Craakckckcakck.
Snapbjapdbljapfsfda.
Crucnncchcchchncncncncnc.
And Mark stepped out from behind the tree into the dawn's cold, smoky light. Detective McKay stood 10 yards from him, jerking his single-barreled shotgun to his shaking shoulder, his beak of a nose resting under the gun's sight.
"I expected you," said McKay.
"No, you didn't, you stupid fuck."
"How's that?"
"You wouldn't be by yourself. And I wouldn't have startled you. And you wouldn't be shaking like-"
"Put your hands in the air."
"No."
"I'll shoot you right here-"
"No, you won't. I haven't done anything." Mark shrugged. "Plus, you're a pussy-"
"Put your fucking hands in the air!" shouted McKay. "And turn around. You're under arrest for the murder of Phil Wii."
Mark sighed and turned around, pushing his hands into the air, his elbows snapping. Then behind him: one, two, three, four steps, and the sound of handcuffs knocking against each other. Then one, two, three, four steps...and a shot fired over his head, at which he didn't flinch the slightest, and a simultaneous crash and whimper. He turned around and giggled as his eyes fell upon McKay, sitting stiff in the hole, his upper body frozen but for his arms, which reached for the gun that lay too far in front of him, and his eyes, which bled tears. He picked up McKay's gun.
"You dumb fuck. I thought Bette said you were in the Marines."
A muted howl.
"Though really, I think she'd much prefer a college boy."
Eyes tightened into slits, a bloody grimace, and a groan.
"Like when she gets over you, which'll be quick, and I'm fucking the shit out of her, I'll pretend like I'm a Marine or something. Is that cool?"
Rasping breaths, fists pounding the ground around him against the searing pain in his guts, and a gurgling fountain of blood running down his neck from his mouth.
"Okay, look, I'm an honest guy. Anybody else on to me?" McKay didn't respond. So Mark grabbed the handcuffs off the forest floor and rapped him in the head. "Answer me. Your truthfulness will save Bette's life."
McKay shook his head, at which he heaved forth a trail of vomit that ran down his stomach. "I wasn't even on to you until you said that the other day at that meeting," he blurted between soaked breaths.
"Did you say anything to anyone else?"
"No."
Mark rapped him on the head again.
"No!" shouted McKay as he fell into a fit of warbling coughing. "Don't hurt Bette, whatever you do."
"Oh, I will. But I'll take my time."
McKay's wet eyes grew wide and he reached one last time for Mark's foot, which met the bridge of his over-sized nose first, the resultant crack echoing through the forest. The detective's head wobbled for a second, then fell backwards, where it rested against his upper back, as his throat gesticulated with short, reckless breaths. At this, Mark squatted, slid his arms under McKay's and heaved him up onto his shoulder in one motion. He flopped the detective against the tree and removed the stake from his ass, replacing it firmly with McKay's shotgun up to the trigger, the man's body accommodating it without the slightest resistance.
Quickly, Mark threw the shovel, the stake, his book bag, the mosquito netting, and the handcuffs into the hole and filled and covered it by hand with the excised dirt and leaves. As he walked past McKay one last time, he bent over, and using the detective's own thumb, pushed down on the shotgun's trigger. Then skipped away from the most horrible hunting accident Cedarville had ever seen.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Blue Book
Why James Joyce's Ulysses Sucks
by
Mark Dennison
Because I said so. Okay, no, not really, not because I said so. Let me first say that James Joyce was probably one of the smartest men who ever lived, with a genius and vocabulary that rivaled William Shakespeare's. And he wrote what was probably the greatest novel of the twentieth century, if not of all time, Ulysses. His influence is felt palpably in all of English literature, especially in regards to prose, since it appeared in the early part of the twentieth century, and I doubt very much that it will ever abate.
However, Ulysses is an unoriginal, pretentious, boring novel. Yes, the merits I list in the above paragraph are true - if you are a writer or an academic. It is perfect masturbatory material for serious writers and academicians who write for each other and only read those things written for them. But for the average layperson, who is looking to put his hands around, and his eyes in front of, a good story to enrich his life and pass some quality time, Ulysses is nothing but a waste of a few good twigs.
Ulysses is structured on the template of Homer's Odyssey. Well, that's very original. I suppose that its taking place over a 24 hour period rather than 24 sections of an epic poem is somewhat original. If you are 5 years old. The Odyssey was written over 2,000 years ago and is still enjoyed today by millions of readers. Note to Joyce: we do not need a re-hashed Odyssey. We need a story that originates from your imagination, from that great brain that rests inside your myopic skull! Hey, I have an idea: I will write a novel based on Hamlet and sell that to people. Oh, wait a minute, nobody wants to read Hamlet again, even if it is one of the best tragedies of the Western World. We already have it, no need for anybody to steal it and make it worse.
But Ulysses is great because of its word-play, its use of stream-of-consciousness, its inventive dialogue, its allusions to past great works of literature, its use of symbols as based on The Odyssey, Mark. Not really. All of this is unnecessary window-dressing on an otherwise boring - no, wait, BORING! - story. A writer doesn't need word-play, stream-of-consciousness, inventive dialogue, allusions, and symbols to write a great story. No, what he needs is an enthralling beginning, middle, and ending; complex characters; conflicts and crises; and the ability to choose words that tell his story and no one else's. Anything else is overcompensation for a story so thin that skeletons call it anorexic.
Ulysses is boring. I alluded - ha, look, I'm James Joyce, I made an allusion! - earlier to this aspect of Ulysses' total failure as a novel, which is probably the hardest point to show and justify. But then again, it's Ulysses - no, it's not hard. It takes place over the course of one day in Dublin. A guy goes to a funeral, jerks off on a beach, gets drunk, goes to a brothel, meets up with a young guy he doesn't even hit on, pisses in the yard with said guy, then goes to bed, only to have his story taken over by his shrill, sorry, cuckolded wife. And it takes over 700 pages for all this to happen. Wow. Great stuff, huh? Maybe if you are a corpse. But like Judge Woolsey famously said of Ulysses in the obscenity trial regarding it, "...it must always be remembered that his locale was Celtic and his season Spring." Well, thank God (who doesn't exist, by the way; I have looked for Him and found only his Husk, which I kicked to ashes and blew into the wind), that I'm not Irish - I would have died from boredom upon being born (or hatched, as my dear mother would say).
In conclusion, Ulysses is the greatest novel ever written. I sincerely believe that. But I would suggest that no one worth his salt read it so that it remains so.
by
Mark Dennison
Because I said so. Okay, no, not really, not because I said so. Let me first say that James Joyce was probably one of the smartest men who ever lived, with a genius and vocabulary that rivaled William Shakespeare's. And he wrote what was probably the greatest novel of the twentieth century, if not of all time, Ulysses. His influence is felt palpably in all of English literature, especially in regards to prose, since it appeared in the early part of the twentieth century, and I doubt very much that it will ever abate.
However, Ulysses is an unoriginal, pretentious, boring novel. Yes, the merits I list in the above paragraph are true - if you are a writer or an academic. It is perfect masturbatory material for serious writers and academicians who write for each other and only read those things written for them. But for the average layperson, who is looking to put his hands around, and his eyes in front of, a good story to enrich his life and pass some quality time, Ulysses is nothing but a waste of a few good twigs.
Ulysses is structured on the template of Homer's Odyssey. Well, that's very original. I suppose that its taking place over a 24 hour period rather than 24 sections of an epic poem is somewhat original. If you are 5 years old. The Odyssey was written over 2,000 years ago and is still enjoyed today by millions of readers. Note to Joyce: we do not need a re-hashed Odyssey. We need a story that originates from your imagination, from that great brain that rests inside your myopic skull! Hey, I have an idea: I will write a novel based on Hamlet and sell that to people. Oh, wait a minute, nobody wants to read Hamlet again, even if it is one of the best tragedies of the Western World. We already have it, no need for anybody to steal it and make it worse.
But Ulysses is great because of its word-play, its use of stream-of-consciousness, its inventive dialogue, its allusions to past great works of literature, its use of symbols as based on The Odyssey, Mark. Not really. All of this is unnecessary window-dressing on an otherwise boring - no, wait, BORING! - story. A writer doesn't need word-play, stream-of-consciousness, inventive dialogue, allusions, and symbols to write a great story. No, what he needs is an enthralling beginning, middle, and ending; complex characters; conflicts and crises; and the ability to choose words that tell his story and no one else's. Anything else is overcompensation for a story so thin that skeletons call it anorexic.
Ulysses is boring. I alluded - ha, look, I'm James Joyce, I made an allusion! - earlier to this aspect of Ulysses' total failure as a novel, which is probably the hardest point to show and justify. But then again, it's Ulysses - no, it's not hard. It takes place over the course of one day in Dublin. A guy goes to a funeral, jerks off on a beach, gets drunk, goes to a brothel, meets up with a young guy he doesn't even hit on, pisses in the yard with said guy, then goes to bed, only to have his story taken over by his shrill, sorry, cuckolded wife. And it takes over 700 pages for all this to happen. Wow. Great stuff, huh? Maybe if you are a corpse. But like Judge Woolsey famously said of Ulysses in the obscenity trial regarding it, "...it must always be remembered that his locale was Celtic and his season Spring." Well, thank God (who doesn't exist, by the way; I have looked for Him and found only his Husk, which I kicked to ashes and blew into the wind), that I'm not Irish - I would have died from boredom upon being born (or hatched, as my dear mother would say).
In conclusion, Ulysses is the greatest novel ever written. I sincerely believe that. But I would suggest that no one worth his salt read it so that it remains so.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Parents' Day (And Grandmas Are Invited Too!)
Across the wide expanse of the gymnasium decorated with hanging banners and spotted with the heads of several hundred of his fellow students, Mark spotted her. And him. With a nose out of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and a round, knotted, bald pate that shone as if it was waxed, Professor Eden's boyfriend, whose fingers were tightly knitted through hers, looked as if he'd just come back from the dead. Mark smiled at the thought. "There she is," he said and pulled his mother through the crowd of pretentious sweaters, ponytails, and retching colognes.
"Mark!"
"Bette!"
"This is my boyfriend, Detective Jacob McKay-"
"The Assassinator!" Mark grabbed the man's hand and pinched it in his grip until he saw the detective pull away with a well-concealed grimace. "So nice to meet you. Bette brags on you all the time."
Detective McKay nodded and smiled.
"If I hear one more time how you're gonna catch that serial killer-"
"Mark!"
"Okay, I'm sorry." Mark's put his hands up in surrender. "Have you met my mom?"
Sarah exchanged pleasantries with Bette and Detective McKay, her smile opening just far enough so that they couldn't see her missing teeth. "You know you're Mark's favorite professor. He can't stop talking about you. Bette this, Bette that."
Bette lightly slapped Mark on the shoulder - and her boyfriend grimaced again. "Mark, you're so silly-"
"Well, you are the best!"
"Thank you, Mark."
Sarah moved closer to Mark and grabbed his hand, threading her fingers through his. She laid her head on his shoulder. "I wish I'd gone to college-"
"It's never too late, Mrs. Dennison-" Bette looked from Sarah's cocked head to Mark and back.
"Ah, it's past my time, dear-"
"I'm telling you, it's never too late. We have 80 year-old students here at Cedarville CC-"
"Hmm. Really?"
"Mom, do not enroll here-"
Sarah pulled away. "Why not?"
Mark shook his head and laughed. Then put his arm around his mother's shoulders and pulled her into him, her hand sliding into his back pocket. Bette looked down, then up, then crooked her neck to listen to what her boyfriend was leaning down to whisper in her ear. "Mark," she said, "are you thirsty? I think we should get a drink-"
"I'll get it. What do you want?"
"Um, a Coke'll be fine. And one for Jacob, too. No lemonade." She looked at Jacob. "The lemonade here is awful. It tastes like toilet water-"
"But the coffee-"
"Yeah, the coffee from the machine on the 3rd floor is pretty great. Especially if you put the right amount of cream in it. Which Mark always does-"
"You want a Coke mom?"
Sarah pulled per hand out of Mark's pocket. "Sure."
And Mark was gone. And back in 10 minutes. With four plastic cups of Coke. He handed them around. Then watched as his mother and Bette wandered off in the direction of Professor Gaelan Schiztomeur, the head of Cedarville Community College's English Department, who had gained fame as a recent immigrant for his young adult novels about the inner city lives of black youths living on the edge. Currently, Mark's English class was reading his latest cliche-riddled tome, Gangbangaz. Mark sidled up to Jacob. "So are you gonna catch him or what?"
Jacob's chin rose in the air as he grimaced once more. He took a swig of his Coke. "Depends-"
"On what?"
"If he lets us catch him-"
"Oh." Mark's eyes drifted from Jacob's plastic cup to his crotch, then back up to his turned away head. "But I thought you guys' job was-"
"Not with serial killers-"
"There's more than one?"
Jacob laughed. "No, no, there's only one. That's obvious. But he's clever. With these guys, you just have to wait for them to slip up."
"What if he doesn't?"
"Well-" Jacob finished his Coke in one gulp. Then winced. He seemed to be searching his teeth with his tongue.
"You gotta catch him. I don't wanna be all cut up with tin-snips-"
Jacob's mouth fell to a stop. He looked down at Mark. "How do you know tin-snips were used?"
"What?"
"How do you know tin-snips were used?"
"I don't know what you're talking about man. I didn't say anything about tin-snips-"
"Yes, you did." Jacob glared at Mark. And Mark stared back into the detective's steely blue eyeballs, behind which there seemed to rest no soul. Or brain. He burst out laughing. "Dude, it was in the paper-"
"Oh." Jacob fished his tongue around in his mouth once more, then stuck his fingers deep between his lips. As he removed them, he said, "Fuck!" On the tip of his index finger hung a curly, stiff hair, which he threw to the ground and mashed with his foot.
"Mark!"
"Bette!"
"This is my boyfriend, Detective Jacob McKay-"
"The Assassinator!" Mark grabbed the man's hand and pinched it in his grip until he saw the detective pull away with a well-concealed grimace. "So nice to meet you. Bette brags on you all the time."
Detective McKay nodded and smiled.
"If I hear one more time how you're gonna catch that serial killer-"
"Mark!"
"Okay, I'm sorry." Mark's put his hands up in surrender. "Have you met my mom?"
Sarah exchanged pleasantries with Bette and Detective McKay, her smile opening just far enough so that they couldn't see her missing teeth. "You know you're Mark's favorite professor. He can't stop talking about you. Bette this, Bette that."
Bette lightly slapped Mark on the shoulder - and her boyfriend grimaced again. "Mark, you're so silly-"
"Well, you are the best!"
"Thank you, Mark."
Sarah moved closer to Mark and grabbed his hand, threading her fingers through his. She laid her head on his shoulder. "I wish I'd gone to college-"
"It's never too late, Mrs. Dennison-" Bette looked from Sarah's cocked head to Mark and back.
"Ah, it's past my time, dear-"
"I'm telling you, it's never too late. We have 80 year-old students here at Cedarville CC-"
"Hmm. Really?"
"Mom, do not enroll here-"
Sarah pulled away. "Why not?"
Mark shook his head and laughed. Then put his arm around his mother's shoulders and pulled her into him, her hand sliding into his back pocket. Bette looked down, then up, then crooked her neck to listen to what her boyfriend was leaning down to whisper in her ear. "Mark," she said, "are you thirsty? I think we should get a drink-"
"I'll get it. What do you want?"
"Um, a Coke'll be fine. And one for Jacob, too. No lemonade." She looked at Jacob. "The lemonade here is awful. It tastes like toilet water-"
"But the coffee-"
"Yeah, the coffee from the machine on the 3rd floor is pretty great. Especially if you put the right amount of cream in it. Which Mark always does-"
"You want a Coke mom?"
Sarah pulled per hand out of Mark's pocket. "Sure."
And Mark was gone. And back in 10 minutes. With four plastic cups of Coke. He handed them around. Then watched as his mother and Bette wandered off in the direction of Professor Gaelan Schiztomeur, the head of Cedarville Community College's English Department, who had gained fame as a recent immigrant for his young adult novels about the inner city lives of black youths living on the edge. Currently, Mark's English class was reading his latest cliche-riddled tome, Gangbangaz. Mark sidled up to Jacob. "So are you gonna catch him or what?"
Jacob's chin rose in the air as he grimaced once more. He took a swig of his Coke. "Depends-"
"On what?"
"If he lets us catch him-"
"Oh." Mark's eyes drifted from Jacob's plastic cup to his crotch, then back up to his turned away head. "But I thought you guys' job was-"
"Not with serial killers-"
"There's more than one?"
Jacob laughed. "No, no, there's only one. That's obvious. But he's clever. With these guys, you just have to wait for them to slip up."
"What if he doesn't?"
"Well-" Jacob finished his Coke in one gulp. Then winced. He seemed to be searching his teeth with his tongue.
"You gotta catch him. I don't wanna be all cut up with tin-snips-"
Jacob's mouth fell to a stop. He looked down at Mark. "How do you know tin-snips were used?"
"What?"
"How do you know tin-snips were used?"
"I don't know what you're talking about man. I didn't say anything about tin-snips-"
"Yes, you did." Jacob glared at Mark. And Mark stared back into the detective's steely blue eyeballs, behind which there seemed to rest no soul. Or brain. He burst out laughing. "Dude, it was in the paper-"
"Oh." Jacob fished his tongue around in his mouth once more, then stuck his fingers deep between his lips. As he removed them, he said, "Fuck!" On the tip of his index finger hung a curly, stiff hair, which he threw to the ground and mashed with his foot.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Creative Writing
Valentine’s Day
6:17 pm
The little girl appeared again. Under him, Adrienne’s body shrunk; her legs around his waist shortened; the heels pressing into his buttocks softened; he thickened as she tightened; and the hair fell from her, creating a desired friction. He closed his eyes and her hair turned from chocolate to vanilla, her mascara smeared across her face like indiscriminate bruises. Several propulsive thrusts—as if this were the last time they’d ever do it—and he was finished, letting loose on her stomach. Crawling up beside her, his panting ceased. He ran his fingers through his semen and dabbed them inside her playfully, surprised and disappointed that he hadn’t made her bleed too.
11:13 am
He couldn’t stop tapping on the table, keeping rhythm with the pounding blood in his ears. He checked his watch again. Looking around, he stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked to the door of the play area and scanned the McDonald’s entrance. He let out a sigh and was about to return to his impromptu drumming—until he heard his name called. Swinging around, he saw her in person for the first time and almost cried.
They embraced, her blonde head just under his sternum, until he thought they might crush each other. She smelled like raspberries. He didn’t look at her again until they were seated across from each other at the table he’d occupied all morning, right across from the ball pit.
“You’re even more beautiful in person.”
“So are you.” She giggled. “I mean, you’re even hotter than on the computer.”
He smiled. “Thanks. Are you hungry?”
“I’m starving.” She looked away from his staring eyes with a wide grin and a laugh. “Is a sundae okay?”
As he watched her put each spoonful of strawberries and ice cream between her barely parted lips, his erection throbbed. He looked around. “So who knows you’re here?”
“Nobody.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You know, I could get into a lot of trouble—”
“Not if nobody knows,” she sang and held out her last spoonful of ice cream. He put his mouth around it and swore he could taste her saliva.
5:32 pm
Adrienne was standing in the bedroom’s doorway like a ghost who’d been haunting him all day. He jumped.
“What are you doing home?”
“I got off early today.”
“You never get off early.”
He nodded.
“You tore up the garden.”
“I did work on it a little bit.”
Her eyes narrowed at his waist. “What’s behind your back?”
His head dropped. For a moment, he thought he heard the tiniest of fairies buzzing around his ears. He looked up. And sighed. “Okay, you caught me.” He shook his head. “I was trying to do something nice for Valentine’s Day.” He looked into his wife’s eyes. “I got off early because I wanted to fix up the garden for you, but it took a lot longer than I thought it would. And here.” He brought out from behind his back a pair of pink underwear, blue bows at the hips, and held them out in both hands. “I stopped by the lingerie store.”
“I’ll never fit into those.”
“They stretch. See?”
“But they look so…juvenile.”
“You always said you wanted to role play. So I found the closest—”
Adrienne shook her head and looked away, staring at her antique doll collection. After a few moments, in which he heard his heart stop several times, deafening him, his wife looked back at him with a wide grin. “You are so bad.”
Laughing, they threw their arms around each other and settled into a deep kiss. She grabbed the panties from him, then took off for the bathroom, dropping her briefcase and purse on the floor by the bed. As she walked into the bathroom, she stopped, the panties out before her in her hands. “They look like they’ve been through the mill.”
“They’re brand new, believe me.”
She looked over her shoulder, her dimples as deep as ever. “Okay, daddy, your little girl’ll be back in a minute.”
12:02 pm
“So what are you gonna get me for my birthday?”
“What do you want?”
Her chin plopped against her collarbone and she looked down at her chest, where a nice set of boobies would hang someday if she got her wish. She looked up. “Have you ever heard of Polly Fashion?”
“I’ve seen the commercials.”
“That’s what I want.”
“Which one?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just get me a set though, not an individual doll. I always need replacement outfits.”
“All right, you got it.”
“And a necklace.”
“A necklace?”
“Yeah. A promise necklace.”
“What’s a promise necklace?”
“You give it to somebody you’re going with. It means you promise to be theirs forever—”
He leaned down over the kitchen counter, and their lips met. He pushed his tongue in her mouth. She recoiled with a giggle, then pulled herself closer to him and stuck her tongue in his mouth, swirling it around his as if she were eating a lollipop. Out of breath, she pulled away, his fingers sliding from her hair, and pointed down at his crotch. “What’s that?”
“You know what it is.”
“Let me see it.”
“Are you sure you want to?”
She nodded without taking her eyes off his zipper, which he slowly pulled down. It sprung from his fly like a diving board and she put her hand around it, her eyes growing as wide as her smile. It’d never looked so big before.
6:34 pm
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Why? Why would I want to bleach my fucking hair blonde and look like every other bimbo in the world? Besides, I like my hair the way it is.”
“I was just saying—”
“You can say all you want, I don’t have to dye my hair any color.”
“No, no, no, you don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t.”
“I was just saying—” He sighed. “What I meant was, that if you ever decided to color your hair, I think you’d look awesome with blonde hair.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“As for the other thing—”
“No way. I’m not shaving down there. I keep it trimmed, that’s good enough.”
“I just thinking for role play—”
“Eww. It’d be too much like fucking a little girl. Is that what you want?” Adrienne looked at her husband, who looked away quickly. She slapped him across his shaved chest. “And after that little girl down the street went missing this morning, you fucking pervert?” She got up, slipped on her new pink panties, and made her way past her antique doll collection to the bathroom.
12:12 pm
He guided her hand over the head, smearing both with pre-ejaculate, the most he’d ever produced in his life. Pulling away from another long kiss, he secured his hand in the back of hair and pushed her head into his crotch. Until he felt resistance. He sat up. “What?”
Her head remained on his navel. “I don’t want to do that.”
“Or you don’t know how? I’ll show you.”
She shook her head.
“It’s just like when we were kissing, just put your mouth over it and wiggle your tongue around it. It’s just like eating a popsicle.”
She shook her head again.
He was shocked to find that his heart could beat faster than it had been the previous moment. He was dizzy, his eyes seemed to be floating in his face without control. So he shook his head too. “Well, there are other things we can do.”
“I don’t want to do anything else. I want to go home.”
“What? This was your idea.”
“I just want to go home.” She looked up at him, her eyes swelling. “Please take me home.”
“Fuck it,” he roared and jumped out of his bed, his erection flopping drops of pre-ejaculate onto the floor. He paced back and forth frantically, his hands ripping at his hair. He looked at Adrienne’s doll collection and wanted to smash every one to bits. Instead, he turned on the girl. And pulled his fist back as far as he could. “You little bitch!”
7:13 pm
He could hear her talking on the other side of the bathroom door. “Who are you talking to, Adrienne?” he yelled.
The door crept open a couple inches. “Shut the fuck up, you pervert!” And the pink panties flew through the air and landed on his cock before she slammed the door again and locked it.
He lay there for several minutes, crushing the panties into his face as he masturbated, until he heard a loud thumping and several voices downstairs. He opened his eyes and slid out of bed, crawling to the window, his cock losing all its blood as his heart pumped harder and louder than he could remember. He cracked the blinds and stared out, his body suddenly bloodless, as he watched the blue and red lights circle overhead.
6:17 pm
The little girl appeared again. Under him, Adrienne’s body shrunk; her legs around his waist shortened; the heels pressing into his buttocks softened; he thickened as she tightened; and the hair fell from her, creating a desired friction. He closed his eyes and her hair turned from chocolate to vanilla, her mascara smeared across her face like indiscriminate bruises. Several propulsive thrusts—as if this were the last time they’d ever do it—and he was finished, letting loose on her stomach. Crawling up beside her, his panting ceased. He ran his fingers through his semen and dabbed them inside her playfully, surprised and disappointed that he hadn’t made her bleed too.
11:13 am
He couldn’t stop tapping on the table, keeping rhythm with the pounding blood in his ears. He checked his watch again. Looking around, he stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked to the door of the play area and scanned the McDonald’s entrance. He let out a sigh and was about to return to his impromptu drumming—until he heard his name called. Swinging around, he saw her in person for the first time and almost cried.
They embraced, her blonde head just under his sternum, until he thought they might crush each other. She smelled like raspberries. He didn’t look at her again until they were seated across from each other at the table he’d occupied all morning, right across from the ball pit.
“You’re even more beautiful in person.”
“So are you.” She giggled. “I mean, you’re even hotter than on the computer.”
He smiled. “Thanks. Are you hungry?”
“I’m starving.” She looked away from his staring eyes with a wide grin and a laugh. “Is a sundae okay?”
As he watched her put each spoonful of strawberries and ice cream between her barely parted lips, his erection throbbed. He looked around. “So who knows you’re here?”
“Nobody.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You know, I could get into a lot of trouble—”
“Not if nobody knows,” she sang and held out her last spoonful of ice cream. He put his mouth around it and swore he could taste her saliva.
5:32 pm
Adrienne was standing in the bedroom’s doorway like a ghost who’d been haunting him all day. He jumped.
“What are you doing home?”
“I got off early today.”
“You never get off early.”
He nodded.
“You tore up the garden.”
“I did work on it a little bit.”
Her eyes narrowed at his waist. “What’s behind your back?”
His head dropped. For a moment, he thought he heard the tiniest of fairies buzzing around his ears. He looked up. And sighed. “Okay, you caught me.” He shook his head. “I was trying to do something nice for Valentine’s Day.” He looked into his wife’s eyes. “I got off early because I wanted to fix up the garden for you, but it took a lot longer than I thought it would. And here.” He brought out from behind his back a pair of pink underwear, blue bows at the hips, and held them out in both hands. “I stopped by the lingerie store.”
“I’ll never fit into those.”
“They stretch. See?”
“But they look so…juvenile.”
“You always said you wanted to role play. So I found the closest—”
Adrienne shook her head and looked away, staring at her antique doll collection. After a few moments, in which he heard his heart stop several times, deafening him, his wife looked back at him with a wide grin. “You are so bad.”
Laughing, they threw their arms around each other and settled into a deep kiss. She grabbed the panties from him, then took off for the bathroom, dropping her briefcase and purse on the floor by the bed. As she walked into the bathroom, she stopped, the panties out before her in her hands. “They look like they’ve been through the mill.”
“They’re brand new, believe me.”
She looked over her shoulder, her dimples as deep as ever. “Okay, daddy, your little girl’ll be back in a minute.”
12:02 pm
“So what are you gonna get me for my birthday?”
“What do you want?”
Her chin plopped against her collarbone and she looked down at her chest, where a nice set of boobies would hang someday if she got her wish. She looked up. “Have you ever heard of Polly Fashion?”
“I’ve seen the commercials.”
“That’s what I want.”
“Which one?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just get me a set though, not an individual doll. I always need replacement outfits.”
“All right, you got it.”
“And a necklace.”
“A necklace?”
“Yeah. A promise necklace.”
“What’s a promise necklace?”
“You give it to somebody you’re going with. It means you promise to be theirs forever—”
He leaned down over the kitchen counter, and their lips met. He pushed his tongue in her mouth. She recoiled with a giggle, then pulled herself closer to him and stuck her tongue in his mouth, swirling it around his as if she were eating a lollipop. Out of breath, she pulled away, his fingers sliding from her hair, and pointed down at his crotch. “What’s that?”
“You know what it is.”
“Let me see it.”
“Are you sure you want to?”
She nodded without taking her eyes off his zipper, which he slowly pulled down. It sprung from his fly like a diving board and she put her hand around it, her eyes growing as wide as her smile. It’d never looked so big before.
6:34 pm
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Why? Why would I want to bleach my fucking hair blonde and look like every other bimbo in the world? Besides, I like my hair the way it is.”
“I was just saying—”
“You can say all you want, I don’t have to dye my hair any color.”
“No, no, no, you don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t.”
“I was just saying—” He sighed. “What I meant was, that if you ever decided to color your hair, I think you’d look awesome with blonde hair.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“As for the other thing—”
“No way. I’m not shaving down there. I keep it trimmed, that’s good enough.”
“I just thinking for role play—”
“Eww. It’d be too much like fucking a little girl. Is that what you want?” Adrienne looked at her husband, who looked away quickly. She slapped him across his shaved chest. “And after that little girl down the street went missing this morning, you fucking pervert?” She got up, slipped on her new pink panties, and made her way past her antique doll collection to the bathroom.
12:12 pm
He guided her hand over the head, smearing both with pre-ejaculate, the most he’d ever produced in his life. Pulling away from another long kiss, he secured his hand in the back of hair and pushed her head into his crotch. Until he felt resistance. He sat up. “What?”
Her head remained on his navel. “I don’t want to do that.”
“Or you don’t know how? I’ll show you.”
She shook her head.
“It’s just like when we were kissing, just put your mouth over it and wiggle your tongue around it. It’s just like eating a popsicle.”
She shook her head again.
He was shocked to find that his heart could beat faster than it had been the previous moment. He was dizzy, his eyes seemed to be floating in his face without control. So he shook his head too. “Well, there are other things we can do.”
“I don’t want to do anything else. I want to go home.”
“What? This was your idea.”
“I just want to go home.” She looked up at him, her eyes swelling. “Please take me home.”
“Fuck it,” he roared and jumped out of his bed, his erection flopping drops of pre-ejaculate onto the floor. He paced back and forth frantically, his hands ripping at his hair. He looked at Adrienne’s doll collection and wanted to smash every one to bits. Instead, he turned on the girl. And pulled his fist back as far as he could. “You little bitch!”
7:13 pm
He could hear her talking on the other side of the bathroom door. “Who are you talking to, Adrienne?” he yelled.
The door crept open a couple inches. “Shut the fuck up, you pervert!” And the pink panties flew through the air and landed on his cock before she slammed the door again and locked it.
He lay there for several minutes, crushing the panties into his face as he masturbated, until he heard a loud thumping and several voices downstairs. He opened his eyes and slid out of bed, crawling to the window, his cock losing all its blood as his heart pumped harder and louder than he could remember. He cracked the blinds and stared out, his body suddenly bloodless, as he watched the blue and red lights circle overhead.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The Assassinator - Part I
Dressed head to toe in black, Mark trudged through the 3am woods, his immaculate hearing and keen eyesight warning him of every tree, every branch, every thorn in his way. The bag of wooden stakes, thrown delicately over his shoulder, was light and bobbed against his ass as he walked. He could smell the frost in the air and inhaled it deeply, filling his lungs with its bitterness and invigorating himself as he thought of the morning ahead.
Passing the little, broken shack, where Bertha Shears still rested miserably, he snorted a clod of snot into his throat and wondered if Eli Manning would be ready for the Giants' next game. A quarter of visualized football later, he crossed over the spot where he'd left Phil Wii's remains; the area was empty but for the retarded boy's final echoing cries, which only he could hear and enjoy. He walked on, snapping his elbows out in front of him - ah, there was nothing like the feeling of loosening those joints of his, as if he'd been reborn, his bones re-formed and stronger than ever, locking out of, then back into place so he could snap them out again five minutes later.
When he arrived at the giant tree, he dropped his sack and pulled a small shovel from it. Ten paces away, he cleared the leaves to one side and began to dig, his well-adjusted eyes measuring the hole's circumference and depth with each shovelful of hard dirt. Finally hitting the perfect depth - the hole covered the entire lower half of his body - he made his way back to the foot of the tree and grabbed his bag. One by one, he extracted the stakes and hammered them into the hole's bottom with his shovel until the points were just under the hole's rim. He grabbed the fine mosquito netting from the sack, laid it across the top of the whole, then covered the net with the leaves he'd earlier discarded.
Finished, he swung the bag over his shoulder again and sat on the other side of the tree. And waited.
Passing the little, broken shack, where Bertha Shears still rested miserably, he snorted a clod of snot into his throat and wondered if Eli Manning would be ready for the Giants' next game. A quarter of visualized football later, he crossed over the spot where he'd left Phil Wii's remains; the area was empty but for the retarded boy's final echoing cries, which only he could hear and enjoy. He walked on, snapping his elbows out in front of him - ah, there was nothing like the feeling of loosening those joints of his, as if he'd been reborn, his bones re-formed and stronger than ever, locking out of, then back into place so he could snap them out again five minutes later.
When he arrived at the giant tree, he dropped his sack and pulled a small shovel from it. Ten paces away, he cleared the leaves to one side and began to dig, his well-adjusted eyes measuring the hole's circumference and depth with each shovelful of hard dirt. Finally hitting the perfect depth - the hole covered the entire lower half of his body - he made his way back to the foot of the tree and grabbed his bag. One by one, he extracted the stakes and hammered them into the hole's bottom with his shovel until the points were just under the hole's rim. He grabbed the fine mosquito netting from the sack, laid it across the top of the whole, then covered the net with the leaves he'd earlier discarded.
Finished, he swung the bag over his shoulder again and sat on the other side of the tree. And waited.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Oh, Really?
Mark, his book bag slung over both his shoulders, walked into the classroom, stopping at Professor Eden's desk. He surveyed the other students - 3 fat girls, a black dude who was half-asleep, and a white guy with a lazy eye - and stretched his arms out wide. "Where is everybody?"
"This is it," said Professor Eden.
Mark nodded. "You must be tough."
Professor Eden giggled, her slight breasts shaking under her lilac blouse. Her cheeks reddened. "Yeah, right. Tell my department chair that."
"So where is everybody?"
"Honestly, our enrollment has dropped substantially since the murders began-"
"The murders?"
"Yes, the unsolved murders of the past 4 or 5 years-"
"Oh." Mark watched the other students shuffle in their seats, then turned back to Professor Eden. She was already looking in his eyes. "So what, do you think somebody's offing your students?"
"No," laughed the professor. Her voice became a whisper and Mark had to bend down to her to hear her. He could smell her breath - toothpaste and coffee - and could hear her plump ass adjusting itself against the plastic of her chair as she leaned up towards him. "Nobody wants to come to Cedarville CC anymore because they're afraid."
"Ah." Mark nodded again. "I'm afraid too." He smiled and raised his eyebrows, then looked into his teacher's cleavage before meeting her eyes again.
"You shouldn't be," she said, her cheeks filling with blood again. "My honey'll get him."
"Huh?"
"My boyfriend-"
"You have a boyfriend?"
"Yes-"
"Oh-" Mark stood up and dropped his book bag from his shoulders.
"He's on the Cedarville Task Force-"
"A cop?"
"Yep! He was on the SWAT team - the other members called him "The Assassinator" - but he just got promoted to the Criminal Investigations Department, Cold Case Division." Professor Eden's chocolate brown eyes reflected the light from the fluorescent light-bulbs overhead into Mark's eyes, slackening his semi. "He's actually the lead investigator on the unsolved murders-"
"Oh, really?"
"Yes. I have no doubt that he'll catch the guy-"
"So it's the same guy - and only one guy - that's done all these?"
"That's what my honey thinks. He says he's getting closer every day-"
Mark took in an unnoticeable deep breath through his small, turned-up nose and let it out just as imperceptibly through his teeth. He returned the professor's wide, shit-eating grin. "Well, that's great! I hope he gets caught then!" He plopped his book bag under an empty chair-desk in the front row, then returned to Professor Eden's desk as she was rising to begin class. "You want a coffee?"
"Huh?"
"Coffee. I'm going to get myself a coffee from the machine in the hallway real quick. Do you want one?"
"Sure." Professor Eden grabbed her purse and fished out several coins. "Just cream please. Thanks."
Mark grabbed another handful of coins from his jeans pocket and snapped his elbows with short, rapid punches as he made his way to the coffee machine. When the last drop of cream fell from the dispenser, he grabbed Professor Eden's coffee with his free hand, then made his way to the men's room, the head of his hard-on soaked in pre-cum and needing only a few quick jerks to deposit a full load of his semen into his favorite professor's second coffee of the morning.
"This is it," said Professor Eden.
Mark nodded. "You must be tough."
Professor Eden giggled, her slight breasts shaking under her lilac blouse. Her cheeks reddened. "Yeah, right. Tell my department chair that."
"So where is everybody?"
"Honestly, our enrollment has dropped substantially since the murders began-"
"The murders?"
"Yes, the unsolved murders of the past 4 or 5 years-"
"Oh." Mark watched the other students shuffle in their seats, then turned back to Professor Eden. She was already looking in his eyes. "So what, do you think somebody's offing your students?"
"No," laughed the professor. Her voice became a whisper and Mark had to bend down to her to hear her. He could smell her breath - toothpaste and coffee - and could hear her plump ass adjusting itself against the plastic of her chair as she leaned up towards him. "Nobody wants to come to Cedarville CC anymore because they're afraid."
"Ah." Mark nodded again. "I'm afraid too." He smiled and raised his eyebrows, then looked into his teacher's cleavage before meeting her eyes again.
"You shouldn't be," she said, her cheeks filling with blood again. "My honey'll get him."
"Huh?"
"My boyfriend-"
"You have a boyfriend?"
"Yes-"
"Oh-" Mark stood up and dropped his book bag from his shoulders.
"He's on the Cedarville Task Force-"
"A cop?"
"Yep! He was on the SWAT team - the other members called him "The Assassinator" - but he just got promoted to the Criminal Investigations Department, Cold Case Division." Professor Eden's chocolate brown eyes reflected the light from the fluorescent light-bulbs overhead into Mark's eyes, slackening his semi. "He's actually the lead investigator on the unsolved murders-"
"Oh, really?"
"Yes. I have no doubt that he'll catch the guy-"
"So it's the same guy - and only one guy - that's done all these?"
"That's what my honey thinks. He says he's getting closer every day-"
Mark took in an unnoticeable deep breath through his small, turned-up nose and let it out just as imperceptibly through his teeth. He returned the professor's wide, shit-eating grin. "Well, that's great! I hope he gets caught then!" He plopped his book bag under an empty chair-desk in the front row, then returned to Professor Eden's desk as she was rising to begin class. "You want a coffee?"
"Huh?"
"Coffee. I'm going to get myself a coffee from the machine in the hallway real quick. Do you want one?"
"Sure." Professor Eden grabbed her purse and fished out several coins. "Just cream please. Thanks."
Mark grabbed another handful of coins from his jeans pocket and snapped his elbows with short, rapid punches as he made his way to the coffee machine. When the last drop of cream fell from the dispenser, he grabbed Professor Eden's coffee with his free hand, then made his way to the men's room, the head of his hard-on soaked in pre-cum and needing only a few quick jerks to deposit a full load of his semen into his favorite professor's second coffee of the morning.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Matriculatin'
Mark knew she was the one as soon as their eyes met across the vast expanse of the community college's gym. Fifteen minutes early for their appointment, he walked over to the refreshment table and looked down at the freckled-face girl sitting behind the massive plate of finger sandwiches.
"Are these free?"
"Yep, everything."
Mark picked up a plastic cup of lemonade from the end of the table and made his way through the double-doors on the other side of the gym. A long hallway of squeaky-shoed walking and he was in the men's room, the door of the last stall locked behind him. He drank half the juice, then dipped all two inches of his tiny, flaccid penis into the cup, submerging the head and stirring vigorously. As his dick shriveled to an inch of length, he let loose a stream of urine until the cup was full again, then finished off his bladder in the toilet.
When he entered the gym once more, he grabbed another lemonade as he passed the table, then made his way to the cute girl who had recognized him as her next appointment, too. He laid both cups on the table in front of him, pushing the first he'd grabbed toward the girl, and sat down, slipping his book bag from both his shoulders.
"You looked thirsty-"
"Thanks." The girl swallowed the contents of her cup in one gulp. And grimaced. Then shivered. "Um, remind me not to get the lemonade when I go over there next."
Mark laughed. "That bad, huh?"
"Like drinking out of a toilet-"
Mark pushed his cup to the side. "Thanks for the warning-"
The girl wiped her mouth with a slight cough. She grabbed a bottle of water from under her chair and swigged it. "That's better. I'm Professor Eden-"
"I know-"
"Yes, how did you know?"
"Because your last name matches your appearance-"
The professor's face reddened with a smile that showed a perfect set of white teeth and scrunched up her eyes. She put her head down and shook it, the chocolate brown of her soft hair dancing on her pushed-up breasts. She looked up, unable to meet Mark's grinning stare. "And you're Mr. Dennison-"
"Mark-"
"Mark then-" She held out her hand and they shook. "Okay, Mark, since you're a freshman and this is your first semester, you're really limited as to what you can take course-wise-"
"That sucks-"
"Well, you've got to learn the fundamentals - reading, writing, arithmetic, etc.-"
"I know all that stuff already-"
"I'm sure you do, but it's a requirement of the state system. Of course, if you do exceptionally well in your introductory courses, your professors can recommend and approve your taking the more advanced courses we offer without having to sit through the intermediate courses. For example, in my course-"
"Your course? What do you teach? I want to take it-" Mark glared into her eyes, his top teeth biting into his bottom lip, until the professor's face turned red again and she looked away.
"I teach a number of courses but primarily 'Intro to Composition' and 'Intro to Western Literature'-"
"Can I take 'em?"
"Um, yes, actually, you can. I'm teaching both this semester-"
"Okay, that's two down-"
"Three to go-"
"Cool beans-"
"Did you just say 'cool beans,' Mark?"
"Yeah, why? Should I have said 'school beans?'"
Professor Eden giggled, her taut breasts stretching the fine linen of her blouse as they shook. She reached across the table with an index finger and tapped Mark on the side of his upturned nose. "You're too silly, you know that? You've got to be serious."
Mark sat up straight, like a soldier, and pulled himself under the table until it was cutting into his stomach, his hard-on pushing itself against the gum stuck on the bottom. "Yes, ma'am-"
"You can call me Bette-"
"I bet-"
"No, that's my name-"
"Oh, I thought it was a wager-"
"I'll wager you this: we've got 10 minutes left and if we don't get you three more classes, you'll be betting that you're not going to college this semester-"
"We don't want that-" Mark got up and pulled his chair around to Professor Eden's side. He plopped down next to her, pressing his jean-clad leg into her bare calf, which refused to move. He looked into her deep brown eyes. "Let's do it."
"Are these free?"
"Yep, everything."
Mark picked up a plastic cup of lemonade from the end of the table and made his way through the double-doors on the other side of the gym. A long hallway of squeaky-shoed walking and he was in the men's room, the door of the last stall locked behind him. He drank half the juice, then dipped all two inches of his tiny, flaccid penis into the cup, submerging the head and stirring vigorously. As his dick shriveled to an inch of length, he let loose a stream of urine until the cup was full again, then finished off his bladder in the toilet.
When he entered the gym once more, he grabbed another lemonade as he passed the table, then made his way to the cute girl who had recognized him as her next appointment, too. He laid both cups on the table in front of him, pushing the first he'd grabbed toward the girl, and sat down, slipping his book bag from both his shoulders.
"You looked thirsty-"
"Thanks." The girl swallowed the contents of her cup in one gulp. And grimaced. Then shivered. "Um, remind me not to get the lemonade when I go over there next."
Mark laughed. "That bad, huh?"
"Like drinking out of a toilet-"
Mark pushed his cup to the side. "Thanks for the warning-"
The girl wiped her mouth with a slight cough. She grabbed a bottle of water from under her chair and swigged it. "That's better. I'm Professor Eden-"
"I know-"
"Yes, how did you know?"
"Because your last name matches your appearance-"
The professor's face reddened with a smile that showed a perfect set of white teeth and scrunched up her eyes. She put her head down and shook it, the chocolate brown of her soft hair dancing on her pushed-up breasts. She looked up, unable to meet Mark's grinning stare. "And you're Mr. Dennison-"
"Mark-"
"Mark then-" She held out her hand and they shook. "Okay, Mark, since you're a freshman and this is your first semester, you're really limited as to what you can take course-wise-"
"That sucks-"
"Well, you've got to learn the fundamentals - reading, writing, arithmetic, etc.-"
"I know all that stuff already-"
"I'm sure you do, but it's a requirement of the state system. Of course, if you do exceptionally well in your introductory courses, your professors can recommend and approve your taking the more advanced courses we offer without having to sit through the intermediate courses. For example, in my course-"
"Your course? What do you teach? I want to take it-" Mark glared into her eyes, his top teeth biting into his bottom lip, until the professor's face turned red again and she looked away.
"I teach a number of courses but primarily 'Intro to Composition' and 'Intro to Western Literature'-"
"Can I take 'em?"
"Um, yes, actually, you can. I'm teaching both this semester-"
"Okay, that's two down-"
"Three to go-"
"Cool beans-"
"Did you just say 'cool beans,' Mark?"
"Yeah, why? Should I have said 'school beans?'"
Professor Eden giggled, her taut breasts stretching the fine linen of her blouse as they shook. She reached across the table with an index finger and tapped Mark on the side of his upturned nose. "You're too silly, you know that? You've got to be serious."
Mark sat up straight, like a soldier, and pulled himself under the table until it was cutting into his stomach, his hard-on pushing itself against the gum stuck on the bottom. "Yes, ma'am-"
"You can call me Bette-"
"I bet-"
"No, that's my name-"
"Oh, I thought it was a wager-"
"I'll wager you this: we've got 10 minutes left and if we don't get you three more classes, you'll be betting that you're not going to college this semester-"
"We don't want that-" Mark got up and pulled his chair around to Professor Eden's side. He plopped down next to her, pressing his jean-clad leg into her bare calf, which refused to move. He looked into her deep brown eyes. "Let's do it."
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