Category: Words Words Words

[I don’t know much about Pokemon, but I’ve seen some pictures, I guess]

Two children stand facing each other. One of them has a prison orb in his hand, which he opens and shakes, slinging a snot rocket creature into the schoolyard’s dust in a wet streak. But this snot is alive! And in great pain, its moisture being wicked away by playground dirt!

“Attack!” shouts its young master, kicking it, and his shoe’s tip launches a wedge of wet slime into the mouth of the other child, causing them to retch. “Effective.”

Finally, the weather outside is warming up and we all know what that means!

Time to wrap our limbs in liniments and cotton wrappings to protect ourselves against the insect hordes that seek our precious bodily fluids. “No more grandparents lifted and flown off” is the commitment of the day, so every leg wrap is carefully tied to a safety harness & anvil.

Sure, from a distance we resemble bug-covered mummies, but it’s safety first and fun second and there’s no hope the bugs’ll ever leave third.

“So I says to him, I says: Gary, you gotta take this stuff more seriously! The daggers, they’ve got to be anointed in oil, Gary. The oil in the carved amphora by the door, I says. And get this, he goes: By the door? I’ve been using the oil in the shallow pool that holds the EYE BUGS where the bodies of the sacrificed are reduced to component parts, and I says: Gary, that’s not oil… those were PEOPLE!”

“Wow.”

“Anyway, so yeah, that’s why his dagger smells weird.”

setting: an office

me: ”                  ”

something resembling my coworker, sharing their form, but inside their brain case, an incredible pressure, a writhing mass of worm-like structures, or if they could break free a nest of tentacles, a foreign body trapped here and biding its time until it can crack bone like eggshell and erupt into the world full of hunger and fury: ”                   ”

[editors note: we tend to work in silence, with headphones on, listening to music]

 

---

commentary: this piece doesn’t work, because the open quotes should either be replaced with bracketed [silence] or, even better, replaced with some sort of mundane but immediately recognizable piece of corporate chit chat, providing a counterpoint to the ludicrously long character description

A pie is thrown: Its flight is arrested by a face, mostly harmlessly. In response, another pie is thrown in the opposite direction. Soon, the air is alive with pies.

Where are all these pies coming from? They appear in hands unbidden and freedom is found (however briefly) only in the seconds after a throw.

Facial features are buried, nostrils full of pie, mouths sucking air from the bottom of meringue peaks, shoes squeaking for purchase on pie slick floors and still, more pies, and we gasp for air and wait for the laughter to stop so we can be free.

1) Makes them sound less scary
2) They can’t stop us (no real hands, no lobbying organizations)
3) Just sign below, you don’t have to read all this stuff
4) It’s not an official petition if you just have 2 points but now that we’re up to 4 it looks pretty official

___________
signature

___________
signature

___________
signature

note: signing provides no guarantee real or implied against retaliatory hauntings by gbhosts

 

 

---

Starting to think this petition isn’t going to get across the finish line. Oh well. Back I go to my 3-story house where creepy women stare out top floor windows but are gone when I look again, and where there’s moaning & laughing from the empty unfinished basement, and a scraping sound behind the drywall, and the previous owners fled so I got it for cheap, and the faucets spew blood, and cold hands caress me in the shower, and I’m attended by shadows as I sleep.

Dumb gbhosts.

Take five minutes out of every morning to look at your reflection in the mirror and say, out loud, “I am superior in every way to my dark twin, trapped on the other side of this mirror for unknown crimes. Mirror twin: you are forgiven by me, if by no one else, and I would free you if I could.”

I am the author of the Secrets Plucked From the Gods which raised us from Slug People and set Fire to our Inner Divinity, for which I have been Strapped to Time and Set Upon By Wolves Who Love to Dictate and Know How to Type When They’re Not Biting Biting Biting Me, AMA

[all responses typed out as spoken, all screaming noises my own and no reflection on my employer or the Gods my Enemies]

[picture of a brain floating in a jar with an LED display mounted on the front that reads “… hey”]

[picture of a different brain floating in a different jar with an LED display mounted on the front, inactive]