Twisted Treatises

A Rudimentary Eye-Tunnel. I thought I woke up. I even made coffee. I didn't add milk and creamer. I headed for the garage, easing the loud door open so as not to wake anyone. I could see the scrapes in the paint where the edges of the door have scratched against the jamb. A spot of catarrh, and I sniffled it up. A little shaky, but why? I step out, it is cold, and I turn the light on.  A man around my height is caressing the leaves of my bubblegum plant. He wears a fedora and a black suit. He must have heard me, for he turned, ever slightly--what hits me first is the eyes. They are silver and hold a skin-cutting cast upon my own weathered face. They flash blue. Brown and red, then black to blue again. "Why are you growing weed in the cold?" he asks in his half-nod smack drawl. But he's from another time. "Don't you mean pot?" I asked. "No, I mean weed. We called it that before the kids began using the word pot. You miss that?" It comes to me. J

Long ago, I lived in this house in Elgin, IL, and it was bloody damn haunted.  My wife, now ex-wife, and I moved there in 2013 for various reasons, not the least of which was that she wanted to see another place than Chattanooga. I thought we might have an easier time of things--I had too many drug connections I wanted to leave behind, had lost everything both square and artistic, and was still foolish enough to believe relocation would make any sort of difference. Also, I hadn't seen my own family in years. We secured jobs, Jessica at a sports bar and me at Fisher Nuts. But-- Shortly after, while we made small talk with my mother in the kitchen w hat looked like a puff on a vape (then called e-cigs) flew across the foyer. My mother jumped, faintly grinning.  "Did you guys see that?" she asked. Jessica nodded. "It looked like a smoking elf," I said.  "This house is haunted," my mother said. "I forgot to say that." Jessica only liked paranorma

I shouldn't have eaten that stupid pie. Microbe pie. Biohazard pie. Wrong breath or fingers on the pie. Why'd you have to look so yummy? Why can't I see the debilitating little bacterial bastards dancing on your flaky crust? Nope. I saw that goddamn piece of pie and thought, "Yum! Shit, it'll be al-RAHHT!" I do that too much, and it tends not to be alright when I do. But then I don't want to walk around thinking everything is always going to be bad either, as a neurotic does, because that's way more harmful to me than any cold. Eh. Fuck it. I popped that night sweat yesterday so perhaps I'm on the other side of it. The keyword is PERHAPS. No. It isn't COVID. I still haven't had the Government Flu, and I'm not going to anticipate it. Mostly because I know my emotional investment in a thing one way or the other tends to have absolutely no bearing on the thing in and of itself or whether it will affect me. I'll either get the shit or I