Spoonism

I submitted this to an online contest that offered $50 for the top prize. I didn't win. In fact, I didn't even make the top ten. I'm obviously doing something wrong. To see the rest, click here.

The entire world should convert to Spoonism. I converted last year, and it bettered my life instantly.

First, it allowed me to cast off those pesky clergy. Those dark-dressed fellas want all your Sunday mornings. Spoons don't. They're happy as long as munch the occasional bowl of cereal with them.

When tough questions come up, I hold the spoon and feel comfort in its shape. I call it spooning. Like embracing a loved one. Then a miraculous thing happens—I find my own solutions!

The nicest thing about Spoonism is I'll never fight anyone over it. The spoon doesn't care what other people think. Why should I? And who's going to object to a Spooner? Well, maybe those unemployed clergy. They just might attack us. In that case, spoons tend to be stored with knives.

Gold Teeth

Gold teeth is only a working title. This is very much in progress.

Whenever Philly sat down across from me with his pin-stripe suit and his pin-stripe grin, I knew he had something for me to sell.

“Whataya got for me?” I said.

“Too bad about The Big Man, aint it Grease?” Philly said.

I cocked an eyebrow. The Big Man was dead, finally, and no one was upset over it.

“Too bad?” I said.

Philly just grinned.

“Yeah, too bad,” he said.

I sat back in my chair and looked around the bar. The bartender washed glasses and waited for the post-dinner rush. I waited for Philly to tell me what he had, but he just kept showing his teeth.

“Alright, Philly, whataya got?” I said.

“Glad you asked,” Philly said.

He reached into his pocket and dropped two small gold lumps on the table. For a second I just stared at them. It didn't make any sense. Philly specialized in what he called “memorabilia.” Basically, he got his hands on things that were worth more for what they represented. Then it hit me.

“Are those The Big Man's teeth?”

Philly just grinned.

The Big Man wasn't very big, and he wasn't much of a man, but no one would have said that while he was alive. The few people that did, that saw him and didn't know he was The Big Man, wound up dead or worse. That's why he got the gold fangs, so that everyone would know who he was. And now they were staring up at me from a varnished table in a dive bar.

“How did you get them?”

“I gave the mortician's assistant a cool,” Philly said. “You should have seen the guy when he handed them over. He looked like he shit himself.”

“I bet,” I said. I poked one of the teeth and it rolled to the other side.

“So who do you think wants to buy 'em?” Philly said.

I didn't have to think long.

“Stilts,” I said.

***

All I said was “heya Stilts,” and she pinned my sleeve to the table with a knife.

“Don't ever call me that again,” Stilts said.

She glared at me, red hair and ice eyes.

“What gives?” I asked.

“You ever call me Stilts again, I cut off one of your fingers,” she said.

“I got it,” I said.

She pulled the switchblade out of the table and let me go. Then she shut it and leaned back in her chair. She wasn't huge, but she wasn't tiny either. She had the body of a boxer, and the personality too.

“The Big Man's dead. He gave me that name, so it's dead too. No more Stilts Mahoney,” she said. “I'm just Mahoney now.”

I waited for her to ask. She was too sharp to not know why I was there. She slipped her knife back into her breast pocket, and then she got to it.

“So what are you selling, Grease?” She said.

“Right now I'm looking for buyers,” I said. “I came to you first. I thought you'd be interested.”

“Get to it,” she said.

I nodded.

“I'm trying to move The Big Man's teeth.”

For a second, everything was still in the room, and silent aside from the click of the clock. Then Mahoney leaned forward, slow, and her chair creaked.

“His teeth?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

And she fell back again. Her eyes went wide, and she looked like I punched her in the gut and gave her a million bucks at the same time.

“How much?” she said.

“Well, I wanted to check out a few buyers, get some bids...”

“I want them now,” Mahoney said. “How much?”

***

“That's a lot of green,” Philly said.

“Do you think it's worth skipping bids?” I said.

Philly sipped a beer and nodded his head to Sinatra on the radio

“No, ” Philly said. “Nobody hated The Big Man more than Stilts Mahoney, and it's not like he had admirers, but I'd like to see more.”

I nodded. Then the song changed and my blood went cold. Trumpets climbed and fell, and then the drums came in.

“Is that...” I said. I didn't need an answer. Philly looked as cold as I did. It was Duke Ellington's Symphony in Black We both looked at the door.

The Big Man was big into his own legend. He used to have somebody cue up Symphony in Black any time he was going to enter a room. He would stand outside until Billy Holiday's voice broke in, then the door'd swing open, and The Big Man would step in with that gold-fanged grin.

The trumpets fell. In a second, Billy Holiday would sing. We both waited and stared. Then she broke in, and nothing happened.

We both let our breath go. We hadn't even realized we'd been holding it.

“Like he was in the room,” Philly said.

He pulled a ring box out of his pocket and flipped it open. The dim light of the room flashed of the teeth.

“Let's just sell 'em to Stilts,” Philly said.

I swallowed and a lump of relief hit my stomach.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just don't call her stilts.”

Evil in Mind

Officer McNealson peered through the windshield of the beige Volvo sitting dead on the side of the road. It's front bumper curled around a tree, and the grill split like ribs. Dried blood spattered like an inkblot across the windows. McNealson wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a headless body in the front seat.

“What do we have?” Officer Coolidge asked. He opened the door of the patrol car and stepped out.

“We got a dead one for sure,” McNealson said.

Coolidge circled the car and studied the blood on glass.

“Yeah. Dead,” Coolidge said. McNealson wiped his mouth.

“You want to do the honors?” Coolidge glanced at the door and turned away.

“Not really,” He said.

The two stood silent for a moment. Coolidge clicked his tongue and touched the butt of his gun. McNealson looked at the door and sighed, but his breath stopped suddenly. Coolidge turned.

“You see this?” McNealson said. He pointed at the car. Coolidge looked. The window gaped open, and a new scratch slashed toward the taillights.

“Hmph,” Coolidge said. His glance drifted to the cab, and he jerked away.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s definitely a headless body in there,” Coolidge said.

“That’s what I thought,” McNealson said.

McNeaslon stared down the road.

“Let’s just call this in and get on with our day,” McNealson said. “Homicide will have a fit if we touch anything.”

“Yeah. Maybe we can get some coffee afterward,” Coolidge said, “or a drink.”

“Yeah,” McNeally said.

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Family Secret

Gable discovered the loose brick in the back wall of his house. As he prodded at the edges with his fingers, he remembered how his mother told him not to fiddle with loose bricks. Like so many children, he didn’t listen to his mother.

He found a metal ruler and pried at the brick. It wiggled forward, millimeter by millimeter, wobble by wobble. Gable always possessed his father’s curiosity, but, then again, his father had disappeared three years earlier.

The police looked for him, sent out APBs and search teams. Gable’s mother cried when the police were there. Once they left she cursed her husband. Gable remembered his mother yelling, “His damned curiosity got him killed.”

The brick hung far enough out that Gable could grip it with the tips of his fingers. He pinched the rough red surface, and tugged. The block scraped a little farther out with each yank. With one last tug, the brick popped out and sent Gable tumbling into a pile of old paint cans. They tumbled like a car crash.

The brick landed next to his head. Black sludge covered one side of it, and it stank like rotting leaves.

A hole gaped in the wall. Gable hauled himself up. At the front of the house, a door whined open and slapped shut.

Gable peered in the hole. In the gloom, his father's decomposing face stared back at him. Gable froze.

Then he felt hands on his shoulders. Gable couldn't move. He just stared a the face in the darkness. Behind him, he felt his mother squat down. He felt her arms snake around his neck.

“Gable, honey,” his mother said.

She squeezed and his spine popped. His body went limp.

“What did I tell you about loose bricks?”

(end)

Ed's Cloud

Ask Ed about himself and he'll start, “Well, there's this cloud...”

And then he'll tell about the black cloud that follows him and rains shit on his life. But today he knows his goals.

His best friend Andrea needs to do some shopping and get home for winter break with the contents of her room. He has a simple plan: drive out with his girlfriend, meet Andrea and her new boy, have sex in Andrea's shower, tag along while she goes shopping, and then take her home.

“So you must like rain,” Andrea's boy, Ryan, says.

“Hm?” Ed says.

“Your black cloud theory,” Ryan says. “You're in a good enough mood.”

Ed half grins, half frowns. He thinks about the new wrinkle in the story. His mother wants to become an Episcopal priest, and she won't let Ed's father cosign any more loans. The bank won't let him take any more on his own.

“It hasn't hit me yet,” Ed says, “wait a couple hours.”

He bites into an ice cream sandwich even though he knows his immune system will attack his intestines as soon as the food gets there, but it tastes good, and he needs to eat sometime.

He quizzes Ryan on who he is, what he does and what he wants to do, and Ryan sets off some red flags. For one, he goes to a state college. Ed's never been real sure about state college guys, but Ryan doesn't seem typical of that crowd.

Then the Crohn's disease kicks in, and Ed puts his head on the table. His eyes pinch shut, but he holds down the moans of pain while monsters wrestle in his stomach.

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Price of Protection

I'm not to sure of this title. If you have a better idea, please tell me.

1.

Bradon never liked the monthly sacrifices, but he'd been noticing patterns lately, and that bothered him even more. He had to be there, though, Councilor Walker allowed nothing else.

He kept his mouth still and watched the girl in rags while the rest of the congregation murmured prayers. She didn't struggle. No, she marched with dignity toward the altar. The guards on either side never had to touch her.

Dressed in rags, Bradon thought.Just like the last three.

The girl now stood at the bottom of twelve granite steps. They climbed, in their almost living, veined way, to a platform defined by a dish with drain the middle. A seven foot high arch grew over the dish, and three spikes poked through the top of it. Rusty chains dangled from the sides.

A luminance hung in the center. Dull, ethereal, but strangely persistent, it lit the whole temple.

The guards looked at the girl, and she nodded—it was a slow, deep motion. When it finished, she stepped onto the first granite slab.

“It doesn't have to be this way,” Bradon muttered . “We could let the wall down, negotiate.”

The girl on his right ceased her prayer.

“Hush brother,” she said. “Councilor Walker knows what's best.”

“Why are you sure, Rice?” The young man said.

“Hush, Bradon,” Rice said. “Pray.”

Bradon quieted, but he didn't pray.

Now the girl stood in the glow. She turned toward the congregation, and positioned her feet on either end of the drain. She closed her eyes, the image of relaxation, and nodded. The guards nodded back.

One pulled a lever. Metal crashed and flesh tore, but she didn't scream.

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Rough Deal

The door clicks shut behind me. The players look up from their cards. Most look back to them after a brief glance, but Eddie's gaze lingers.

“Hey Rob,” Eddie says. “Pull up a seat.”

Eddie. There's history there. History I'm running from, but he's the first friendly face I see, so I yank out a chair and sit down.

“What's the buy in?” I say.

Eddie grins.

“It's a C. It's always been a C. You think it'd change in six months?”

I nod. Stupid.

“Right. Give me my stacks.”

“You want to wait for the big blind?” Eddie asks.

I look around the table. The dealer button sits in front of the player to my left. With eight people, I'd wait five hands before playing.

“No. Deal me in on the next,” I say.

Eddie gives me a look.

“Alright,” he says. He was right. It was a dumb move. I should have waited, it would give me time to watch the other players—figure out how they played, but instead I push in a $2 chip and wait for my cards.

I lose that hand, and I drop another $15 to pocket trips. I wouldn't have lost that if I had waited until the big blind. I would have seen that the guy with the mustache doesn't push his chips around lightly. I would have known that when he raised me $10, he had two pair or better.

After that, I chill for a while. I fold a lot and watch the play. Fatty bluffs—he bets a lot harder when he doesn't have anything. No one's called him yet, but I can see the relief on his face when the last player folds. He had squat. Four-eyes delays his raise most of the time. If he catches something on the flop, the first three cards, he waits until the fourth to make his move. Then there's mustache. He took the $15 off me. He doesn't push chips unless he feels he's safe. The other three are easy to read. Eddie and I keep out of each other's way.

Once I get my read on everyone, I start playing. In an hour, I'm up $50. I need $300 to cover bills, so I need to keep going. A year earlier, I might've taken all I needed off the table by now. I folded to a couple moves that were probably bluffs or people overvaluing their hands. I called a couple raises I shouldn't have.

“You're rusty,” Eddie said.

“Yeah,” I said. “It's been six months since I touched a deck.”

Eddie shuffled a pile of chips together.

“Rusty, and you're still ahead.”

“Like riding a bike, right?” I said.

Eddie grins. I know that grin. He has an idea.

My second card slides in front of me. Ten jack, both diamonds. I like ten jack suited.

“Four,” I say and drop two $2 chips in front of me. Eddie folds, followed by four others. That's about right. Fatty and Mustache pony up.

Eddie deals the flop: seven nine jack. The seven and nine are diamonds. The jack's a spade. I'm in good shape. Top pair, a long shot on a straight and nine outs for a flush.

“Eight,” I say. I drop another four $2 chips in the pot. Fatty folds. I raised too hard. I look at the flop cards and wait for mustache to drop as well. Then more chips clink into the pile.

“I call,” he says.

My face is stone, but I smile inside. Odds are good I have this one.

Eddie deals the turn, ten of clubs. Now I have twopair with a flush draw. Mustache was in before, so I raise harder.

“$20,” I say.

Mustache picks up two $10 chips and pauses. He taps them on his stacks, checks his cards, then picks up two more.

“I raise,” he says.

I toss my chips in and call. Eddie deals the river: five of hearts. That's not helping anyone.

I push my stacks at the pot.

“All in,” I say.

Mustache glances at his cards again. He jitters, and then pushes his in as well.

I flip my cards and a smug smile comes across my face, but it slips away when I see him grin. He turns his cards over, pocket nines.

“Trip nines,” he says.

My lips go dry.

“Tough break,” Eddie says. “Pay up.”

I stand and lick my lips. My mouth feels like cotton.

“About that,” I say. “I'm a little short. Could you cover me Eddie?”

“How short?” Eddie asks.

I swallow.

“All of it.”

Eddie's lips part in a snake's smile, teeth and dirty plans.

“Sure,” he says. He turns to Four-Eyes. “Cash me out. Leave $100 in. I'll be back for my part.”

Then he turns to me. “Let's talk about payment.”

“I can get it to you as soon as—”

“No,” he says. “Let's talk outside.”

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