who’d punch a horse? [trigger #109]

Detective Brothers was a brilliant sleuth, perhaps the finest in the world. Yet, if there was one thing that Detective Brothers didn’t have, it was a sense of humor. Thus, whenever people made a joke about the fact that his name sounded like it was referring to two sibling investigators who went by ‘The Detective Brothers”, he would just shrug, always flatly replying, “Nope, it’s just me.”

That made him the perfect detective to be handling the Carnival Killer case. A man had been traveling to various California carnivals and killing people in odd ways. The methods of murder were so odd that at first no one had seen a link in the rash of carnival deaths. In fact, until Detective Brothers was tasked to start a state-wide investigation, many of the killings had been written off as accidents. That is, until Brothers was on the case, puzzling out details others would have missed.

This time, a horse had gone on a rampage, bucking its way through a crowd, kicking 13 people, killing one from a head injury.

Brothers had been taking in the scene for over 30 minutes by the time his partner arrived. Detective Spaulding was that partner, and his relationship to the world of detecting and humor were in a directly inverse relationship to that of Detective Brothers. Brothers often wondered to himself how Spaulding had gotten to be a Detective; whereas Spaulding often wondered to himself how Brothers kept from killing himself out of misery at his joyless existence. Oddly, the two seemed to work well together more often than not.

Spaulding knew that by now Brothers would have figured out a great deal about what had taken place. “So, is it just a case of a crazy horse or what?”

“No, I believe someone punched the horse, to enrage and panic the animal, causing the unfortunate outburst by the poor animal.”

“C’mon, Brothers. Who’d punch a horse?”

“Clearly, our killer would.”

“Maybe he’s just seen Blazing Saddles one too many times, right?”

“I would tend to believe it is far more complex a motive than that. Yet, I will take your hypothesis into consideration.”

“I was just kidding, Sherlock. No need to go about considering any hypotheses. Whaddya say, is this our guy again?”

“Well, we can’t be certain of anything. Yet, I am almost positive this is our Carnival Killer, again. No one saw who might have punched the poor beast in the mouth, and our killer was able to slip away in all the commotion.”

“If we’re damned lucky, perhaps our guy was one of the victims.”

“Unlikely, the animal reportedly kicked backwards before rearing up. Even if the horse had reared up right away, our killer would have been prepared for such, backing away into the crush of people immediately after delivering the inciting blow.”

“I had a feeling you were going to say something like that. Any chance we’ll be able to identify the guy from the clues your finding?”

“Again, unlikely. I think it’s probable the killer will elude us yet again.”

she played with crayons instead of barbies. [trigger #108]

Betsy Rae just didn’t know what to do with her daughter, Bonnie. Ever since she found out she was pregnant with Bonnie, she had dreamed of having a little girl. Her mind had flooded with thoughts of beauty contests, make-up, Barbies, dresses, baking, and nail-polish. Suddenly, she felt a hope that she would be able to relive the wonder and innocence of her own childhood through the childhood of Bonnie.

At least, that was Betsy Rae’s plan. The reality of the last 16 years had been very different, indeed. Bonnie quickly lost interest as a child in all the girlie things her mother tried to share with her. Bonnie’s teenage years had made things even worse for poor Betsy Rae. Bonnie responded to baking as if all the ingredients were made of poison. If she ever wore make-up it was not what Betsy Rae considered flattering or lady-like. As a child she played with crayons instead of Barbies, as a teenager she spent more time with her paintbrushes than with boys. Betsy Rae was at a total loss as to how this alien creature could have come from her own body.

At times, Bonnie had been known to say some pretty controversial things at church during Sunday School as well. Betsy Rae was just sure that there was gossip about her family behind her back because of it. Still worse, she wasn’t sure it was misplaced. They had raised a freak. Betsy Rae didn’t even know if she was a Christian anymore, and even worse, she thinks Bonnie might be a socialist.

2:32 am. [trigger #107]

Tristan lay there in the darkness, staring at moon shadows on the ceiling. Against his better judgment, he looked at the clock again. 2:32. He had to be at work in five and a half hours. The best he could hope for now was four short hours of sleep, and that’s if he fell asleep right away. The anxiety made it even harder to rest.

He’d been bone tired when he slipped into bed. Certain that tonight would be a night when he would slip off to sleep quickly. Yet, here he was almost four hours later, growing more restless and awake with each passing moment.

Tristan started doing the math in his head. Realizing circumstances didn’t offer much hope of sleep tomorrow night either, how many days in a row could he make it with little or no sleep before his body simply gave out and he crashed, wiped out and exhausted, losing a week or more while he waited for his system to recover. He couldn’t afford that, now especially. There was too much that needed to be done in the coming weeks. If he went out of commission now, it would most probably result in the collapse of his fledgling design company. He might lose everything: a realization that hardly made sleep any easier to come by.

Best get up, get some work done now. If he wasn’t going to sleep at least he could get ahead on some work before dawn, try and be far enough ahead that he could weather the storm on the horizon.

the 4 yard line. [trigger #106]

And it all comes down to this. With the Giants down by five here in the closing seconds of Super Bowl XLVII, Eli Manning is four yards away from beating his brother Peyton, and thus becoming the first Manning brother to a second Super Bowl win, as well as the victor of Manning Bowl I.

It’s nothing new, to have speculated at times during a season about the potentiality that Peyton and Eli might face off in a Super Bowl. Yet, there is something especially fitting that it would happen this year, for the first and perhaps only time. Fitting because of this year’s host city of New Orleans, where the boys grew up, and where Archie Manning made the Manning name famous, before his two QB sons came along to make it a household name.

Thus far, the game has lived up to the hype. An epic clash of two great teams who refuse to accept anything less than Super Bowl glory. Just as it was last time Eli played in the big game, a late drive by his opponent had things looking grim; but an unlikely drive full to the brim with clutch heroics by likely MVP Hakeem Nicks and his counterpart Steve Smith has the Eli on the verge of the second championship winning drive of his much debated career.

matches! [trigger #105]

“Vegetables?”

“Check!”

“Steaks?”

“Check!”

“Hamburgers?”

“Check!”

“Beer?”

“Check!”

“Plates?”

“Check!”

“Propane?”

“Check!”

“Matches?”

“Che.., wait, what?”

“Matches?!?”

“I didn’t bring any matches, what do we need matches for?”

“I told you, the igniter doesn’t work on this grill, you need matches or a lighter to start it.”

“Oh, well… I don’t have any matches.”

“But all the stores are closed for the day, we’d have to drive all the way into town to find a place open on a holiday. What are we going to do?!?”

 

 

feeding tube. [trigger #104]

Did you know I had a feeding tube in once? Not because I was sick or anything, just because I got really into Law & Order and started watching that on Netflix. Since that shit’s like 80 seasons long, I was watching every waking our of the day. I got so into it, I ended up forgetting to eat because I was just straight watching Law & Order. First, they put in an I.V., but then my veins started reacting poorly to the needles, so I opted for a feeding tube instead. It was really the only logical thing to do when you think about it.

water flames. [trigger #103]

As an elementalist, Henri knows things that most in our day and age do not. Our science, while truly enhancing much of the way we understand the world, has also done much to cloud our eyes from other truths we once knew.

Henri is one of those who remember. He sees the way the elements blur into one another at the edges, the way that earth can easily be made into water or fire, if one has the ability to manipulate it just a bit, to push it gently from one nature to another. We would see it, the way the fundamental elements of things can be shifted like pixels to remake something with only a thought. It’s not the smallest parts of something that make that thing what it is, it is how those smallest parts relate to one another. If one knows how to change and manipulate those relationships, vast power is available to them.

Henri is sitting on a bench on the riverside, bored. Flames are dancing on the surface of the water, drawing water up into a brilliant fire before returning it to water as it drops back into the river. His hand, out flat before him, gently slides back and forth in the air. He waves his hand forward and back, up and down, in a smooth slicing motion.

If anyone could see this happening, they’d surely be mesmerized or terrified, but no one can see. Henri knows he is alone, the wind and earth would tell him if anyone comes near.

she warned me, but i ignored her. [trigger #102]

She warned me, but I ignored her. Time and time again, she said it. I just thought it was one of those things that moms say, I didn’t think there was any actual substance to it.

Moms say all sorts of things that aren’t true. ‘Don’t sit so close to the tv, you’ll go blind.’ ‘Video games rot your brain.’ ‘If you go outside without your jacket, you’ll catch your death.’ ‘You’re such a handsome young man!’

I thought it was just another one of those things… but it wasn’t. So here I am, sitting in a waiting room until it’s my turn to go in and see the plastic surgeon. From what I’ve learned so far, it’s going to be a difficult surgery, followed by a painful rehabilitation and recovery.

So, kids, learn from my tragic example. If you keep making funny faces, eventually it really might get stuck that way.

crickets can’t sleep. [trigger #101]

Six-year-old Jacob MacArthur couldn’t sleep. He just stared at the ceiling, alone in his bed, thinking instead of dreaming.

His dad poked a head in, to check on Jacob. After noticing that the boy’s eyes were open, he walked in and sat on the bed. He rested a hand on Jake’s chest, moving it gently back and forth.

“What’s wrong, buddy? Having trouble sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“Is anything the matter?”

“I don’t like being alone in the dark. It makes it hard for me to go to sleep.”

“You’re not alone, Jakinator. Your mom and I are right down the hall if you need us. Plus, you’re surrounded by all sorts of things to keep you company. Close your eyes.”

The boy hesitated a moment, and then closed his eyes as tightly as only six-year-old boys can. It was the sort of eye-closing that looked like a full-body endeavor.

“Now, listen closely. On a summer night like this, there are all sorts of sounds whispering to you in the dark. Owls, frogs, and a serenade of crickets. Just close your eyes and listen, they’re telling you stories that are generations old. It’s a song they learned from their fathers and mothers, who learned it from their fathers and mothers. Yet, each new owl and frog and cricket adds their own little parts to the story they’re singing. Every night they sing, just to tell you about how important it is to be an owl, or a frog, or a cricket.

“If you close your eyes and listen, you might start to understand the story. Listen very closely, and try not to miss a single note.”

He kissed the boy on each tightly closed eyelid and said goodnight, leaving the door open a crack as he left.

Jacob listened as closely as he could, until he started to worry about how unfair it was that owls and frogs and crickets can’t sleep, because they have to stay up and tell him their story. When he started noticing his worry, he just closed his eyes tighter and tried to listen, so that at least all that singing wouldn’t be for nothing. It was right around the moment when he felt like he was starting to understand the story of the crickets when he finally drifted off to sleep.

a ghost’s perspective. [trigger #100]

***Woot! Triple figures!!!***

The majority of ghosts seem to complain about being a ghost most of the time, but not Marianne. She loves it. She honestly wouldn’t have it any other way. She likes it even more than she liked living.

Most ghosts go around wailing and moaning, finding chains to rattle, doors to slam, objects to move, people to haunt. Such a bother! Marianne just likes to sit and read, watch movies, or listen in on people’s conversations. She always was a solitary woman. Now, she doesn’t even have to pretend to be interested in another person, because if she accidentally materializes enough that someone actually sees her, they run away screaming anyway.

It’s not that she never haunts. Once in a while the mood strikes her. It happened last when a librarian at the local branch snuck in that old baptist preacher from down the road. Well, Marianne was just going to ignore the whole thing, but then the preacher shows up and starts with the hollering. Marianne was just trying to read Franny and Zooey (a fitting book in light of this sort of preacher), but he keeps on with his, “In the naaaaame of Jeeeeeezuuuss-ah, I command you-ah to get out of this house-ah. Be gone from this place-ah and go back to the domain of Satan-ah.” If interrupting her reading with his hollering wasn’t enough to perturb her, insinuating she had something to do with the domain of Satan, or even Satan-ah, pushed her over the edge.

So, she made sure to dematerialize and stay good and quiet so that the preacher would think his exorcism was a big success. Then she followed him home. She would watch all the time and wait until he was doing something ‘unpreacherlike,’ and then she would start yelling and hollering herself. “Preacher-ah! Be gone from this town-ah in the name of Jeezus-ah! The angels of the Lord-ah are coming to bring down the hand of retribution to the wickedness of your soul-ah!”

Well, she got such a kick out of how scared he would get, but then he would just pretend like nothing was happening whenever anyone else was around. He tried a few more exorcisms, but to no avail. After that first two weeks, just when she was getting ready to call it quits, the preacher told his congregation that he was terribly sad, but that he was feeling the “Spirit” leading him to another parish. Well, that’s exactly what spirit of Marianne was telling him, but somehow she didn’t think that was the spirit he was talking about. She never could have gotten rid of a nuisance that quickly when she had been alive, but as a ghost it had been easy.

After that success, she made her way to another branch of the library and resumed her reading and after-hours movie watching again. She always fretted during life about the books and stories she would miss because life was so short, and her reading list was so very long. As a ghost, she didn’t need sleep or food, and all she had to do was head down to the graveyard or the old Episcopal church to chat with some other ghosts when she wanted some company.

As far as Marianne was concerned, life was alright, but death is good.