Fast Food Fiction
Volume 1, Issue
© Larry Michael Garmon Swain
All Rights Reserved
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All is Forgiven
The pounding on the wall was syncopated with the pounding in his head.
Finally, the handyman who was supposed to fix the hold in the outside wall—the hole created by a wild bird who only wanted a sheltered place in which to build her nest and lay her eggs—had arrived; but, of course the handyman had arrived at the most inopportune time: The time in which The Writer wanted to write.
Perhaps The Writer should have just killed the bird, devoured her eggs, and her, and then he would have had a bit of peace in which to write, as well as an exotic meal.
The house wasn’t old, but it had sat for years unattended like a witch’s wart, in the otherwise pristine neighborhood, shrouded with weeds and tall, thorny grasses that looked more at home on Golgotha than in Junebug’s lone version of the ‘burbs.
That is, until The Writer had moved into the house, sedating the brutishness of the neighborhood. The Writer was the garlic to the wart house, and soon even the weeds and thorny grasses withered and died.
The handyman’s pounding on the outside wall got worse, grew louder. The shrill chirping of the bird staged at his eardrums. The Writer had not anticipated the bird’s terror at being walled into the side of the house. The Write wished his floor was not a concrete slab, wished the flooring was wooden planks that he could yank up—to throw the handyman into and then board up, give me a taste of his own medicine.
The small cinder block sat just outside the back door. Just a chunk, actually. Just big enough to fit into The Writer’s hand. The cinder block offered a small amount of hope; but, still, it was some hope. Wasn’t it?
The Writer hadn’t expected the blood to speckle the dimples of the cinder block, nor the small bits of skull shards and brain matter to dapple the gray black with a bit of horrorshow flecking.
The hypnotic speckling dimpled the pitting of his brain as well.
Now, though, he had the peace and quiet to write. Digging and burying would come after he wrote his daily allotment of words. And only then. He pugnaciously slapped his fingers on the keys, smearing the A, the F, the J, and the ‘/” keys with a smidgen of the handyman’s blood.
The devil on his should was about to order a whisky when The Writer slapped his forehead: He had yet to do the laundry, and now he wondered if the detergent he had bought the day before would remove blood stains, as well as the bits of flesh and bone. Maybe the rose-tinted keys as well.
Writing would have to wait yet a bit longer.
Cinder Block Solutions left rather disgusting after effects—PhotoShop couldn’t patch up the mess.
However, he had been inspired—blood, and bits of flesh and bone enlivened his creative acumen.
Still, though, the laundry had to be done. He stood, thrust his blood-soaked hands into the elastic band of his pajamas, and stomped towards the laundry room. To Hell with the laundry. He spun around and headed back to his two-toned keyboard.
Flaming his latest ex-lover on Facebook would be a well-chosen respite instead.