Megalomaniac’s Machination
December 2, 2009
Megalomaniac’s Machination by J.C. Combs
I entered a room. Twenty people stood in various poses, chatting about this and that. “Why, I heard that Nixon ordered an investigation,” a man in a flowery yellow suit replied and then took a puff from an Ashton. “Felines are immune,” I made out from another conversation at the window at one end of the flat, “but not all, not half breeds.” Two elderly ladies nearby sat facing each other in red velvet chairs, both adorning gigantic white wigs and long painted black glue-on fingernails. “Let me read your palm,” said a young man who approached the elderly lady in the chair to the left. She blushed, slightly embarrassed, extended her hand and nodded. He took her hand and turned it palm up. He steadily ran his index finger along the lines and cracks of her palm, all the while his eyeballs rolling forward and backward, almost seizure-like. He then became calm and at once let go of her hand. “What I see in your future,” he began when out of nowhere the young mystic was smashed in the head by a statue head of Beethoven. The young man who just seconds before feigned seizure-like activity was now in full spastic dance, blood spurting from his eyeballs, legs kicking, arms flailing. All attention was directed toward the wielder of Beethoven’s head who stood over him laughing blissfully. The man shouted, “anyone want to read his mind?”
Homicidal Thoughts
May 15, 2009
Homicidal Thoughts by J.C. Combs
I used to admire you. As I walked past every day, quickly glancing your direction, I could smell your pleasant scent wafting through the air. I also noticed your curves and how you were the quiet type, never making even a sound. But all that changed, didn’t it?
I used to think it was his fault. He was attracted to you because of your beauty. How could I fault that, you had no choice in the matter.
I remember the first time I thought about splitting you open with an axe. I was on my route and, as always, anticipated seeing you. As I neared, I made out a conversation you were having with some dirty, rotten bastard. You were talking sweet with him. But as I listened closer I realized you were just being polite and it was really that creep, the horror of a man, who was making all the moves. He wouldn’t quit. I closed my eyes as I passed and a vision of an axe appeared in my mind’s eye. I remember thinking, almost out loud, ‘but it isn’t your fault I know! Why then do I fantasize about killing you in the worst way?’
As days turned into weeks, as the same foul man persisted in visiting you, I realized the truth. The only way to fix the problem was to take that axe and chop you into little pieces.
The very next day as I was leaving to carry out the sinister plan, I put on the trench coat tucked away in my closet, which I’d been dying to wear since the late 80s and carried the axe underneath. I looked like I was about to pull out a weapon, but I didn’t care! No one was going to stop me. You might wonder, what about the bastard? Well he had it coming too. Would he be there, playing her with those sick, disgusting, egregiously sappy lines? I hoped so.
As I entered the lobby, my eyes reflected one thing, murder. Sure enough, the scoundrel, the cad, was putting the syrup on with large strokes. I think it was “Piano Man,” “Feelings,” or “Chariots of Fire,” I can’t remember, everything was a blur. I only recall the continual horror of his Satanic left hand rolling from C to E to G to the C and back and back and back! “You’re fucking killing it with sugar!” I wailed as I pulled out the axe and with one furious swing chopped the swine’s head off. As his head lay spinning atop the once beautiful grand piano, I promptly started the work I came to finish. Starting with the legs, “crack, boom, wham,” THUD.
She now had no legs, but for once she made the most beautiful music. Overtones intertwining, screaming, yelling. Pain! I looked around and saw people running for every exit.
That’s the problem with people, they hear the real beauty, the innermost articulation of our deepest fears and regrets, and they run for the exits. Well the next time you try that, just remember who might be standing right outside the door!
Asleep at the Keys
April 30, 2009
Asleep at the Keys by JC Combs
I am asleep, dreaming of typing obscure thoughts – elephants, speck of chipped paint distorts, sudden conversation, shadowless objects, shhhh. Xi Hu Longjing in a bag, protesters, pigs, blood-sucking aphids, daffodils; peering into a curved mirror, volcanic glass. “Wait, I know the name, don’t remind me.” “Mercury,” she interrupted. “Jupiter,” I replied. “O Father Sky God.” She laughed. I smiled. “Juno and Minerva,” she continued. “Feel free to interrupt me.” We both laughed as the Sapphire skyline gave way to Amaranth. Gusts of wind pushed against our backs and around and around. A figure-eight medley. We sat atop the cliff, legs dangling over the edge, dreaming. “Not just yet,” she said. “But a dream is always short,” I consoled her as now she was sad. “Sometimes,” she whispered faintly, “it can go on seemingly forever.” She elaborated, but the sound of her voice had disappeared and a flash of lightning broadcast across the canyon. A thunderclap followed.
