The Curse Of The Willards

It struck me. It really struck me and I couldn't believe it. Yet, I did believe; more now then ever before. How could I not believe it now. Here I am, in the Arizona desert walking my cat – miles away from any elevated plateaux and pow. Malignantly struck down by a falling watermelon. Laying here in the remnants of a juicy rhine I can't help but think back to what my mother had told me just after my father died.

“Japser” she said “I don't want to be the kind of mother who lies to her children. Where will it end Jasper? I am asking you?”

“I don't know mommy.” I said and I didn't. Who the hell knows what your parents are going on about even when your sixteen years old. I've driven her crazy I thought. I know why dad's gone; the old mans bought the farm.

“Look Jasper” she said “I know you you know your fathers dead. Lord help me but I don't know how he made it this long, honestly. Still Japser, there is something you need to know. Your father didn't just died, he was killed.”

“Huh?” I said. See that's the sort of thing I am talking about. When she talks like that I know I am responsible. I mean how in the hell could she have made it through life talking like that.

“Stop talking to the readers Jasper and listen to me. Your father was killed by a falling watermelon. They investigated and it didn't come out of any window or plane. It just fell out of a clear blue sky; but of course you know that now; it just happened to you.”

“mother?” her words were wavering in and out.

“Your father never had the straight story when his father died. Which is rather strange in if you ask me, since every male in his family has been killed that way dating back to the dark ages. Why in the hell he never told you about it himself is beyond me. I guess he didn't really believe it either when his mother told him. Now you know Jasper and I bet you're lying here thinking you should have told your son don't you. I bet your not even wearing clean underwear are you?“

“Oh shut up!” I shouted.

Boneless Widow

She never did have much of a spine, but once her husband died, she began puking up and crapping out all of her bones.
It wasn’t quite as horrible as it sounds; most of them had turned to jelly before being expelled, but occasionally small shards would get lodged in her throat, causing her to have to do the Heimlich on herself. The splinters were even worse. They would scratch and puncture on the way out, causing much pain and often serious bleeding.
Her in-laws looked on with smug expressions, knowing that her condition would inevitably prevent her from collecting her husband’s fortune. Contesting the will became somewhat of a joke. Obviously someone as boneless as she would turn to mush before the scrutinizing eyes of any judge.
She knew they were laughing at her, that they were bloodthirsty jackals with green dollar sign eyes, but what could she do? She was terrified of them and the mere thought of going to court caused her ribs to come up in a pink-white splash that swamped her desk and splattered the floor with mucus bombs.
Slipping out of her chair and into the gore, she swallowed her teeth and howled a jellyfish howl. They would get their way and she would spend the rest of her days as a chilled dessert, bland and quivering, served only to the very young or very old.

Worce

It all started with Sara’s now legendary rampage out of my life. So violent and sudden, so unforseen, I could merely stand in awe as if this all were happening to someone else. Had I been given the foreknowledge to sell seats I could have made a fortune. The next day there was a two week eviction notice on my door. My neighbor came over slapped me on the back and said, well, at least things can’t get any worse. Next day my dog got sick.
A few days after that my personal bogeyman called me into the office to tell me that my job had been moved to India, that he was deeply sorry, that I was no longer needed, but at least things could not get worse. A week or so later my grandmother Alzheimer’s finally went fatal and her brain forgot how to live.


When I was giving my grandmothers eulogy, talking off the top of my head, the people around me began vomiting uncontrollably. I think it had something to do with the hole in my head. A bag of hammers busted a hole in it. I think some mimes did it.


I never went to the hospital or anything, and I can't really see up there, but I think it's gotten infected. All sorts of weird things keep spouting out of there. And not just blood and puss. Creatures have emerged, birthed from my head like in some Zuesian parable.

The things, which have been leaping out at regular intervals since last night, aren’t leaving and they’re really creepy. Like that naked woman with Chain-saws for arms and fanged genitals. I mean that’s just weird. They’re eating all my food and this one, who bites at anything placed in front of it, has taken up residence in my toilet. And I really, really, have to pee.


This morning I woke up with a severed cartoon flying squirrel’s head in the bed bleeding ink all over the place. The head looked up and said in an all too cheery cartoon voice, hey, at least things couldn’t get any worse.
The fact is I must loosing touch with sanity, because all I could think to do was reach into the hole and say, "Hey rock, watch me pull a rabbit out of my head."

Hey guys, great idea!

I'm so glad you started this heads, this is awesome. And it's free of all the jerks that come in and screw everything up. Guess I'll start brainstorming and put something up!

Vomited Soul

You can learn a lot about yourself on your knees vomiting in a wallmart bathroom. And aside from the more obvious epiphanies of self, such as discovering what you sound like on your knees vomiting in a wallmart bathroom, the results of this gut wrenching soul searching can be quite enlightening.

It happened quite suddenly, as I grasped the public piss grips of the porcelain god, too week with need to be squeamish of what and where my hands now were. A boy, three or so, walked in with his father. I struggled to retain myself, as though if they could not hear me I could conserve some shred of my dignity.

"We’re goin’a see the wee wee, we’re gonn’a see the wee wee," the boy chanted with the fearless abandon and wonderment of his youth. It really touched me. He was totally without the fears you have to be carefully taught. He was wonder and curiosity in it’s purest form. The simple act of taking a piss, which I had long ago regulated to an annoying -if relieving- experience, held such marvel for him. He was excited, this was an adventure of epic proportions in his little world.

You can learn a lot about yourself on your knees vomiting in a wallmart bathroom. I discovered that I was no longer a child. I don’t know when it happened, I didn’t notice it. Someone, someday, had come in and stole my innocence and replaced it with boredom and cynicism. A pretentious sham of manhood.

How Do I Land This Thing?

For K, sleep was a strain. He felt it was something he had to really sink his teeth into, to lie with eyes closed and empty his head of everything but sleep. It required an immense amount of concentration. Think of anything but and he would be done for, following the thread through to its conclusion, each vagrant thought branching out and groping for others, the crackling electrical activity in his brain growing louder. Too, K found it more interesting to roam about his mind like this. He felt it wilful to just snap the end off a thought and toss it away for the night. He secretly envied those capable of sleeping one second after the light goes out, so quickly they might have fallen down a well. He gazes around the room to see if anything moves him sufficiently to move, then casts his gaze inwards, where he feels a vast, silent weight asquat his centre of gravity. K tried many things. He had exhausted masturbation as a means to sleeping. Though he did not like to think he had cranked every last endorphin from his body, it was bound to happen sooner rather than later. He blacked out both windows with baking foil, to no end. He felt he had overegged the pudding: the room became so dark K was unsure whether or not his eyes were open. K removed the foil, by now feeling desperate. He said as much to Z, who laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. K was appreciative of this show of solidarity until he realised Z was wiping quiche from his fingers. Z suggested K might, as a measure, begin to tire himself out for nightfall by dint of exerting himself during the day, at which point K. flew into a white rage and threw Z out. Z returned the next day, drunk and sunburned. He put it to K he could at least resort to cheating. K shot him a cockeyed, curious look, and Z sang a brief praise of the gracious attitude towards prescription in this country, removed a fistful of pills from his pocket. K pushed a palmful around his palm: blues, scarlets, pinks, golds. The name of each was printed in miniscule lettering on the jacket, x's and z's scattered freely amongst vowels, some of which were huddled together in pairs, rounding out the extraterrestrial quality to the names. K wondered aloud whether chemical sleep was the proper course. Z clapped him on the back and retired to the living room. With a glass of water to gargle, K ate one blue, one scarlet, one pink and one gold. He crawled into bed with a fresh glass of water to await the effects. Gradually K began to feel his brain fill with a thick sludge, a considerable loss of motor functions too. Everything felt as though it had happened five minutes before. While K enjoyed this state of being, the last thing he felt like doing was sleeping. Some hours passed, the effects wore off and K was still awake.
He had not slept in three days and though his physical self was exhausted, his mind felt wide awake and gnawed at his jaded body. Z looped K's arm in his and led him out of the house to an adobe cottage nestled into the craggy side of the hill. The veranda was scattered with people sitting propped upon elbows, perched on flowerpots, crosslegged, blowing vertical cones of smoke, fluttering paper fans. Dogs scampered about, licking hands and sniffing crotches where they could. A band in the corner, doublebass, cornet, banjo, chirped out a Mills Brothers song. K felt his body's responses to have grown more sluggish, as though he was in control of it by means of rotting elastic bands. How do I land this thing? he said to Z, who vanished into the house, to reemerge with a canaryellow beanbag. He plumped it up with a genial flourish and invited K to sit. K sat, and for the first time in some length felt comfortable, like a bee in a crocus. Several elderly Spaniards danced, a slow backwards shuffle, closeheeled, hands on bellies. The last thought in K's head was that it looked like a serious business before he drifted up out of his sleeping physical self and around the veranda, mingling soundlessly with the other guests. Z sat perched upon a wall listening to a woman with kohled eyes tell of a minor collision she was involved in the previous week. No injuries to speak of, but the other driver, after an amicable exchange of details, had firmly laid the blame by her feet. K drifted over to take a closer look and had got to thinking she certainly had everything pushed up and out tonight when he heard the band squawk to a stop midsong and the guests fall silent, their gazes gravitating towards the beanbag where K lay sound asleep, hand thrust in his trousers, rubbing and moaning loudly.

why TNA is down...

I don't really know what's going on with TNA these days. I do know Polycarp has moved to the States and that his Internet connection is not great, also that he was (is) going to reconfigure the site, but other than that I'm not sure what the delay is.

Anybody have more info on this?

I'm going to e-mail him and try to find out more. Also, since no one has posted a story here yet I will probably post one later on today. For all members (and non-members): you may also post stories on the message board if you find it more convenient to do so. And please search your e-mail address book for any e-mails you might have of old TNA members; I'm still not sure how many know about this place...

Also FYI: Blogger gives you the ability to edit your own posts so if you post something here and want to correct it or add to it you can.

Have a good Monday and vote Kerry 'cause Bush is a traitor and incredible liar.