The little girl lowers her massive glistening broad sword, slaying the evil and malicious kitty. He winces in pain, he smacks his head on the floor, a trap door opens the pantomime kitty falls though. She has become victorious. The land is hers once more, and free. The speech is given, addressed to the audience, and all the deceased cast members stroll out on stage joining her for a final bow and many curtain calls. The tiny girl in her small silvery cardboard armor raises up her sword, a final salute, concluding the play.
The parents cheer, final bows are given as some cast members rush off stage wiping off makeup, flowers are given to the leads, and kisses blown. The dust rises off the seats as the people begin to move out, shafts of light enter the auditorium, cutting through the air. The curtain falls and the music swells to the last thump of the drums and the stage lights and spots fade out.
There is a crowd of children gathering, rushing to the stage, pushing their fingers through the red velvety curtain, finding a separation or fingering a hole. Parents climb to the steps, grabbing hold round waists, around shirt sleeves, pulling back and scolding.
There is a party afterwards. Punch and cookies for the kids, the school cafe. The lunch tables are out, with fine white clothes covering over, covering the many spotted kool aid stains, or where whats her name had her first period, covered over by a cloth.
The janitor stands there, with a mop in his hands, Elmo. The lunch lady, Flo, with her little teddy bear name tag, and her horn rimmed glasses, looking out the window, with her hair net.
The principle arrives just in time, adjusting the microphone on stage, testing one-two-three over the PA, too much Feedback, a shriek rumbles the seats.
Kids, and their families start rolling on in, mostly still in make up, but dressed up. They climb over the tables, sticking their tiny fingers in the cheese dip, licking them off, fists stuck in mouths and mumbling words like "this is good". Mister Linder, still in make up purrs, rubs up against all the young ladies, hisses and scowls, claws away at them. The girls scream and cry into laughter. The tv is brought out, with a vcr, a tape of the last show is played.
;************************************************************
The Sweeper
New York City 1902
I have responsibilities.
The street was cold, the people were colder, troubling it is, and how sad it seems, to see them in black veils and thick black suits following the carriage. Men and women, following along, through the streets, over the cobblestones, through the muck and snow. Past the wandering eyes of old housewives and
gossipers peeking behind window curtains and through the crack of a door, to endure all that. The children, the little gentlemen with small neckties and lovely girls dressed in lace, the sniveling brats tagging along underfoot, or being dragged along by their heels, by shirt sleeve or by ear. The ladies, how lovely
they looked to me, lifting up their veils only for an instant, to see their makeup smear down their red cheeks. A laced delicate hand lifts up a handkerchief to dabble and dot away their tears, and then stops to bend down next to them to tend to the disobedient child, fidgeting; whipping blubbering snot on his
sleeve. The stout men with long mustaches, waxen ends twirled up, dressed in dark suits with neckties and large lapels, the regal footfalls as they follow along in the funeral procession.
The back end of the carriage is made of glass, it offers a glimpse of the casket. The dark carved wood back, with the two boys sitting on the back, dirty- they shall bury it when the ceremony is over. Death does not faze them anymore, they have seen the bloated embalmed bodies lying naked on the cold slab in
the basement, they have the smell of the chemicals, its in their blood, they smell of the grave. The carriage driver sits up ahead, with his top hat and cloak, in charge of the horses with the whip in one hand, and the reins in the other. The have a boy walking up ahead, dressed in fine clothes, in front of everyone, they always get a young boy who can cry well, tears must come easy, when he moans it is reflected off the sides of the buildings, it signals death is coming.
This day, the work horses left large road apples, big smelly ones with steam and smoke rise up from them. This is my job, I walk behind the carriage with the big oaf horses trotting along, and when one of the horses decides to relieve itself, I must do my job. I have sawdust and hay in my wheel barrow, which I
sprinkle on the pile and sweep or scrap it up off the pavement, quick enough before the funeral party comes upon it and dirties up their shoes. I like the New York Times, the reporters there are full of themselves so their paper is always thick of nonsense as it is, the pages wrap well along my feet, they make nice
shoes; nice warm shoes.
This day was the funeral of a politician of sorts, some sort of neighborhood leader, he wasn't liked much from the vile words cursed at the mourners and tomatoes tossed, some person called
out from the streets saying he was a crook of sorts, aren't all politician supposed to be crooks? Someone shouted out something about "The Black Hand". It doesn't matter to me who he was, the body changes each time, but the parade marchers always remain the same. I followed along the cobblestone road, just as I always do, bowing my head, looking as sorrowful as I can, this is grim work I do. The farmboy must have fed the horses some sour mash, they dropped more than they usually do and it was all runny, I used up
all my sawdust before we made two blocks, so I was forced to use the hay and sweep it up.
Before long, the strangest thing I noticed, after awhile the shit became larger, one strange pile I came across must have been hard for the horse to pass, it had something hard in it, and it was smoking. Strange horrid pea green smoke filled the air, I nearly passed out from the stench. Vile and disgusting it was, I
picked it up with my shovel and disposed of it quickly on the side of the street. The children all cringed, and covered their noses with handkerchiefs. As we walked along, getting closer to the cemetery, more and more of these horrid shit piles appeared. I thought how strange it was, and I was determined to seek out
the farmboy and give him a good lashing when I find him, for whatever he fed the horses was causing this mess.
It was not to be, we stopped suddenly, one of the horses became stubborn, then after a few harsh words from the driver, the horse fell to the pavement, then both horses fell. The carriage tipped forward, and all the funeral party rushed up to see the sick horses. Then what I saw next, I shall never forget as long as I live. I was sweeping along the road side behind the mourners, cleaning up some mess, waiting for the horses to get up. Well, it must have been something they ate, because both horses exploded. I saw it, big pieces of these two horses flying in the air. It was almost a wave of this scarlet blood that trickled down the street. The carriage, the driver, the two boys who sat at the back and most of the mourners were all killed, it
was horrible I remember. They were all there, with this vile green shit and blood all over their lifeless bodies, with other strange shrapnel which must have been fed to the horses and penetrated out of their stomachs when they blew up. It was horrible. The papers the next day said it was a Mafia slaying,
rival families killing each other, it was a nice big story, I made nice new shoes out of it.
*************************************************************************************************
She was a lovely creature, walking in with a parasol. This was the party she had been invited too. Not I, I wasn't invited. Luckily she had brought me along. There was a game being played just before dinner out among the shiny wood floor. Children in long coats skidded across and crashed into a wooden china cabinet among the veranda.
The "Macarena" played on the speakers some place in another room perhaps. It was like another play thing, like pin the tail on the donkey, just another distraction. The clown that was hired taught some of the older kids to do the dance, he placed his white balloon hands on his hips and swayed them, gyrating as the kids followed along as best they could.
The girl I came with brought me back some punch from the bar, she handed it to me in a tiny tea cup. We sipped our drinks and walked along the other dancers, some sweaty- doing headspins and breakdancing on cardboard boxes in the middle of the room.
We walk among a length of table, little fondue pots with glowing blue flames underneath made the strange liquid inside bubble and steam out. She bent down to fetch a thin fork, she lanced a piece of meat on the prongs and dipped it in one of the pots. She could do this, she was really 28, but to everyone else who didn't know her she appeared to be 16. I wasn't worried her secret was safe with me. The meat was cooked, a strange thin green string of cheese hung down off the meat, as she nibbled it. She took my arm in hers as we walked along the balcony. To the inside boys and girls paired off into couples. This is what it meant to be sixteen again. With no adults anything could happen and more than likely it would. Gladly everyone was tested for tuberculosis and carried a condom.
The apartment was gigantic in length, nearly the size of a football field. Suddenly the song changed, the room was filled with the sounds of house music. It scared some of the younger kids as they covered their ears and ran off to cower in some dark hallway with a pillow clutched tightly in their grip. The older ones, feeling their skills, seduced the dance floor.
It was a circle we had returned to the cloak room where we had started from, the tiny top hats and long coats hung along the tinker toys and barbed wire. The night was drawing near, the sounds of heavy breathing reflected off the moldings
****************************************************
Philip Barnes, Psi - Psychic Detective
"Mrs Brennan, will you please decide which will it be? You can pick any of them from letter A all the way down to letter R, that's more than enough nose choices to choose from." Philip holds a book open between his knees, flipping through.
"Oh, Mrs Brennan, this one here is you, most defiantly, look at that shape, it's perfect, just the amount of angle, it doesn't jut out too far, nor is the tip too big. The nostirls are pretty even, well porportioned, and no nose hair. What do you think?"
The basket at his feet, just sits there, not moving, still, contemplating it's own features. The urn is still undecided, Barnes looks exhausted.
"I don't know professor, but I don't think that's me." Mrs Brennan sends.
"Detective, Madame.",Barnes stands up, stretching is cramped back, exhausted and perturbed. "Well do any of you ladies know how you want to be remember as?" The other urns sit silent, until finally some of them speak up.
"I want to be remember as a big white rose."
"Mary, that's a plant."
"I can be remember what ever way I want to be, isn't that right Doctor Barnes?"
"Of course Madame, a rose is a perfect thing, it is simple and it's humble, pleasant, image that will remain for eternity." Barnes thinks he has them there.
"An eternity, how long is that? I don't know about you, but I would rather be something other than a silly old plant for the rest of time. Here, let me get a closer look at that book, I want to be beautiful for ever!"
Barnes shakes his head.
There are these old wicker baskets laid over this warehouse floor, they are all empty except for these four or five still with remnants of past lives, with actual ashes, bone pieces, a wig in one of them. At one end of the warehouse is a small group of people loading up the baskets onto a truck, they are from PIER ONE.
Barnes is on a bed, in the room of the last know victim of Jack the Ripper. The house is still in use, there is a bed in the middle of the room with blue sheets. Barnes sits on it, trying to tap into the bed's psychic energy, and to see what it tells him of the surroundings. At first nothing happens, Barnes concentrates, and there is a set of keys on the wall on a hook, it shutters and rises off and over the room. Barnes feels pretty successful, that he has initiated somekind of contact with somekind of spiritual force. All of a sudden the bed he is sitting on begins to shake, and nearly throws him off onto the floor. Barnes gets the message and gets off the bed, but when he is on the floor examines it, and notices something. He shoves the bed over against one wall, and then Barnes stretches himself out on the blue carpeting, there are spots there, that the bed was hiding, not blood stains mind you, but white spots, like the carpeting has been slowly worn away. He focuses his powers upon that section of the floor, at the door way he see's the killer, Jack the ripper himself, He has a knife raised up over his head, ready to strike down. Jack seems startled, scared, Barnes thinks he isn't just watching this, but is somehow involved in the last ripper slaying. Jack strikes down in to the air, he runs off out into the hallway. Barnes now, not injured in anyway, is curious, and follows, in the hallway is the killer, but now his throat is slashed, and he is choking and coughing, holding onto the wound, but blood pours out between his fingertips.
"OH, did you hear that Madame?" Barnes shouts off to the kitchen. The Siamese yaps away, raising his paw swiping away at Barnes fist. There is a plastic noose around the cat's throat, like the ones used by a animal control officer, to control pitbulls and other dangerous animals. This cat really isn't dangerous, merely insane.
The woman returns back from the kitchen, holding two porcelain cups of hot water, and a tea bag on the saucer. She is hopping to see some results, she has paid enough, but Barnes is good, better than that pet shrink who understands animal language, Philip Barnes is a psychic and can understand what an animals thinks!
The Woman lunges for Barnes, spilling the hot water in his lap, she grabs onto the cat, it disappears in between the cleavage of her massage chest. Barnes stands up shaking off the scolding water, swearing under his breath, "Madame, I strongly suggest you get rid of this mangy beast, your cat, I believe is demented." Barnes puts out his finger tips, lightly pushing them into the sides of the woman's breasts, grabbing hold of the cat, and pulling it out. The woman breaks down sobbing.
"Your feline, in my personal opinion should be destroyed; in case you have not already discovered you cat believes himself to be the literal reincarnation of Gangis Khan." Barnes extends his hand to separate the woman and her pet. "Your cat must be killed, there is no way around it," Barnes cradles the cat in one arm, and the other hand, searches the inside of his coat and pulls out a revolver, Barnes rests the tip of the gun against the cat's forehead. "I'm sorry Madame, but this must be done, and of course I will help you clean up the mess."
"YOU FOOL!" the cat, Gangis said.
Barnes snarls back his teeth, "I've known your plan the minute I walked in. Kitty, you're not leaving this apartment, ...ALIVE!"
Barnes cocks the hammer back.
"OH, gotta get out of here, where is my horse? I'll show you petty creature how to die!" Gangis struggles to escape, and to find his horse, in fact any horse. He wriggles he was out of Barnes's grip, Gangis's back paw's dig into his fist, but the cat stops short of actually escaping. Barnes is in control of the noose, Gangis is going nowhere.
.
get yer arse back....
Hosted by www.Geocities.ws

1