Cornelius lost his head…just went completely off. One moment he was calm, cool and collected, the next – frantic and frustrated. He had no idea where he left the darned thing. It was gone without a clue. Sometimes he left it somewhere he wanted to remember to return to later (which was smart, right?) but couldn’t remember where it was later without his head. Some times it just rolled off and bounced away on its own. Somebody said he should get it fixed… but it wasn’t broken. That’s just the way he was. Besides, what would all the others say if HIS was permanent…but what does everybody else do when they lose theirs? Oh phoooey!! Permanent heads…..that’s just crazy, it just isn’t done!
***While we stay strictly and completely away from politics on this blog, I can’t help but notice how much John’s image resembles the American electorate in each election cycle (although for this one – 2016 – I should have an image of a moron chugging draino). It was originally published in Analog Magazine, Sept., 2006. My short, flash-fiction fragment is good for keeping my twitter friends comfortable. Long posts make them skiddish. -Marsha
I am Joe’s big left toe nail. See me soar through the air like a demented boomerang. I know not where I shall land but I’ll probably miss the trash bin because Joe’s ability to aim the stuff he spits out is for shit.
I guess Joe finally got tired of my glorious reign at the tip of his big toe as master of all I surveyed. I must have threatened his manhood (or ruined the toe of one too many socks). He tried to clip me with a fingernail trimmer but I valiantly resisted – and broke it – so he got pissed off, sat down on the toilet and bit me right off his toe with his teeth.
I say, ‘Good riddance to Joe!’ I shall become king of all the gross stuff next to his overflowing trash can – as I can see that I am already the mightiest of all the toe nails there and I shall rule for an eternity, since Joe is far too lazy to clean his friggin’ bathroom, which smells like the squeaky ass end of a dead rhinoceros on a hot, sunny day.
***Yes, we have the cult classic “Fight Club” to thank for the inspiration for this flash-fiction fragment. It originated as a prompt in our Saturday ‘Free-Write’ workshop with the Montclair NJ Write Group. I pilfered the “Feet” image from one of John’s horrible Clown illustrations, slated for publication in 2017 in our book, “Bludgeon the Clown”. -Marsha
Stop complaining! Stop protesting! You have your rights but don’t really need ’em. We are the government. We’re in control. This is American freedom. Anarchists, Hippies and Clowns, beware. We have the guns. We know what’s best. If you make our corporate bankers upset we’ll pummel you under arrest.
***This is an excellent post for all the weeks of blowback we’ve had, not just in the U.S. but around the empire…all predicted, all preventable and all inevitable. And what’s next?…history will tell you. This week’s image is a page from our new book, “Marsha Mellow’s Blue-ish Freaks”. -Marsha
They were big and beefy and incredibly strong. They were aggressive, pointing their weapons everywhere and smelled like belligerent fear as they shouted and snarled. They wore plate armor like insects but they were pasty and bony underneath with beady eyes and a ridiculous tuft of hair on their tiny heads – like hand puppets. They were most definitely …ALIEN!
When they landed their starship in my back yard and demanded, “Take me to your leader!” I was so stunned – so baffled that I just froze and blinked at them. Their exasperated captain tried again, “Where are your leaders?!” with a sneer of contempt, as if I was a child. I simply shrugged and said, “Search me…”
Now, I don’t know if they misunderstood me or just had a REALLY strange sense of humor…..but being held down in a medical lab with a gnarly probe approaching my buttocks is taking things waaaaaay too literally.
***This one reminds me of my last colonoscopy…And can anybody explain what the deal is with Aliens and anal probes? Every single time; anal probe – anal probe – anal probe. They’re almost as bad as the CIA (though, at least Aliens ask intelligent questions). This was the (lucky) 13th cover John did for Analog/Asimov’s Magazines. -Marsha