After all, it wasn’t my fault. It’s not like I could help being the way I am. It’s my mother. My father. Society. I was just a tiny soul bouncing from person to person, no real role models to speak of. Why didn’t anyone try to warn me, to guide me? Why didn’t anyone do anything? Every woman I talked to rejected me. Every man tried to scam me. People on the street looked at me like I was a maniac. I see the same look from the jury! My peers? Heh. They don’t know me. Where were they to stop me? They can’t convict me. Not those people.
Category Archives: Session XXII
They say flirting is mostly non-verbal cues, but I don’t think women understand them. I try to be more and more obvious nowadays. Like, just the other night, I slid my index finger in and out of my palm with my fingers curled around to suggest something yonic. I even smiled at her! She just looked disgusted and turned away. I don’t think I can be any more clear than I was. It’s like women speak an entirely different language.
Darkness isn’t so bad if you go into it with a dark mind. I, for one, hate sitting in the light. It hurts my head terribly so. Don’t you want to go somewhere peaceful and quiet, just the drip, drip, drip of time passing instead of the blaring light drilling into your head?
Once again, I don’t remember the dream, but at the end of the dream, a voice called me “Day Star” as if it were my actual name. I acknowledged it without a second thought. It is one of my names.
The alphabet on Mrs. Oval’s wall was, for the most part, very obedient. It didn’t shout or complain or shuffle around. When children were present, the alphabet didn’t say a word or move at all.
One day, when Mrs. Oval turned off the lights and went home, the alphabet began chattering about the children in the class.
“I’m so proud of them!” said I.
“But some of the kids need to learn to pay attention to their teacher,” said B.
“Agreed!” A said.
On the other side of the alphabet, Z was snoring as usual.
“You’re always too loud!” Y yelled, nudging Z.
Z sniffed at Y and pushed him back. “Zip it, you bum! I never get any respect around here. Q! You coming with?”
Q shook her head. She never did anything without U.
Z shrugged and jumped off the wall, much to the chagrin of the other, more obedient letters.
“Don’t do that!” D frowned.
“Not again,” N sighed.
Z began zooming around the classroom. He zipped across the teacher’s desk, scattering papers everywhere. He zapped the books in the microwave. But then, Z did something he never had before: he slipped under the door.
G gasped. F fainted.
“This is the end of everything,” said T.
Z zoomed up and down the hallways, messing up posters and doodling on walls. He carved his name in the wall like Zorro. Z used his appendages to climb up into the ceiling. He was acting like a zoo animal.
When he came back down, the sun was setting. He could barely read the classroom numbers. It was zero hour for Z. He leaned over and charged forward like a zebra. Z scaled the wall and fit right back in his place next to Y.
“You’re a real terror, you know that?”
Z shrugged and ignored the comments and questions from the other letters. He went soundly back to sleep to catch some Z’s.
Leaves. Bones. Cereal. Skulls. Salad. Pepper. Noses. Candy. Glass. Eggshells. Asphalt. Rome.
The can of beef was dented on one side and looked more like a football than anything, but Rich was hungry and he’d found it in the corner of the pantry this morning.
He’d been worker on the crap chute, which is what they called the tube that shot out all the the ingredients into the mixing tank. The corn mush got stuck a lot, so Rich was on hammer duty. Basically, he’d spend all shift whacking the chute with a hammer to make sure everything went through okay without it getting all clogged and spewing shit all over the place. So, yeah, he was hungry.
Rich’s can opener bit into the can. Already he could tell it was pretty rank. His nose curled but he tucked his face in his sleeve and kept turning it. Canned meat never smelled that great even on the best of days.
He turned the can over and looked at all the maggots crawling all over.
“Shit,” Rich said, his stomach growling right on cue.
Ben Johnson came walking over, putting his nose in people’s business as usual. Rich was having none of it.
“Whoo-ee, Rich,” Ben Johnson squealed. “Looks like you opened up… a can o’ worms! BAAaaa ha ha ha!”
Rich’s lips screwed up tight. His hand clenched up around the can he threw up the contents into Ben Johnson’s stupid-looking face. Before Ben Johnson could say or do anything, Rich picked his metal-shod boot off the ground and kicked him right in the ass.
“Outta my face, Ben Johnson!” Rich shouted.
“Y-y-you stupid bastard!” Ben Johnson stuttered, which he did a lot when he was angry.
“G-g-g-get out of here!” Rich yelled again, throwing the can down at the ground and standing up on his feet. Ben Johnson didn’t want to start any trouble, at least not at work. He yelled something other insult and walked off to wash his face and bitch to someone. Of course, that would only have the boys laughing at his stuttering cowardly jerk ass.
Rich sat back down and looked at the old can. He leaned over and curled a finger into the lip of it and stuck it in his mouth. He spat it all out, almost spitting up in the process. The break bell clanged out in the yard. It was time to get back to work.