Elephant

By on Feb 14, 2013 in Writings | 0 comments

The elephant in the room was literally an elephant in the room.  Which, granted, sounds hilarious and witty when put on a postcard, but is much less funny when you’re sharing an elephant-sized room with an actual elephant. When Tracy ran away to join the circus (a cliche in its own right), she expected hardship.  She expected to work her way up from the bottom.  But she did not expect to be sleeping next to 30 pounds of elephant shit.  And the piles of shit weren’t even the worst smelling aspect of her living quarters.  A bed of hay, largely ignored by the clowns who came to shovel dung every week, rotted, choking the room with methane gas. Webs of mold – black and grey, yellow and red – bonded individual strands of hay together, turning it into a cushy-yet-terrifying mattress. Tracy expected to move up the ranks eventually.  She knew she had talent.  But for now she spent her nights with an elephant and her days smelling like shit and rotting vegetation.  But despite it all, more often than not, she could be found smiling.  For, while she more of less constantly smelled like a fart, at least she wasn’t still living at...

Minced Meat

By on Feb 6, 2013 in Writings | 0 comments

“Yep,” Sheriff Jon Carter said, adjusting his crotch as he stepped down from his Jeep.  “That’s a dead cow.”  He nodded to the dead cow laying on its back, legs stiff, hooves pointing to the sky.  Only cartoon cows died like this. “Carter,” the rancher said, looking up at the sheriff from under the brim of his hat. “This is the second cow this week.  The cows are getting agitated and I’m none too pleased myself.” The cows were agitated; it was true.  They could barely chew their cud, they were so upset.  Each glanced around at her fellow cow, trying to ascertain who was behind it all.  They knew that when night fell, the killer would once again be out, roaming through the herd.  Her low moo the only sound the victim would hear before the killer fell on his, hooves flashing. Cow serial killers are rare; aggression isn’t in their nature.  Most cows are content to wait out their days until the slaughter comes.  The last incident was way back in 2007, The Great Holstein Massacre (of 2007, obviously), where an unfortunate farmer had come out one morning to find one cow standing in a field, covered in blood and ground chuck.  One lone cow, standing among the body parts of her sisters, calmly working at a wad of grass.  Every cow knew this story.  And now there was another, out there, in the herd, waiting for nightfall. Waiting to strike....