The Contradictite

Eyes in the Dark The restaurant was a quaint affair with orange walls mimicking adobe clay. Carlos ordered for everyone, speaking Spanish to the waiter. While waiting for the food, John lifted a glass of water to his mouth. “Señor,” said Carlos gravely, “don’t drink the water.” John has a surprised look, holding the glass to his lips. “I’m only kidding.” The others began to laugh at John’s expense. He too began to laugh, sipping his water. He set the glass on the table, shaking his head at Carlos. They passed the time spent waiting for their food by talking with each other. They learned a lot about Carlos and his family during that one evening. The food itself was a new experience for John and Martha, who had rarely eaten anything made outside of their kitchen in quite some time. Granted, they had eaten Mexican food in the past, though it was Americanized. This stuff was pure. This was true Mexican food. Everyone ordered different things, but they all shared

Forgery At the hospital, Doctor McKinnie filled out some paperwork. Having done it many times before, he was an old hand at these documents. He sorted them and stuffed them into a large yellow envelope. He scrawled the Drost’s address on the face of the envelope, slapped a stamp in the upper right-hand corner, and dropped it in the outgoing mail bin. He had to lie a bit to get the data into the system. It was not blatant fraud, just a little misrepresenting of dates things occurred, and whether or not he witnessed a particular event. He told no one of what he did. He could face serious consequences. Though, it was for the best. *** John parked his truck next to the house. He did not notice the man hiding in the back. Grabbing the box of epinephrine pens, he made his way for the front door. His wife greeted him cheerfully, apparently having no signs of recently being ill or in need of serious medical attention. The man observed this, then jotted a few notes. He l

Allergies John encountered Carlos one afternoon. He and some of the other hands were smoking cigars. “Big news, jefe, my son was born this morning!” “That’s great, Carlos. What’s the boy’s name?” “Pablo.” Carlos reached inside the cigar box he had and handed a cigar to smoke. John took it, unwrapped it, used a knife Carlos had to cut the head, and held a lit wooden match to the tuck. He puffed on the cigar lightly as he told the hands what the day’s activities would be. He came inside for lunch smelling slightly of cigar smoke. Martha set down a sandwich and bowl of soup for him. Marvin crawled about the kitchen while he ate. Crawling to his feet, he looked up at his surrogate father. He sniffed John’s pant leg slightly, sensing the odor of cigar. Scrunching his face in disgust, he coughed, and then crawled into the other room in search of more interesting things. John finished his sandwich then reconvened with his hands in the fields. As he worked, the sun

Hatchling As the days passed, Martha and John took turns tending to the egg. The incubator did most of the work. They just ensured that nothing bad was happening. “John, what happens when this thing hatches?” “What do you mean?” “It will be hungry, I guess. What will we feed it?” John had not thought about this before. “I should run into town. What do you think it will eat?” Martha pondered for a moment. “We had better play it safe: get vegetables, meat and some grains.” “Okay.” John grabbed the truck keys and hurried outside. At the door he turned, “You’ll be all right here by yourself?” Martha glanced at the egg, and then back at John. She smiled and nodded. John got into the truck, rolling it onto the street. Martha turned towards the incubator, getting a chance to study the egg. She absentmindedly ran her hands along the amber colored glass, tracing the patterns of the egg. She jumped back suddenly as it moved. Her husband had told her that if it started hatch

Phoenix From the Ashes In the depths of space, a giant alien thrashed her legs. Pouring into the cold vacuum, her blood formed tiny spheres as it rushed from her wound. She had been injured. This much was true. Placing a claw to her wound, trying to stop the flow, she realized it was futile for her. She would have to find a safe locale. She would have to find a safe harbor to lay her egg. Her life was over, but a new life still had a chance. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a blue/green planet. It was inviting, and not too far away. She would be able to make it if she tried. Moving her array of limbs, she flew closer to the planet. Soon she felt the pull of the world surround her. She eased back on her accelerating, allowing gravity to do the work. Looking at the largely proportioned moon associated with this planet, she saw a large glob of her blood eclipse this satellite. This was her last bit of blood. She was going to die soon. Her dying regret was that the egg ha

[Author's Note: This was my first real attempt at NaNoWriMo. However, whether it was the subject material or my university workload at the time, I was unable to complete it. It could be that the idea is itself cursed, as when I tried to write it again in 2012, I failed once more.] Chapters Phoenix From the Ashes Hatchling Allergies Forgery Eyes in the Dark And that's all...

[Author's Note: This was originally written as an assignment in response to reading Joseph Heller's Catch-22 . One option was to write an episode from the story. I decided to write about the Chaplain, a character I adore. That being said, this takes place around Page 214, Paragraph 2 (from the copy I have, which I assume is the most popular copy).] Captain Chaplain Albert T. Tappman was a meek man, never asking too much from anyone, always being exploited by everyone. This included God. He sat with his head bowed inside his tent, placed in the clearing, away from the men, enlisted and officers alike. His only companion was Corporal Whitcomb, who lived to make his life miserable, or so Whitcomb thought was his God-given mandate. Being an atheist, however, he didn’t believe in God, or any god for that matter. This did not change the importance of the mandate given by this God, big g or little, regardless of existence. Whitcomb’s current task in this grand scheme of the Go

[Author's Note: I originally published this story in April of 2004 on my LiveJournal literary community, indiefiction. It is the result of a formal bet I had made with a friend at college, where I agreed, were I to lose my end of the bargain, to write a short story featuring the struggle and format of his choice. He picked an Mock Epic of Man vs. Cantaloupe. The wager was whether I could reasonably predict which shirt my roommate would wear a few days in advance. Based on his past t-shirt selection habits, I thought I had his code broken; however, on the day in question, I was sad to discover that chaos intervened. He was not wearing the predicted t-shirt. Thus, the following poem.] The maiden was faire as she stood sidelong; Her man fronted by a fierce vinèd fruit. He drew his sword, fronting his oppugnant, Ready to avast the fierce muskmelon. The eye of the ballèd melon stared quick. Licking the blade of Artanamater, His faitheful sword and steed from ages yore, Our her