fuck white people

She was the sturdy candle with its flame dwindling, but still lit nonetheless, and you were the can of gasoline that pissed all over her, setting her ablaze with feeling and passion. You’re all empty, and now she’s dowsing the flame with vodka and pity, surrounding herself with pseudo-sympathy. Sometimes, when you’ve been nicked and damaged, and then half-heartily repaired so many times, it’s best to shatter completely and entirely to restore everything back to what it once was, but you can’t be rebuilt unless all the pieces are there. Once tenacious and enduring, she’s now as fragile as the bottles and pipes she kisses in place of you. 

So this was my original idea for Nanowrimo before I scrapped it and decided I wasn’t ready to write this story. It’s essentially about this kid who has an extremely vivid imagination and he has no real control over it. Maybe I’ll come back to it sometime. This was the opening scene.

It starts with a pregnant woman. Her engorged belly explodes into a bloody mess all over the table, all over her grilled salmon, all over her husband’s well done cheeseburger, and all over her two children’s chicken tenders and french fries. The children are next. Both of their heads simultaneously explode, covering the dark red leather booth in cognitive matter and blood. You can see the tips of their spines protruding from the remnants of their necks. The husband is a bit more entertaining to watch. First, his left foot pops, sending toes across the dining area into an old woman’s spaghetti. Then, his entire left leg combusts into a flurry of flesh-and-bone-shrapnel, rocketing him upward violently. His left arm goes kaboom right after, and his hand lands in a middle-aged woman’s brand new perm that she probably spent way too much money on. The husband’s body, or at least what’s left of it, comes to rest on his wife’s mutilated womb, and the two children tip over and make a splash as they fall onto the bloody floor.

This all happens within a few seconds, just enough time for everyone who was happily and stupidly dining just seconds ago to have no idea what happened. The old woman is unaware that the meatball that she’s raising to her cracked and crusty lips is actually a toe. Before she can sink her teeth into the cute, little piggy, the middle-aged woman shrieks and screams. It’s a horrible, shrill sound. I can’t take it for much longer than a few seconds, so her implants burst, her plastic nose falls off, and her hair catches fire. Then the rest of her detonates into a lovely fulmination of blood and organs. Her date, a man of similar age, wearing a bespoke black suit, now has a visage of complete and total horror, replacing the cocky smirk that he was hosting only moments ago. He tips over in his chair, and cracks open the back of his head.

At this point, the restaurant is in chaos. Woman are scrambling over their husbands, grabbing their children, other waiters are weaving between tables, trying not to knock into each other. A very large man, running (or at least running by his standards) for his life trips over the man with the cracked open head, who is still lying on the ground in agony. His cellulite jiggles and bounces as he hits the ground and encompasses the man with excess flesh. Several other people, including a man probably in his fifties, his teenager daughter, his daughter’s friend, and a woman, trying to make their escape from the madness, all fall over the extraordinarily obese fellow who is now incapacitated on the floor. The girls’ matching Gucci handbags spill all over the tile. iPhones, Lancôme make up, Tampax Tampons, and Jergens lotion all fly out and slide around in the blood that is slowly coating the floor. A Trojan Ultra Thin condom managed to make its way into the party as well. Like a German Topfmine, the fat man ruptures into a spectacular paroxysm. The girls are shot up into the air, where their skin-tight Hollister t-shirts are shredded as the girls shatter. The man and woman land on top of a table in a very promiscuous position, smashing coke glasses and half eaten plates of food.

The rest of the establishment is nearing the door when all of their eyes erupt, and they all stumble over each other. It sort of looks like the giant car crash scene towards the end of The Blues Brothers. Then, the mass of flesh and blood and feelings and screams and cries pops, painting the whole entry area a delightful shade of dark red. Some stray intestines and other various guts get draped over the for-decoration-only coat rack. Brains are plastered along the ceiling, and a few pieces of bone break a couple of the windows. The floor is so saturated with blood, that it looks like it could be used as a Slip N’ Slide. I almost try it, but the double doors to the kitchen swing open, and a chef comes out with a knife in hand. With a glance and a whiff of the the scene that had just unfolded, he vomits all over his shoes. It looks like he had been sampling too much of the soup, as it’s very runny. The shock of throwing up so suddenly causes him to drop the knife onto his foot. It goes straight through, and is sticking straight up. Eyes wide, with chunks of half digested, stomach-acid coated chicken hugging the corners of his mouth, he steps back, only to slip in his own mess. Landing on his back, he expels again, this time all over his white cooking attire. Writhing in pain from the cooking utensil in his foot, the cook is turning and tossing and rolling in his vomit. Blood drips from his foot and begins to swirl into the vomit. More blood galaxies begin to dot the Universe of Regurgitation that has erupted from the cook. It’s beginning to spread out into the large pool of blood, and it’s only a matter of time before it all amalgamates.

I take a moment to appreciate my work. In the dining area, the remnants of several human beings are now scattered amongst the toppled tables and capsized chairs. A nice, thick layer of blood is glazed across the linoleum floor. Broken glass and tableware is broadcasted all over the room. In the lobby, a similar scene is seen. The blood and vomit has now become one, wonderful bodily fluid. The chef is still wiggling around, but with much less vigor than when I left him. He gets torn in half, from the crotch up, just for good measure. His insides spill out into the blood-vomit solution. Just as I make my way to leave, I turn my head and see the old woman, still at her booth, quivering. Her fork is still in her hand, the fork with the toe stabbed onto it. The toe poofs into a mist of blood, and sprays all over her face.

You open up the microwave and a moth flies out. You jump back and almost spill your frozen TV dinner. A single moth flies around your head. You don’t know how it got there. Maybe you left the microwave open earlier and the creature flew in, and without you knowing it, you closed the appliance’s door. It flies toward the flickering kitchen lights, and, thinking nothing of it, you place your tray in the microwave and set the timer for four minutes. You forget about the moth and sit down on your couch and turn on the TV. A pest control advertisement is finishing and the number flashes across the screen. Another advertisement comes on, but this time for a dry cleaners. The nine o’clock news comes on. A teenager got shot. The microwave beeps and you get up. 

You take the mac & and cheese meal out and sit back down and begin stirring it with a plastic fork while your eyes remain fixed on the television screen. An owl hoots outside. You scoop up some of the noodles with your utensil and raise it to your mouth as you look at the forecast. Cloudy for the rest of the week. You put the fork in your mouth and bite down. An unfamiliar crunch. You take a second bite. An unfamiliar taste. You mouse around your mouth with your tongue. An unfamiliar texture. You reach in and grab what your tongue has touched. Dangling in your fingers by its wings is a moth. You instantly look up towards the kitchen lights and moth from earlier is still flying around carelessly. 

You run up into the kitchen and spit your food out onto a napkin and throw it away, along with the moth that was formerly in your mouth. You go into the bathroom and grab your toothbrush with your left hand and reach into the bathroom drawer for your toothpaste with the right. Something crawls over your right hand and you drop your toothbrush into the sink out of shock. Two moths fly out of the bathroom drawer. Reaching back into the sink to grab your toothbrush, your eyes are greeted by three more moths staring back at you. You turn the sink on and they fly up into the air, meeting up with the three others, and the now five moths ascend towards the bathroom lights. You shriek and flip off the light switch and run out the door and into your bedroom. 

Across the room is your lamp, with the telephone underneath it. You think about going back into the kitchen but decide that it won’t do any good. With baby steps, you make your way to the lamp and carefully reach for the switch. You try to remember the number for the pest control service, but the light reveals about seven or eight moths crawling over the buttons. You scream and swipe the phone off the end table, scattering the winged creatures in the air. You think to go outside, where it’ll be safe. Running into your closet for a jacket, you see it.

A whole menagerie of moths of different shapes, colors, and wingspans are quietly nestled in your wardrobe. You can hear all of them moving around. They realize the light source in the bedroom and begin taking off into the air. A swarm of moths encases you. 

So there’s this lonely looking man, sitting in a bar, all by his lonesome, except for the bartender. It’s about thirty minutes from closing time, so it’s really late.

This guy, he’s probably in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. Scattered on the counter next to him is a bunch of peanut shells, a few empty bottles of beer, and he’s got an empty shot glass clasped in his left hand. He’s got dark brown, nearly black, hair, styled into a nice crew cut, except it’s very disheveled right now, because he’s been running his hands through it almost all day out of frustration. Some equally dark colored stubble has collected on his chin, possibly grown and groomed to look like he let it grow that way naturally on purpose. His dark blue tie is loose around his neck, his sport coat is draped over his bar stool, and the sleeves on his white button down are rolled up. A traditional looking business man he is.

As the bartender pours our business man his last shot of whiskey, the door creaks open. A man walks in, dressed in a gaudy silver suit with black pinstriping. He’s a cane and a fedora short of looking like a pimp. He takes a seat one stool over from the business man. He picks up a single peanut from the peanut basket, cracks it open with his back teeth, and spits the shells out onto the ground. The bartender interjects.

“Hey, buddy, you can’t just spit those out onto the floor.”

The man pulls out a silenced 9mm from his inside his suit and shoots the bartender in the head. Brains and blood paint the liquor bottles. The man leans over the counter, and glances at the bartender’s body.

“Hey, pal, you can’t just get your blood all over the floor like that.”

The business man swallows his whiskey, takes a peanut, cracks it open, and spits the shells out onto the counter.

today i cried tears of acid made volatile with memories and smiles, and as they dripped onto my skin, my hair caught fire and my bones melted with hatred and agony, i collapsed to the ground as my eyes bled with themselves and leaked down my chest, the acid burned words into my lungs and heart that i could not read and i could not breathe as my tissue smoked and seared, and before long, i was finally at peace

Before she kicked the stool out from underneath her, before she put the noose around her neck, before she Googled how to make that noose, before she wrote out her suicide note, keeping in mind that she wanted people to grieve over her death, before she had the last glass of her mother’s White Zinfandel, she had ran over a dog wandering in the streets. The dog had belonged to a small, seven year old boy. Two weeks later, after her funeral, after the tears and the praying and the indiscernible, sob-ridden speeches by loving friends and family, that little boy got a new dog.

Oh, god. Not again. The familiar thud. I put it into park and get out.

Hey, bud. Can you remove yourself from my hood?

No response.

Ugh. Not this. Again. I lift him up and carry him back onto the sidewalk.

Hey, pal, can you stand?

No reponse.

I sigh. I lay him down on the ground, and a group of kids on their bikes are staring at me wide-eyed.

What? What the hell do you want? If you care so much, help him out!

They ride off in a hurry. I get back in. I drive off and Heart Of Gold by Neil Young is playing on the radio.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“I’m sorry, I am so sorry,” he spits at me.

“I am so, so, so sorry. I’m sorry,” he vomits all over me. A giant pool of sympathy and pseudo-empathy. I’m dripping in it. It’s disgusting. I feel like I need a shower.

It’s not a big deal, I tell him. “No, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it. You’re too good for that.” Definitely need a shower. Probably a bath. No, I say, it’s fine, he was a jerk. “That’s right he was a jerk! A total douche!” Oh my god, I think I’m going to vomit for real.

The thing is, it’s really not even that big of a deal. I’m used to it. It happens. I don’t get attached, so I don’t get hurt. Then this happens a lot, but at least I don’t get hurt. It’s cold, yeah, maybe even vile, but at least I’m okay.

I’m used to it, I say to him. “But you shouldn’t have to be! He just doesn’t understand you.” As if he understands me. I sip my milkshake. “You’re too sweet and pretty for this, you know? Guys are all assholes.” I’m going to be sick, I say. “Oh no, do you need to go to the bathroom? I’ll help you, here.” He gets up and holds out his hand. I bat it down. I’m fine, I tell him. “But-” I’m fine.

Ryan, I ask, when are you going to get a girlfriend? “Oh,” he blushes. “I don’t know. I’m just waiting for the right one. I’m picky, you know? I just don’t take anything.” I sip my milkshake more. He looks up, almost in surprise. “But, it’s you that I’m worried about, Mae!” He looks in my eyes. “You’ve gotta be hurt.” I shake my head and tell him I’m fine. Except I still feel like I’m going to throw up.

You know, Ryan, I say as I stand up. I think the problem is that you’re too nice. It scares girls away, since you know, all guys are assholes.

He smiles at me. “But I can’t help that I’m a nice guy.”

she’s crying and she’s crying and she’s crying crying crying and she doesn’t want to cry but she likes it so she cries and cries and cries and she just cries because she’s always been told to do what she likes to do and crying is what she likes to do right now because she is sad and she doesn’t really like being sad as much as she likes crying but she’s still content with being sad so she cries while she’s sad and she’s sad because she cries but all the while it makes her happy because she gets to do what she wants which is crying and being sad and it’s raining and she’s getting mad because it’s cliched and she hates it and it’s almost hard for her to be happy about her tears and sadness because it’s all so cliched and suddenly she wants to kill the rain and then she gets angrier because she can’t kill rain and it was a stupid thought and she has no idea why she would even think it so she screams over her tears and she’s no longer sad she’s unhappy and angry and she just wants the rain to stop so she can cry and be sad in the beautiful sunshine but instead she’s screaming at the rain like an idiot and she really really hates herself and now she’s sad again but it’s not the same kind of sad that it was before she got angry because this sadness doesn’t make her happy it just makes her sad and mad and she falls down into a puddle and her brand new dress is soaked and she actually doesn’t care because she’s too angry to care about something as trivial as a dress getting soaked and she knows that she can take it to a dry cleaner’s or something to get it cleaned and suddenly she’s even more angry because she wasn’t focused on being angry or sad or depressed or crying she was focusing on a fucking dress and she screams into the water and bashes her head into the curb