My Shoes

The 25 Bus

It was a clear, warm, summer morning. Jim was doubled over at the bus stop catching his breath. His alarm hadn’t gone off—or he had turned it off in his sleep—so to make his bus he had to rush out the door and run all the way. Now he wasn’t sure, had he missed the bus, or was it coming any minute? He took out his phone to check the time, but—shit!—in his hurry he’d left it back at home.

Five and then ten minutes passed, or at least what Jim thought was ten minutes, and still the 25 bus didn’t come round the bend. It’d be another hour before the next one. Might as well go home, Jim thought. Call into work and tell them he’d be late. But just as he was about to leave, the 25 came toddling into view. Jim was relieved for a moment, and then not: There was something wrong with the bus. It was crawling down the road, limping, dragging itself. A broken-down bus wouldn’t get him to work on time, wouldn’t get him anywhere, so before it had even reached his stop Jim had given up on it and was headed back home.

The bus’s engine suddenly roared and it billowed a cloud of black exhaust and lurched forward, jumping the curb, flattening the bus stop sign—the one Jim had just been standing by—and running down the embankment along the highway. After a moment of stunned inaction, Jim followed the bus, running down the embankment muttering, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit”, as he went. The bus was still running, the engine still roaring and the exhaust still belching black smoke, but its tires were only spinning in place and digging into the earth now. A fir tree at the bottom of the hill had caught the bus and was holding it in place.

Jim couldn’t see inside the bus, the windows were tinted. He approached several times to try to pry open the doors, but the bus was growling and trembling like a wounded animal, and Jim was scared back. Eventually he did get hands on the door, but he couldn’t pull it open. Water was trickling out of the seams. His hands were left wet, and they smelled, a strange smell, like the ocean, and vinegar, and road kill that’s been left too long and popped.

Unable to do anything to help, Jim stepped back and could only watch. If he’d had his phone then he would’ve called for help, but he didn’t have his phone. Maybe he could flag down a car. He tromped back up the embankment. He looked up and down the street, but there wasn’t a single car. It’d been quite that morning, he recalled. He would’ve noticed if the streets were deserted, wouldn’t he?

Back down the hill, the bus started coughing and choking, and then it shuddered and died. The doors flung open and the water emptied out. The windows, it turned out, weren’t tinted, the bus was just filled with water so murky it looked black— or would a bus full of clean water look just as black? In any event the water that had filled the bus wasn’t clean. Seaweed spilled out with it, and sea stars, driftwood, barnacles… and body parts, human body parts, gooey and partially dissolved. The smell coming out with the water didn’t have the undertones of acidity or brine like the little bit Jim had gotten on his arms. Even from several yards away and up on the sidewalk, Jim started gagging on the smell of death and decomposition almost as soon as the doors were opened.

And still not a car to be seen, until, at last, limping round the bend, came the 25 bus—another 25 bus—with windows tinted black, and water trickling from every seam.

this is important.

Daily Mirror, London, March 9, 1939

Clouds Don’t Evaporate

I caught a cloud that looked just like my son did when he was two years old. I took it home and fed it ice cream. Just like my son used to, it would cross its eyes in anticipation as I brought the spoon to its mouth. But it was just a cloud, and it evaporated.

The Good Samaritan

“What’s your birthday?”

“May 9th, 1969.”

A dental assistant is going through the usual routine with a new patient, a forty-eight year old man, clean shaven with a buzz cut, red hair flecked with white, a bald spot on the crown of his head, and dressed nicely with a pastel blue button up shirt, black slacks, a leather belt and shiny black leather dress shoes. He’s sitting in the dentist’s chair, reclined— the cuffs of his pants are hiked up, and the dental assistant can see even his socks are nice dress socks, dark blue argyle. But the man isn’t nice, she can see that clearly enough. Not to say that he’s mean, but he isn’t nice as in nicely dressed. This dentist’s office mostly gets poor people, people on state insurance. The man may be nicely dressed but he’s actually a bum, one that’s been taken in by some religious do-gooder who’s gotten him cleaned up, dressed up, and on state insurance, amongst other things. Their hope for him is that, if they can get him on his feet, he’ll be able to walk, so to speak, but unfortunately they’re wrong, in this case. The man may be kind, and gentle, and clean, as in not a drug addict, but he’s been on his feet before and each time winded up indigent. He’s dressed nicely but his face is weathered and he has the mannerisms of a prey animal, so nobody would be fooled.

“Are you taking any prescription medications?”

The man shakes his head no.

“Are you currently experiencing any tooth pain?”

The man again shakes his head no.

She fastens a cuff around his left wrist to measure his blood pressure. She instructs him to uncross his ankles, which he does, then she places his hand over his right shoulder and starts the machine. His blood pressure is on the high end of the normal range. She raises his chair, and he jumps. She apologizes for startling him, and explains she’s going to take some x-rays. She leaves the room for a moment and returns with a lead vest that she drapes over his torso and shoulders. She prepares a film for the first x-ray, wrapping it in plastic.

“Open”, she says, and the man does. He has no teeth. In place of teeth he has bits of gravel, shards of glass, screws and springs embedded in his gums, which are oozing bright red, fresh blood.

The Whole Point of the Cult

The whole point of the cult was to scratch together a little money, enough to stay afloat and give me the time to write, and then, hopefully, make a name for myself as a writer and, if I were lucky, get to a place where I could do it for a living. After that I’d tell my disciples that they’ve made it, that they didn’t need me anymore, that the faith was in their hands now. But almost from the start it took over my life, pushing everything else out. Now, even if I could find the time, I could never be a writer. The only people that would read anything I wrote would be my disciples, and to them it would be the infallible word of god. If anyone else even chanced upon my writing, the first thing they’d know about it is that it was written by that crazy cult leader they sort of recall hearing about once before. In either case, who wrote it overshadows what’s written.

You know, I never wanted a job. I never wanted to be employed, to be someone’s instrument, to be someone’s object. All I wanted was to carve out just a little space, a little time, where I could do what I pleased. Where I could write. That’s why I started the cult.

I havn't been keeping up on posting my little bits from Mastodon, so for the next eleven days I'll post one.

I'm not really happy about it. My rule for this blog has been to post a story once every five days. I've also been collecting these little Mastodon droppings into groups of five to post. The problem is that I have eleven and I want to get them cleared out, which would require two Mastodon droppings posts back to back, which is bad enough, but then there'd be one left dangling.

None of this is important, I just need to explain why I'm not doing the thing I said I'd do.

It's not like a post a day is spammy.

Against You

No matter how fast you run, or how far, the sky’s still above you, watching. A gentle breeze cools the sweat on your forehead: that’s surveillance. The dew collecting on your shoes is reporting your whereabouts at this very moment. The rays of golden sunlight burn you and you alone. Blades of grass lash you and the leaves in the trees are snapping jaws. The world turns against you.

Five More Mastodon Droppings

Five more very short stories from my Mastodon, which, incidentally, I now know how to link directly to.

Utopia

In the future there will be no need for money. The production of everything will be either automated or done by a person considering the work to be play, and in either case the produce will be freely given away. There will be no pollution, the whole world made from a drop of sunlight, and not a bit gone to waste. Vast tracts of land will return to wilderness and we’ll steward it like we always should have. There will be only one class owning everything in common, because everyone else and their children will have starved long ago.

Chafing

Your existence chafes me. The fact that you dare to meet my gaze is galling. That you don’t grovel before me is an insult. You think you have a right to what’s yours? I disagree; you ought to have only what I allow you to have. If I had the power, (when I have the power), I’ll snuff you out as vengeance for ever having the arrogance to stand on two feet.

But, come on, don’t be so one-sided. Don’t be unreasonable. I’m willing to compromise. Let’s meet in the middle.

My Dad Says Goodbye

I saw my dad last night, on my front porch. He had stuffed himself into a corner, back pressed into the ceiling, holding himself up by his hands and feet, like Spider-Man. He tried to pretend he was a dummy, but I saw the glint of light when his eye twitched. Last time I’d seen him we were both passing through the train station in Seattle. At the time I wondered how long it takes for the family to learn when a homeless person is found dead. I suppose it’s forever in some cases.

After snapping a photo as proof, I went to unlock my front door. The sound of the key must’ve spooked him. I heard a flutter, looked to his corner, and he was gone.

Totality

The moon passed before the sun, and under its shadow crowds cheered, and a few people cried. One minute, two minutes, the cheering continued. Five minutes, ten minutes, a worried murmuring. After an hour, everyone was crying.

Equanimity

Joann became god while riding her bike after school one day. As god, she ignored her curfew. It was dark when she got home; her house was in flames. Her dad was at work, her baby brother was upstairs in his crib, and her mom was on the lawn screaming for help between long, wheezing gasps. She had rushed into the house, over and over, only to be repelled by the smoke and the flames. Joann could see that her mom had a strong preference that her son not be burned, but, as god, she couldn’t see why.

Cigarette Paper

I ran my fingers along the surface of her skin gently, careful to touch but not press. The feeling was that of real skin. Her skin. So much so I got carried away. I applied too much pressure. A flame rippled out from my palm. It burned through her like through a cigarette paper. She curled and twisted and lifted off the bed. Bright light, a wisp of smoke, and then it was over. I gasped, and my gasp scattered her ashes around the room, so that if you looked you wouldn’t have seen she was there.

Mastodon Droppings

I post very very short stories to Mastadon— my handle is @david_pasquinelli. Below are five of them. Enjoy.

Garbage Disposal

I pulled out a handful of noodles and egg shells from my garbage disposal. The water drained, but there was more. Fishing around, I pulled out: several chicken livers, which I couldn’t account for; a clump of moss the size of my fist; a dozen rotten plums that smelled awful; and, most disturbingly, clumps of red hair and teeth. I shined a light down the drain and saw a glint of gold, but when I reached in to grab it I cut myself. After bandaging my hand I looked again, but it was gone.

The Majors

I dreamt of playing Major League Baseball as far back as I can remember. I loved the game, but I loved the dream more. It was my treasure, my dream of making it to the majors. Through Little League, Babe Ruth League, high-school ball, and the minors, that dream was my best loved, most precious possession. I leaned on it when times were hard. I thought I had gone to heaven when I finally got called up. But now the dream is gone. Now it’s a job, and what do I have to lean on?

Poorly Done

He brought the muzzle of the revolver to his eye and, like the others, fired it. Just like that, there was a hole where his eye had been. But he’d done a bad job and made a mess of it. He writhed and screamed on the floor before—pop—he put out the other eye. Then he lay silent and still. The others approached the body, and stood there and starred at it through the holes in their own faces where they had once had eyes.

A Brief Interview with a Homeless Man

“If you were king of the world, what would you do to help the homeless?”

“Nothin’.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Why not?”

“Cuz they’re assholes.”

“Homeless people are assholes?”

“Yup.”

“But you’re homeless….”

“Right, so I know. I know a lot of homeless people; they’re assholes. What do you know?”

A Spider in her Web

I was always a good and diligent wife and mother, wholesome and modest, selfless, kind, tending to her family with the attentiveness of a gardener to his garden, a businessman to his business, a spider to her web. Even after the diagnosis, my first priority was to help my family cope with a future that wouldn’t include me. At first. But now I find all I want to do is fuck strangers and kill people.