Sep
8
Excerpted from TWI:
I understand how scissors can beat paper, and I understand how rock can beat scissors, but there is no fucking way paper can beat rock. Is paper supposed to magically wrap around the rock and leave it immobile? Why can’t paper do this to scissors? Screw scissors, why can’t paper do this to people?! Why aren’t sheets of college ruled notebook paper constantly suffocating students as they take notes in class? I’ll tell you why, because paper can’t beat anybody! A rock would tear that shit up in like 2 seconds. When I play rock paper scissors I always choose rock. Then when somebody claims to have beaten me with paper I can punch them in the face with my already clenched fist and say, “Oh, shit, I’m sorry, I thought paper would protected you, you asshole!”.
Sep
4
His watch informed him that it was 8:19 when he approached the lacquered white door of the house. He had a habitual tic of looking at his watch every five or seven minutes. The watch was silver and uncomfortable on his wrist, so he was perpetually adjusting it, which made him check the time.
8:20. Barely dark.
His silver Schlage key slid into the lock on the front door and he twisted it to the left. The steel door opened inward and was followed by the characteristic “beep beep beep beep” of the internal alarm system informing the occupants that someone has crossed a threshold. He entered, glad the alarm wasn’t armed, and closed the door behind him with a slick metal click. The house was very quiet and it alarmed him ever so slightly. Both of his parents’ cars were parked in the front drive and they would have been home, sitting on the couch, watching Scrubs reruns on Comedy Central. It was a weeknight after all.
He hung his keys on the hook by the front door, doffed his raincoat and pitched it over his arm and kicked his sneakers off. His parents hated it when he did that. He would pick them up later. When they shouted at him.
“Mom? Dad?” he inquired, poking his head around the hallway, toward the living room.
He padded in stocking feet to the threshold of where the entryway met the great room. The room had vaulted, 16 foot ceilings that reached an apex in the center of the room and from which hung a long, pole mounted ceiling fan. This time of year it turned at low RPMs, moving the cooler air coming out of the air conditioning vents downward, toward the floor.
Two couches sat perpendicular to each other in the room. They were camel colored microfiber couches and they were reasonably new. Two figures were seated in the main couch, across from the love seat. They were his father and his mother, and they held each other in an embrace.
He was instantly embarrassed.
There was nothing worse in live than walking in on a romatic moment between your parents. But there was something quietly eerie about the way they were seated.
“Mom? Dad?” He again inquired. There was no movement.
His heart dropped into his stomach.
He circled around to the front of the couch, dropping his rain coat and falling to his knees. His parents were still; frozen in time. Their eyes were closed and they embracing each other. There was a look of quiet peace on their faces but aside from that they were pale, ghostly white.
They were both dead.
[To Be Continued]
