It Started With a Hole

The men came while Pops was watching television in his bath robe. He noticed them moving outside his window through the curtain, which made them look like shadows. A crease formed between his graying eyebrows and he turned the TV down in case he could hear one of them say something, but the men weren’t speaking. His slippered feet gingerly slid across the living room floor and he pulled the curtains apart just wide enough for one eye to peer out.

The two men in his backyard were wearing all black (or maybe really dark navy) jump suits, which resembled a janitor’s uniform and black baseball caps pulled down so their eyes weren’t visible. They each held shovels and were working in perfect synchronicity under the midday sun. As one plunged his tool into the ground, the other flung his dirt to the side and vice versa.

Pops tied his robe together sloppily and hurried out his back door, slamming it behind him.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” He said.

One of the men put down his shovel and walked past Pops without saying a word, disappearing into the house.

“Hey, you can’t go in there.” Pops yelled after him.

Moments later the man reappeared holding two glasses of lemonade, he walked past pops and handed one to his partner.

“This is private property. You can’t be here.” Pops continued. “Don’t make me call the cops.”

The two men continued digging and the hole in the backyard continued to grow. Pops ranted and yelled, and even pelted the two men with small rocks, but they just kept digging. They never identified themselves or gave any reason for why they were doing this, no matter what Pops did.

Finally, he went back inside. He picked up the phone and dialed a number, while he tapped the fingers of his free hand impatiently on his kitchen counter.

“Hi, Marie? I need your help with something. Can you come over right away?” He paused as the voice on the other end of the phone responded. “Thanks, see you soon.” He then flung the curtains open and went to watching his visitors silently work. Soon a gray sedan pulled into his driveway and his daughter shuffled in.

“Oh, thank God. There are these men in the backyard and I don’t know what to do. I was hoping you could talk to them or something.” He blurted. She turned her head to the side and looked out the window into the yard. She then dropped her purse by the door.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She said before she walked out the back door.

Anxiously Pops watched as his daughter approached the men. He saw her lips moving at one point when she turned her head in enthusiasm, but couldn’t hear what she was saying. At another moment she pointed to the window where he awkwardly stood, still in his robe. Apparently not getting through, she resorted to poking and shoving the men, even knocking a glass of lemonade from one of the men’s hands as he attempted to drink. Finally, he saw one of them speak. He tried to read his lips but he couldn’t make out the words. Abruptly she turned and started walking back towards the house. Meeting her at the door was Pops.

“Well?” He said.

“I’m sorry. You can call the cops if you want.” She said, always looking at the dishes unwashed in his sink and never in his eyes. “Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

She picked up her bag and hurried out before Pops could say anything more. He watched the screen door creak shut but he didn’t move to call the police after that. He had been to war when he was young and could always handle himself, he had phoned Marie more as a consultation than a bailing out. Maybe it was pride that stopped him from dialing 911 but he would never admit that. He looked out the window and wondered how he’d fair in a scuffle with those two men in his yard. They would already be hot and substantially fatigued from working in the sun, but Pops knew that wouldn’t matter in the end.

Instead, he walked to his cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey that was covered in a thin coat of dust. He pulled a chair close to the window and poured himself a glass. Even from that distance he could see the sweat dripping from the men’s faces. They worked until the sun began to set and could be seen as an orange ball in the sky behind them. As Pops was pouring the last of the bottle into his glass the men suddenly stopped. They stood there with the shovels in their hands as if they were waiting for something.

Intrigued by the new development Pops walked outside to join the men. Only a small sliver of orange could be seen left in the sky. He walked past a mound of dirt that ants were marching into for the night. The men watched him as he approached and they stood on either side of him when he finally reached the hole in the ground. Still holding the glass of whiskey in his hand, Pops looked at each man quizzically.

“So what was this about, boys?” He asked.

“I think you know.” One of them responded.

Pops, hearing one of their voices for the first time, was struck by how cold and methodical it sounded.

“It’s time.” The other one said.

One of the men took his glass of whiskey from him. Pops stood on the edge of the hole and when his legs gave way, he never stood a chance to save himself even if he tried. His robe fluttered in the humid, evening air as he fell; face down, into the hole. Soon he could feel clumps of dirt landing on his back and his head. His mind was reeling and confused but he couldn’t get his feeble body to move. It just lied limply in the dirt as clump after clump feel upon his back and head. The moon was gaining visibility in the dark blue sky as two dark figures worked tirelessly in Pops backyard.

They would finish here soon and then tomorrow they’d be at someone else’s house. This was the job they were doomed to and this is the job they would do. Always with baseball caps turned down, so the eyes would never be seen.

The Alien Saleswoman

Most nights Jeff Pratt slept comfortably through the night with out any interruption, unless he had one of those big gulps that made him get up and pee. On this particular night however, he awoke to something very different from a bursting bladder.

He was startled from his sleep by a loud humming sound that shook his entire bedroom and made his digital clock clatter on his nightstand. Green lights flashed outside his windows and a green light was flooding in under his bedroom door. Light footsteps came walking up to the door and stopped. Then the door flung open. The knob banged against the wall with amazing force and made Jeff jump in his bed where he still lied, covered up to his waist in covers.

The figure that stepped forward through the door was lanky and small with an oversized head. In horror he saw the outline of a three-fingered hand reach for the light switch on the wall. When the light flicked on Jeff thought he must have been dreaming and still hadn’t woken up. This couldn’t be happening. Standing just inside his doorway was a grey colored alien with large, black eyes.

Oh God, don’t let him probe me, was his first thought.

What was peculiar, and entirely different from most accounts of alien encounters, was that the alien was holding something in his hand. It looked like a briefcase to Jeff. The alien confidently stepped forward and set his briefcase on the bed next to Jeff’s feet. He then opened it up and pulled out something. Jeff was ready for a ray gun, maybe a long metal rod that would be inserted in, well you know, but not what came next.

The alien cleared his throat. “Would you like to make your penis bigger?” It said as it stepped forward and handed Jeff a brochure. The brochure had GALAXYTE MALE ENHANCEMENT written on it across the top in big fancy type. “Eight million Plutonians and Uranusites can’t be wrong.”

The alien then turned the briefcase around so Jeff could see inside and he saw that it was packed with pill bottles, tubes of something, and a stack of left over brochures.

“You sell male enhancement pills?” Jeff looked down at the alien and in between its legs where male genitalia usually were. “You don’t even have a penis.”

“What, you’ve never seen a female alien before? Can female aliens not sell male enhancement pills as well as a male alien? Is that it? Prick.”

Jeff didn’t see anything down there that looked female either, but he didn’t say anything else about it. Who was he to get involved in extraterrestrial female matters?

“Sorry, I never thought about that,” Jeff responded, a little embarrassed.

“Apology accepted. Now buy my stuff.”

“Listen, you had a really, really amazing presentation but I’m just not interested in buying your penis products.” Jeff said as apologetically as he could. It reminded him of the tone he had used when he gave his first girlfriend the “It’s not you, it’s me” speech.

He wondered if it could be that easy. This alien obviously had access to technology far greater than his civilization; these aliens could grow penises up to 5 inches in as little as two weeks for God’s sake! What was stopping it from using some high tech weapon on Jeff to force him to buy its products?

“Alright,” It said with a shrug and it started to walk out, “I’ll leave you with a free sample though.” It winked one of its giant black eyes. And then it was gone.

What the hell was that?

Jeff didn’t sleep the rest of the night. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the alien and its gigantic black.

He got out of bed when the sun came up and made coffee. Maybe if he followed the routine he always did he could move past this. He was sitting at his kitchen table in his bathrobe, eating bacon and eggs and sipping his second cup of coffee, when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Jeff Pratt?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m Leslie from Galaxyte Male Enhancement. I visited you last night about our fine products...”

The alien’s name was Leslie?

“...I know I may have caught you at a bad time before. I was wondering if you might want to hear more about all the advantages Galaxyte Male Enhancement products have to offer?”

“Uh, Leslie, I don’t think I want to hear anymore about your products thanks.”

He hung up the phone, slammed it actually. That’s what he liked about land line phones; you could still slam them when you wanted to. He almost started to think about how this generation of kids were such little punks (not like his generation) with their Ipods and Twitter, but the phone ringing again cut off his train of thought.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Leslie from Galaxyte Male Enhancement again.” Leslie was really putting on her cheery voice now. “I don’t know what you’re dealing with…down there, but I think any man has room for improvement and I think you should hear all the options we here at Galaxyte have to offer.”

Now Jeff was getting angry. Why wouldn’t this alien leave him alone?

“Leslie, I don’t want your penis enlargement pills! That’s final!”

He slammed the phone as he hung up again. Nearly as soon as he did, it rang again. He picked it up, furious this time.

“Listen, I don’t want any of your alien penis pills, ok!?”

“Jeff?” The voice on the other end was human and sounded worried.

“Mom?”

“Son, are you ok?”

“You kind of caught me at a bad time, mom. Can I call you back later?”

“Sure, honey. Just...take of yourself.”

“I will, mom. Bye.”

He sat back down at the table and said aloud, “I really need to get caller I.D.”

Later that day Jeff Pratt went and signed up for that “no call list” the government had started, so telemarketers would stop bothering people. He didn’t know if it applied to aliens named Leslie but he hoped it did. Leslie never called or showed up again, so maybe it did. Eventually he was able to sleep again, even if he does sleep with a stuffed animal now (it’s a penguin, in case you were wondering).

Oh, and he tried that free sample the alien left for him. It turned his dick green.

The Basement Part 1

The four-door luxury sedan kicked up dirt as it rolled down the driveway of an old house, with a run down porch attached to the front. Will knew the road and house very well. Sometimes when he was a kid he would spend all morning, and most of the afternoon, playing games and talking with his grandmother there. There had been few renovations or attempts to update the place by her and so it looked remarkably the same as back when he was just a small kid.

Now he was an adult, a lawyer with a job, a wife, and a luxury four-door sedan, of course. He was trying to remember the last time he had been to see her when he put the car in park and killed the engine. Was it her birthday a couple years back? That one Christmas when the whole family came over? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t feel particularly guilty about not being able to remember either. He often had phone conversations with his grandmother, so it wasn’t like he totally neglected her (even if he hadn’t been able to find the time to call her lately) and besides, he was a busy man. Nobody said being a lawyer was easy. He had other responsibilities.

A kind of warmth overtook him as he walked up the porch steps, as they reminded him of a simpler and more joyful time in his life - his childhood. When he didn’t have any bills to pay or any court appearances to make. He knocked on the rickety screen door three times and called, “Grandma? Hello?”

When he got no response he tried the handle, and finding it to be unlocked, opened the door. The inside of the house, too, had undergone few changes since when he was a kid. The chairs in the living room were the same ugly, mustard yellow color. There was a bowl of peppermints sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch, somehow she always kept that bowl full, he remembered, and it was then too. A Television set (one exception to the no changes rule) that was added sometime in the nineties he guessed, sat against one wall and didn’t work anymore (since all the TV companies switched to that new-fangled digital crap, he thought his grandmother would say.)

“Grandma?” He called and looked in each room of the house. She was nowhere to be found. There was a stench that permeated throughout the house, one that was prevalent on every old person he’d ever been around. He didn’t know what to call it other than “Old people smell” and as he walked throughout the house he avoided breathing out of his nostrils as much as possible.

He knew there was one place he still hadn’t looked, the basement. As a youngster he had always been afraid of his grandmother’s basement. It was dark, spider webs hung from the corners and under the steps. Each time he went down there he felt it would be his last, as if some fiend lurked in the shadows down there waiting to take his life the first chance he got, or maybe he would unwittingly step into a black widow spider’s web and die from a poisonous bite to his ankle. As a kid he never would go in the basement alone if he could help it, instead insisting that either his grandma or his mother go with him.

The basement made his heart beat fast just thinking about it, he preferred to stay in the main part of the house where there were doyleys laying about and pictures of Jesus to watch over him, but he knew he had go down into its midst. Maybe his grandmother had fallen down there and was in trouble. He couldn’t bear it if he left and she died because of him.

The door leading to the basement was old and wooden, painted white long ago. He had to push considerably hard just to get it to move. It squealed open on its rusted hinges and Will, hoping to save a trip, called down, “Anybody here?” Unfortunately, there was no reply.

He gingerly started down the steps that even twenty years ago seemed about to give way at any moment. Each step he took down the stairs into the dark basement creaked. As if the steps themselves were pleading with him to turn back, to not go in. He almost listened to them too, only he knew he couldn’t. Not without making sure.

The basement was cooler than the rest of the house had been and chill bumps tingled up his arms and legs. His foot reached the bottom of the stairs as he ducked to one side and avoided a spider web. A folded up lawn chair sat leaning against one wall just where he remembered it always had, and an old dryer (his grandmother never bothered to buy one of those new fangled washing machines) sat in one corner just where it had when he was a child.

Yes, everything seemed to be exactly in order and the same, except for one thing. A cushioned burgundy-colored chair sat deep in the back of the room. It was in an area of the basement that was especially dark but Will could see a frazzled, unkempt head of white hair peeking up over the back of the chair.

The Basement Part 2

“What are you doing down here?” He asked, it seemed incredibly odd for his grandmother to be sitting down here by herself, and why didn’t she answer any of his calls? She must have heard him, possibly even when he rapped on the screen door to begin with.

“I remember when you were just six years old.” She was holding a book of pictures in her hands, one of all her children, grandchildren, and relatives, and slowly flipped the pages as she talked. “You were playing in the wooded area out back, you used to call it a jungle and pretend that you were Tarzan. You always had an active imagination, that’s why I always thought being a lawyer was wrong for you. Suits and ties and courtrooms aren’t for dreamers.”

“Are you okay, grandma?”

“Well, I guess you got to close to a nest, or maybe you didn’t and you were just unlucky, but a wasp landed right on that little finger of yours. You tried to shake it off, probably didn’t even know what it was at the time, but it bit you anyway. You came crying all the way back to the house, it amazed me how such a small little boy could make such a loud and terrible noise. I rubbed some medicine on the wound and tried to console you as much as I could, even let you have a chocolate chip cookie I had made that afternoon even though it was getting close to supper.

“Do you remember that?” She said, as she came to last page in the scrapbook.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I was there for you, William, when you needed me.” She set the book on a shelf next to the chair and started to get up. “So, why weren’t you there for me when I needed you?”

“What?”

As she stood and turned around, her face, which had always been turned away from William and hidden by the chair, became visible. This, unlike the house, looked very different than what he remembered. The whole right side of her face seemed to be shattered and broken, covered in dark red blood and her right eye was missing. It only took a moment for Will to realize what had happened.

His grandmother owned a shotgun, although she never seemed to use it, for as long as he could remember. It was given to her as a present long ago, supposedly for protection. She had put the barrel of that gun to her wrinkled, noble face and tried to shoot it off while sitting in this basement, this God-forsaken basement.

Will shrunk back in horror as his bloodied grandma crept towards him. Her slippered feet scraped against the hard basement floor.

“What did you do?” Will cried, as his back touched one wall of the dark room. He had nowhere to go.

“I needed you and you weren’t there. I just needed you. I needed help.”

She was still walking towards him as he slowly slid down the wall he was backed into. He began to sob.

“I didn’t know. I would’ve been here.” He said with tears running down his face and snot dripping from his nose.

“No, I just needed my grandson. I needed you.”

She was little more than a foot from him now. He wanted to run, out of that basement and up those stairs, but he couldn’t, partly out of fright and partly out of sadness. And so he stayed there; paralyzed in fear and guilt - waiting.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He kept saying it over and over again like a broken record player.

“Why weren’t you here for me, like I was there for you?” She reached out and grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently saying, “Why? Why? Why?” yelling it almost.

It’s true that one person can only take so much. Will clutched at his chest and writhed in agony as a heart attack rocked his body. The last thing he saw was the burgundy chair on the other side of the basement as his vision dimmed and his heart stopped.

When the police finally found them it was the next day. A medical examiner determined that Will Jacobson died of a heart attack sometime between three and four o’clock that afternoon. The same examiner also placed Mrs. Lenore Jacobson’s time of death, by suicide, at sometime between ten and eleven that morning.

After reading the medical reports two cops at the precinct sat at their desks drinking coffee. In an effort to give closure to the case, one of them said to the other, “I think it’s pretty easy to see what happened here. The grandma offed herself when she was alone that morning. The grandson finds her in there dead at a later time and dies himself from the shock. Open and shut case.”

His colleague nodded in agreement.

I Cut My Own Hair [Poem]

My hair eventually got too long
When I saw it, it looked all wrong

Then I had an idea that I thought was bright
“I’ll cut my own hair. That’s a good idea, right?”

So, I went and fetched my tiny purple scissors
And situated myself in between my two mirrors

Then I began to cut large chunks, trim, and clip
All the while hoping I didn’t fumble or trip

I trimmed in the back and trimmed on the sides
I was extra careful with the hair above my eyes

After it was done, all I could do was stand and stare
You may be tempted but don’t cut your own hair.

Imitation [Poem]

Imitation

It's hot in a lie, might be hotter when you die,
Hold on to what you got, 'cause time's gonna fly.
I got the answers to the world, don't you want to know?
You answer my question with a question, you reap what you sow.

They say imitation is flattery, they say imitation is suicide,
I imitated them and talked about imitation 'till I died.
What good is a river to the thirsty if it says it's a mountain?
Eternal life is microscopic, it never comes to you in a fountain.

Clearly I see, it's the wrong time for this puppet show,
I think you can't see my wrists, but somehow you know.
Sometimes dirt and grime, it can look like silver,
My words are knives, and honestly, I never meant to kill her.

Immortality [Poem]

Immortality

Relevance we desire, but reality is tart,
The lights fade while astronomers fiddle in the dark.
Straining for the impossible, top hats get lost in the fog,
Immortality rests on the snout of a dying dog.

I've seen it done before, they say that's a fine start,
But they're wrong, that's not the beginning, I've yet to play my part.
The last inspired, deep in us, a first,
Life motivated by fear is the definition of cursed.

Hung by trepidation, quartered by desires,
But that's what makes us human - and for good campfires.