleyolk, the reporter for ‘The Transparent Shell’ the liberal propaganda mouthpiece that had squeezed this whole case for all that it was worth and more. Dumpty had always hated Singleyolk and his crazed conspiracy theories. His minute coverage of this case was churning Dumptie’s yolk inside his shell. He secretly hoped that Jack the cracker, as the serial killer had been dubbed, opened Singleyolk’s shell next. Continue reading
Let’s see how this night goes Boo. I know, you will be there tonight, wearing your new pair of stilettos and I will be standing in an invisible corner of the bar, with a black four-four, tucked around my belly.
You will walk in, holding his arms and rush to your reserved table. I will be sucking on my Bacardi. Your lips will glitter with your lip-gloss, which I know, tastes like plum. I have not trimmed my facial hair in past four months, so no one knows who I am. You will shine as a pearl, with every beam of light bouncing off your flawless skin. I will blend with darkness; black hoodie, black pants and black night shades. You will smile, maybe laugh out loud, and turn all the heads in the bar; amazing you. I will be quiet as a church mouse.
You won’t look at me, not even once, just like you never used to, in a busy hall, way before I even met you. Continue reading
My brother and I, are antipodes; like the flip sides of a coin, only joined at the hip, like Siamese twins.
We grew up in a small town together, graduated university the same year, and now work at the same local company. But he is an absolute charmer, the kinds, who mostly lies to make people feel better. He is an enticer of beauty, the Wordsmith, and at least five times better looking than me. People—especially girls—like him instantly; he of course has that magnetic personality and knows how to best use it.
I,on the other hand, am docile, feeble and unsure; perhaps someone, who needs help. Continue reading
This morning, I look pale. With a dry choked mouth, red bulbous eyes and a semi-battered face, or at least what looks like a semi-battered face, I feel, I am a survivor, of a crazy bar fight. My shirt is torn from the pocket and it loosely hangs till my lower ribs. My lips are swollen too, and it hurts when I breathe.
Last night, I was not this person, I clearly recall. I made the party come alive, the moment I walked through Stacy’s doors. I turned every head in the room like I was Tara Reid dressed in a bikini. Don’t get me wrong, I dress fine and I am a guy. I have a sense of humor and I am open to things. New things, old things, wild things. I am open to ideas, I am open to fun and I am open to life and its wild experiences. My kind of party is the one, where you have regrets for breakfast, the morning after.
So I obviously gulped wine, beer, scotch, cocktails, mocktails, shots, martinis, whiskies, and whatever the fuck I could grab with my loose hands and whatever did not taste like puke. Continue reading