We were working as usual. Making coffee, doing our thing. The strip mall was busy and full of people as usual. It was a rather usual night.
But suddenly there was commotion outside. People were running and screaming. Customers began to walk towards the door to see what was going on. My coworkers and I followed. We went outside into the parking lot and saw that people were running from the Chinese restaurant across the way. I could not see why, but then one of my coworkers started shouting, "They're blocking the exits and windows, they're trapping people inside!"
My heart started to beat faster...
Monday, April 7, 2014
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
What She Wrote
Tear stains scattered across the page
The handwriting shaky at best
Line after line of the same thing
She's worthless not even human
Not worth the tears that would spill
For her, when she was gone away
No she didn't know as she wrote
The pain that she would cause
Or maybe she didn't care
This life was so unfair and not well
For her, but what she didn't remember
Not for anyone else around her
Everyone, she forgot, has troubles
Trials that plague them at nights
She wasn't a weak person
But the burden felt to much to bear
Like the moon half empty
Her eyes glazed over as she read
What she had written on that paper
That she left on the table for someone to find
What she didn't write was how she was going
That part she left out
What she wrote was enough
And left damage that could not be undone
But it was done
And as her feet swung slightly above the floor
More tears fell onto the paper
As what she wrote was read
Saturday, March 15, 2014
When You Think All Is Lost
Welcome to the darkness
Where bleeding is a must
Pain is constant and true
Fear is what you harness
No love is found here
Hatred breeds from everything
Evil is your only friend
Your eyes shed bloody tears
Constantly you are afraid
There is no comfort or peace
Yes welcome to the darkness
Where bodies are laid
But behold a light
Shining forth is the darkness
A hand holding a gleaming sword
Our savior has come to win the fight
Saturday, March 8, 2014
miscellaneous
That annoying weird kid with the "Tarantulas are people too!" shirt
He's watching you as you eat your sandwich
To your greatest disturbance he gets up and approaches you
He leans in close and whispers in your ear
"You've got mayonnaise on your shirt"
Now you feel like the weird kid
Now everyone is staring at you and your mayo shirt
You decide to leave your half eaten sandwich
You begin to partake of thine pickle that layeth upon thine plate
It's good...almost too good to be true
That salty deliciousness that fills your mouth with joy and wonder
But Mr.Weirdo is still watching you
You're starting to feel uncomfortable...very uncomfortable
Now you have to say something
You don't want to be a jerk but you're trying to eat
So you get up and walk over to the weird kid who is sitting on the other side of the room
"Dude, you're creeping me out" you say flatly
"Dude, fine" he says as he gets up and walks out
But before leaving he turns dramatically and gives you a "You're a butt" look
So you go back to eating, but you aren't hungry now
That last look from the weirdy messed up your appetite
So now you sit and stare at your food
Your half gone sandwich and partially eaten pickle
You wonder what you should take from this incident
And decide to go watch TV instead of think
Everyone watches you as you walk out of the room
Before you leave, you turn dramatically...and blow a kiss
Monday, March 3, 2014
The Breaking Point
The asshole cut him off. He wanted nothing more than to ram into the back of his car. Why not? He had nothing to lose anyway. He pulled up to the gas pump. He needed gas. If he was going to drive he might as well get gas. He unbuckled his seat belt and got out of his car. He walked inside the gas station and walked up to the employee behind the counter.
"Fifty on five please," he said handing the kid a fifty dollar bill.
The kid took he time taking the money. The kid gave him a funny look. He didn't like that. He didn't like the kid at all. The kid held the bill up to the light.
"Sorry this isn't real," said the kid in a bored voice.
"What do you mean it isn't real?" asked Peter.
"I don't see the stuff on it, that you're supposed to see.
"Bullshit the bill is fine."
"Nope, can't use it sorry."
"Then give it back."
The kid dropped the bill on the counter in front Peter. Peter stared at it for a moment. That was it. Peter grabbed the kid by the front of his shirt and got in his face.
"Listen you little shit, you don't want to mess with me today. That bill is fine and you're going to use it, and don't you ever fucking drop money in front of someone like that. Do you understand me?"
"Let go of me!" said the kid. He was scared. Good. Peter liked that. Peter wanted him to be afraid. In fact he wanted him to feel pain. Peter slammed the kids head against the counter. The kid began to cry.
"You little bitch, don't start crying be a man!" Peter said.
The same thought kept playing in the back of his mind. The same scene. Driving up to the accident scene. Knowing what he was about to see. His wife, his kids...or what was left of them after the crash. No he hadn't actually been allowed to see the bodies. He hadn't been allowed to cross the police tape. The same scene kept playing over in his mind. The agony he felt. All he wanted was for someone else to feel it too.
Peter grabbed the pole that usually held the belt that divided the cash register lines. He climbed over the counter and before the kid could move he swung the metal pole with all his might. He hit the kid in the head knocking him over. Peter raised it over his head for another attack.
He saw another employee standing in front of him. It was the manager. He had a gun.
"Set that down nice and easy buddy," said the man. He was older, probably fifty's or sixty's.
Peter thought for a moment. Then swung the pole down as hard as he could on the kid. There was a gunshot and Peter fell to the floor dead. The manager ran to the kid. The kid was dead too.
The manager called 911.
"Fifty on five please," he said handing the kid a fifty dollar bill.
The kid took he time taking the money. The kid gave him a funny look. He didn't like that. He didn't like the kid at all. The kid held the bill up to the light.
"Sorry this isn't real," said the kid in a bored voice.
"What do you mean it isn't real?" asked Peter.
"I don't see the stuff on it, that you're supposed to see.
"Bullshit the bill is fine."
"Nope, can't use it sorry."
"Then give it back."
The kid dropped the bill on the counter in front Peter. Peter stared at it for a moment. That was it. Peter grabbed the kid by the front of his shirt and got in his face.
"Listen you little shit, you don't want to mess with me today. That bill is fine and you're going to use it, and don't you ever fucking drop money in front of someone like that. Do you understand me?"
"Let go of me!" said the kid. He was scared. Good. Peter liked that. Peter wanted him to be afraid. In fact he wanted him to feel pain. Peter slammed the kids head against the counter. The kid began to cry.
"You little bitch, don't start crying be a man!" Peter said.
The same thought kept playing in the back of his mind. The same scene. Driving up to the accident scene. Knowing what he was about to see. His wife, his kids...or what was left of them after the crash. No he hadn't actually been allowed to see the bodies. He hadn't been allowed to cross the police tape. The same scene kept playing over in his mind. The agony he felt. All he wanted was for someone else to feel it too.
Peter grabbed the pole that usually held the belt that divided the cash register lines. He climbed over the counter and before the kid could move he swung the metal pole with all his might. He hit the kid in the head knocking him over. Peter raised it over his head for another attack.
He saw another employee standing in front of him. It was the manager. He had a gun.
"Set that down nice and easy buddy," said the man. He was older, probably fifty's or sixty's.
Peter thought for a moment. Then swung the pole down as hard as he could on the kid. There was a gunshot and Peter fell to the floor dead. The manager ran to the kid. The kid was dead too.
The manager called 911.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
A Drop In The Bucket
No matter how much it costs
You have to keep pushing on
That's what he told me late that night
When we were alone under the stars
Beers in hands cigarettes burning low
He said this to me long and slow
Life wasn't given to me to throw away
For a purpose I was put here
And for a purpose I would one day die
But not today that's what he said to me
He took a long drink, looked at me
He nodded his head in approval and grunted
You'll be just fine because He's watching over
And in the end you've got glory waiting for you
For eternity, so this life is only a drop
A drop in the bucket compared to life with Him
No matter how much it costs
You're going to keep pushing on
Damn it son, you're gonna push on
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Gunslinger
"I know I don't look like it...but I'm a good guy," he told the little boy.
"Are you here to make the bad men go away?" the boy asked.
"Yes," he said. "I am."
He was a tall man with a broad chest. He wore jeans and a t-shirt and heavy boots. He had a kevlar vest on and metal shoulder and wrist guards on. He had a gas mask covering his face and a suave looking rimmed hat on his head. He wore a belt that held bullets all along it and a holster which held his trusty six-shooter. He was dusty and worn looking. He did look a lot like the slavers and raiders that roamed the wastes.
He had come into town the day before, just passing through. He never stayed long anywhere. It just wasn't his style. But the people here had a problem. His business was solving problems, and in this world, usually with his gun. A particularly nasty gang of raiders had decided to take up pestering the small town and its inhabitants. So now he was waiting in the saloon for the raiders to show up so he could deal with them. The town's lawman was too frightened to take them on alone. The lawman had offered to help but he had refused. He worked alone.
"Care for a drink while you wait, stranger?" asked the lady running the bar.
"No thanks," he said, "I don't drink in public."
"Why's that?"
"I'd have to take this mask off."
"Trying to hide your face or are you afraid of breathing in the air?"
"The air is fine to breath I'm sure."
"I see...why hide your face? Are you like disfigured or something?"
"My face is quite lovely thank you very much."
"Then why hide it?"
"I don't like people to see it. Only one person's seen my face since I started wearing this mask five years ago, and she's dead. No one knows what I look like now, no one ever will."
"So, did you kill her?"
"Who?"
"The lady who saw your face?"
"No. She was murdered."
"Oh, by who?"
"Raiders. Who else?"
"I see...she was someone close to you wasn't she?"
"She was my wife."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Me too."
".........so no drink?"
He turned and stared at her. His expressionless mask made her uncomfortable and she walked away.
"She's just trying to be nice," said the little who was still sitting and watching him.
"I know. I'm not very nice though. I'm good but I'm not nice."
"Well I like you"
"Thanks, kid."
The sound of breaking glass and screaming from outside signaled the arrival of the gang. He cracked his neck and then got up and headed for the door.
"Wait, mister! I want to know your name in case you die!"
"I don't have a name...mister will do just fine."
"Good luck...mister."
"Thanks, kid."
He walked outside into the dusty street. There were six men. Perfect. He had six bullets, that was all he needed. They were walking up the street towards the bar. He stood between them and the bar and the six men stopped and looked at him. They were all dressed in dirty clothing with various bits of armor on. One man a simple sheet of metal over his chest. Another had a bullet proof vest. They all had tattoos and many scars. The man in the front who must have been the leader spoke up.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I'm your own personal delivery man."
"And what are you delivering?"
"This."
In a fluid motion he pulled his revolver, pulled the trigger six times in the blink of an eye, and watched as the six bodied of the raiders fell to the floor. He opened the cylinder of his gun and emptied the shells into the road and reloaded his gun. He holstered it and then walked on down the road. His job was done. It was time to leave. Time to move on.
"Are you here to make the bad men go away?" the boy asked.
"Yes," he said. "I am."
He was a tall man with a broad chest. He wore jeans and a t-shirt and heavy boots. He had a kevlar vest on and metal shoulder and wrist guards on. He had a gas mask covering his face and a suave looking rimmed hat on his head. He wore a belt that held bullets all along it and a holster which held his trusty six-shooter. He was dusty and worn looking. He did look a lot like the slavers and raiders that roamed the wastes.
He had come into town the day before, just passing through. He never stayed long anywhere. It just wasn't his style. But the people here had a problem. His business was solving problems, and in this world, usually with his gun. A particularly nasty gang of raiders had decided to take up pestering the small town and its inhabitants. So now he was waiting in the saloon for the raiders to show up so he could deal with them. The town's lawman was too frightened to take them on alone. The lawman had offered to help but he had refused. He worked alone.
"Care for a drink while you wait, stranger?" asked the lady running the bar.
"No thanks," he said, "I don't drink in public."
"Why's that?"
"I'd have to take this mask off."
"Trying to hide your face or are you afraid of breathing in the air?"
"The air is fine to breath I'm sure."
"I see...why hide your face? Are you like disfigured or something?"
"My face is quite lovely thank you very much."
"Then why hide it?"
"I don't like people to see it. Only one person's seen my face since I started wearing this mask five years ago, and she's dead. No one knows what I look like now, no one ever will."
"So, did you kill her?"
"Who?"
"The lady who saw your face?"
"No. She was murdered."
"Oh, by who?"
"Raiders. Who else?"
"I see...she was someone close to you wasn't she?"
"She was my wife."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Me too."
".........so no drink?"
He turned and stared at her. His expressionless mask made her uncomfortable and she walked away.
"She's just trying to be nice," said the little who was still sitting and watching him.
"I know. I'm not very nice though. I'm good but I'm not nice."
"Well I like you"
"Thanks, kid."
The sound of breaking glass and screaming from outside signaled the arrival of the gang. He cracked his neck and then got up and headed for the door.
"Wait, mister! I want to know your name in case you die!"
"I don't have a name...mister will do just fine."
"Good luck...mister."
"Thanks, kid."
He walked outside into the dusty street. There were six men. Perfect. He had six bullets, that was all he needed. They were walking up the street towards the bar. He stood between them and the bar and the six men stopped and looked at him. They were all dressed in dirty clothing with various bits of armor on. One man a simple sheet of metal over his chest. Another had a bullet proof vest. They all had tattoos and many scars. The man in the front who must have been the leader spoke up.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I'm your own personal delivery man."
"And what are you delivering?"
"This."
In a fluid motion he pulled his revolver, pulled the trigger six times in the blink of an eye, and watched as the six bodied of the raiders fell to the floor. He opened the cylinder of his gun and emptied the shells into the road and reloaded his gun. He holstered it and then walked on down the road. His job was done. It was time to leave. Time to move on.
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