Archive for April 24, 2015

Okay, so I should probably start a new blog altogether for this, but I’m not going to given that this one’s already up and running and there’s a slight possibility somebody will read — or at least skim — this material if it’s presented here, and that saves me the hassle of  having to start from scratch with some new wordpress domain name and slowly building up another (surely miniscule) readership and all that.

Anyway, what’s this all this preamble in service of, you rightly ask? I’ve had a hankering to do some purportedly “creative” writing for some time now, and while it won’t be anything like a frequent fixture on this site, “Trash Fiction” will be an occasional series of posts where I indulge myself on that front. Will it be any good? Shit, who knows, but hopefully — as has equally hopefully been the case with my movie and comics reviews — it’ll get better with time. I’ll try to keep these posts reasonably short and self-contained, but if I develop an itch to do some longer-form stuff, this’ll be the place for that, as well.

With that aside, then, “enjoy” these tentative first steps into previously-uncharted-around-these-parts territory to the extent that you’re able to do so. My first endeavor is called “That’s One Way To Do It,” and it’s about — well, shit, that would be telling.


The grin gives it away. Cyanide rictus, the guys in the lab coats call it, a sardonic smirk of death that would make the fucking Joker blush. So how she ended it is no real mystery — what happened the night or two before kinda is, though, given the bruises, mottled skin, and bite marks. Not to mention where the hell she got the shit. Not exactly readily available from your streetcorner dealer.

Sometimes the less you know, the better, but still — finding out goes with the territory,

Busted paperweight snowglobes, crumpled origami flowers, and pop cans and beer bottles full of cigarette butts litter the floor. The detritus of a life. Stack of old paystubs on the kitchen table shows the last one’s from a year ago — dealt blackjack at the Western, “Your Dollar Casino.” A dollar doesn’t go too far anymore ; the Western’s padlocked and shuttered.

After that — guess life went the way it would go for any of us who are only a paycheck or two away from doing whatever we need to do to survive for one more day. Probably a miracle she held out this long.

Western Union receipts show she was shelling out to pay for some retard brother’s care at a home back in Ohio. Those stop a month after the paystubs do.

Bitching about the smell is old hat, so why even go there? Smelled better, sure — worse, too. Won’t even go there, either.

Four mewling cats will have to be dealt with — noisy little fuckers.  The boxes got full and they settled for the floor; kept it all in the other room, though. Almost like they knew it stunk enough back here as it is , even if two of ’em were licking her chin when we got here.

Christ. Days like this are why they invented drinking.

Days like yesterday, too . And tomorrow.

You know you’ve been on the job too damn long when you go from being shocked at this kinda shit, to saddened, to nonchalant — to, finally, admiring it. Not sure when each line got crossed, but they did, ‘cuz looking down at her now, yeah — you did it your way, honey.

Are there a million little details still waiting to get filled in? Of course — but that’s a trail of breadcrumbs that ends here. Now. With this.

When every single part of your life falls spirals out of your control, this is the one option circumstance can’t steal from you. No job? No money? No food? No hope? You’re not gonna volunteer for any of that. It’s the shitty hand you’re dealt. But there’s one thing nobody can ever take away — your right to hop off the ride in the manner of your choosing. Provided you’re bold, desperate, or both enough to go through with it.

Any of us could find our number coming up tomorrow. Drunk driver sideswipes you on the way home from the bar. Incurable cancer that’s been rotting you from the inside out for the last couple years that you never knew about until you woke up spitting bloody phlegm. Gas leak in the basement apartment sends the whole building out with a bang. The guy three cubicles over turns out to be a survivalist gun nut who doesn’t take too kindly to being told by the boss to cut back on the two hour lunches and decides to take it out on the whole office. You could meet your maker in a million different ways.

But not her. Not anymore. When she lost control over life, she took it back in the only way she had left. Even if it was just for a few painful as all fucking hell hours.  When she made up her mind that she was gonna do what she did, she wasn’t giving up or giving or giving in. She was laying claim to the last thing that was well and truly hers. The bastards could take everything else they wanted — her livelihood, her dignity, her health, her choices. All her choices — except this one.

“Live free or die,” the tough guys say. And the New Hampshire license plates. After who trudging through who knows how many days of dwindling, evaporating freedom, she did both — back to back. Got a theory that all any of us want, in the end, is to be the author of our own destiny. Guess this is one way to do it.