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Fashionable Tails

October 21, 2014

Tails of Fashion bu Matthew Sawyer

 

Twelve-year old Tabi says to her three girlfriends, “I don’t like having a tail.”

The four Middle School girls are sleeping-over together at Katy’s house. Katy is a happy hostess. Everybody calls her ‘Cat,’ and she even spells her nickname with a ‘C.’

Next to her, sharing a sleeping bag on the floor, Tabi repeats herself. “I don’t like having a tail because people can guess the color of my pubic hair.”

Cat answers, “You’re lucky you started puberty. You’re even getting your boobs.”

Late at night when the girls should be sleeping and staying silent, they keep a reading lamp on. It is mounted over the empty bed. Hardly any light reaches all the way down to the carpet. A plug-in nightlight by the closed bedroom door does not help at all.

Tabi whines, “I know. I just don’t like my tail.”

“I like my tail,” Julie tells her friends. No one acknowledges the statement. “It’s still small, so I don’t have to show it off. And there’s only fuzz on it.”

Riley recommends to Tabi, “Shave it.”

Tabi says, “No.”

“You don’t have to keep it outside your panties,” the meek Julie suggests. Everyone there in Cat’s room forgets the quiet girl is present, almost in the shadow under the bed. She touches the darkness and blends right in.

More bleak, Tabi states, “My parents say I should be proud.”

Accidentally mindful of her friend, Julie, and in agreement with her, Cat says to Tabi, “Put it away when you go to school.”

“I do,” Tabi says.

“She does,” Riley testifies. “We have classes together in the morning and in the afternoon. I see her.”

“I don’t pay attention,” Cat admits.

“Shave it,” Riley says again. “The models in New York shave their tails.”

“She’s not a model,” Cat opines.

Tabi tells her, “Thanks.”

“I mean you’re cuter.

“Thanks,” Tabi replies flat.

“Let’s see,” Cat pressures her friend. “Let’s look at the color of your hair. I bet it’s blond like your head.”

Riley tells everybody, “It’s dishwater brown. I saw it. It’s darker on the tip.”

“Riley,” Tabi gasps.

Sleepy and silly, Cat guesses. “Are you brown down there?”

“You know,” Tabi snarls. “Shut up.”

Defensive and full of adrenaline, she raises her voice and lectures her friends. “Not everybody has the same hair color all over their bodies. People around this town are mostly brunette. That’s fine.”

Riley interrupts. “It’s consistent.”

Without affirmation, Tabi practically yells, “And redheads don’t draw any extra attention.”

“I bet they’d look like they were on fire,” shouts Cat in laughter. Her parents pound on their shared wall then Cat giggles, “Shh.”

The girls go as quiet as Julie has always been. Almost below the surface of utter silence, the unspoken one hiding against the bed skirt says, “Most people just wear them in their trousers.”

“Trousers?” snickers Cat. She and all the girls keep their volumes low.

Riley whispers, “People have them cut off and bobbed.”

“Or,” Cat specifies.

“That’s plastic surgery,” moans Tabi. “And there is my Mom and my Dad.”

Julie tells everyone from somewhere unseen, “Those boys in High School cut theirs off.”

“Some of them,” Riley retorts.

Cat says, “The whole football team.”

Riley tells her, “Not all of the boys play football – three. I watch the news. And those were expelled.

“I’ve been in the High School,” reports Cat. “I’ve seen some tails there, boys show them off. The little ones are cute.”

Curious, Julie whispers, “What color were they?”

“I don’t know.”

Dismayed and wishing for the topic to quickly change, Tabi answers, “You can guess black.”

As if she has fumbled and she scrambles to recover respectability, Cat ponders aloud. “There’s like a bald spot at the base of your tail, huh? Tabi?”

More outraged at Cat then she was with Riley, Tabi exclaims, “Cat!”

“Shh,” Cat sprays back at her friend.

Once the room has been hushed, Cat says, “Everybody has one – a spot. It’s suppose to be sexually attractive, like ankles in the Victorian century.”

“Huh?” Riley questions.

“Touch it,” Cat instructs Tabi.

“What?”

“Maybe it’s extra sensitive. Is it? Is it a Hot Spot?”

Tabi tells her, “Now you’re gross.”

Julie is genuinely sincere when she asks, “What is she talking about?” If anyone there could see in the dark, they would observe her nodding her darker head.

Cat volunteers, “Tabi knows, hair grows on a tail from the tip to the other end and underneath. But it doesn’t come together on the top near the spine in your back. It’s naked there”

Everyone is quiet while Cat chuckles.

“You said you were growing a tail,” she accuses Julie. “Rub it. Rub the base where there isn’t any peach down.”

“Huh?”

“Where you got no hair.”

“Don’t,” Tabi demands.

Already, Julie reports, “I don’t feel anything.”

“Do it harder,” Cat suggests.

Joining the understanding again, Riley says, “She’s too young.”

“How old do you have to be?” wonders Cat.

“Stop,” Tabi issues. “This is sick.”

“I’m cutting it off. I’m going to cut off my tail.”

The other girls say in descending chorus, “What? No.”

Excited, Riley tells Tabi, “You can’t cut off your tail. That’s like cutting off your finger.”

“Worse,” adds Cat. ‘Worse’ is the only word of caution Cat gives her friend.

Decided, Tabi says, “I’ll try that first.”

Confused once more, Riley wonders, “What?”

Tabi asks her friend, “Katy, do you have any scissors?”

“No,” she answers. “Well, yes, but no.”

“You want to do it now?” Julie whispers with an encouraging tone of voice.

“My finger.”

Tabi then says after nobody answers her statement. “If it doesn’t hurt too bad, we can do my tail.”

“I’m not helping you,” Cat asserts.

“It will hurt,” Riley says. “Let her try it and she’ll stop.”

Julie only nods her head and the room seems to grow darker.

Shocked by the ridiculous support her life-long buddies give their equally bound soul sister, Cat tells everyone, “I’m not stopping her.”

Immediately, Riley says, “The little finger. Try to take off the very tip.”

“I don’t have scissors,” Tabi states.

Riley urges their friend. “Cat, c’mon. Get the scissors.”

Katy’s resistance is broken once Julie whispers to her, “You can let her try.”

After an “Oh,” and being poked and hearing her name chanted, Cat gets up off the floor and leaves Tabi alone in the sleeping bag.

“Move over, Julie,” she solicits her friend. “I keep scissors under my bed.”

“Why?” Riley jokes. “Are you giving weapons to monsters?”

“Maybe its not for monsters,” Cat replies and straightens upright. A long pair of sewing scissors stays coincidentally concealed behind the young girl’s pale nightgown.

Before she hands the chrome surgical instrument to her friend, she says, “So we get to see it… your tail.”

Tabi seizes the scissors and admits, “If this doesn’t hurt.”

“It will,” Riley says again.

“Too much,” defines Tabi.

Un-synchronized with the conversation, Riley repeats, “I’ve seen it, her tail.”

“What do you think?” Cat whispers directly to her friend. The room is so still, she is unable to hide her voice from the other girls.

Riley sums, “It’s not bad.”

Tabi says more flatly than last time, “Thanks.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she states and sits down cross-legged on top of the sleeping bag. “If this doesn’t hurt too much, it’s gone.”

The same time Cat asks her friend, “What are you going to tell your parents?” the scissors make that distinctive noise, “Snick.”

A whole mute minute passes that not one girl remembers before Tabi screams. Her screeches rattle the bedroom window, Katy’s father shakes the wall. Tabi had ruined the first knuckle of her little finger on her left hand and her agony now summons her friend’s Mom and Dad.

The same time responsible adults enter the room, Riley advises her hurting friend. “You need a bigger scissors. You’re gonna need bigger scissors if you cut off that, you know, thing.”

-Matthew Sawyer

Please, Read my fiction at Smashwords

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Collegiate Ebola Awareness Month

October 20, 2014

collegiate Ebola Awareness Month

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Doing My Job Is Not An Excuse For War Crimes Nor Infractions Of Criminal Law.

October 19, 2014

On Facebook…

Admin: Sorry, but we can’t post spoilers on The Time Lords XXXX until Tues (I’m trying to get it changed to Mon)… Please repost it then, it was great, but my hands are tied by the rules. Thanks, one of the Admins

Matthew: Hmm

Admin: One of the other admins insisted, but I’m trying to get XXXX to let us change it to Sun or at least Mon. It seems crazy to me that we can’t talk about the new episodes for so long.

Matthew: I obviously disagree so I’m gone.

Admin: Will you come back if I get things changed to where we can post about it the next day?

Admin: I just talked to XXXX we can post about the new episodes on Sunday from now on. Are you willing to come back and resubmit your post?

Matthew: How about posts approved as soon as possible? What is a spoiler in this digital age? People can now watch TV anywhere – truly everywhere. And anytime. They can record television programs and watch them at their convenience. They could since the VCR, what some forty years ago. Poor people have them and use like DVRs because they have TVs too. They have computers, too, and the Internet.

Matthew: Fans find ways to watch the show at the very time Doctor Who airs in England, You know, the kind of fans that religiously follow social media sites. The truth is, in this world, if a Doctor Who fan hasn’t seen a new episode in twenty four hours, it is because they are busy. Too busy to watch TV, too busy to visit social media sites.

Matthew: Or they are too lazy and no one should cater to the unproductive behavior. Once that street light changes, traffic should not have to slow down for that dullard to cross the road.

Matthew: So why do administrators bother with filtering ‘spoilers’, in 2014 a majority of people will have seen their favorite shows almost immediately. I think everyone is caught in that Riversong fever. You all like to play games and whisper, “Spoilers,” and brush your finger across your pursed lips. Well, I don’t like it. I never liked her character anyway.

Admin: Some people don’t have the luxury of the technology to watch it when it airs in England, and have to wait until it airs on TV. I’m sorry if you feel that a”True Fan” does that, but some true fans that I know live in different countries around the world, and have to wait for it to air on TV.

Admin: If that’s your feelings, your are entitled to them and I respect that. But please don’t jump down my throat because I do what I am asked to do as an admin, by the founder of the page. We changed it to Sundays, if you don’t feel that is good enough I’m sorry.

Matthew: Some people don’t have access to technology but that’s not the case with most people who visit here? This is a social media site, not someplace that will be fined by the government for lack of wheelchair ramps. Know your demographic.

Matthew: I’m not jumping on you, Admin, you’re just standing in my cross hairs. You can always step aside and let some other soldier take the bullets. (metaphorically, of course)

Admin: I’m not jumping aside. I’m the one that just got it changed to posts to being allowed on Sundays 3pm UK time. And I have taken bullets for other people (literally). But please don’t put me in your cross hairs. I do know the demographics of this group. They are the ones I’m friends with and watch out for. If you don’t like the way a page is run, that’s your choice. But you are not an admin of this group, I’m watching out for almost 8,000 members of the group. If you don’t like the way this group is run, there are plenty of others out there.

Admin: Now if you’ll excuse me I have several pages that I am admin in, and need to take care of more important things than being put in your cross hairs and told how to be an admin.

Matthew: Admin, you excelled at being an admin, but none of it was ‘good’. (Doctor Who quote)

Admin: None of what was “good”? Telling you that I was tired of being in your cross hairs, or the fact that because of complaints I talked to the founder of the page and told him about them. I’m sorry if I came off as being rude, but I felt like you were going off on me because you didn’t like the way the page is run. I will defend myself when I feel like someone is coming at me. I’ve been pushed around too much in my life. And as a marksman being told I’m in someones crosshairs pushes buttons you don’t understand.

Matthew: Hey, did you even watch Flatline?  (Doctor Who episode in regards to the rejected post)

Matthew: But seriously, Admin, you are projecting too much into the situation. I was ignoring you. The rant was juvenile. How old are you? If you’re over 20, I would advise psychological help. My argument is one on principle alone. You implied my judgment upon yourself.

Oh, and what I attempted to post… (SPOILERS!!!)

After the Doctor Who episode Flatline, it took me a day to think of something critical to say about Clara’s character. I say, “Moffat, the moment when the Doctor caught Clara lying would have been much more dramatic if you had established Clara was lying at the beginning of the season – the audience would witness her getting away with it until episode 9. That would have been a fantastic story arc, but no, wasted. Clara is wasted still.”

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Drugs and Guitar Tutorials Hardly Ever Mix

October 7, 2014

Look at this as a Public Service Announcement…

(and it’s maybe why you never taught yourself guitar)

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Mr. Binger’s Fiery Seed

October 1, 2014

Do you have a washer?

I had a washer

And a dryer, too.

I had a house to keep them in

Before Mr. Binger brought his zoo.

—-

The man brought with him

Beasts I have never seen.

“Monsters,” children called them.

Their parents said so, too.

He kept them in a little barn

where old horses became glue.

—-

I need to clean my clothes.

That is how the infestation is spread.

Spores float off the tentacles of those things.

Mr. Binger’s creatures wave their prehensile organs,

Launch their Weightless spermatozoa into the air,

And these get stuck in your clothes.

They grow if they get into your butt, your mouth or your nose.

—-

Yeah, about my house,

The spores had nothing to do with the fire.

It’s okay to wash my clothes at your place.

You should be safe.

Just, do not open the dryer

If it starts to knock.

Leave whatever comes alive inside.

Let it cool and die and change into rock.

—-

You will want whatever you find there dead.

And if it is alive,

You’ll have to kill it yourself.

Do not let them get out of the dryer.

They will ignite the carpet

They will set the room on fire.

If you are not careful,

You’ll burn down your house,

Like I did mine.

— @&%$#— —* ____

Curious? Read The Strange Apocrypha of Mr. Binger.

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He’s Not The Same Monster Anymore

September 23, 2014

Do you remember those very old horror films Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man (1943) and House of Frankenstein (1944)? You may recall the same gimmick in The Monster Squad (1987). All these films star Universal Studio monsters. These creatures were transformed from their sources in literature and removed further from their mythological inspirations. Mary Shelley and Bram Stoker first altered their archetypes when these authors brought those same monsters into the Modern Ages.

Authors such as Stephen King and Anne Rice have been diligent and maintained the evolved fiction of these cryptids, but then there’s been Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight. Whereas the story was hugely popular, the images of vampires and werewolves were gravely injured. Granted, comic books and television had already shook the genre ragged.

Yet I reawaken Frankenstein’s monster in my story The Abhorred. I’m taking vampires and werewolves back to their roots. I’m reassembling the fabled golem – no, Frankenstein’s monster is not a zombie. And with guidance from the dead author HP Lovecraft, I pitch all these creatures against each other. This fight is not a Battle Royale nor a game. This story is the paranoid life of a professor of nuclear engineering. Professor Hebert Stock is on sabbatical here in Northern Wisconsin. It’s Thanksgiving and the man is alone. At night, he scavenges graveyards.

- Mr. Binger

The Abhorred by Mr. Binger

The Abhorred
Genre Horror
Word Count Approx. 91,758
Page Count 611

Synopsis…

Professor Hebert Stock is a good man. This professor of nuclear engineering at the University of Wisconsin – Green Bay truly believes he is a force for good. All alone, he considers himself a mortal god. His accomplishments support his delusions – Strock here has harnessed cold fusion. He has shrunken this miraculous engine under the size of a clay pot. Not only that, he has brought the dead back to life.

Professor Strock has revived whole specimens and their amputated constituent pieces. Raw energy revives and intoxicates each of the monstrosities the man has packed with batteries and sewn back together. Each nameless creation is a step toward immortality. Yet Strock’s discoveries are not primarily for himself. He helps mankind combat a scourge of vampires.

As much as Strock’s genius, vampires and werewolves are real. Unchanged by time, these monsters now flourish in the Mack State Wildlife Area – ever since a Hellmouth had opened the earth south of Madison. The Hellmouth itself rent the earth then walked away.

The vampires in The Abhorred are immaterial, blood-sucking ghosts. They become solid when they consume blood. The master of the horde in the Mack State Wildlife Area is a pudgy, Midwestern-looking fellow. His name is Vlad Blaski. This vampire has discovered semi-permeability. All vampires need do is boil the blood they drink.

Having decimated the prey inside the Wildlife Area, the hungry ghosts eat werewolves – hairy Wild Men of Eastern European folklore. They look closer to Lon Chaney’s Wolf Man than actually wolves or upright demons. And they do not transform under a full moon. The werewolves in the Abhorred are emaciated, wildly hirsute naked men cursed at puberty. How this curse is transmitted is an unimportant mystery.

Hunger drives werewolves unto Strock’s private property – a hobby farm between Appleton, WI and Greenville, WI. These trespassers discover the professor’s secret experiments. They meet his reanimated monster – a discolored, walking corpse that calls itself Angst. The reassembled boy bleeds motor oil. And a union is made. Professor Strock, his assistant Gloria, and Angst join forces with werewolves and they fight Blaski and his vampire horde.

Printed Pocket Books of The Abhorred is available from LULU.

The Abhorred Ebooks are sold online at Barnes and Noble, Amazon, etd… but I prefer readers purchase them from Smashwords.

I hope everyone finally likes this one…

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The Corpus Cat Chapter Thirteen of Thirteen

September 19, 2014

The Corpus Cat

Mr. Binger

Chapter Thirteen of Thirteen

“He’s nowhere, he’s run away,” Barry tells his wife at dawn. The man wandered the neighborhood all night looking for their pet cat. The couple meets on their front porch when he comes home.

“You threw him out,” Dana rightly accuses her husband. Whereas Barry is fully clothed, she is outside in her dressing gown, furry boots and a heavy overcoat. She holds a hot mug of coffee, and despite the charge she’s made against her husband, she hands him the beverage.

“Thanks,” he is courteous to say.

While he warms his un-gloved hands against the ceramic, Dana describes her evening alone. “Dodgie stopped crying after you went outside.”

Barry corrects her. “I know. That was about an hour after I left the house.”

“I thought you found him and you were coming back. I fell asleep waiting for you.”

After an overdue sip of warm caffeine, he tells his wife bad news. “I have to stop looking for Dodgie and go to work.”

“Oh, me too. What are we going to do?”

“I can’t stay home,” answers Barry. He knows his wife and she would expect his sacrifice.

Without options, she tells him, “I know.”

“Too bad the moon doesn’t just fall on us,” Barry wishes and he points at the huge pedigree orb plainly visible in daylight. Science says the celestial body goes the wrong way and gets closer everyday. Today, it practically dents the earth’s atmosphere. The thing is Brobdingnagian.

Unconcerned with radical predictions and assumptions of astrologers and astronomers, the Corpus couple, like the whole world, are not terrified. This day is another day filled with personal worries. And already burdened, Dana rephrases the lunar event in a positive light.

“I like to think it’s heaven coming down for our son.”

“Dodgie is a cat,” Barry reminds his wife, although his voice is not strong and fades into a whisper.

“What did he mean?” she asks him and makes her husband tardy at work. “He doesn’t hate us. I think it’s something we did.”

“Our unpaid guest did,” Barry replies more forceful than everything he’s said this morning. “I tried telling him we were sorry when I started walking around the same blocks the second time. I don’t think he heard me.”

“We are sorry, Charlie,” Dana shouts into the chilly air.

Come from the side the house, a patently feline voice cries, “Meow-mee.”

Both Corpus hear the sound. They move off the front steps and investigate. Dana does not say, but she feels Dodgie tried saying her name – not her name, Dana, but what she wants her child to call her.

Barry disturbs her illusion and states, “Dodgie is hurt. He’s over here.”

Dana follows her husband and already asks obvious questions. “I wonder if he was hit by a car.”

The Corpus couple find their cat lying on his side against the foundation of his home. His hip is mangled and all the attached leg is broken into parts yet miraculously intact. He purr but his voice is ragged and staggered.

“Call the ambulance,” Dana shouts at Barry. She then specifies, “Doctor Peters!”

“It’s too late,” her husband states.

The news is true, Dodgie stopped breathing when the Corpus couple came around the corner. The last sounds he made had come from a dead, precious pelt expelling gas. Dana immediately mourns.

“Our child died of suffocation.”

“That’s not the case here,” Barry reminds her. He stays respectful and grows glum. He tells his passed cat, “Good bye, chum.”

Cat howls draw the attention of the Corpus away from their deceased pet and the couple scan the neighborhood for the terrible sounds. And the long, low screeches are everywhere. The noises come especially from above their heads.

When they look up, Barry and Dana see domestic cats atop the peeks and points of rooftops. The animals are above them everywhere. Every cat looks toward the enormous face of the moon and they all screech absent of harmony. The cats scream for the falling pagan goddess.

“They want to go home,” sobs Dana adrift in a walking dream.

Barry scowls at the little beasts. He tells the cats, “You’re the wrong species, stop doing that…”

Another memory stops his partially birthed thought. “Wait, I’ve heard about this before.”

The revelation makes Barry Corpus feel positively psychic. Before he might enlighten his wife, Dodgie appears atop the Corpus house. When both Barry and Dana check back, they see his body is no longer beside them on the hard ground.

“Charlie’s alive!” Dana screeches.

Her husband insists, “Dodgie.”

His voice trails when he says, “Our son.”

The cat leaps into the air and vanishes. Barry and Dana saw Dodgie jump toward the moon, he ascended a foot or so, then he was gone. Dana panics, “Did he fall?”

The Corpus then watch all the other cats jump off houses and disappear into the crisp sky. Their howls stop one-by-one and twice as fast, the animals, too, are gone. Soon, the morning is quiet except for early traffic and the moon appears larger than ever before.

“This happened before in a town called Ulthar,” Barry tells his wife. His vocalization isn’t meant for her ears but she overhears.

Dana also listens to her husband say, “That’s just a fairytale.”

She believes him.

Seven weeks after this surreal incident in Lovespark, Illinois, and when the Corpus stopped blaming each other for anything they could not understand and they still have no cat, Dana tells her husband, “Barry, I’m pregnant.”

Almost every woman in town becomes pregnant that same month. Barry knew Joel’s girlfriend was already expecting, but after that morning in winter, he learned she had lost their baby. Joel once told him, “We know it’s going to be boy. We’ll call him Charles and think about you.”

Barry thinks about that name now and decides whatever he and Dana name their child, the kid’s nickname will be, “Dodger.”

_END_ _

Do you want more? Read the strange fiction of Mr. Binger at Smashwords

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