Stories for long foggy days

Living in a Snow Globe

Three children lived in a life-sized snow globe. There was a snow piled yard and beyond that, the glassy walls of the snow globe. The landscape beyond was mostly empty flat snowy lands with sprinkles of trees and other snowglobes. Some times these other snowglobes would light up at night like their globe. Some of the other globes were always dark. Timmy wandered if any children lived in those gloves that light up and if no one lived in the always dark ones. A couple snow globes he could see had shattered domes. He imagined the bones of dead children nestled within those houses.Little Timmy shivered in his bed. He had the coldest room in the life sized snow globe. Drafts from the frozen yard sticking fingers through cracks in the walls. The wind always came from the North and that's where the big windows of his room faced. His brother and sister had bigger rooms on the other side of the house. That was the privilege of being older they said. The only heat from these rooms came from electric fireplaces. Molded out of plastic and realistically, but now cracked and faded made to look like a real fireplace. When on, and they only worked about three hours a day the fake logs would light up red and the room would get a little warmer in temperature and heart. Timmy's fireplace didn't work anymore. It was just a colder dark corner now. It stopped working thirteen weeks ago. All the fireplaces used of make popping, crackling log sounds. None of them do now. It's always winter, there is always deep snow on the ground on the snowglobe. Sometimes Timmy only needs a sweater to keep warm. But sometimes it's bitter cold and he spends most of his time huddled around the bigger fireplace in the living room. It still makes crackling wood like sounds and it lights up so pretty.

Time for dinner. His sister Mandy or his brother Kevin would always fix supper. Timmy was not tall enough to reach the stove without pulling a chair over. He had a low attention span and only knew how to heat up soup anyway. The stove was powered by being wound up. You get about fifteen minutes of low heat per vigorous wind. Little Timmy lacks the strength but more so, the body weight to spin that old crank. Mandy was the best cook. Tonight it was toasted bread with tuna on top. And kool aid! There is no way out of the snowglobe that the kids know about, yet somehow food and other supplies come in and the waste can contents go somewhere over night. Not every night, but in time they always end up empty and all the kids claim they did not empty them. Where would it go except to the yard under snow? All the kids believed in Mom and Dad. That's who brings the food in and takes the trash out. But they never see their parents except sometimes, mostly holidays where they manifest as warm soft yellow globes of light. Timmy don't remember them as people you can talk face to face with. But his older siblings do. They refuse to tell him much about those times saying he is from a younger generation and he shouldn't be here. Timmy has no right to live being as he is generation G and they are generation F.

There was not much to do. Timmy got bored a lot. They used to watch Tv. There was an old black and white wooden unit with a build it radio and record player. The olders controlled what they watched most of the time. About the only show Timmy liked that his brother also enjoyed was the Twilight zone and Star Treck. His sister liked the rock concert films and boring soap operas about bad boys causing the stars all sorts of trouble desire and heart break. Turns out Tina's true love Brock as had the whole female cast and they all keep breaking up and going back to him. None of that matters anymore because the Tv stopped showing anything but grainy white noise and flashes gray patterns. Timmy watches the patterns some times when brother and sister are not around to stop him. The radio lasted nearly a year longer. Timmy loved the radio, they all did. And they all even agreed on the same station. The rock n pop station with radio D J's Gay C playsome and Wolf Entity Mack. It was a hard lost when all the radio stations went to creep simple repetitive electronic patterns. Timmy would toggle through the stations late at night when he would sneak into the living room to sleep in front of the electric fireplace. If he couldn't sleep he would drfit through the electronic studders and blips. A few times he would pick up a signal, strange music, or people talking. Golden magic times were these. Music like he never heard before but which stirred him. Music he could feel deeper than his bone marrow. Music from some other lived he had lived before maybe. Now he re read his comic books for entertainment. He only owned six of them and they were wearing out from so many times being flipped though. He loved the locations in these comics. Snowless bounderyless outdoor scenes. Other buildings. Even under-water and flying scenes! Freedom!

It was the month of Walpurkis. The beginning of four solid weeks of bitter cold. Timmy slept 8-11 hours a day all of this month. He is sleeping now having a dream.....In his dream he finds a cupcake outside! No one is looking so he pockets it before his brother can see it and take it. His brother was twice his height and bulbous fat. He ate 60 % of all the food and sometimes they had to skip a meal or two waiting for the mysterious night re stock because Kevin had eaten up all the food in the house.

After some vague apocalypse

• 1

It's not clear what happened. I was asleep at the time. Maybe we all were. There is no federal government, most towns and cities have no government to speak of. Society has broken and no one holds the big picture to fix it with. This is all disturbing and shocking enough. But why doesn't anyone I meet have a clue about the details of what happened. Even the time that society fell is some foggy muddled memory. More like a collection of uneasy feelings then memories. A strong feeling that below the surface hard cruel details lurk behind a veil of confusion and numbed reaction. The deepest part of my back brain is clogged with the unsettling feeling that we are all dead and that this is a strange and somewhat disappointing afterlife.

It didn't take long for electricity to go out. For TV and radio transmissions to stop. The internet on my phone lasted a couple weeks after everything else went but it has stopped too. I remember a few weeks of panic and confusion. Not having hardly anything to eat and the roads getting broken from the earthquakes that rumbled the heart land in pattern like waves. Finally while I was out walking for entertainment a quake opened up a sinkhole that ate my home. It was a hovel anyway but I hated to see it go. Along with the meagerness of the everything I owned. I didn't know hardly anyone at this point and my job had closed it's doors a couple of weeks ago.

My first temporary home was a big hay barn that is never used for anything anymore and in bad condition. It is on a farm where the descendants of the dead farmer are tied up wasting away estate credits in court. Cold and drafty with gaping sections missing from the roof. Coyotes howling at night waking me with the mad moon full in they star sprinkled sky. The moon like a bloated nut sack desperate to unleash its load onto the sexy black felt of the sky.

I stayed a couple cold miserable nights there in that barn. There was an old pump for water that still worked so I had all the water I wanted. I even washed my face and hands. Such luxury. Already having a home seemed like an old memory. But I was hungry and I scavenged all over the abandoned farm. Going through a couple broke down cars I found a dollar thirty-seven. Enough for one of those skinny burritos at the Trip Quick. So off I started the nearly hour and a half long walk to get one. The road there is dangerous. Cars always driving fast and they will fucking hit you on purpose if there is no one else on the road to witness it. The cops are harsh. So it's a risky journey. I encounter no one on the dirt roads that lead to the paved one to the convenience store. About fifty minutes walking to go. The ditches along this road are mostly deep holes. A straight six-foot drop. Steep enough so it would be hard to climb out. There is a narrow concrete border. You can walk along it fine but running or jogging would be risky. The pit is full of rain water and trash. I see a stuffed dog floating in the filth. I see items like high school text books and single shoes in the pit along the walk. A huge black semi-trailer hauling who knows what barrels past me honking angrily. The wind thrust has me weaving trying not to fall into pit or against the side of the fast moving truck. It takes everything I got not to fall. I lose my balance and fall onto the road as the truck hurries off still honking that deafening protest. It's a long walk. Other cars flash by. None of them slow down but at a few don't roll down the windows to call me a faggot or honk the horn in staccato outbursts.

• 2

I arrive at the store. There is a bench in front for folks to buy a drink and or a snack and sit and socialize. I sit and rest for a few minutes. Only a couple cars parked here. A guy pulls in for some gas re up as I enter the store and buy that burrito. Tastes like liquidy cardboard. It don't fill me up but it takes the edge off my gnawing hunger at least. I eat it on the bench. Some of it drips onto my shirt. It cannot be avoided this burrito is almost liquid. Nothing much to do so I wait on the bench. Probably only a matter of time before I need to squirt that bogus meal out the other side. Yes, it took seventeen minutes. That taken care of I chatted with the cashier, a lumpy middle aged lady with flowers and hammers tattooed all up and down her arms. She thought she knew me. Maybe she did. At my age I have met so many people. But by now there seems to be about sixty types that I associate with others like them I have met in the past. It's starting to rain outside. The sky dims a notch. The conversation so far as been about industrial bands they have seen in concert. They both saw Nine Inch Nails and Skinny Puppy. Also, they talked about the strange weather. The reddish hued tumbleweeds that blew on windy days. But where do they come from? Even in the cities, these red tumbleweeds collect after a storm. She takes an unfriendly turn when the sky starts to darken. "We close when it gets dark, it's our policy. Looks like it will get dark an hour and a half early today". I took the hint and I left with a lame wave.

• 3

There was no way I was going back on the fucking road I walked up to get here. I still had a little bit of field and the length of my shelter belt on the farm. Maybe I would return there. While walking I found a snicker's bar, unopened beside the road. I unwrapped it and dug into its dark hearty taste. That made the walk worth it. Hell, I decided to walk back to what was home. Who knows maybe I will find another candy bar or something along the way. A small length of empty houses start the walk off. I stopped at one of them. Maybe I should stay here. No one seems to be living here anymore. Maybe there is food in here. Yeah, I decided I might as well check a house or two out. I have nowhere else to go and it seems the local population has dwindled a lot. I don't even know why. The first house on the left is one of the original farms from the town. It takes up any eight yards of the other property around here. A faded peeling greenhouse. Poor upkeep, I'm sure an old lady or couple live/lived here. I walk up to the porch steps and go to the door. It is hanging ajar. "Hello!", I call out as I enter. The fine wooden living room floor has a nasty dried up rope of shit some kind soul has left here to show his love for the human race. However did it must have been moving while shitting to get it spread out like that. Seriously nasty although dried and almost scentless. All sorts of vandalism evident past the fecal statement. So I decided to check out the next house, maybe the vandals ran out of vomit, piss and shit.

The first thing I noticed was that this old house had an the entrance to a root cellar on the side on the house. My mind filled up with visions of canned green beans and jams and peaches and what not. I can smell the rotten preserves going down the steps. The door busted and left open. Endless mason jars smashed against racks walls and the floor. So much food gone to waste when it's needed the most! What fucking pricks. I searched through the basement and cut my hand twice, but I found three unbroken jars of grape jelly! I opened a jar and stuck a finger in for a taste! Delicious! A rare treasure sure to be much more rare now things have gone to hell. I then went inside the house. The front door was smashed open like the cellar door. In easy chairs an old couple's bodies sprawled. heads broken open by a hammer or something. Dried blood on their clothes. Maggots crawling in the holes punched into their skulls. I ran out of the house and I vomited out the precious burrito onto the lawn. Fuck this world I kept chanting.

Dusk tastes best toasted

Save it for the dank bus. I have bacon wrapped toes I ain't going nowhere unless you give me no-doze. Go low across my greasy soul. Biscuit sop up the duck broth. I lost a lot and I owe what I've got and tomorrow and nothing loser's row. Living under a cot and eating grubs shattered in salt. Another cold day sucking exhaust from the air through a thick rug to seep out the water vapors. I think it's going to snow. A brown-yellow snow from cancerous clouds that trickle from below. Shame upon this early dawn shame upon the meats you stash morsels you stash between your toes. The very air smells like a week dead puppy floating in a tub on vomit in a metal shed on a hot rainy day. Makes you want to flap your arms til they come off. Stiff necks pop in unison turning to scowl at me. I see scowling skulls meager mice beads in a tomb of need. I see the bloated empathy.

Unfurl this bitch banner. Wet or dry rasp of coughs the percussion of the workplace. The birds on the branches of the cold bare trees stare at me, their eyes bright jewels so pretty. We cannot stain the stars but we would do it it profit ensued. Tufts of human hair blowing across the field. Rattle of empty cans like dice rolled by the wind. Skitter across the asphalt, a parking lot symphony. They learned how to shoot ads into the sky. I have not seen a cloud for a couple birthdays. Drones above us with loud-speakers give us our leader's words of the day. They follow us we are tagged.

Last rattle of the meadow. All the asphalt is in place. Buried protesters lay below with agonized dead faces. We pulse off into space looking for a place that still has trees. Flight becomes a fire work in the polluted rip field of space junk. It makes a warm fine site for the children that night. Looking up to recite the prayers leveled from earliest speech ignite the social bite. All is well sleep now, the muscles stay rigid. Fight or flight. Frisking for dinner among our meager stock. We tried to nail it down but they stole the clock. We used to tremble and shake, writhe to the sound of clacking wooden beaks. Nude festivals pop up spontaneous in the streets. The new utopia was short and left us jealous of our memories.

Newtopia, I laughed and ran naked fields of bright flowers. I could suck tiny bright flavors from the liquid crystals of the bulbs. Those days are gone. I wear a road kill coat now. It doesn't stink much in the winter. I sewed all these heads together. Ugly snarling car murdered faces accuse you at every angle. I steal a hot dog off your grill when you go inside to re up on the cheap beer fill. Back yards are routes I take. I steal toys to sell cheap or trade for cake. Summon back the fiber witch to the cork of the grim son's king.

Roaming bands of jaded underage clams, a roar in the sky from a future event. Tongues are tagged to log what treats you eat. The water is tracked. Each drop a microphone. Ketchup of solid sound glitters red on my all meat hot dog. Even the bun from protein and fats is spun. Now let's take a walk across a field of chalk.

Caravans of looters and scavengers stripped the houses down to just the walls. The mirrors and metals hauled away. Furniture packed into trucks and away away. Even a short time away from your home is a risk that you will return home to bare emptiness. Happens to the best of us and none of us are the best of us anymore.

Every pitch fork tells a story donut. I regret I have but one strife to live for my country. The scum will come out, tomorrow. Bet your bottom belly there will be sand. Just freaking about tomorrow melts that meaty sorrow in my hand.

Gone below the snowload and I glow now. Bright eye rings sparkle in logs red glare. I am painting Bison on the walls of my home. I am having dreams about the deep future past. I shall rise again in a full robe of woven tacos. I shall rule over the shelter belts and sand hills of our land. I shall spite high on cheddar mountain. All will smear of me as I ride along the spidergod's web. I am here to stay. Til like vapor I react with a hiss to the rain. Two burdens defected, my pillow plays in the meadow. Stilted legs raise me above the pegs.

In this twisted world