August 15, 2012

(I had every intention of finishing my pending projects before my wedding. Yeah. That didn’t work out. In fact, with almost 50 days until nuptials, I got inspired. As in, three-new-novels-inspired. What began as four new projects, has now become seven. I couldn’t help it. The ideas just came at me. Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, lines just came to me. I ran for my notebook and scribbled a page worth of ideas for a project that could be very promising and especially liberating. My other half watched me as I wrote furiously and commented, “So you came up with something else, huh?” Yes. Yes I did. But before I can work on any of my pending files, I have to finish my latest novel, which is only seven pages away from completion. It will be done by tomorrow the latest. Then I have a few days to take care of the month’s submissions before moving onto my next project. Enjoy the rest of your week, friends.)




      (((the MUMMIFIED HOTEL PROPRIETOR:2))) you heave a machete at the sewerage god. you dug the bloody weapon up in your sleep in the middle of the night, when all the hotel rooms in all the hallways opened wide and slammed shut, the thousands of vibrations causing the plaster to slide off the wall. you didn’t mean to find the machete. you didn’t want it. you didn’t want to touch the blade again, not after how it ruined the lives of so many guests and the sewerage god’s long-lost wife, but it is fitting for the machete to come full circle, to return to the sewerage god and lop his head off his neck, leaving his shoulders bare. yes. it makes sense. and the sewerage god stares at you as you lift the weighted blade and swing twice, one two, directing the blade at the skin just below his chin and above his neck. it is a narrow little sliver of flesh, maybe an inch margin, but the machete edge cuts through the skin quickly, not missing any bit of meat, and you are calm as the machete lops through the skin and comes back, moving towards your body. you step away from the blade. you step back and the blade coasts by you, smacks a wall, and comes to a stop. blood and plaster covers the hallway floor. you stare at the spreading stains. the sewerage god falls to the floor. he grasps his throat in both hands, throttling the meat while his breath comes out in blood spurts. one breath, spurt spurt. two breaths, spurt spurt. the blood is everywhere and the coppery smell rises into your nostrils. the sewerage god grasps at his severed head. a tiny piece of skin holds the neck together. he drops his head back and the skull falls, heavy weight ripping the neck meat so that the head is finally free of the body. what would the guests think, the hotel proprietor beating a sewerage god into pieces with a machete blade just after noontime on a hot summer’s day. is it even summer? the last time you thought about the seasons, it was fall, approaching winter, and someone whispered, [halloween.] maybe it is still fall. you glance out the window and blood drips from the trees. but the blood is just a flood of red leaves. they drift off the dead branches and float to the floor, where the wind stirs them in a circle, and flings them towards the street. it is still fall. it is fall but so warm, you think the blood will cook on the machete’s blade, coating the silver with a thick layer of brown-red that chips whenever the machete blade cuts against another solid body. you could wash the blood off. you could lather the blade with soap and water, then rinse until the metal is shining with deadly cleanliness. or you can lick the blade, use your tongue to reduce the blood stain to nothing. but you don’t want to taste the sewerage god’s blood. you can’t stand the idea of that coppery flavor moving around your mouth, clinging to your throat and hanging down. you won’t do it. that blood will not come close to you. you will not suck it down. you refuse. but the sewerage god moves his fingers. his severed mouth moves up and down. he sticks his tongue out. he licks the air like a lizard. his tongue flickers in a circle. it revolves around his face, yanking meat out of the air, heaving the flesh back. and you close your eyes because you do not want to see that tongue moving. you do not want to risk that tongue coming near eyes. if the tongue smacks against your cheeks, you can’t help that. but it will not touch your eyes. it will not wedge itself into the gelatin and move around, stirring the jelly until you are sick with the ruined vision. no. you will not allow it. and you keep your eyes squeezed closed so tightly that your mouth hurts and a small thumping feeling starts in the back of your head. you drop to your knees. the hotel doors creak open and slam shut. they rock the floors. the carpet sags across its center. the doors open and slam, open and slam. you gag. you drop your head back until your neck hurts and you vomit and the vomit is grass green and marbled with tiny silver slivers and maybe you bit the machete in your sleep, testing the blade, and the metal broke down in your stomach acid, reducing to silver strands that come up your throat and spiral around, cutting your meat, and you are sick with blood and vomit. the sewerage god blinks at you, his body in one corner and his head in the other. the longer be blinks, the more his tongue flicks and you cannot keep your eyes closed for so long because you are frightened so you open them wide and the tongue comes near you, reading to spear your gelatin with the tip and you pull your head back. you swing the machete, which still sits neatly in your hand. you swing three times. you swing until your stomach grumbles. then you roll your shoulders, sit up, and swing again. the machete crumbles against the sewerage god’s torso. the sewerage god screams. the sewerage god’s stomach opens wide and the flesh tumbles out, all beige and brown and yellow and red and orange and purple and the flesh piles up on the floor in front of you, thousands of meat piles across the hotel, and you think, [it must be fall because those are fall leaves and maybe the sewerage god was really a fall god and those leaves are his gift to you, so you can leap into a leaf pile, swim through autumn, and feel better about all the knifed things he made you do.]

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