fight of the century

Being the little brat the he was, Ron tried to commit a sneaky act – in total favor to himself. Be reminded, though, that this action he was willing to take was not one of selfishness, but of self-privacy.

You see, his father had a hard drive. This immense, data filled, piece of metal had everything Ron had ever seen on the internet, his photos, his information that no one wants to see again – maybe besides himself. He had naked pictures of other people, male and female – for he was a curious lad.

So here’s the question for the reader: did he have the right to steal the format drive and, too, try to delete all of his personal information from¬†it? Let’s thoughly¬†tell you something about his father:

Even though he’s plainly a douche bag for holding his 20 – something son’s naked pictures hostage, he is overall a nice guy. When he wants to be, that is. But this? Come the fuck on. There’s no way that someone is allowed, even, to do such a thing to another adult. That’s called child porn! Anyways, he has a rage problem now that he’s been taking Human Growth Hormone. And that shit does not come on subtly. It’s more like a freight train bashing through walls and such in a china shop. All at one moment in temporal space.

So, he did. Once he found out that Ron took his item of recourse, he flipped out with a capital F-L-I-P-P-E-D. And for good reasons: one of them being Ron took his fathers item, and another was because the data on the hard drive was peronal. Not to him, but Ron. And who wants their child to know they have their son’s own pornographic texts, computer info, and nasty pictures?

A fight then ensued. Thrown into walls, given a black eye, broken nose and bruises are just a few things that father did to his son that day. Another being that he threw Ron into a piece of furniture that was highly priced at $750.

Here is the best part. Ron’s father, we’ll call him assmunch from here on out, is a retired NYC police officer. So when the cops came and decided to bring someone in, guess who spent 5 days in jail? That’s right, the son, Ron. For no fault of his own, per se.




I walk in and vibrate with the nervousness that is like every other time. My heart beats louder, I can feel it in my ears. The smell of almost-ammonia or something close fills my nose. It’s this smell that reminds me of this place. Many times I’ve left feeling depressed, annoyed, even angry. This cannot happen again.

I take a deep breath and say, “Hi. Just me today. Taj, if she’s available.”

I swear to God if she fucks up my hair ….!


Walking into the hospital, headstrong in front of my parents slow scared saunters, I wasn’t worried. On and on my parents droned and insisted and nagged about it. It’s dangerous, Hun. 

But I don’t really think much of it. They stick a lubed up tube (I would hope it’s lubed up) down your throat, with a camera in tow, and look for bad stuff. How bad could it be?

I had to leave my parents behind in the lobby. They acted like two lost puppies without a bone to chew on or fight over. The nurse escorted me into the room. The linoleum tile floor plays tricks on the eyes.

Needles and gauze were everywhere, as was high tech equipment and what looked like an accordion in a tube. I satirically asked if we were going to be playing folk music, and drifted off to lala land with the cold air rushing up my nostrils. I didn’t even notice they put the damn things in my nostrils, but I think that’s the point of the tiles. (I’m drifting off now so when and if I wake up I’ll write more abou

Buried Alive

Richie fell into a coma on December 23rd, the day before Christmas Eve. At a time when family should be abundant and lively, the Miller’s were assuredly not.

Laura, Richie’s overbearing mother, stood at his side in the quite uncomfortable hospital room. Through her mind were constant flashes of the accident.

Again and again, it played over. CRASH! SKKKKERRT! BANG! CRASH! SKKKKERRT! BANG! It didn’t end, so what else could she do but give the motion to unplug her son – or what the doctor described to her as: a ‘vegetable of a son.’

She despised that. But what could she do? It seemed true.

The funeral and wake went by without a hitch. No one approached Laura. Sitting undisturbed at each event. She liked it that way.

Before walking away from the finalized burial site, she places a red rose on the grave. Laura takes one last look at the glorious marble headstone she picked out and let’s out a long sigh.

As she turns to leave, she hears her son’s voice. Crying all the while, she associates it with the grief she is going through, and continues home.

Later that week, the graveyard security that usually patrols the area notices something different. The grave of Richard Miller was bloated from the ground. It was as if something was trying to push it’s way out. Weird, he thought, and walked away.

The same day, Richie’s doctor scans the weeks’ cases, and the Miller file catches his eye. Miller had the plug pulled on em.

Opening the folder, he gasps and falls to the floor. A loud ruckus thrashes through the halls, and a nurse rushes in to help the fallen doctor.

“What’s wrong? What happened, doc?”

“Who dealt with the Hurley file? You mixed up the records, you incompetent fools! Richie Miller was not a vegetable, he was in an induced mild coma!”

At that exact moment, Laura thinks back to when her and her son played in the in the snow in the early winters of Maine when he was younger and happier with his mommy. Oh, how good he was at digging those tunnels…

life of a Sheila

The trembling of her wedding pictures against the wall woke Sheila from her dreamlike state. Her eyes immediately dart to Danny, still asleep beside her. His lips still flapping to the rhythm of the intense strength of his incessant snoring. 

“Danny,” she shrieks, “wake up! Earthquake, Danny!” But by the time his diamond-lit eyes break the darkness of the tiny bedroom, it was too late.

A huge wave of earth was thrown up against the foundation and a loud boom! screams it’s way through out the house. The couple – visibly shaken and unknowing of what is to come – is thrown out of their Ethan Allen Sleigh bed and onto their now-bruised knees and elbows. Another jolt, and a metallic thud plays an octave above the shaking earth. The thud coming from her husband’s crushed in skull.

“No!” The crying woman does her best to crawl to her unconscious and bloody husband, but Mother Earth is too much for her. She’s thrown back and forth on the floor, slipping and sliding. 

The sound of a train derailing in the town below steals away her attention for a split second, but the constant trembling reminds her of her mission: get to Dan as quickly as possible and stop the bleeding. I told him to get that damn light fixture professionally installed. Now look at him… 

She’s thrown out of her thought violently when another strong push knocks her around. As she scrapes at the wood floor to get a hold, she feels like she a rock climber trying to escape a collapsing cave. The smell of gas was starting to become overwhelming in these four or five seconds that had passed – that worried her the most, the gas.

Sheila’s parents died in a house fire. She always wondered if she would go the same way. She thought of brutality while staring out the window of the orphanage. Bright orange and yellow butterflies usually frequented that place, and she always remembered they symbolized change; and secretly she hated that. She thought would she be trapped and helpless as her flesh melted off her skin right to her bones? Will she and her lover blow apart in an instant, leaving nothing but ash and fire in the wake of it all?

Another random thought runs through her head as she tries to fight to get to her husband, Time is moving exceptionally slow. And then, it finally happened – the oven blew. BOOM!