Melt

Photo by Margot Pandone

Simon hated that he could not stare into the sun. He knew that no one could—not for long, at least—but he abhorred the fact of his own weakness.

The white of a noonday sun, the way it washed away the raging, reaching blue—it seemed the most pure thing in the world. When Simon saw it in photographs, the men or women tilted their heads sideways, away of the glare, he couldn’t bear to look at anything else. The green of the trees, the blue of his lover’s jean jacket—nothing seemed as right to him as the white of the sun; nothing seemed as true.

Simon wished he could stare into the sun and disappear into it the way that Abner had. He wished his lips would melt away into the abyss of white like Abner’s smile was, right here—still—in this photograph he pinched between this thumb and forefinger. Simon wished that he could be as cool as that kid for just one second of his life.

But he couldn’t. Even with the enormous sunglasses that Abner had bequeathed to him, he had to turn away at the last second. He always flinched at the pure, the true.

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One January Morning, Part 31

It is at a stoplight at the outskirts of town that Morgan makes her move—as she always has, as she always will—thrusting the jagged edge of the broken ice scraper into the unsuspecting asshole’s neck, demanding his clothes, and then leaving him to die on the side of the road. She cannot stop herself. None of us could: not me, not you. Not if we’d been forced to kiss that disgusting Fool’s ass.

So, this is the way the world ends: like a broken record. She skips back and forth through time, trying to make a change, to skip to a new groove. And when that doesn’t work, she tries again.

And again.

But it will never stop being one January morning, for we will never stop hoping she will learn, that we will learn, that the record will stop

that the record will stop

that the record will

The end.


This month, January 2015, I told one story day-by-day, inspired by cards from the Writer Emergency Pack. To read what’s next a day early, support me on Patreon.

One January Morning, Part 30

She is being tossed around by the sea, tossed as hard as the man who took her eye once tossed her. Maybe harder. It is only as she nears the coastline that she notices she is naked, save her eyepatch and her tricorne. And it is at that moment, as she sees the man on shore, a woman clinging to each of his arms, it is at that moment that she understands. She will have an opportunity here to change everything. And whether she takes that opportunity or not—on that decision rests the fate of the world. The waves slap her silly one last time and her world fades to black. What she does when she wakes to find herself in the backseat of his car—that is everything.

To be concluded…


This month, January 2015, I’m telling one story day-by-day, inspired by cards from the Writer Emergency Pack. To read the next paragraph a day early, support me on Patreon.

One January Morning, Part 29

He stands, turns, and lifts the rear of His robes to expose His own rear. It is a revolting sight, His ass: hairy and covered with a mix of popped and unpopped zits. There is a small scrap of toilet paper clenched between the two cheeks, and a rash of some sort stretching downward and out of sight.

It is all the more disgusting when one considers that He had to imagine this to make it so. It is all the more obvious, His disgust with Pirate Morgan, when one considers He could have presented her with a pristine, hairless bottom as smooth as a baby’s. He could have, but didn’t.

She kneels down and pushes her face toward him, closing her eyes as she does. She pinches her nose, too, waiting (as I am) for a fart. But, thank goodness, He spares her that indecency.

Her lips are puckered and they are but an inch a way. And now a fraction of an inch. I close my eyes, unable to watch.

At the moment she kisses His horrible ass, the world goes white.

To be continued…


This month, January 2015, I’m telling one story day-by-day, inspired by cards from the Writer Emergency Pack. To read the next paragraph a day early, support me on Patreon.

One January Morning, Part 28

“It needn’t be difficult at all,” says God, as if reading her mind.

“I am reading her mind,” He tells me. “You’re a temp. You don’t get all of my powers.”

“What do I need to do?” Pirate Morgan asks.

“Kiss my ass,” He says. “Plain and simple.”

“How am I supposed to do that if you’re sitting?” she asks Him.

“Are you ready?” He says, shuffling forward in the seat, His smile broadening with every inch. “If so, I’ll get up.”

She sighs. “No time like the present,” she says.

To be continued…


This month, January 2015, I’m telling one story day-by-day, inspired by cards from the Writer Emergency Pack. To read the next paragraph a day early, support me on Patreon.

One January Morning, Part 27

Now Pirate Morgan is confused. Or at least she looks it. Her eyes dart from God to me, from me to God. When she came up here, it was me that she thought she needed to make nice with, but now that the Big Boss is back, now all bets are off.

“Who do I need to speak with?” she asks. “Whose ass do I have to kiss to get this done?”

God laughs as He sits himself down in one of the two chairs on that side of my desk. “Well,” He says, “my ass needs kissing. So, unless Morgan over there intends on kissing my ass after you kiss his—“

“Which I do not,” I say.

“—then, I’m afraid it’s me you’re answering to,” says God.

Pirate Morgan groans. This will be more difficult than she’d imagined.

To be continued…


This month, January 2015, I’m telling one story day-by-day, inspired by cards from the Writer Emergency Pack. To read the next paragraph a day early, support me on Patreon.

One January Morning, Part 26

The moment that a deity realizes who He is, the moment that He realizes He can heal the gash in His neck as easily as He rolled the twenty-sided die that turned Him into a Skee-Ball-playing schmuck named Morgan for His weekend’s leave—that moment is fun to watch. In the blink of my eye, Morgan the Schmuck is gone and the white-bearded, Hestonesque Patriarch of my imagination has taken his place.

“The guy I killed,” stutters Morgan the Pirate, “was fucking God?”

“Not fucking God,” says God. “God.”

“I was using it as an adjective,” she spits, incredulous.

His reply: a shit-eating grin. He knows. Of course he knows.

To be continued…


This month, January 2015, I’m telling one story day-by-day, inspired by cards from the Writer Emergency Pack. To read the next paragraph a day early, support me on Patreon.

One January Morning, Part 25

They stare at each other, Morgan the Pirate and Morgran the Schmuck, and they have no further words. It is not until the pirate turns to me to speak that anyone says anything at all.

“Why?” is the question she asks as she slams a fist down on my desk, my coffee mug of pens tipping and scattering across the desk calendar left behind by the big guy Himself. It’s of Garfield, the cartoon cat. Not my thing, but I didn’t dare move it.

I smile and gesture at the schmuck. “Ask him,” I say. “He may have forgotten who he is, but I assure you both that he is the one with all the answers.”

He scoffs. “I was just picking up girls and playing some Skee-Ball when all this started,” he says.

It is on the word Skee-Ball, however, that something finally clicks. His eyes widen, his lower lip droops, and he mumbles, “Holy shit.”

To be continued…


This month, January 2015, I’m telling one story day-by-day, inspired by cards from the Writer Emergency Pack. To read the next paragraph a day early, support me on Patreon.

One January Morning, Part 24

She stands on the other side of my desk now, and she is silent. What she wants me to say, I don’t know. Now that she’s here, I can’t see into her head at all.

I pick up the phone, dial Peter in the other room, and ask him to find someone for me. I offer a pseudonym, something Pete will pick up on but the suicidal lady pirate will not. Then, I hang up.

Throughout this, she says nothing. She does not move. Her arms remain crossed, her foot still tapping. She is silent as the cliché. It is not until my guest arrives that she makes any sound at all, and then it is the quietest “What the fuck?“ I have ever heard.

Morgan the First—the first of our story, that is—has arrived, his neck wound freshly sewn up, and his “What the fuck?“ is not quiet at all.

To be continued…


This month, January 2015, I’m telling one story day-by-day, inspired by cards from the Writer Emergency Pack. To read the next paragraph a day early, support me on Patreon.

One January Morning, Part 23

What surprises me is that they don’t ask. They don’t beg at all. Instead, after a lot of whispering and a few nods, SWAT Morgan unholsters his sidearm and hands it to Deckhand Morgan. Deckhand Morgan then does something that I should remember doing, but don’t—the part of the manual on time travel was used as toilet paper by the Big Guy during a shortage of some kind, so I have no better idea how this works than you do. At any rate, Deckhand Morgan presses the barrel of the gun to Lady-Captain Morgan’s temple. She squeezes her one good eye shut and says, “Do it.” Then, just following orders, he pulls the trigger.

And now, now there is a pounding at my door.

To be continued…


This month, January 2015, I’m telling one story day-by-day, inspired by cards from the Writer Emergency Pack. To read the next paragraph a day early, support me on Patreon.