Second Thing

This is your second chance to contribute to this blog. Don't say you weren't warned.

Write a ghost story. Or the time you think you saw a ghost story. Or maybe the reason you don't believe in ghosts story. Whatever, it just has to be spectral in some way. Because it's almost Halloween, OK? I want to hear from you people that aren't me and then, of course, I want to hear from me, but only after another one of you fuckers posts first.

Good luck and, uh, BOO.

First Thing. (3)

I've had this fly following me everywhere for about six months now. This is longer than house flies should live, I know, but this little fucker is hanging around nonetheless. For the first couple of days, I thought it was kind of whimsical in a potentially demonic sort of way. You know, Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies? Well, the hilarity wasn't lost on me. I made up this whole story in my head about how I was being spied on by Hell. I'll spare you the details, but it ends with me surrounded in fire and screaming. Ugh, I know, right?

So anyway, house flies are like, little winged sacks of disease. Gross and all, but the tiny dude never got me sick, just the people around me. It would've been hilarious if they just got really sick and then got really better, but they all fucking died on me. Every single one of them. All my friends are dead. Totally blows, but the fly is still here, just buzzing around, pissing on my cool, you know?

I've hung up fly paper in every room. Nothing. I've worn out my arms with fly swatters, to no avail. I even got one of those novelty "Everything's bigger in Texas" giant swatters. No luck. The dude is just too fast for me. Smart too. No matter where I go, he finds me. Seriously. I've taken two cross-country trips with hopes of losing him, but that buzzing always pops up in the background. The white noise in my soundtrack. Sometimes it helps me sleep. Mostly it keeps me awake.

All my friends thought it was nasty, this fly tagging along everywhere we went, but they're all dead now. If that's what he wanted, some alone time or something, I would've given it to him. No skin off my back, but I guess he can't talk. At least I've never heard him say anything. Selfish bastard. Cruel little monster. And maybe it serves me right somehow. I'm gay, which, newsflash, not a big deal, but I'll never forget coming out. All these years later, it still burns. The source of my inner turmoil and anger.

The cruelty of this fly, severe yeah, but blunt. I'd say heavy-handed, but the little fucker probably weighs less than a dust bunny, so whatever, you know? The cruelty of my friends, when I came out, like, a decade ago, that really hurt. More than this. More than being alone. It was the betrayal, I think. Fifteen years of friendship with these people and they all turned their backs on me. Like what, being attracted to men is such a big deal? I mean, most of them were silly teenage girls with silly teenage crushes. Were they that surprised, I mean really?

It was the worst with Sara, I think. She told me I was Hell bound. Ugh. How stereotypical, but for some reason it just ate away at my little teenage heart. The anger I felt then has not lessened. You think it would. People grow, they change and move on. But she was my best friend and then she wasn't. No teary reunion here, just a violent heartbreak that has not mended. DEPRESSING, I know.

Well, I ran into Sara one weekend. We were at the same restaurant, eating alone. I know, what losers, right? There was a moment of mutual recognition and a tensing up of the atmosphere. Fly-baby was sitting on the edge of my water glass, staring up at me with those red-faceted eyes, as if to say, "I'll kill her. You know I will." Hmmm, my thoughts turned to revenge.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm an okay guy, but I do have a temper. I mean, I'm an Aries, what do you expect? I’m not a killer or anything, that's the fly's job and I've never used his uncanny hatred of my happiness as a weapon before, but this time. This time was different. She deserved it, you know, for those years of psychic agony. I made my way to her table, cutting through the solid air with my butter knife.

She was talking at me and I was talking at her, but I wasn't really cognizant of what was being said. I was watching my harbinger of disease rub his little fore-limbs together on the rim of her cosmo, his version of nefarious moustache twirling, I'm sure. Do the deed, little man, I thought, do whatever it is you do. Make her suffer and then snuff her out.

"I'm sorry, for the things I told you. I didn't really believe them then and I sure as hell don't believe them now. I never wanted to hurt you. I'm sorry."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What was I supposed to do, huh? Get up and leave, for her sake? In all of ten seconds, I had forgiven the bitch completely and that could only mean I as good as killed her. Fuck. But then, the fly fell into Sara's cosmo. I seized on the chance to be rid of the monster. In my most flamboyant voice, I screeched for our server, waving my arm wildly in the air to get his attention. The fly was screeching too, he was drowning, he was dying. Finally, I would be free.

As the server took it away, I laughed to myself at how silly the whole thing had been. I mean, maybe it was all coincidence. My friends just died because that's what people do. They live and then they die and that's it. No big show behind any of it, just random happenings in a random world. The fly was less and less real and then it was gone. Out of my memory like the name of that one actor in that one movie, you know the one I'm talking about, don't you?

First Thing.

Hey, all.

Icecreamlandia has a Twitter account <http://twitter.com/icecreamlandia>

where we post tiny descriptions of characters or situations.  Listed below are a few of the posts I've written thus far.

Contributors:  please write a short bit of fiction or poetry inspired by/based upon one of these people.  Post your work as a new entry on the blog.  Be sure to mark it somehow with the number of the character if it's important to you that we know who you're writing about--or don't--it's your call.

Audience (if applicable):  On this post and all future posts titled "____ Thing" please post your own response works of fiction/poetry in the comments section.

Note:  The tastes of this blog lean toward satire, but you are welcome to post whatever maudlin hairballs you barf up.  Who knows, it may be the best writing anyone has ever read, right? 

1. 4'2" Latina woman, 50 yrs old, brown, many wrinkles. Neon pink Nike Shox, walks on her toes. Both canine teeth covered in silver.
   
   
2. Male, black, pudgy, probably 12. Ass halfway up his back--makes it even harder to keep his sagging pants up. Feet out like Mary Poppins.
   
   
3. Couldn't be gayer. Highlighted greasy curls--no, wait, it's gel. Raises his arm, flops his hand around like a kid to order another cosmo.
   
   
4. Gay man's companion: Thin legs in tight jeans, barrel-chested. She has either gained weight recently or purchases her clothes aspirationally.
   
   
5. Hip mom in late forties. Bootcut jeans, tight t-shirt, trendy tie-dyed scarf covers neck folds. She'd be pulling it off if not for her shoes.
   
   
6. Another mother, fond of headbands. Both kids have 'em--one lime, the other hot-pink velour. Mom's band is black, her hair Cindy Lauper-ish.

GET STARTED, FOOLS!

here's to the future.

*clink*