Miguel Sanchez Presents… by Sebastien de Robillard

He wanted to make it up to her. To apologise, not too much, but enough, and also to give her something. What exactly? A music compilation: nothing original, but involves enough effort and can speak volumes. What was the intention of this gift you ask? Why bother bro? He thought he had been a little too rude. Not that rude, just too rude.

But where did this all stem from? Why the sudden guilt? It probably had a lot to do with Monday night. It was not a normal Monday night for Jack. He decided to go see a film (which did meet his expectations, but was not brilliant, which is a shame as it should have been brilliant) and a film he saw, friends in tow. The cinema was not too cold, it was actually quite full for a Monday night.

The film didn’t finish late. And he was in bed by 11 p.m. He turned the light off not long after this, and waited for sleep to take him to a world of red nightmares and black dreams.

But Jack did not sleep. And there were three reasons for this.

1) Coffee. Strong coffee. With three sugars.
2) The film’s central monster character reminded him of himself. He saw all of his bullshit in that one, fake character. His selfishness and his manipulative thoughtfulness (He wanted a king for him and his friends. Not because they needed leadership, but because he wanted somebody to blame when things went bad. Someone to hurt. He was nice so others would be nice to him; he gave so he would receive).
3) His not so nice behaviour on the previous Saturday. He had grunted responses throughout the night. Not that this was the problem. She had been fishing for attention no doubt, and she definitely wanted compliments, but she did seem to genuinely want to talk to him. Jack wasn’t that interested in any of these things. Compliment yourself! He probably thought. Get your friends to lavish you with attention, he would have pondered. He only grunted, and that was okay. Short, sharp responses were perfectly apt at this point. Jack didn’t feel like playing the losing game anymore. He had participated in this game for a long time, and was quite good at it. But then the losing game got too hard, so he pulled out. No games. But or however…? (No, however sounds better). However, as mentioned in the introduction, Jack felt he had been too rude. Too rude. Jack’s brain replayed scene after scene of him being a bloated, grunting, mono-syllabic arse, and felt like shit. Who was he to treat someone like this? Why was he so superior? At two or three in the morning, he admitted, out loud, to himself, in the dark, that he was an arse. “Now let me sleep!’ he exclaimed.

So, what happened? What was the tipping point? He was asked a rather simple question. Simple and harmless.

“Are you coming to my birthday party next weekend?” Jack, without missing a beat, looked her in her pretty eyes and said, “Probably not.”

In fact, and I cannot recall this detail as well as I would hope -I was busy scoring blow at the time - he probably just coughed some inaudible, bullshit, insensitive comment. For the sake of this tale, we will stick with ‘Probably not’.

Probably Not. What a bastard.

So, this rather cold response leapt back and forth in his head, all night long. He didn’t fall asleep until four in the morning. Poor guy, he must have been pretty tired the next day at work.


So he wanted to make it up. He thought a mix-tape would do the trick. He hoped it would say the following but not the following after that;
1) I am sorry for acting a little rudely.
2) I don’t think I will come to your birthday party, but I hope you have a good time my dear.
3) Please understand that this is not a last, final grab for you affections, but rather an apology. This is not a present made my starry eyes, but a show of affection, respectful attention. We may not be friends, but that doesn’t mean I can’t and won’t respect you.

But Jack my dear boy, what about her, the girl?

1) What if she doesn’t remember?
2) Does remember but doesn’t care?
3) Thinks you are a boring bunt (silly kunt) anyway.

What if this piece contains too many lists? Will people lose interest?

If she doesn’t care, Jack thought, that was okay, and if she doesn’t remember, then that was okay too. This was about him behaving badly, and him feeling the need to make it up to her.

This was about him about doing the right thing and not doing everything for himself.

He wanted his mix-tape to travel back in time, to the previous Saturday’s party, and say the following:

‘You look spectacular tonight. Amazingly spectacular.’

Stoker’s Horror Blog: Thoughts and Critiques by Steven Rogers - Part 15: Tears and Cartoons by Sebastien de Robillard

Modern cartoons don’t have the heat of old cartoons. I think that every time I see another crappy trailer on TV or before a feature. Crappy animation, crappy story telling and crappy acting.

Of course, you could argue that I, Steven Rogers, does not watch kids’ cartoons. I don’t have time for that shit. But some of my friends love them. Especially the Pixar films. I don’t get it. I don’t get Pixar and why they are so popular and wonderful. I mean who gives a rat’s arse about a fucking rat, or some stupid toy or some stupid car? I don’t.

I recently purchased the new Yeah Yeah Yeah’s album. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. They seem to have lost their old punk-styles, and developed a more generic, synthesizer sound. How dull and predictable. Rec didn’t think so. She thought it was marvellous.

‘Don’t type that. I never said it was marvellous Steve, I said it was really good. Don’t put words into my mouth.’ She was lying next to me, apparently reading the morning paper. She knew I would probably use the following words in my review of their album: “shit”, “popular” and “boring”.

‘Is this like your whole “Kings of Leon” thing? ‘Cos they are massively popular now?’

‘No, no, no. No. It’s not like that. You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Of course not. I wouldn’t understand how your opinions on things are based on the opinions of others? Right. Sure.’

‘Oh hey,’ she continued, ‘there is a documentary about a metal band form Baghdad showing this week in town? It could be good.”

I made a face. She didn’t look at me.

‘Is that your pretty face Steve? God I hope not.’

A few hours later, she picked me up from the comic book store down the road - new Green Lanterns, a new Robin, a one about Zombies (genius) and some Superman stuff. I had called her because it was spitting a little, and I didn’t want to walk home in the rain and YES I DON’T HAVE A CAR.

Okay?

‘Thanks Rec my sweet dear,’ I said, jumping into the back so I could lay out the comics as I opened up each one. She looked over her shoulder.

‘You know its only a few hundred meters home?’ I ignored her. I wish she didn’t fucking interrupt me when I was reading my comics. Fuck.

I started reading the first one, Ah Hal Jordan, you are spectacular. I finished it and then grabbed another. Something was wrong. We were in a car park.

‘Where are we?’ I asked. She looked at me, and said, with measured controlled,
‘We are at the movies.’
‘No, Rec, no, fuck off. Please no. I don’t want to go to a movie about stupid fucking metal. I won’t go. I refuse to go.’ She got out of the car and started walking away; I quickly jumped out and followed her. She locked the car with that beep beep sound.

We quickly reached the box office, and I grabbed her arm, with all the manliness I could muster.

‘No, no. I will not watch this film.’ I looked around; metal heads everywhere, all wearing the individualistic uniforms of black on black on black. Fucking losers.
‘These people are so fucked. I mean, look at that fat one, wearing a grey cardigan over an ice hockey top. Who fucking dresses like that? Is he trying to be ironic? Look at his glasses too…’
‘Steve,’ Rec cut me off, ‘I am seeing this film now. Are you coming in with me?’
‘No.’
‘Fine, meet you out here in 2 hours.’
‘What? No. Well…give me your car keys at least? So I can get my comics.’
She came up to me, brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and gave me an almighty kiss. I kissed back – what else could I do? This was nice. This was very…
‘Fuck you,’ she said and turned to walk inside.
‘Well, what am I SUPPOSED TO DO FOR 2 HOURS?’
Rec shrugged her shoulders without turning around.

How to Bake a Bliss Pie by Luke James

This is an age-old recipe popularised in fairy tales.

Serves: 0 to 2

Preparation time: 16 years +

Ingredients
• One human
• Rose-tinted glasses
• Yourself

Method
1. Place human in mixing bowl.
2. Add rose-tinted glasses.
3. Add yourself.
4. Mix well until all ingredients are combined and gooey to the touch. Break down any resistant chunks of human with a good spoon.
5. Transfer mixture to baking tray and place in a moderate oven until risen.
6. Remove from baking tray and serve hot.

Note: this recipe can be the most delicious dish ever tasted, but if incompatible ingredients are used or oven is set at incorrect temperature, pie may crack or lack flavour. This can cause extreme discomfort to one or both humans involved, and may also affect family or friends in the vicinity.

Hunting by Amanda Kramer

It was a drizzly and white late afternoon but the clouds showed signs of retreating and unveiling a calm dusk sky. He stepped up over a jagged rock and scuffed the toe of his boot on some crumbling debris. Placing his right hand down on the shrubby slab of rock, he used the ball of his palm to secure himself so he could dust off his boot quietly and, using his left shoulder, adjusted the strap so the rifle lay across his chest, like a seatbelt. The muzzle pointed up towards his lower ear and when he turned his head to the left he could smell the old residue from last week's hunt. He was never frightened at the closeness of the muzzle to his brain and the fact that only a few millimeters of bone lay between him and his fate. His expertise was paramount. He'd been hunting for a long time now.


The lonely wind blew a vacuum around his head but he could hear himself panting. Like clockwork, he assumed his position. Now crouched low like a python, he wriggled his body beneath some thick bushes, nestled amongst sharp sticks and ragged branches. Already the sky was clearing to a seamless milky grey and the wind retreated slightly. He lifted a finger and felt the direction of the air against his wet print. He took a pretend shot into the distance just slightly cocking the rifle, making a faux-explosion sound with his mouth. The immaturity of the act relaxed him and he smiled to himself and wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. He was pleased now. Perfect view, perfect aim. Now he needed the gold. He waited, picking something from his teeth using a thin piece of dried shrub. All was still. Then he saw it. Not one but two beasts, one behind the other, making their way around the base of the outback hill. They were completely unaware of him. This repulsed him. They were so clumsy and lumbering, their breathing heaving noises and sounds into the quiet. They had a lot of meat between them; he would certainly be proud of himself if he could mark both of them from here. He thought about how to tie the bloodied carcasses to his Hilux and remembered he brought with him some winch straps from the yard.



He waited until the beasts were stationary. They sniffed the air and grunted at each other hungrily. He drew a sharp intake of breath as the leader turned to his stumpy sidekick. Then the beasts were moving again. Slower this time. Perhaps they had sensed a predator. Not likely, he thought. The only thing they could sense was the arse of another of their kind. He felt disgust, the familiar precursor to the blind hate that drove him away from his family and to places like this. Places cold and lonely, where he cramped for hours in disguise, waiting and waiting for a chance to slaughter even one of this obtuse species.


They halted again and he cocked his rifle gently, one finger slowly easing itself onto the trigger. The only sound was the slowing whoosh of the wind and the rustle of the eucalyptus up above. He squinted, they stood still and dumb. Not moving, positioned in their own predatory formation, crude and offensive. Up ahead, a male kangaroo held its paws together and sniffed the wind, while a joey scuffled in the cracks behind him for some greenery amongst the dirt.


He fired two shots, like drum beats. The first hit the hunter in the head, sending him flat down into the crud. The second hit his sidekick, but in the ribs. The two men lay there, one dead, one dying, neither killing.



He got up, right hand on the rocks, left hand steadying the rifle behind him this time. His anger retreated from him like the rain had from the dusk. He smiled and walked away, leaving them bleeding into the dirt with no choice but to stare straight ahead at the roo and the joey retreating, shocked, but alive.

Sunny Side Up by Seb de Robillard

“So?”
“I’m happy.”
“Yeah? So what?”
“Well, you asked.”

And it was true. Mike was happy, and had been so for a few years.

“A few years.”
“Bullshit.”

It wasn’t bullshit, it was the truth. Sure, not everyday was a holiday, not every day was Christmas, but fuck Christ all mighty, he was happy.

“How? How did you get happy? Become happy, sorry?”
“ I apologised.”

That was it. He said he was sorry.

“That’s it?”

It sure was.

He decided, that he needed to swallow his pride, his ego and just show some humility. He got rid of his “bullshit” and just apologised.

“Three words? “I’m Sorry”?”
“That’s two words idiot, and it was a little more complicated than that.”

Of course it was a little bit more complicated than that, most things are. What sent it off this time? A book? A song?

“I don’t really know how I ended up in the park, but there I was. I think I passed out, after drinking with some hobos, and then a few hours later, the sun came up.”
“Did they rob you?”
“No.”
“Really?.”
“I was covered in a fine film of dew, this was in early summer. The sun slowly crept up, gently nudging me awake, and I just thought of her.”
“Because of the dew?”
“The sun. It wasn’t a cold morning or anything, but the sun warmed me. Pulsed through my body. I breathed in deeply, and I smelt her.”
“Huh?”
“The warm sun, it smelt like her.”

Mike never worked out how he ever associated her and her smell and summer, never quite worked out what summer even smelt like.


Mike’s friend was a little confused. He had not read Patrick Suskind’s Perfume like your trusty narrator, therefore had no real understanding of the power of the nose and stuff and how it makes you feel or remember things without you even realising.

“Then what?”
“I called her, woke up her, and told her I was sorry. Sorry for the way I had been, the way I behaved. I said I was sorry for not being honest and not allowing myself to be hurt. For not taking a risk. I apologised for taking her for granted, for just expecting her to be there when I wanted her to be there. I apologised for being a selfish person.”
“Did you tell her you loved her?”
“No. We met up a few hours later for coffee, I still stank of hobo goon and morning grass.”
“So you were wearing cheap as cologne?” Mike’s friend laughed.

“Sure. She looked like she had just woken up; her skin was paler than her usual lovely tint. She looked like morning, you know?. It was like her blood hadn’t really started flowing yet, flowing to give her that glow. Her beautiful glow. “
“And you told her this?”
“No. She looked annoyed, but there was flicker of curiosity, of interest in her eyes. We hugged, I should say, I hugged her. I held her for a long time. At first she was not to keen about it, even did the old pat on the back a few times, you know, “Get-off-me-pats”, but then she relaxed. We embraced, held each other like that for some time.”

“And then…”
“And then I told her I could smell the sunlight on her skin. She looked at me, and smiled.”

Fallow by David Streader

Morphine and IV drips. Catheters and hospital food. Dark grey skies, cold wind. Nicotine and Xanax. Heartbreak and restrained tears. A headache that comes after work, throbbing, until the tablets take their course. Self medication and disassociation techniques. Glazed eyes and plastic plants. A life under fluorescence, subconscious green, tinting the skin of the patients. Subtle insults, patronising compliments. A constant electrical buzz. Anxiety, anti-anxiety, anxiety. Vague sense of filth and bacteria, the overwhelming stench of bleach and chlorine. Cheap coffee, rushed cigarettes. Time races and stands still simultaneously. Mild heart palpitation, traffic fumes. Junk food and sadness. Morning coughing, yellowing teeth. Someone smiles a sweet pitying smile. Brief conversations in the break room; an uncle who had a stroke, a grandparent’s recent death. Valium and caffeine pills. Memories of a suicide, a mother of four hanging in the family bathroom, no note left - a commentary on the rest of us. The pills they say, the doctors gave her the wrong ones. Rubbing eyes, the sun sets again. The sad cold day turns to a sadder colder night. The veins in her temple, they pound. Then TV, then a fitful broken sleep, sweating, shaking. Dreams of death and forgotten friendships. And work. Dreams of work. Until the 5pm alarm goes off. Snooze for nine minutes, snooze for nine minutes more. Coffee and cigarette, peak hour traffic once more. The morning radio, play advertisements and insincere odes to love. Traffic accident, everyone slows down to look. To see if maybe they can catch a glimpse of a corpse, of their own mortality. She won’t look, she’s seen enough death already. She takes the offer of overtime. Mopping up the fluids, watching the clock. The trip to is as exhausting as the trip from. Mild paranoia. Nausea and tremors. Someone’s fucked up. You don’t seem very happy these days, someone says. She stoops over to pick up a discarded magazine, its cover of upset celebrities reminds her of her own divorce. Bring the kids back on time or they can’t see daddy next weekend. Make a phone call. A lingering feeling that she is standing on the edge, about to fall in. It’s the people they say. The people around you will pull you back. She wonders if the doctors have given her the right pills, runs in the family they say. God this place hasn’t changed in thirty years. She sighs, and tries to imagine a time when it wasn’t this bad…

Suggestions for a Newborn by Guido Martini

Wine turns into vinegar so be weary of whom you choose to trust with the rest of your life. A partnership can only be defined as such. When the spark is gone together with the looks, there had better be something else. Don't be stuck pedaling the tandem, solo.

You probably won't make a difference to the world, but it doesn't matter. You are living in YOUR world, so by default, you are making a difference.

All rules must be broken. The square shape can fit into the star opening, if you want it to. The end justifies the means.

Oh yeah, stay away from clichés; they are so passé, and try to avoid pompous French words when writing in English.

Most of all be true to yourself. Never let anyone get in the way of achieving your dreams; or tell you what to do.