Sunday, October 17, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
A Taste of Home: The short story that started it all...
This was the short story written six years ago that inspired my newest novel. I always knew that there was more to it...The story has changed a tad...but I ended up using this as a dream sequence in the final book. Enjoy
The transformation was complete. Through weary eyes, he gazed upon the unforgiving, celestial summoner of evil orbiting ever higher in the midnight sky. He hated the moon. Its inevitable return caused a horrible hunger that wasn’t easily quenchable by standard methods. Those methods had relentlessly failed him long ago. He often thought that the local butcher could’ve purchased a new car by now with all of the business he had brought into his establishment. That mental chuckle rarely brought him any comfort now. Of course, a mental chuckle was all that he was capable of, for once the animalistic instincts subdued him, any and all characteristics were no longer recognizable or executable. The wolf had taken over, making any human-like emotion or rational thought subordinate to raw, natural desires. He must feed. It must be soon, it must be flesh, and it must be human, for every other alternative had been tested and failed long ago. It offered no challenge, no thrill, not to mention the sheer ecstasy that flooded his senses upon the partaking of his fallen prey.
What he referred to as ‘long ago’ was, in actuality, only a few weeks. Without the ability to track time or day by any conventional means, it felt like an eternity. Just for the sake of making pure irony the unlikely bed partner of coincidence, he was like any other average, law abiding citizen. He had once been the proud owner of a traditional life. A life that he was no longer sure awaited him, if ever the moment would occur that this murderous, reoccurring nightmare ceased to be. With all due respect to the blackouts that would take place; he hadn’t a clue to how long it had been since he’d been home.
He was never able to recall the events of the previous evenings; however, the remains of his victims were a constant, sickening reminder of his nocturnal prowling. Had anyone bothered to search for him, or was his sudden disappearance the disguised blessing that his wife and daughter so secretly yearned for? Father of the year, he had not been, not to mention his neglectful and violent behavioral history towards the one woman that he had eternally vowed to love and protect. He still loved her, undeniably, and by his current absence in her life, he was fulfilling his promise of protection towards her.
It was his charismatic way of handling precarious situations that had brought the wrath of hell upon him, a wrath that was currently recognized as his daily life now. His wife offered him the explanation of the other man being an old high school friend, and only that, but in his mind, this was a classic excuse. A desperate and poorly constructed gambit explaining an uninvited and unannounced male presence occupying his domicile. In all honesty, as a crimson flush of rage headed north towards his face, no concoction of any imaginable explanation would have been able to quell the jealous beast that had lay dormant just below the surface of his skin, when, in fact, the real beast lay below a grove of Oak trees in a dimly lit and vacant woods that barely pushed the boundaries of fifty yards beyond his front door. As he emerged from his home to vent his jealous frustrations to a non-judgmental darkness, he was overpowered almost instantaneously, and carried away into the chilled night air.
The pain, severe, the metamorphosis, instant, the hunger, growing. An opaque vale of darkness swallowed him. He awoke the following morning in the sanctuary of a storm drain that lay deep in the forest with no clothing, and without recollection of his whereabouts over the past hours. As his senses returned to a sort of normality, he realized he was not alone in his estranged solitude. Beside him lay another man, or better yet, the barely recognizable remains of one, scattered violently around his newly discovered lair. The terrified expression on the individuals face was more extreme than it was during their previous evenings encounter. Perhaps this gentleman came to apologize for the resulting drama of his presence. Whether this action was initiated upon by his own free will, or a deed that was forcibly bribed by his significant other, it had resulted in his demise. Regardless, his intentions would never entirely come to his knowledge. It had begun, and this gentleman had fatefully become the first of a possible many. Apology accepted. He could never return home.
The uninvited gentleman caller was the only victim he had chosen that had belonged to the male persuasion. Upon his return to consciousness and free will that occurred at the birth of every new day, he had begun to realize that his victims were predominantly female. In the ocean of confusion that had become his psyche, this detail was the simplest of all riddles to solve. The superficial characteristics of the human female, whether it was due to a lack of confidence, or an abundance of personality had inevitably caused them to be an easier hunt. The scent of perfume becomes an unlikely hitchhiker on a strong breeze when it comes to the nose of a predatory carnivore, not to mention the weakened resistance that would be offered up, should a situation arise that could possibly result in her death. Gullible, curious, gentle…a man’s most perfect food, but he was no longer a man, not by a traditional definition anyway. He began to impatiently desire his evening meal.
He gracefully raised his canine head, nostrils skyward, exploring for hints of a possible kill. Nothing. His ears perked with every rustle of the leaves on the heavily littered floor of the surrounding forest. The eerie creaking of the ancient branches came from overhead as the wind began to increase slightly in velocity. He could smell the rain before it even started falling. A deafening clap of thunder engulfed the wooded sanctuary, followed by a torrential downpour that danced frantically upon the fallen leaves. To most individuals, this sudden atmospheric chaos would be an unwelcome curse upon their spirits, but this was an unexpected and positive turn of events for the creature. The forest instantly came to life with the scent of Oak, sap, and millions of unrecognizable yet delectable scents unlike any other that had grazed the passages of his nasal cavities. The rain was his savior, and it was only a matter of time before his quest would come to a triumphant completion. Now the smell of prey would be delivered unto him. With anticipation building, he released a shrieking howl of pleasure that would send tremulous shivers down the spines of the most heroic and courageous of men.
Suddenly, it came. A faint prick in his instinctual consciousness at first, followed by a flood of satisfaction. He sprinted forward though the underbrush, speeding towards the direction of the wind, and the source of the scent that was the undeniable conclusion to the fiery hunger. As he approached a spacious clearing, his pace was slowed to a stalking, low crawl. Engulfed in an almost blinding luminescence of a porch light, sat the motionless silhouette of a small female. She was overcome and dragged away without as much as a whimper.
He awoke the next morning in what had recently become his usual fashion. As he turned to meet his latest conquest, a sickening, gut wrenching horror swept through his every tingling nerve. Through tear filled eyes he glared terrified at a synonymous reflection. His daughter stared lifelessly, blankly back into his own. An angel in grief, on the steps to the unrecognizable entry to his own home, weeping for the loss of her missing father in the solitude of a midnight rain. As tragedy began to fill his already troubled soul, he came to the realization that an unrelenting, fateful turn of events had granted him his most intimate and private of wishes. He, once again, had gotten a small taste of home.
The transformation was complete. Through weary eyes, he gazed upon the unforgiving, celestial summoner of evil orbiting ever higher in the midnight sky. He hated the moon. Its inevitable return caused a horrible hunger that wasn’t easily quenchable by standard methods. Those methods had relentlessly failed him long ago. He often thought that the local butcher could’ve purchased a new car by now with all of the business he had brought into his establishment. That mental chuckle rarely brought him any comfort now. Of course, a mental chuckle was all that he was capable of, for once the animalistic instincts subdued him, any and all characteristics were no longer recognizable or executable. The wolf had taken over, making any human-like emotion or rational thought subordinate to raw, natural desires. He must feed. It must be soon, it must be flesh, and it must be human, for every other alternative had been tested and failed long ago. It offered no challenge, no thrill, not to mention the sheer ecstasy that flooded his senses upon the partaking of his fallen prey.
What he referred to as ‘long ago’ was, in actuality, only a few weeks. Without the ability to track time or day by any conventional means, it felt like an eternity. Just for the sake of making pure irony the unlikely bed partner of coincidence, he was like any other average, law abiding citizen. He had once been the proud owner of a traditional life. A life that he was no longer sure awaited him, if ever the moment would occur that this murderous, reoccurring nightmare ceased to be. With all due respect to the blackouts that would take place; he hadn’t a clue to how long it had been since he’d been home.
He was never able to recall the events of the previous evenings; however, the remains of his victims were a constant, sickening reminder of his nocturnal prowling. Had anyone bothered to search for him, or was his sudden disappearance the disguised blessing that his wife and daughter so secretly yearned for? Father of the year, he had not been, not to mention his neglectful and violent behavioral history towards the one woman that he had eternally vowed to love and protect. He still loved her, undeniably, and by his current absence in her life, he was fulfilling his promise of protection towards her.
It was his charismatic way of handling precarious situations that had brought the wrath of hell upon him, a wrath that was currently recognized as his daily life now. His wife offered him the explanation of the other man being an old high school friend, and only that, but in his mind, this was a classic excuse. A desperate and poorly constructed gambit explaining an uninvited and unannounced male presence occupying his domicile. In all honesty, as a crimson flush of rage headed north towards his face, no concoction of any imaginable explanation would have been able to quell the jealous beast that had lay dormant just below the surface of his skin, when, in fact, the real beast lay below a grove of Oak trees in a dimly lit and vacant woods that barely pushed the boundaries of fifty yards beyond his front door. As he emerged from his home to vent his jealous frustrations to a non-judgmental darkness, he was overpowered almost instantaneously, and carried away into the chilled night air.
The pain, severe, the metamorphosis, instant, the hunger, growing. An opaque vale of darkness swallowed him. He awoke the following morning in the sanctuary of a storm drain that lay deep in the forest with no clothing, and without recollection of his whereabouts over the past hours. As his senses returned to a sort of normality, he realized he was not alone in his estranged solitude. Beside him lay another man, or better yet, the barely recognizable remains of one, scattered violently around his newly discovered lair. The terrified expression on the individuals face was more extreme than it was during their previous evenings encounter. Perhaps this gentleman came to apologize for the resulting drama of his presence. Whether this action was initiated upon by his own free will, or a deed that was forcibly bribed by his significant other, it had resulted in his demise. Regardless, his intentions would never entirely come to his knowledge. It had begun, and this gentleman had fatefully become the first of a possible many. Apology accepted. He could never return home.
The uninvited gentleman caller was the only victim he had chosen that had belonged to the male persuasion. Upon his return to consciousness and free will that occurred at the birth of every new day, he had begun to realize that his victims were predominantly female. In the ocean of confusion that had become his psyche, this detail was the simplest of all riddles to solve. The superficial characteristics of the human female, whether it was due to a lack of confidence, or an abundance of personality had inevitably caused them to be an easier hunt. The scent of perfume becomes an unlikely hitchhiker on a strong breeze when it comes to the nose of a predatory carnivore, not to mention the weakened resistance that would be offered up, should a situation arise that could possibly result in her death. Gullible, curious, gentle…a man’s most perfect food, but he was no longer a man, not by a traditional definition anyway. He began to impatiently desire his evening meal.
He gracefully raised his canine head, nostrils skyward, exploring for hints of a possible kill. Nothing. His ears perked with every rustle of the leaves on the heavily littered floor of the surrounding forest. The eerie creaking of the ancient branches came from overhead as the wind began to increase slightly in velocity. He could smell the rain before it even started falling. A deafening clap of thunder engulfed the wooded sanctuary, followed by a torrential downpour that danced frantically upon the fallen leaves. To most individuals, this sudden atmospheric chaos would be an unwelcome curse upon their spirits, but this was an unexpected and positive turn of events for the creature. The forest instantly came to life with the scent of Oak, sap, and millions of unrecognizable yet delectable scents unlike any other that had grazed the passages of his nasal cavities. The rain was his savior, and it was only a matter of time before his quest would come to a triumphant completion. Now the smell of prey would be delivered unto him. With anticipation building, he released a shrieking howl of pleasure that would send tremulous shivers down the spines of the most heroic and courageous of men.
Suddenly, it came. A faint prick in his instinctual consciousness at first, followed by a flood of satisfaction. He sprinted forward though the underbrush, speeding towards the direction of the wind, and the source of the scent that was the undeniable conclusion to the fiery hunger. As he approached a spacious clearing, his pace was slowed to a stalking, low crawl. Engulfed in an almost blinding luminescence of a porch light, sat the motionless silhouette of a small female. She was overcome and dragged away without as much as a whimper.
He awoke the next morning in what had recently become his usual fashion. As he turned to meet his latest conquest, a sickening, gut wrenching horror swept through his every tingling nerve. Through tear filled eyes he glared terrified at a synonymous reflection. His daughter stared lifelessly, blankly back into his own. An angel in grief, on the steps to the unrecognizable entry to his own home, weeping for the loss of her missing father in the solitude of a midnight rain. As tragedy began to fill his already troubled soul, he came to the realization that an unrelenting, fateful turn of events had granted him his most intimate and private of wishes. He, once again, had gotten a small taste of home.
The One...written for Nez 6 years ago
I wrote this for Nez six years ago when we first started dating...before her divorce was final. Poetic, with tons of meaning to me. I don't think anyone has ever read this except the two of us...until now.
The One
by: Chad Miller
On the dismal pathways of righteousness I have walked alone for ages, pondering why the world had dealt me the death card time and time again. Lying in the dark, night after painful night wondering why this has come to be, where am I going, and when will it all come to a screeching end. Once, I knew her. A carefree spirit, longing for companionship, cherishing every adventure, gazing to the horizon. Things change.
If only I’d known then what I knew now, the story of my life.
Could I give up pieces of my being, return again to the days of my youth and do it all completely different? Where would we be, and would it have even possibly bettered the lives of our significant others from our past? These are the questions that haunt the lonely. These are the inquiries of a troubled mind at midnight, all alone in the echoing darkness of our existence. I can’t help it, I love her. She’s my muse. The reason I breathe the life giving essence of this world that I, not so long ago, would have said goodbye to, gladly I might add, in exchange for front row seats to my oblivion. As I watch her laying before me, a tender child in the shell of a goddess, clutching a memory that was sewn together with the promises of commitment, I know that I can be the one to save her. The one that will return her to her former glory, and allow her to run free in the mental fields of her youth. I can do this, don’t give up, here’s my hand, I won’t let go.
But that demon, that influential pull of curiosity is drawing her back. Unanswered mysteries, what could have been, what will be, linger in a troubled mental ocean in her mind. Am I strong enough? Will she grip me tighter, or simply fall to her demise? As she sails into the stormy night towards her destination, I stand alone on the shore of heartache. With each passing moment I grieve as she ventures closer to the tempest of her sea of depression. She glances back at me through wind torn brown hair, and gives me her angelic smile, like only she can. She’ll return, I know. Love prevails. I’ll be waiting.
The One
by: Chad Miller
On the dismal pathways of righteousness I have walked alone for ages, pondering why the world had dealt me the death card time and time again. Lying in the dark, night after painful night wondering why this has come to be, where am I going, and when will it all come to a screeching end. Once, I knew her. A carefree spirit, longing for companionship, cherishing every adventure, gazing to the horizon. Things change.
If only I’d known then what I knew now, the story of my life.
Could I give up pieces of my being, return again to the days of my youth and do it all completely different? Where would we be, and would it have even possibly bettered the lives of our significant others from our past? These are the questions that haunt the lonely. These are the inquiries of a troubled mind at midnight, all alone in the echoing darkness of our existence. I can’t help it, I love her. She’s my muse. The reason I breathe the life giving essence of this world that I, not so long ago, would have said goodbye to, gladly I might add, in exchange for front row seats to my oblivion. As I watch her laying before me, a tender child in the shell of a goddess, clutching a memory that was sewn together with the promises of commitment, I know that I can be the one to save her. The one that will return her to her former glory, and allow her to run free in the mental fields of her youth. I can do this, don’t give up, here’s my hand, I won’t let go.
But that demon, that influential pull of curiosity is drawing her back. Unanswered mysteries, what could have been, what will be, linger in a troubled mental ocean in her mind. Am I strong enough? Will she grip me tighter, or simply fall to her demise? As she sails into the stormy night towards her destination, I stand alone on the shore of heartache. With each passing moment I grieve as she ventures closer to the tempest of her sea of depression. She glances back at me through wind torn brown hair, and gives me her angelic smile, like only she can. She’ll return, I know. Love prevails. I’ll be waiting.
Stop This Life, I Want To Get Off
This was the fifth thing I ever wrote, a sort of essay on the way of things 6 years ago...I ended up using this as the opening to a chapter in my first book 'A Ghost Hunter's Journal'...The divorce was still taking it's toll...
STOP THIS LIFE, I WANT TO GET OFF
BY: Chad Miller
Bear with me for a split second. Sit back, relax, and close your eyes and dream of a different time. A time in which we all lived and loved, shared and actually believed would never end. Do you remember when? When it all seemed so easy and so carefree? When a child could stay outside alone until well after dark on their own, its parent not even batting an eye to give a second thought to the safety of their loved one? When you could run to the corner store with a ten spot, put five in the car, buck and a half for smokes, and still have enough left over to catch a movie before the day was done? When you would sit in the back of a classroom and weigh out the choices that you would be making in your near future that would lead you down pathways that would determine who you would be, and how the world recognized you? As difficult as it may seem, this was not long ago. I’m not sure what triggered the catastrophic changes that our world has suffered over the past decade or so, but I do know that I must have been sound asleep somewhere in this sleepy Texas town, dreaming of how I was going to weasel some teen bleach blonde beauty out of their panties.
Easy and carefree are figments of our imagination now. Nothing is easy, and if you happen to be carefree in this day and age, it’s because the chemicals haven’t wore off yet, give it time. Seriously, do you remember a time when there was absolutely no one that occupied your mind that wasn’t a burnt out, drugged up drain on society? If I stop typing for about five seconds……………….I can think of two or three that I have to deal with on a daily basis that I have to pretend to their faces that they’re actually winning the door prize at the annual gathering of the honorary brotherhood of dipshits seminar. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a firm believer that there is nothing wrong with anything…….as long as it’s done in moderation. Abuse it, and it becomes a habit, develop that habit, and it becomes an addiction, give in to the addiction, and you’re a waste. Give up, because there is no way out. Do the deed.
As far as the children of today are concerned, I have four of my own and would prefer in this day and age that they not walk five feet in front of me for the fear of them stepping into some chasm of despair that has been brought on by today’s society. I remember being a child, walking five blocks to school and back, and being at home by my lonesome for a few hours before my mother would come home from work. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very appreciative of her absence. How else was I to develop such professional masturbation skills in my youth? However, I feel that if someone were to grant a child such leniency in this day and age, it could only spell disaster with all the sex offending, meth monsters that freely roam our streets, raid our garbage and peep into our windows. It probably wouldn’t be so bad if I could come across at least one law enforcement official that could inspire his lot to pull their collective heads out of their asses and take an ounce of pride in their jobs and the citizens and property that they have sworn to protect, but, I’m sorry, I’ve looked, and this type of super cop no longer exists. My mind often wanders to scenes of chaos in Mayberry, if that show were still being made today. Opie with goth makeup and a nose piercing, Aunt Bee tied to a bed post being raped by Otis while Floyd the barber escorts his most special of customers into the back room to purchase the new and improved, smokable hair tonic. Where are Andy and Barney you ask? Beating the living hell out of some law abiding citizen whose name never made the credits of the television show because they were too busy living as honest life to even be noticed by the viewing public. Am I venting? You bet your sweet ass I am, because I’m sick of how the flaws in our democratic society have been exploited to where anyone with an ounce of power and influence can literally get away with murder and walk free by simply being an individual of power and influence. Where’s the justice?
In the glorious year of 1989, I drove a twelve year old Chevrolet Monte Carlo that would graciously suck down a gallon of gasoline every time a pulled away from a red light. I smoked Marlboro cigarettes and spent about 4 hours in a movie theatre on a weekly basis. This lifestyle was not enjoyed solo, because a financially challenged friend of some sort would usually accompany me. A damn shame it is to think back on these times nostalgically. Here it is, only a hop, skip and jump away and I’m barely able to afford the courage to plead at a neighbor for a DVD of a movie that I might want to see, like some entertainment starved Tiny Tim of the new millennium. I’m not sure what kind of cigarettes I smoke anymore, because my eyesight is failing me from smoking all the rat poison that gets swept up with the shaving that fall off of the production lines of the major cigarette companies that make up the cheaper kinds. I actually tried to borrow a cigarette from a coworker the other day, and he handed me a contract to sign along with a sheet to fill out informing him of the names and addresses my five of my closest friends and relatives. As far as the vehicle situation goes, I no longer punch the gas at a red light. Instead, I hang my foot out the door and get up to speed like a Tony Hawk of the highway, jump back in and begin to drive. You would think that with all of the people that we are unjustly a murdering in the Middle East that we could be more selective, and get the one that is in charge of regulating the price of a barrel of oil. The little “F” on my gas gauge was talking to me the other day about maybe adopting a pet cat from the animal shelter, just to help deal with his abandonment issues.
What could have ever possibly happened to me to make me visualize things in the manner that I do? At exactly what point in my life did I turn so black and heartless to the same world that spawned so many great people like Picasso, Humphrey Bogart, and Axl Rose? What gives me the right to turn my back on society and kindly give it the middle finger as I give an evil, maniacal chuckle and slither away into the darkness? I am a metaphorical garbage man of the human race. I am a used junk dealer of human life. I am a jailer!
STOP THIS LIFE, I WANT TO GET OFF
BY: Chad Miller
Bear with me for a split second. Sit back, relax, and close your eyes and dream of a different time. A time in which we all lived and loved, shared and actually believed would never end. Do you remember when? When it all seemed so easy and so carefree? When a child could stay outside alone until well after dark on their own, its parent not even batting an eye to give a second thought to the safety of their loved one? When you could run to the corner store with a ten spot, put five in the car, buck and a half for smokes, and still have enough left over to catch a movie before the day was done? When you would sit in the back of a classroom and weigh out the choices that you would be making in your near future that would lead you down pathways that would determine who you would be, and how the world recognized you? As difficult as it may seem, this was not long ago. I’m not sure what triggered the catastrophic changes that our world has suffered over the past decade or so, but I do know that I must have been sound asleep somewhere in this sleepy Texas town, dreaming of how I was going to weasel some teen bleach blonde beauty out of their panties.
Easy and carefree are figments of our imagination now. Nothing is easy, and if you happen to be carefree in this day and age, it’s because the chemicals haven’t wore off yet, give it time. Seriously, do you remember a time when there was absolutely no one that occupied your mind that wasn’t a burnt out, drugged up drain on society? If I stop typing for about five seconds……………….I can think of two or three that I have to deal with on a daily basis that I have to pretend to their faces that they’re actually winning the door prize at the annual gathering of the honorary brotherhood of dipshits seminar. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a firm believer that there is nothing wrong with anything…….as long as it’s done in moderation. Abuse it, and it becomes a habit, develop that habit, and it becomes an addiction, give in to the addiction, and you’re a waste. Give up, because there is no way out. Do the deed.
As far as the children of today are concerned, I have four of my own and would prefer in this day and age that they not walk five feet in front of me for the fear of them stepping into some chasm of despair that has been brought on by today’s society. I remember being a child, walking five blocks to school and back, and being at home by my lonesome for a few hours before my mother would come home from work. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very appreciative of her absence. How else was I to develop such professional masturbation skills in my youth? However, I feel that if someone were to grant a child such leniency in this day and age, it could only spell disaster with all the sex offending, meth monsters that freely roam our streets, raid our garbage and peep into our windows. It probably wouldn’t be so bad if I could come across at least one law enforcement official that could inspire his lot to pull their collective heads out of their asses and take an ounce of pride in their jobs and the citizens and property that they have sworn to protect, but, I’m sorry, I’ve looked, and this type of super cop no longer exists. My mind often wanders to scenes of chaos in Mayberry, if that show were still being made today. Opie with goth makeup and a nose piercing, Aunt Bee tied to a bed post being raped by Otis while Floyd the barber escorts his most special of customers into the back room to purchase the new and improved, smokable hair tonic. Where are Andy and Barney you ask? Beating the living hell out of some law abiding citizen whose name never made the credits of the television show because they were too busy living as honest life to even be noticed by the viewing public. Am I venting? You bet your sweet ass I am, because I’m sick of how the flaws in our democratic society have been exploited to where anyone with an ounce of power and influence can literally get away with murder and walk free by simply being an individual of power and influence. Where’s the justice?
In the glorious year of 1989, I drove a twelve year old Chevrolet Monte Carlo that would graciously suck down a gallon of gasoline every time a pulled away from a red light. I smoked Marlboro cigarettes and spent about 4 hours in a movie theatre on a weekly basis. This lifestyle was not enjoyed solo, because a financially challenged friend of some sort would usually accompany me. A damn shame it is to think back on these times nostalgically. Here it is, only a hop, skip and jump away and I’m barely able to afford the courage to plead at a neighbor for a DVD of a movie that I might want to see, like some entertainment starved Tiny Tim of the new millennium. I’m not sure what kind of cigarettes I smoke anymore, because my eyesight is failing me from smoking all the rat poison that gets swept up with the shaving that fall off of the production lines of the major cigarette companies that make up the cheaper kinds. I actually tried to borrow a cigarette from a coworker the other day, and he handed me a contract to sign along with a sheet to fill out informing him of the names and addresses my five of my closest friends and relatives. As far as the vehicle situation goes, I no longer punch the gas at a red light. Instead, I hang my foot out the door and get up to speed like a Tony Hawk of the highway, jump back in and begin to drive. You would think that with all of the people that we are unjustly a murdering in the Middle East that we could be more selective, and get the one that is in charge of regulating the price of a barrel of oil. The little “F” on my gas gauge was talking to me the other day about maybe adopting a pet cat from the animal shelter, just to help deal with his abandonment issues.
What could have ever possibly happened to me to make me visualize things in the manner that I do? At exactly what point in my life did I turn so black and heartless to the same world that spawned so many great people like Picasso, Humphrey Bogart, and Axl Rose? What gives me the right to turn my back on society and kindly give it the middle finger as I give an evil, maniacal chuckle and slither away into the darkness? I am a metaphorical garbage man of the human race. I am a used junk dealer of human life. I am a jailer!
I'll Never Tell You...
This is probably one of the darkest things I wrote 6 years ago. I had just started working as a corrections officer and it was taking it's toll. This entire thing is a monologue told through the eyes of a kid getting arrested. Not intended for children or weak adults. I warned you...
I’ll Never Tell You
(Through The Eyes Of A Juvenile)
“Well hello back to you mother fucker, yes I know its great to be back. Why don’t you just read the police report just like everyone else you fat fuck? Sure, here is all my shit from my pockets, a little bit of fuzz and a condom that I probably should have used earlier today, but I’ll never tell you. I was skipping school, or at least that’s all they know. Sure I’ll sign my rights, and if I had the chance, I’d shove them straight up your ass! And, of course, here comes the fifty two question bullshit waste of time that I’ve answered over and over again. No, No, No, No, No, No, blah blah blah. Yes the information is all the same, like my fucked up family would ever move away from this rat hole piece of shit town. Ah, now for the fun part! I get to get optically violated and take the worlds coldest shower! Don’t you remember how I looked naked the last time? You should, you molesting bastard! Although I’m sure you put it out of your mind, and the courts thought that it was a lot of made up bullshit, but unfortunately, I can’t just mentally delete one of the most humiliating and degrading moments of my life. I paid you back though, but I’ll never tell you. You see, living in a small town has its advantages. Nobody ever looks over their shoulders to see if anyone is following them, even someone who would make a few enemies here in there in their line of work. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to wait outside in the shadows and watch you get into your piece of shit car every night. Only big city people are that paranoid, and this is far from being a big city. It doesn’t take more that a few days to figure out someone elses life, especially when their life consists of work, home, and back to work. Did you know that with a forged note, anyone can just walk out of school every day to do whatever they please? That’s exactly what I was doing today, but I’ll never tell you. Did you also know that living here in the cradle of the bible belt that pretty much anyone will open their door and graciously invite them inside to the sanctity of their own home, as long as the visitor has on a white collar shirt and is carrying a bible? You see, today was one of the greatest and probably the last days that I have ever had the pleasure of enjoying in my entire young life. I had great sex with a total stranger, and loved every minute of it. Did you also know that one of the greatest orgasms that a man can achieve is while you’re fucking the throbbing cunt of a dying woman? The muscles start going into spasms when you slice their throat. It’s ironic that my bible was just wide enough to conceal my favorite blade from innocent eyes. Justice was served today. You have one hell of a mess to clean up when you get home, but I’ll never tell you.
I’ll Never Tell You
(Through The Eyes Of A Juvenile)
“Well hello back to you mother fucker, yes I know its great to be back. Why don’t you just read the police report just like everyone else you fat fuck? Sure, here is all my shit from my pockets, a little bit of fuzz and a condom that I probably should have used earlier today, but I’ll never tell you. I was skipping school, or at least that’s all they know. Sure I’ll sign my rights, and if I had the chance, I’d shove them straight up your ass! And, of course, here comes the fifty two question bullshit waste of time that I’ve answered over and over again. No, No, No, No, No, No, blah blah blah. Yes the information is all the same, like my fucked up family would ever move away from this rat hole piece of shit town. Ah, now for the fun part! I get to get optically violated and take the worlds coldest shower! Don’t you remember how I looked naked the last time? You should, you molesting bastard! Although I’m sure you put it out of your mind, and the courts thought that it was a lot of made up bullshit, but unfortunately, I can’t just mentally delete one of the most humiliating and degrading moments of my life. I paid you back though, but I’ll never tell you. You see, living in a small town has its advantages. Nobody ever looks over their shoulders to see if anyone is following them, even someone who would make a few enemies here in there in their line of work. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to wait outside in the shadows and watch you get into your piece of shit car every night. Only big city people are that paranoid, and this is far from being a big city. It doesn’t take more that a few days to figure out someone elses life, especially when their life consists of work, home, and back to work. Did you know that with a forged note, anyone can just walk out of school every day to do whatever they please? That’s exactly what I was doing today, but I’ll never tell you. Did you also know that living here in the cradle of the bible belt that pretty much anyone will open their door and graciously invite them inside to the sanctity of their own home, as long as the visitor has on a white collar shirt and is carrying a bible? You see, today was one of the greatest and probably the last days that I have ever had the pleasure of enjoying in my entire young life. I had great sex with a total stranger, and loved every minute of it. Did you also know that one of the greatest orgasms that a man can achieve is while you’re fucking the throbbing cunt of a dying woman? The muscles start going into spasms when you slice their throat. It’s ironic that my bible was just wide enough to conceal my favorite blade from innocent eyes. Justice was served today. You have one hell of a mess to clean up when you get home, but I’ll never tell you.
The Exit Not Taken...my third attempt at writing...
This was my third attempt at a short story 6 years ago. Toby Liberman's name is dropped yet again from the same character mentioned in 'The Hat Trick'. Still dark...
The Exit Not Taken
By: Chad Miller
The Ivory Ford van sped through the darkness like a celestial blade slicing the cool night air. All speed limit signs were written in some foreign language as far as the driver was concerned, for, you see, tonight was the first breath of a new life, the first of many, he hoped. He was immortal, or, at least, he felt that way now, because the Jack Daniels told him so.
He lit a Marlboro and cracked his window. The midnight, December air was just the hint of reality he needed to make it home, only fifteen miles to go. “What a night” he muttered to himself with a strong scent of alcohol wafting from his mouth to his nostrils. It was enough to know that attracting the attention of the local authorities was probably far from the greatest way to put a cherry on the top of a perfect night. He hit the accelerator.
As the white lines of the country highway morphed into an endless, unbroken guide, his thoughts began to wander onto the blurred past few months of his life: the divorce, the adjustments, and his triumphant return to the single’s lifestyle.
The divorce part was easily explained: hot chick, great sex, the guilt of one sided love, the forgotten pill, the obligation, the wedding, the weight gain, domino, the weight loss, the double shifts, the affair. You can take the bitch off of the corner, but you can’t take the corner off of the bitch. You know, basic life lessons. A faint smile began to appear on his face as he took his mental mind fuck of a trip down memory lane. “Oh Shit!” he screamed, passing by his opportunity to catch an access road to the interstate. There will be others, he thought to himself.
As the high beams of the metallic monster lunged forward into the night, he began to comfortably transform back into his hypnotic driver mode. Adjusting to the single life, what a bitch that had been. You spend the first nine months of life trying to escape a pussy, but the rest of your existence trying to get back in. Poetic justice, they call it. He just called it bullshit.
Out of the singles game for nearly a decade, he returned only to find that the game had been given a complete make over. Hell, it wasn’t even the same fucking sport anymore. All of your young life, you lift weights, beef up, play sports, learn to overhaul engines. Manly shit, you know. Only to realize that a decade later, all the women now went for the Billy Gates, geeky ass, wedgie, sign on the back, dork mother fuckers. What the hell is this world coming to, he inquired to himself as another small smirk of his evening victory crawled across his face.
Our lone rider was about to begin a sinister laugh when suddenly, “Fuck!!”
He had just missed the second of the interstate access roads. Not to worry though, with half a tank of gas and nearly a full pack of smokes, civilization was not a necessity. He blasted the stereo, and valiantly pressed onward into the night.
Two missed exits, a woman who gave less than a shit, a sudden forced change in lifestyle, and, not to mention, crying himself to sleep every night for the past few weeks in a lonely, desolate apartment, and yet, the events that took place earlier in the evening were enough to show him that he was no longer down, nor out, but at the beginning of, if his luck held out, rookie status in the new game of women. A moment of clarity only days before had made him come to realize, that in a world full of wannabes, posers, and look alikes, you have to stand out to get recognized. So replacing his traditional honky-tonk garb with a hockey jersey and eighties esque torn blue jeans, he was bound to get some looks amongst an endless sea of hillbillies. And come, the looks did. At first from all of the male patrons, dressed in their red neck best, but soon following were the ladies, the selected prey of the evening. Our hero was about to top off his third Shiner Bock when an angelic voice projecting from behind him exclaimed “You know, it’s a shame about Liberman, he was my favorite player.”
Instant connectivity! He shoots, He scores! It was at this very moment that he knew why the hands of fate had dealt him the ownership of a van! As fast as you can exhaustingly scream “horizontal mambo” the majestic Ford was rocking with the sweet rhythms of love, or lust actually, and at that exact orgasmic moment, he knew that this was only the beginning. Life had made a serious emotionally triumphant and increasingly sexual U-turn into his favor.
After the mutual exchange of fluids came the mutual exchange of numbers, and with a half cocked glimmer of hope and a little hitch in his git-a-long, he barreled down this midnight highway. Suddenly, he was slapped back into reality by a large explosion of steel and fiberglass and an excruciatingly painful and sudden stop.
As the car wrecked Casanova exits his vehicle, he realizes that the remains of a Ford Focus had now become his new hood ornament. Then came the horrid realization of a lifeless body occupying the remainder of the front seat of the mangled vehicle. As he slowly crept towards the driver, he noticed the windshield, or lack of windshield, had shattered and upon further inspection, an unrecognizable female face stared back at him, with a surprised, yet blank expression on her face. The steering wheel had almost completely severed her head. A steady flow of blood was still streaming from her wounds when he noticed the hand of the victim. In her right, a cellular phone, with a call remaining on its agenda that would never be sent. In her left, a shard of blood stained paper, containing nine digits. As he carefully removes the paper from her mannequin like grip, a frigid tingle made a bolt up his spine. This was his own phone number.
Mere minutes before, he’d killed her insides. Mere moments later, he’d finished the job. Life loves tragedy. So much for new beginnings.
The Exit Not Taken
By: Chad Miller
The Ivory Ford van sped through the darkness like a celestial blade slicing the cool night air. All speed limit signs were written in some foreign language as far as the driver was concerned, for, you see, tonight was the first breath of a new life, the first of many, he hoped. He was immortal, or, at least, he felt that way now, because the Jack Daniels told him so.
He lit a Marlboro and cracked his window. The midnight, December air was just the hint of reality he needed to make it home, only fifteen miles to go. “What a night” he muttered to himself with a strong scent of alcohol wafting from his mouth to his nostrils. It was enough to know that attracting the attention of the local authorities was probably far from the greatest way to put a cherry on the top of a perfect night. He hit the accelerator.
As the white lines of the country highway morphed into an endless, unbroken guide, his thoughts began to wander onto the blurred past few months of his life: the divorce, the adjustments, and his triumphant return to the single’s lifestyle.
The divorce part was easily explained: hot chick, great sex, the guilt of one sided love, the forgotten pill, the obligation, the wedding, the weight gain, domino, the weight loss, the double shifts, the affair. You can take the bitch off of the corner, but you can’t take the corner off of the bitch. You know, basic life lessons. A faint smile began to appear on his face as he took his mental mind fuck of a trip down memory lane. “Oh Shit!” he screamed, passing by his opportunity to catch an access road to the interstate. There will be others, he thought to himself.
As the high beams of the metallic monster lunged forward into the night, he began to comfortably transform back into his hypnotic driver mode. Adjusting to the single life, what a bitch that had been. You spend the first nine months of life trying to escape a pussy, but the rest of your existence trying to get back in. Poetic justice, they call it. He just called it bullshit.
Out of the singles game for nearly a decade, he returned only to find that the game had been given a complete make over. Hell, it wasn’t even the same fucking sport anymore. All of your young life, you lift weights, beef up, play sports, learn to overhaul engines. Manly shit, you know. Only to realize that a decade later, all the women now went for the Billy Gates, geeky ass, wedgie, sign on the back, dork mother fuckers. What the hell is this world coming to, he inquired to himself as another small smirk of his evening victory crawled across his face.
Our lone rider was about to begin a sinister laugh when suddenly, “Fuck!!”
He had just missed the second of the interstate access roads. Not to worry though, with half a tank of gas and nearly a full pack of smokes, civilization was not a necessity. He blasted the stereo, and valiantly pressed onward into the night.
Two missed exits, a woman who gave less than a shit, a sudden forced change in lifestyle, and, not to mention, crying himself to sleep every night for the past few weeks in a lonely, desolate apartment, and yet, the events that took place earlier in the evening were enough to show him that he was no longer down, nor out, but at the beginning of, if his luck held out, rookie status in the new game of women. A moment of clarity only days before had made him come to realize, that in a world full of wannabes, posers, and look alikes, you have to stand out to get recognized. So replacing his traditional honky-tonk garb with a hockey jersey and eighties esque torn blue jeans, he was bound to get some looks amongst an endless sea of hillbillies. And come, the looks did. At first from all of the male patrons, dressed in their red neck best, but soon following were the ladies, the selected prey of the evening. Our hero was about to top off his third Shiner Bock when an angelic voice projecting from behind him exclaimed “You know, it’s a shame about Liberman, he was my favorite player.”
Instant connectivity! He shoots, He scores! It was at this very moment that he knew why the hands of fate had dealt him the ownership of a van! As fast as you can exhaustingly scream “horizontal mambo” the majestic Ford was rocking with the sweet rhythms of love, or lust actually, and at that exact orgasmic moment, he knew that this was only the beginning. Life had made a serious emotionally triumphant and increasingly sexual U-turn into his favor.
After the mutual exchange of fluids came the mutual exchange of numbers, and with a half cocked glimmer of hope and a little hitch in his git-a-long, he barreled down this midnight highway. Suddenly, he was slapped back into reality by a large explosion of steel and fiberglass and an excruciatingly painful and sudden stop.
As the car wrecked Casanova exits his vehicle, he realizes that the remains of a Ford Focus had now become his new hood ornament. Then came the horrid realization of a lifeless body occupying the remainder of the front seat of the mangled vehicle. As he slowly crept towards the driver, he noticed the windshield, or lack of windshield, had shattered and upon further inspection, an unrecognizable female face stared back at him, with a surprised, yet blank expression on her face. The steering wheel had almost completely severed her head. A steady flow of blood was still streaming from her wounds when he noticed the hand of the victim. In her right, a cellular phone, with a call remaining on its agenda that would never be sent. In her left, a shard of blood stained paper, containing nine digits. As he carefully removes the paper from her mannequin like grip, a frigid tingle made a bolt up his spine. This was his own phone number.
Mere minutes before, he’d killed her insides. Mere moments later, he’d finished the job. Life loves tragedy. So much for new beginnings.
Scenes From The Drive Thru...the second thing I ever wrote
This was the second thing I ever wrote...once again in the middle of my divorce. Getting a little dark...
Scenes From The Drive Thru
By: Chad Miller
The shattered glass scattered amongst the trash and various other debris of the ancient moon lit parking lot was painfully reminding him of how his life had become. Like the theater that had once stood there, he had been full of life, and loved by many. He recalled the last time that he, himself, had graced the doorway of the now dilapidated pile of rubble that had been the sunrise of a new life for him.
Ten years, almost to the day, he had accompanied an angel to this very spot, an angel who would soon after, be allowed to reside in his heart, take his last name, bear his offspring and follow him to the ends of the earth, hand in hand, heart to heart.
The rest of our subject’s romantic, emotional rollercoaster could be compared to every “lost at love” story that anyone ever had the displeasure of telling, or listening to. Boy meets girl, boy loses girl and gets her back multiplied by twenty. Boy leaves for the Army, marries girl. Girl fucks around, boy forgives girl, girl fucks around again, boy forgives girl. Boy stays at the mercy of girl while she unforgivingly inserts sharp objects and twists them in his heart. And now, boy stands in an abandoned parking lot in the dark, at the end of this rope, which leads us to the present.
In the near distance was the illuminating glow of the establishment that remained her slave-like place of employment. Our pitiful subject had sworn to himself that he would never again cross the threshold of her job again, and like a true specimen of manhood, he intended to keep his word.
He could see her dishing out the slop de jour in the drive thru window, her red hair gently flowing in the light, evening breeze. A harsh crime it would be to scar this delicate flower for the rest of her natural life, but….
Stepping into the street he screamed her name to the best of his natural abilities and with praise to the gods of timing, she glanced out into the abyss of traffic, just as a Peterbilt rig caused his life to vanish in a brilliant crimson explosion. The once estranged bride shook uncontrollably as she collapsed to the ground howling loudly in disbelief and emotional anguish.
He had managed to once again devastate her live in a way that only “he” could. And she was sure to give him an ear full just as soon as she could gather her composure and gain access to the rat poison stock that was kept in the rear of the restaurant. If he thought he could get out of it this easy, he had another thing coming.
Scenes From The Drive Thru
By: Chad Miller
The shattered glass scattered amongst the trash and various other debris of the ancient moon lit parking lot was painfully reminding him of how his life had become. Like the theater that had once stood there, he had been full of life, and loved by many. He recalled the last time that he, himself, had graced the doorway of the now dilapidated pile of rubble that had been the sunrise of a new life for him.
Ten years, almost to the day, he had accompanied an angel to this very spot, an angel who would soon after, be allowed to reside in his heart, take his last name, bear his offspring and follow him to the ends of the earth, hand in hand, heart to heart.
The rest of our subject’s romantic, emotional rollercoaster could be compared to every “lost at love” story that anyone ever had the displeasure of telling, or listening to. Boy meets girl, boy loses girl and gets her back multiplied by twenty. Boy leaves for the Army, marries girl. Girl fucks around, boy forgives girl, girl fucks around again, boy forgives girl. Boy stays at the mercy of girl while she unforgivingly inserts sharp objects and twists them in his heart. And now, boy stands in an abandoned parking lot in the dark, at the end of this rope, which leads us to the present.
In the near distance was the illuminating glow of the establishment that remained her slave-like place of employment. Our pitiful subject had sworn to himself that he would never again cross the threshold of her job again, and like a true specimen of manhood, he intended to keep his word.
He could see her dishing out the slop de jour in the drive thru window, her red hair gently flowing in the light, evening breeze. A harsh crime it would be to scar this delicate flower for the rest of her natural life, but….
Stepping into the street he screamed her name to the best of his natural abilities and with praise to the gods of timing, she glanced out into the abyss of traffic, just as a Peterbilt rig caused his life to vanish in a brilliant crimson explosion. The once estranged bride shook uncontrollably as she collapsed to the ground howling loudly in disbelief and emotional anguish.
He had managed to once again devastate her live in a way that only “he” could. And she was sure to give him an ear full just as soon as she could gather her composure and gain access to the rat poison stock that was kept in the rear of the restaurant. If he thought he could get out of it this easy, he had another thing coming.
The Hat Trick...my very first short story ever from 6 years ago...
This was the very first short story I ever wrote. 6 years ago, after reading Del James 'The Language of Fear' I awoke one morning...and started writing. I borrowed the name of the character in this story for the main character in 'A Taste of Home'. Enjoy...
The Hat Trick
By: Chad Miller
“Tornadoes penalty” the booming voice of the rink announcer said “number nine, Toby Liberman, a five minute major for fighting.” Another one bites the ice, he thought to himself. Toby had not lost a fight to date, and with three years of minor league hockey under his belt, that was an amazing statistic. The penalty box door slammed shut and he took his well deserved seat. Some of his fans behind the box were giving their usual love taps on the glass to show their appreciation for another job well done. There’s no fan like a hockey fan.
As the chill of frigid aluminum crept through his pants, he removed his sweat soaked Mission gloves and closed his eyes to enjoy his five minute vacation in the sin bin. “You know, I wish the NHL would recognize real talent every now and then” he thought to himself. Three years in the minors and nothing to show for it with the exception of one hell of a stat sheet, a broken tooth, and a few more scars. He began to reflect back to where it all began, and where he wished he could still be today, that frozen pond back in Minnesota, surrounded by friends, playing for neighborhood honor, not here in the hell hole of the southwest, Dallas freakin’ Texas, bleeding every other night for half capacity crowds, skating on second rate ice, praying to the hockey gods to take him away from what he considered the worst mistake of his young life. Oh well, at least he scored two goals tonight, “wish it would have been a hat trick though“, three goals is something to brag about. He began to wonder who actually came up with the hockey gods anyway. Probably some half wit, half tooth doofus from Alberta fifty years ago. “Fuck the hockey gods, they can suck my hairy balls!” he muttered under his breath before he drifted off to sleep.
Toby’s whole life had been centered around the greatest game in the history of mankind, hockey. Growing up in small town Minnesota, he had a legacy to live up to, because the family photo album was full of pictures of all the men in their family for the past fifty years, covered in hockey gear, and blood no doubt, doing what they loved to do. As a matter of fact, not liking hockey back home was the equivalent of coming out of the closet and admitting that you were some cock sucking faggot. He had personally dished out a couple of those similar type faggot beatings in his youth during school when a couple of kids, brothers actually, relocated from Oklahoma City to his town in his 5th grade year. He should have cut them a break though, cow turds for hockey pucks probably wasn’t possible anyway.
Then poetic justice kicked in one fateful day at his high school championship game during his senior year. Sitting on the penalty bench for fighting he was approached by a tall man in a brown suit and cowboy hat offering him the chance to achieve his dreams that he couldn’t refuse. A chance to play for the Texas Tornadoes, a new expansion team in the minors. All he could think of was why people still wear cowboy hats. People don’t still dress up like pirates and logically, cowboys and pirates fall into the same category. He accepted the offer with little thought, and jumped a plane one month later for ‘what the hell is this hockey crap, welcome to football USA’ Dallas.
Three years later, here he sat, dreaming of home, when he felt a jarring blow to his helmet, waking him suddenly from paradise. He spun around with fists ready, only to be confronted by an old familiar face. The tall cowboy man, in all of his ignorant accent, looked him dead in the eye, and said “Hell of a job tonight kid, hell of a job. What are the possibilities of seeing you at Dallas Stars training camp next week? As fireworks erupted in his brain, he felt both joy and satisfaction swelling up inside of him. “You bet your sweet ass I’ll be there” he replied in his best impression of a fake southern draw. The cowboy slapped him on his helmet again and announced as he began to walk away, “I’ll give all the details to your coach, catch up with him later, and I’ll see you next week.” As the man disappeared into the crowd, Toby realized that this moment was nothing like he had always dreamed. Where was the press and the flashing cameras? Strait to business in Texas I guess, stupid ass hillbillies. Who gave a shit, he was going to the NHL! All he could think about was calling up his mother and telling her to get a new photo album, because Toby was officially the home town shit. Just think of the pussy he would get when he got home. Now that’s a homecoming! All the chicks who turned him down in high school would be waiting at the airport with open arms and open legs. I guess the hockey gods were listening after all. “You know I was just joking earlier” Toby muttered to himself as an unrestrictive smile appeared on his face, ear to ear.
The penalty box door swung open with a vengeance and Toby exploded onto the ice with a renewed sense of hope. Ten seconds remaining in the game, the play was in the opposing teams zone, and Toby was on his way to greatness. Better ice, better play, better groupies, damn, the possibilities were endless. Today was the first day of the rest of his life. Deafened by the screaming fans, and the visions of screaming fans yet to come, Toby never saw it coming.
“Look out, heads up” the tornadoes team captain screamed at Toby, but the warning fell on deaf ears, for as soon as Toby turned to face his teammates, the puck punched him square between the eyes, causing a deflection, straight between the legs of the opposing goalie, and crossed the line into the net. Horns blew and lights came alive announcing Toby’s hat trick. Fans high fived each other as a steady stream of hats flew from head to hand to ice in tribute to the hero of the day. His right winger skated over to him, removing a hat that had conveniently landed on Toby’s face, expecting to see a pained, yet smiling expression on the players face. Suddenly, all cheers were halted, and a deadly silence came over the arena. Where a hat tricking hero once lay, was a crimson stained number nine jersey with an unrecognizable face.
As the haze cleared and the pain faded, Toby walked onto an eerily empty ice rink. The stands were empty, but the ice was absolutely perfect, and pausing for a moment, he began to wonder if this was all a horrible dream, and he was at the pro rink in Dallas. “Wait a minute” Toby thought aloud, “this doesn’t look like American Airlines Center.”
“It’s not!” came an elderly voice behind him suddenly. “It’s heaven.”
“Heaven?” Toby interrogated at the top of his lungs, what am I doing here? Who are you?” The elderly man suddenly invented a most disappointing scowl on his face and replied “you have played hockey your entire life, and have not the slightest idea who I am? I answered all of your prayers tonight, and yet you still don’t have the fuzziest idea of who you stand before? I am the hockey god, I’m Lord Stanley!”
Toby fell to the ice in disbelief, “ Like the Stanley Cup?”
“No, dumb ass, I invented the tape measure, Yeah like the Stanley Cup!” Lord Stanley replied.
“So you’re God” Toby inquired. “Man, my Sunday school teacher was clueless!”
“No Toby, I’m not God, but God does love hockey, and who better to organize it in heaven but me!” Lord Stanley said with a proud smile.
“Well, what do you mean by what you said earlier? You said you answered all of my prayers tonight at the rink.” Toby was more confused than ever he had ever been in his life, now completely lost in the afterlife as well.
“Well” Lord Stanley began, “You wished that the NHL would recognize real talent, so I sent the hillbilly to go talk to you, a second time I might add, and then you wished to get away from all of the minor league hustle and bustle, so I got you a job with the Stars! Lastly, you asked for a hat trick, and I gave you that also!”
“Why kill me though, why, when life was about to start getting good, did you send a puck to my face?” Toby barked angrily.
“Well, of all the things I was doing for you, and have done in the past, you insisted that I fuck off tonight, and Lord Stanley has one heck of a sense of humor, but doesn’t take kindly to threats. The puck to the face was my version of throwing off the gloves and going at it!”
“Oh, sorry about that” Toby apologized. “So, I’m going to be playing for the Heaven Team? Man this is going to be great.”
“Not quite, Toby” interrupted Lord Stanley, “ I regret to inform you that there is no ball sucking on my hockey team either, but I got you hooked up somewhere that does. You’re due to try out for Coach Bin Laden’s Hell’s Hooligans this time tomorrow and with all of those penalty minutes, you should fit right in. I’ll never be able to understand how they keep their rink frozen down there, I’d wear your light weight, ventilated jersey if I were you.”
The Hat Trick
By: Chad Miller
“Tornadoes penalty” the booming voice of the rink announcer said “number nine, Toby Liberman, a five minute major for fighting.” Another one bites the ice, he thought to himself. Toby had not lost a fight to date, and with three years of minor league hockey under his belt, that was an amazing statistic. The penalty box door slammed shut and he took his well deserved seat. Some of his fans behind the box were giving their usual love taps on the glass to show their appreciation for another job well done. There’s no fan like a hockey fan.
As the chill of frigid aluminum crept through his pants, he removed his sweat soaked Mission gloves and closed his eyes to enjoy his five minute vacation in the sin bin. “You know, I wish the NHL would recognize real talent every now and then” he thought to himself. Three years in the minors and nothing to show for it with the exception of one hell of a stat sheet, a broken tooth, and a few more scars. He began to reflect back to where it all began, and where he wished he could still be today, that frozen pond back in Minnesota, surrounded by friends, playing for neighborhood honor, not here in the hell hole of the southwest, Dallas freakin’ Texas, bleeding every other night for half capacity crowds, skating on second rate ice, praying to the hockey gods to take him away from what he considered the worst mistake of his young life. Oh well, at least he scored two goals tonight, “wish it would have been a hat trick though“, three goals is something to brag about. He began to wonder who actually came up with the hockey gods anyway. Probably some half wit, half tooth doofus from Alberta fifty years ago. “Fuck the hockey gods, they can suck my hairy balls!” he muttered under his breath before he drifted off to sleep.
Toby’s whole life had been centered around the greatest game in the history of mankind, hockey. Growing up in small town Minnesota, he had a legacy to live up to, because the family photo album was full of pictures of all the men in their family for the past fifty years, covered in hockey gear, and blood no doubt, doing what they loved to do. As a matter of fact, not liking hockey back home was the equivalent of coming out of the closet and admitting that you were some cock sucking faggot. He had personally dished out a couple of those similar type faggot beatings in his youth during school when a couple of kids, brothers actually, relocated from Oklahoma City to his town in his 5th grade year. He should have cut them a break though, cow turds for hockey pucks probably wasn’t possible anyway.
Then poetic justice kicked in one fateful day at his high school championship game during his senior year. Sitting on the penalty bench for fighting he was approached by a tall man in a brown suit and cowboy hat offering him the chance to achieve his dreams that he couldn’t refuse. A chance to play for the Texas Tornadoes, a new expansion team in the minors. All he could think of was why people still wear cowboy hats. People don’t still dress up like pirates and logically, cowboys and pirates fall into the same category. He accepted the offer with little thought, and jumped a plane one month later for ‘what the hell is this hockey crap, welcome to football USA’ Dallas.
Three years later, here he sat, dreaming of home, when he felt a jarring blow to his helmet, waking him suddenly from paradise. He spun around with fists ready, only to be confronted by an old familiar face. The tall cowboy man, in all of his ignorant accent, looked him dead in the eye, and said “Hell of a job tonight kid, hell of a job. What are the possibilities of seeing you at Dallas Stars training camp next week? As fireworks erupted in his brain, he felt both joy and satisfaction swelling up inside of him. “You bet your sweet ass I’ll be there” he replied in his best impression of a fake southern draw. The cowboy slapped him on his helmet again and announced as he began to walk away, “I’ll give all the details to your coach, catch up with him later, and I’ll see you next week.” As the man disappeared into the crowd, Toby realized that this moment was nothing like he had always dreamed. Where was the press and the flashing cameras? Strait to business in Texas I guess, stupid ass hillbillies. Who gave a shit, he was going to the NHL! All he could think about was calling up his mother and telling her to get a new photo album, because Toby was officially the home town shit. Just think of the pussy he would get when he got home. Now that’s a homecoming! All the chicks who turned him down in high school would be waiting at the airport with open arms and open legs. I guess the hockey gods were listening after all. “You know I was just joking earlier” Toby muttered to himself as an unrestrictive smile appeared on his face, ear to ear.
The penalty box door swung open with a vengeance and Toby exploded onto the ice with a renewed sense of hope. Ten seconds remaining in the game, the play was in the opposing teams zone, and Toby was on his way to greatness. Better ice, better play, better groupies, damn, the possibilities were endless. Today was the first day of the rest of his life. Deafened by the screaming fans, and the visions of screaming fans yet to come, Toby never saw it coming.
“Look out, heads up” the tornadoes team captain screamed at Toby, but the warning fell on deaf ears, for as soon as Toby turned to face his teammates, the puck punched him square between the eyes, causing a deflection, straight between the legs of the opposing goalie, and crossed the line into the net. Horns blew and lights came alive announcing Toby’s hat trick. Fans high fived each other as a steady stream of hats flew from head to hand to ice in tribute to the hero of the day. His right winger skated over to him, removing a hat that had conveniently landed on Toby’s face, expecting to see a pained, yet smiling expression on the players face. Suddenly, all cheers were halted, and a deadly silence came over the arena. Where a hat tricking hero once lay, was a crimson stained number nine jersey with an unrecognizable face.
As the haze cleared and the pain faded, Toby walked onto an eerily empty ice rink. The stands were empty, but the ice was absolutely perfect, and pausing for a moment, he began to wonder if this was all a horrible dream, and he was at the pro rink in Dallas. “Wait a minute” Toby thought aloud, “this doesn’t look like American Airlines Center.”
“It’s not!” came an elderly voice behind him suddenly. “It’s heaven.”
“Heaven?” Toby interrogated at the top of his lungs, what am I doing here? Who are you?” The elderly man suddenly invented a most disappointing scowl on his face and replied “you have played hockey your entire life, and have not the slightest idea who I am? I answered all of your prayers tonight, and yet you still don’t have the fuzziest idea of who you stand before? I am the hockey god, I’m Lord Stanley!”
Toby fell to the ice in disbelief, “ Like the Stanley Cup?”
“No, dumb ass, I invented the tape measure, Yeah like the Stanley Cup!” Lord Stanley replied.
“So you’re God” Toby inquired. “Man, my Sunday school teacher was clueless!”
“No Toby, I’m not God, but God does love hockey, and who better to organize it in heaven but me!” Lord Stanley said with a proud smile.
“Well, what do you mean by what you said earlier? You said you answered all of my prayers tonight at the rink.” Toby was more confused than ever he had ever been in his life, now completely lost in the afterlife as well.
“Well” Lord Stanley began, “You wished that the NHL would recognize real talent, so I sent the hillbilly to go talk to you, a second time I might add, and then you wished to get away from all of the minor league hustle and bustle, so I got you a job with the Stars! Lastly, you asked for a hat trick, and I gave you that also!”
“Why kill me though, why, when life was about to start getting good, did you send a puck to my face?” Toby barked angrily.
“Well, of all the things I was doing for you, and have done in the past, you insisted that I fuck off tonight, and Lord Stanley has one heck of a sense of humor, but doesn’t take kindly to threats. The puck to the face was my version of throwing off the gloves and going at it!”
“Oh, sorry about that” Toby apologized. “So, I’m going to be playing for the Heaven Team? Man this is going to be great.”
“Not quite, Toby” interrupted Lord Stanley, “ I regret to inform you that there is no ball sucking on my hockey team either, but I got you hooked up somewhere that does. You’re due to try out for Coach Bin Laden’s Hell’s Hooligans this time tomorrow and with all of those penalty minutes, you should fit right in. I’ll never be able to understand how they keep their rink frozen down there, I’d wear your light weight, ventilated jersey if I were you.”
A Tribute To My EX Wife
...and he writes poetry too!!! Actually, this is something I wrote 6 years ago when I was going through my divorce. Warning!!! This is definately NOT posted for children or adults with weak stomachs...this is pure hatred at it's finest. Enjoy...
In raging seas of disbelief
I sit confused and wondered
Endless pain and saddened grief
Emotions raped and plundered
Forget the past and look ahead
Much easier said than done
Will she miss me when I’m dead
Just think of all the fun
Dancing on my grave at night
And spitting on my stone
Dig me up and break apart
Flesh, sinew and bone
Or even better yet, she thinks
Torment him while he’s living
Wondering who took his place
On our last Thanksgiving
Well bitch, I’ve got a plan or two
On how to phase you out
Take deep breaths, live day to day
And soon I’ll be without
Without you, is what I really mean
Without your heartless smile
Without the pain and suffering
Without your hardened style
Perhaps, some day, you’ll change your mind
And want to take me back
Then I’ll know you’ve lost your mind
And must be smoking crack
Forgive you once, forgive you twice
Third time is a charm
Sneak back into your lover’s life
Not raising an alarm
You see, there’s things that you forget
Things that you’ll never see
To take you back without regret
Well baby, that’s not me
Well girl, I’ve got to wrap this up
Beginnings have their ends
I think you really know what’s up
I’m fucking all your friends
It’s all too late to undo now
They like my dick too much
They let me fuck them in their ass
Cum in their mouths and such
Continue living out your life
I hope you live it well
Perhaps we’ll meet again someday
On better terms in Hell
How can I be so mean, you ask
Well baby, that’s your doing
How am I supposed to feel
With your unfaithful screwing
You did to me for all those years
That which you’ll do no more
You turned my feelings all to fears
You two bit fucking whore
Perhaps I’ve taken this too far
But where there’s smoke there’s fire
Before you get into your car
I’d check your fucking tires
If you die before I do
Your presence I shall miss
Rotting, you will have no clue
Atop you, I shall piss
And steal flowers from the spot
Your family laid them down
And toss them in a port a john
Somewhere outside of town
Relax, I’m only joking Kim
I don’t hate you this bad
You see, my head begins to swim
When I’m out of beer, Love, Chad
In raging seas of disbelief
I sit confused and wondered
Endless pain and saddened grief
Emotions raped and plundered
Forget the past and look ahead
Much easier said than done
Will she miss me when I’m dead
Just think of all the fun
Dancing on my grave at night
And spitting on my stone
Dig me up and break apart
Flesh, sinew and bone
Or even better yet, she thinks
Torment him while he’s living
Wondering who took his place
On our last Thanksgiving
Well bitch, I’ve got a plan or two
On how to phase you out
Take deep breaths, live day to day
And soon I’ll be without
Without you, is what I really mean
Without your heartless smile
Without the pain and suffering
Without your hardened style
Perhaps, some day, you’ll change your mind
And want to take me back
Then I’ll know you’ve lost your mind
And must be smoking crack
Forgive you once, forgive you twice
Third time is a charm
Sneak back into your lover’s life
Not raising an alarm
You see, there’s things that you forget
Things that you’ll never see
To take you back without regret
Well baby, that’s not me
Well girl, I’ve got to wrap this up
Beginnings have their ends
I think you really know what’s up
I’m fucking all your friends
It’s all too late to undo now
They like my dick too much
They let me fuck them in their ass
Cum in their mouths and such
Continue living out your life
I hope you live it well
Perhaps we’ll meet again someday
On better terms in Hell
How can I be so mean, you ask
Well baby, that’s your doing
How am I supposed to feel
With your unfaithful screwing
You did to me for all those years
That which you’ll do no more
You turned my feelings all to fears
You two bit fucking whore
Perhaps I’ve taken this too far
But where there’s smoke there’s fire
Before you get into your car
I’d check your fucking tires
If you die before I do
Your presence I shall miss
Rotting, you will have no clue
Atop you, I shall piss
And steal flowers from the spot
Your family laid them down
And toss them in a port a john
Somewhere outside of town
Relax, I’m only joking Kim
I don’t hate you this bad
You see, my head begins to swim
When I’m out of beer, Love, Chad
My Review of SnapIt 3.7
Anybody ever wanted a good program to take snapshots of your PC screen to use for presentations or whatever crazy idea you could come up with? I know being an author and a paranormal investigator, I often need something to show to clients in areas where the internet is not readily available through WI-FI. Now I have it. SnapIt 3.7 is an amazing program that lets you do exactly that. Whatever is on your computer screen at the time can be instantly and easily copied into every format imaginable! With an easy to use interface, this program makes it a snap, no pun intended! I would highly recommend it to any other computer jockey out there. It is a very convenient tool for bloggers. When you write posts on your blog you need to
capture and crop images from different sources - this tool is for you.
- Supports hotkeys, auto-saving, clipboard
- Automatically copies screenshots to the clipboard
- Tracks capture history, auto-saves captured images
- Saves files in BMP, GIF, JPEG, PNG and TIFF formats
- Auto-names captured images
Download and install SnapIt Screen Capture 3.7:
http://digeus.com/downloads/snapit/files/3/snapit_3_7.exe
Learn more what is included in SnapIt Screen Capture 3.7.8810:
http://www.digeus.com/products/snapit/snapit_screen_capture_3_5.html
I'm glad to help promote this product
If you create a review in any blog/forum/twitter/facebook, etc, and contact me with link to the review, you can get this product FREE!!!
Chad Miller
Author of 'A Taste of Home'
C0-Founder of Paranormal Research and Investigations of North Texas
www.paranormalnorthtexas.com
capture and crop images from different sources - this tool is for you.
- Supports hotkeys, auto-saving, clipboard
- Automatically copies screenshots to the clipboard
- Tracks capture history, auto-saves captured images
- Saves files in BMP, GIF, JPEG, PNG and TIFF formats
- Auto-names captured images
Download and install SnapIt Screen Capture 3.7:
http://digeus.com/downloads/snapit/files/3/snapit_3_7.exe
Learn more what is included in SnapIt Screen Capture 3.7.8810:
http://www.digeus.com/products/snapit/snapit_screen_capture_3_5.html
I'm glad to help promote this product
If you create a review in any blog/forum/twitter/facebook, etc, and contact me with link to the review, you can get this product FREE!!!
Chad Miller
Author of 'A Taste of Home'
C0-Founder of Paranormal Research and Investigations of North Texas
www.paranormalnorthtexas.com
Friday, October 1, 2010
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