wr_post20:subj_nonfict

SURFING

A disembodied voice calls up and down the streets, unearthing me from my sheets.

"...must be moved by..."

Soon other noises join the call and I submit to the inevitability of waking up. If I don't move, I can stay cocoon-like for another fifteen minutes. The shower is going and I hear it through the walls. I drift away in the momentary lull and see shadows of last night's dreams slowly drowning in a rising tide. Objects drift by, clinging feebly to their names. Some opportunists have taken it upon themselves to borrow longer words from the unfortunately large who have seemingly already succumbed to the icy depths. A pen lazes by safely atop 'piano.' A guitar fights valiantly for its title and, aided by its natural buoyancy, very nearly succeeds in reclaiming it from the pig who, with all his girth, simply could not manage atop his own three letters.

Now I am sinking. Without noticing, I have been burgled of my Christian name. Aloof and without bearings for reorienting myself, I sink into the waking world. Gravity reverses seamlessly and now I am emerging upward into my body atop the softly solid mess of my bed. The shower has stopped and there is conversation outside of my door. The officious government recording is still speaking several blocks away, but now the words are completely indistinguishable. I hear my name spoken and instinctively grab for it, forgetting why even as I do. There was some momentary sense of urgency, but now it is gone. Automatonically, I sit up, outstretched arm still dangling in the ether. The weight of my hand imparts force along the lever of my arm to the fulcrum that is my shoulders and carries me straight through the sitting position into a slumped position with my head resting on my right knee

wr_post15:subj_fict

YOUR MIND IS BORN-AGAIN

every morning is a process of rationalizing the improbability of your life. the mind pops. synapses arc. a toe wiggles. surprised by this, the mind takes three great strides and assumes the now-obvious: "i'm not dead." a foot reaches out into the abyss and lands on the thread-bare rug by the nightstand. pleased by its new domain, the mind performs a somewhat foolish act. it assumes that 'god' meant for this to be. some ultimately benevolent force put the body here, enshrined the mind within its walls and returned to the heavens to watch bemusedly at the wonder of its creation. "my god put me on earth in possession of all these wonderful playthings, some of whom, inconsequentially, appear to possess similar faculties of speech and motion," the mind intones. this is the mind's mantra, which properly produced at moments of indecision and doubt allows it to maintain its unsteady grasp on the body's reins.

now the body, because we've been distracted by the showy man at the wheel of the war-wizened camaro that is the semi-functioning human body, is still standing bare-assed in front of the window scratching its unmentionables. the mind is fairly certain it had nothing to do with this present course of action, but, these things being of little or no consequence in the face of such vast and incomprehensible philosophic quandaries, the mind abides.

twenty minutes later, still bare-assed, the body is at least clean. this excites the mind, as did the wetness and the tingle of contact with the sleek porcelain and delicate fixtures. "i am ready to face the day," says the mind.

"well i'd rather be in bed," the body murmurs in a grumbly voice from behind the kneecaps, which is echoed by an angry upstairs tenant between the eyes who often forgets to turn off the radio when he goes away on business.

"you shouldn't have stayed up until four in the goddamn morning listening to all those asinine eddie murphy records if we were due at work at seven," whines a voice in the ears.

"alright, alright!" the mind shouts, by means of quashing the mutinous rabble. for shame, should the creator happen to be tuned in and watching at this moment. the biggest problem with omnipotence is getting good reception and god, though tech-savvy, has not treated his rabbit ears kindly. "perhaps i'll be relieved of my position," thinks the brain. "my expertise is in management. i'd never make it among the grunts." Straightening his chapeau and throwing back his shoulders, the mind embarks on a campaign to retrieve the wayward dissenters. "enough of this nonsense. we've all been put here with very specific duties. Each of us forms an important component of the whole, and..."

"oh, not the clock speech again," whines the earvoice more insistently, standing full-up now and shaking away the remnants of sleep. "if we're such a well-oiled bit of mechanized nonsense, and i'll remind you that you sound like a very stodgy officer in her majesty's royal navy when you get off on the subject,...were you watching the history channel again?!...if we're supposed to be so precise and wonderful, then just how in the hell did you end up in charge?!" unbeknownst to the world outside the confines of the skin, the mind suffers innumerable such rebukes from the ears, who rent out a studio loft in the head and are often the first to hear the gossip regarding errors in judgment committed by the mind.

a hand snaps to life and tugs on the earlobe. the hands dated the mind in college and, though it didn't work out between them, they're still very close. silently, they've been pulling open drawers and selecting appropriately coordinated shoes and belt from the closet. the feet, like faulkner's manchild, are guided hesitantly and whimpering into socks. in moments, despite objections from various extensions of the self, the body is out on the street and stumbling towards the car. the day is long; the night is short; the mind is tired, but resolute. it continues to heed the call of some higher power. what strange bedfellows the agnostic body and the zealot mind make. in countless apartments, alleyways, houses and hotels across the eastern seaboard, the same scene plays out.

the day begins.

wr_post10:subj_fict

STORY TIME

steve weinstien and walter johnson lived next door to one another forever. they both lived in their childhood homes. their parents died and they each took over their father's businesses. steve married walter's sister and walter married steve's. and the wheel in the sky kept on turning. then one day as they returned from work steve and walter met at the short hedge that divided their yards, as they often did, and drank a beer as they pondered life's mysteries, as they often did.

"do you believe in an omni-present, creator figure?" steve asked.

now walter and steve had known one another all their lives, yet the issue of religion had never been broached. just one of those things you leave alone. some people are very touchy about it. there was a slight pause as walter thought the question over. then he reached under his jacket, whipped out a gun and shot steve in the head.

it was an open and shut case. there were several witnesses. walter called the cops himself to confess. later in jail he repented for his actions, began tutoring inner city kids through a rehabilitation program, prayed fervently and lived out his life in an upright, admirable sort of way. after three months of appeal failed, he faced the chair. he was electrocuted before nine members of the county governance board and received a small funeral.

"name?" saint peter asked, as walter checked in at the pearly gates.

he got through without much hassle and looked up steve in the heaven directory.

"sorry about that whole business of shooting you," walter said. "i just wanted to do some research before i gave you my answer. after weighing many things, i've decided that i do beleive in a creator and furthermore, a benevolent, forgiving creator. i'm sorry it came at such a heavy price to each of our families. i just wasnt sure how else to be certain."

steve took in the whole explanation in silence, then smiled and offered his hand to walter in a good-natured handshake. walter was moved by steve's unfathomable kindness. he had expected it to take several days, months or years, though he was not sure of a concept of time in heaven, for steve to forgive him. as he pondered all this, steve reached under his robe, pulled out a gun and shot walter in both knees. as steve stood over walter, a look of satisfaction came over his face.

"thanks god," he said. "that guy was a real shithead."

"no prob, steve," replied god. "us jews gotta stick together."

wr_post05:subj_fict

JESUS LIKES STUFF

Once there was a guy named Mike. He lived underground. He had never heard of Jesus. Mike was a mole.
This other time, there was this guy, named Steve. Steve stood on the corner and yelled at people to slow down til he got red in the face. He was a stop sign. That was a pun. That was not a pun. Jesus didnt make puns and if he did, he didnt call them puns.
But before all that, there was a guy, named Jesus. He didnt live underground. He had never heard of Mike. Jesus was a Polar Bear.
Frank didn't say anything, but they could tell he didnt approve. He lifted himself upright in his armchair and reached for his glasses. He put them on slowly. Patronizingly slowly. As if to say "No, don't trouble yourselves. Let an old man do your work. You slow bastards." Frank was in a bunker. Frank was underground. Frank was tired of hearing about Jesus and his magic. He wanted to hear more about Mike. Mike knew what was what.