Spelunking In Bed

Breakfast with Grandma

I found my grandma standing in front of my open refrigerator door one morning, a gallon of milk tipped all the way back, guzzling it fast and not spilling a drop. It’s funny that that’s the thing that struck me most at the time, how she was just chugging this gallon of milk without losing any. My grandma had died going on ten years before, so you’d think seeing her there at all would be itself the big shocker that morning, but no, at least not at first.

When she was done with the milk she tossed the empty jug over her shoulder and started in on the eggs. It was Sunday morning; I go grocery shopping on Saturdays. She picked a good time to stop by if she was hungry. She ate each of the dozen eggs in one bite, shell and all, and tossed the carton over her shoulder. It landed next to the milk jug, in a little pile she was making, along with an emptied styrofoam tray of ground beef, an emptied jar of jam, and a wrapper for a brick of medium cheddar cheese. I have to imagine it took her some time to chew through all the cheese, it was a new one.

I didn’t say anything to her, and she didn’t notice me. I went back to my bedroom and paced around, forgetting for the moment that I’d long since kicked the nail biting habit. I didn’t believe it was really my grandma. My eyes told me it was my grandma, she had my grandma’s skin, my grandma’s hair, she wore my grandma’s clothes, her shoes, her pearls, her perfume. But some other sense, one I can’t name, was screaming at me with at least as much certainty that this was not my grandma, that my grandma was dead and even if she wasn’t, the thing in my kitchen wasn’t her. I’d gotten up that morning to find a spider in my kitchen the size of my dead grandmother, far too big to put outside without touching it, far too big to smash. When it was done with my fridge and my pantry, what would it eat next?

My phone was charging on my nightstand. My wallet was there with it, which was lucky since I normally keep it in a dish on the counter in the kitchen. I took them both and cut a hole in my bedroom window screen with the nail file end of a pair of clippers from my headboard. I jumped out the window. I guess this isn’t my house anymore, I thought. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel much of any way about leaving my house behind with nothing but the clothes on my back, my phone, and my wallet. I was a little irked about the groceries, since I’d just gone to the trouble of getting them. My car though… there was no way to get to the keys without going through the kitchen. I left it behind. It hurt, it really hurt to leave the car behind like that, like I was leaving a friend behind, or no, not a friend, a pet. Someone who needed me. And after a few days of walking everywhere, it hurt a lot more.

The It

If you see it, you’ll always see it. You’ll try to ignore it, knowing as you do how much easier it is to get along if you don’t see it, but ignoring is seeing, and it will be so much harder to get along.

A Flea Amongst Giants

It’s before dawn and all the buildings are laying down, asleep, and among them a little flea of a child is seeing what she can scratch up to eat amongst the rubble when she finds a miracle: A sack of grapefruit, heavy with sweet juice and not even moldy, one of her very best finds. She might’ve found more, but the sun peeked over the horizon and the buildings started to wake, to pull themselves back up and go about their business, so the girl had to flee and hope she’d find that spot again.

On the Surface of the Sky

A damp, soggy, gray and sunless afternoon, typical for November. And on this typical day we find three friends, middle schoolers, killing time in their typical way, meandering down the train tracks and staying out of sight while they do things they’re afraid to be caught doing. In this case they’re smoking cigarettes. Joseph—everyone but his friends call him Joe—had snuck four cigarettes from his dad’s pack. Once he and the others were far enough down the tracks, Joseph would take one out of his pocket, light it, take a puff, and pass it to one of the others, like it was a joint. It would make its rounds while the three complained about school, teachers, parents, younger siblings— except for Virginia, who did have a younger brother but didn’t see him, and who didn’t live with her parents, but with an aunt and uncle. When the first cigarette was gone, they’d light the next and do the same with it. After two cigarettes, none of them would really want to smoke a third, but they’d all pressure each other into it. The fourth cigarette would be lit, but never would anyone take a drag off it; they’d take turns holding it for as long as they could stomach being so close to the smoke.

Things had been getting awkward between the three of them. Joseph could sense that something had changed, but couldn’t put his finger on it and didn’t want to bring it up. What he was noticing was that Virginia and Josh—the third one—had become boyfriend and girlfriend, but for the time being were keeping it secret. They talked on the phone for hours each night, sent each other pictures back and forth, exchanged meaningful looks around their friends, and sometimes they even went down the tracks, just the two of them.

They walked for a while and were far out of sight from anyone, but Joseph wasn’t yet comfortable. Josh grew impatient, but he didn’t say anything. But then, a miracle. It was Virginia who spotted it, a six-pack of beer, unopened and unsullied, lying in the gravel by the track. It was a great and wondrous find, but it also meant they’d have to go further still down the tracks. This six-pack could be a trap, Joseph argued, left by the cops to catch underage drinkers, or it could belong to a bum who was off in the brush taking a watery shit, or who knows what. Everyone agreed to go further down the tracks. Josh took up the responsibility of carrying the beer, which he wrapped in his coat to hide, and the three of them pressed on, abuzz with excitement.

They walked further down the tracks then they had ever before, and as they went the railway grew more and more poorly maintained, with broken and misaligned tracks, and trees encroaching on either side. The woods got thicker and darker and the path they followed, with the trees walling them in, got to feeling more like a cave. Virginia and Josh were getting afraid, and they were saying things like, “We have just as far to go back as we’ve come”, but Joseph was excited, and he wanted to go further and to see what was at the end of the line. It got to the point that they had to duck and weave to get through brambles laced across the tracks, and now Josh was even direct enough to shout—at Joseph, but plausibly at the thorns—“This is stupid!” But they all went through, and together they emerged into a clearing.

Here was a second, dreadful miracle. In the clearing was a Boeing 747, stood on its nose. Maybe it was touching the ground, or maybe it hovered an inch above it. Maybe it was resting on the tip of a blade of grass. In any event, there it stood, pointing straight up and down, motionless and without a sound. Josh and Virginia immediately ran away, Josh dropping his jacket as he fled, and the cans he was concealing in it burst open, spraying jets of beer. He and Virginia dashed through the brambles and got cuts all over, but they didn’t care. As they ran, they didn’t question if Joseph was running with them. They ran without stopping until they reached the place they’d found the beer. They stopped to catch their breath, and it was only then that they noticed Joseph was gone. “He must’ve run through the woods”, Josh said.

But unlike Josh and Virginia, Joseph didn’t run. He was transfixed by the sight, and couldn’t tear himself away. There were people inside the plane, and they didn’t all tumble down to the nose. They sat in their seats, and walked down the isle, just as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Their down was a different down than Joseph’s. He watched them through the windows, watched them killing time on their computers, or watching movies, or reading books. He watched them getting little drinks, making little trips to the bathroom, adjusting their light and their air. Joseph wondered where they were flying to, and he wondered what they saw through the windows, looking out instead of in. Then they all seemed startled, like there’d been a bump, and then another one. Turbulence, though, from the outside the plane was standing as still as ever. The turbulence got bad. The people got scared. Then all at once they shifted, like when a cook tosses some hash into the air from a skillet and catches it. But still, on the outside, the plane remained absolutely motionless. Joseph could see that their bodies had flown ten or twelve feet in a fraction of a second, and he could see them slam into the walls, ceiling, and floor of the cabin, and he knew that it was all terribly violent, but from outside it was so quiet and so still, so that it didn’t feel violent.

The wing nearest Joseph came off in a ball of fire and streaked upward, disappearing into the clouds. People came flying out with it, and followed. Some were on fire. Then, suddenly, the plane… the people… it was all rubble, bits and scraps and flaming chunks scattering and flying— or falling— or trailing into the sky. Then, nothing. Not a trace of the plane remained. It was strewn about up there somewhere.

Joseph took out one of his dad’s cigarettes, smoked it by himself, and threw up.

Based on a True Story

A clump of popsicle sticks and rubber bands somehow became animate and set out to free solo El Capitan. It did well until two thirds of the way up, when It was caught in an ice storm. The cold made its rubber bands brittle and they snapped and the clump was undone and the broken bits of rubber and wood were scattered. Someone would’ve gone out to recover the body, such as it was, but only one person knew anything about it, and he couldn’t be bothered.

Mastodon Droppings

I post very very short stories to Mastadon— my handle is @david_pasquinelli. Below are five of them. Enjoy.

Garbage Disposal

I pulled out a handful of noodles and egg shells from my garbage disposal. The water drained, but there was more. Fishing around, I pulled out: several chicken livers, which I couldn’t account for; a clump of moss the size of my fist; a dozen rotten plums that smelled awful; and, most disturbingly, clumps of red hair and teeth. I shined a light down the drain and saw a glint of gold, but when I reached in to grab it I cut myself. After bandaging my hand I looked again, but it was gone.

The Majors

I dreamt of playing Major League Baseball as far back as I can remember. I loved the game, but I loved the dream more. It was my treasure, my dream of making it to the majors. Through Little League, Babe Ruth League, high-school ball, and the minors, that dream was my best loved, most precious possession. I leaned on it when times were hard. I thought I had gone to heaven when I finally got called up. But now the dream is gone. Now it’s a job, and what do I have to lean on?

Poorly Done

He brought the muzzle of the revolver to his eye and, like the others, fired it. Just like that, there was a hole where his eye had been. But he’d done a bad job and made a mess of it. He writhed and screamed on the floor before—pop—he put out the other eye. Then he lay silent and still. The others approached the body, and stood there and starred at it through the holes in their own faces where they had once had eyes.

A Brief Interview with a Homeless Man

“If you were king of the world, what would you do to help the homeless?”

“Nothin’.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Why not?”

“Cuz they’re assholes.”

“Homeless people are assholes?”

“Yup.”

“But you’re homeless….”

“Right, so I know. I know a lot of homeless people; they’re assholes. What do you know?”

A Spider in her Web

I was always a good and diligent wife and mother, wholesome and modest, selfless, kind, tending to her family with the attentiveness of a gardener to his garden, a businessman to his business, a spider to her web. Even after the diagnosis, my first priority was to help my family cope with a future that wouldn’t include me. At first. But now I find all I want to do is fuck strangers and kill people.

And not a Sole for Miles

Halfway across the river, fifty feet of water beneath me, and I don’t think I can swim another stroke.

this is important.

Daily Mirror, London, March 9, 1939

Remember the last time the FCC nearly killed net neutrality?

Tumblr had this nice big banner at the top of your dashboard alerting any active user about the problem. Guess what has changed since then? Verizon, one of the companies gunning for the death of net neutrality owns yahoo who in turn own Tumblr. Spread the word, tell everyone you can: battleforthenet.com tag posts you see about net neutrality with popular tags so the news spreads.

Not Like a Caravaggio Painting

Guy was out to a business lunch, which was going quite well. He was going to be significantly richer after this deal. Richer. By normal people’s standards Guy was already rich. By the standards of the well-to-do, even. Still, if you were to ride in an elevator with Guy, you wouldn’t think he was that rich, a successful lawyer, maybe. Only if you knew what to look for would you get a sense of how rich Guy was. But, if you weren’t the sort of person who knew what to look for, you wouldn’t be riding in an elevator with Guy.

Guy had had a couple Kobe sliders and a couple whiskeys at lunch, and now he needed to pee. The restaurant was the necessary upscale affair required for such a business meeting, but it was dressed up like a dive, an exquisite hole in the wall, a greasy spoon, but one as painted by Caravaggio. The restroom was just the same, looking like a little shithole— except: cloth towels to dry your hands instead of paper ones, toilets that had never seen shit, wet wipes on offer in the stalls….

Guy did his business at the urinal and washed up at the sink, a standard cheap white porcelain sink like you’d find in any gas station bathroom— except the water came on when you turned it on, and went off when you turned it off, and you could actually get hot water out of it, too. He was drying off his hands and daydreaming of all the money he was about to make when a toilet flushed in a stall behind him. He had thought he was alone and wondered: He wasn’t talking to himself, was he, when he thought no one was there?

Guy tossed his towel in the hamper and made for the door, ready to get back out to the table and seal the deal, but the door stopped shut with a dense metal clack, and then the room spun around, and where he once stood on the floor facing the door, now he faced the floor and stood on nothing, the toes of his shoes frantically scraping across the clean, glossy bathroom tile. He reached out to catch himself with his hands, but only the tips of his middle fingers could just brush against the floor. He tried to kick off the door but couldn’t reach. He tried to crawl forward but the man’s legs straddling his either side blocked him. He had no leverage and no traction. He dangled helplessly, almost in a state of repose. He clawed at the rope, but if you don’t get your fingers in between the rope and your neck right at first, then you never will. He tried everything he could, but none of it helped… but it didn’t stop him from trying… but trying didn’t help. The man, his killer, had been waiting, had had the advantage of picking the moment to strike. His killer had the upper hand. Guy was used to being the one with the upper hand. He was so used to it that he mistook himself for something special— especially smart, especially cunning. But no, he had just always had the upper hand, and the one with the upper hand wins.

It didn’t take long for Guy to pass out. His life didn’t flash before his eyes, he didn’t think of his wife or his three children, he didn’t think of that ex-lover from years ago that he had been secretly still carrying a flame for up even until now. Those things only happen to survivors, memories spliced in after the danger has passed. For Guy there was just struggle, then struggle’s end.

The killer held Guy like that to a count of 300 Mississippi. Quite a workout. If you’ve been looking for a good body weight exercise for your lower back, this is it. At 255 Mississippi, Guy shit his pants. The killer was tempted to drop him then, but he persisted. When he finally made it to 300, he dragged Guy to the stall he’d been waiting in and put him on the toilet. He checked his pulse, and but god damn it if Guy wasn’t still ticking, if only weakly. The killer gripped Guy by the jaw—his index finger running across Guy’s lips—and pierced the arteries on either side of the throat in one thrust of his knife. He tipped Guy’s head to one side to keep himself from getting all bloddy as Guy drained from the neck. He then put his hand down the front of Guy’s $500 white linen button-up shirt— indistinguishable from a $5 white button-up shirt, unless you’re the right sort of person. He tested Guy’s pulse on his chest— he was terrible at finding a pulse on the wrist. A minute went by without a discernable heartbeat.

Guy had been his first hit. It was nothing like the movies. There was no drama. It was ugly and boring and gross. Shit, piss, blood, saliva, mucus. It was like taking apart a chicken, except heavier. It was uncomfortable, intimate. He had hoped he wouldn’t have to touch anyone, had taken great pains to not touch anyone, but on the other side of this thing he felt he might as well have blown Guy. In fact, if he could’ve done that instead for the same money, it would’ve been hands down a more pleasant experience for all conscerned. But he couldn’t. And as gross and cumbersome and awkward and risky as the work was, the money was better.