mrblathers

[mrblathers]

it is dangerous to gaze too long

it is dangerous to gaze too long

at the stars, the pretty things

you're looking up, when

out of nowhere: an awareness

vague and frightening

at the threshold of your mind

it is small, though. you shoo it away

and for some time you're left to survey

as ophiuchus, thinking you're safe (how naive)

when it visits mere minutes later

it is pulling the levers of heavy machinery

primed to knock your fuckin walls down

it has the courtesy to ring, though

it's a formality. you must answer

and when that door swings open, damn

you're reduced to nothing, barely

an atom of helium in the sun, existing

only for an instant

no -- an atom, an instant is too generous

you are less than the space between.

this is terrible knowledge, and vast.

lucky monkey, it is too vast

for your billions of neurons to contain

you -- a universe in your own right

so it tears right through you

fast as light, then it's gone

in the way of a dream (or nightmare) upon waking

something profound? came and went.

well, no matter, you lie

back down, resume your observation:

all that is impossible to know.

you remark on the beauty of twinkling

celestial bodies, not knowing

they witness you, butt of their cosmic joke.

oh, how they wink at one another

laughing and laughing.

[mrblathers]

to yearn

to see into you, through

to your ugliest sores

to kiss them, bring them to light

.

to lift you up, carry you

to bed, cup your cheek in my hand

to feel your pulse quicken in your neck

.

to seal my lips to yours, a whisper

to give you my warmth, and

to drink of yours

.

to intertwine

to lose myself -- then, in the dark,

to find my self again, at my fingertips

.

to follow as they climb

to crest the ridge of your shoulder, descend your arm

to alight on your wrist

.

to traverse light as breath, so as

to leave no trace, a memory:

to taste your sweat

.

to be enveloped by you

to drift and dream

to float, with you, into tomorrow

[mrblathers]

soul road

not without shelter

for i am homed

nor wanting comfort

for i am a man of means

not without support

for i have friends and family who love me

(though i struggle to accept their love)

nor in need of companionship

for dexter snoozes here in my lap

snoring delicately

and i can hardly conceive of a plainer affection

or simpler sense of purpose

yet: here you are

unexpected, here is everything

laid out so naturally as to be inevitable

the sole destination (terminus)

end of an impossible number of roads

splayed across the tapestry of my years

a vast system of roots

born of the earth you love so dearly

each root-tip beckoning me to follow

its winding path, fraught with troubles and despair and regret

so that i might one day arrive: worthy

at the center of it all, where you wait

(have always waited)

arms spread wide, against all odds

welcoming my embrace

[mrblathers]

Bungo’s Band of Ugly Bumpers, Chapter 2

Part 1: Occult Portents

After their battle with the ghast, the party was well and truly exhausted. They retreated to the only place they could think of where it might be safe enough to rest – the attic. The climb was long, but that meant it was far from the perilous sublevels. There was even some natural light seeping through gaps between the planks that covered the large, circular window. The companions ate, drank, and recounted the day’s battles in hushed tones before resting at last, keeping watch in shifts.

They’d been rewarded for their tribulations, at least. Tipps adored his new cloak, discarding the frayed, stained one he’d worn for years. The footlocker contained a traveler’s equipment – potions of healing, a chain shirt, a lantern, lockpicks, and other sundries. Of particular interest to Xan was a spellbook bound in faded yellow leather, containing the descriptions of many familiar spells and a few that were new to him. The potions were split among the group and the rest of the goods were loaded into Melnir’s huge pack, except for the chain shirt, which Leannan claimed, insisting he would reforge the mail rings into something more useful when the opportunity arose.

The night before, upon leaving the cursed bedroom and reentering the atrium, they’d noticed a barely audible chanting noise coming from an adjoining hallway. That being the first indication there may be recognizable lifeforms in the complex, they determined to investigate after they were restored. To that end they found themselves marching back down several staircases until once again arriving at the atrium. 

Brian couldn’t hear the chanting at first and half-wondered if he’d imagined it in his exhausted state. Then it started. It was louder than they remembered, clearly coming from the hallway opposite the one leading to the bedroom. The companions shared resigned glances and Brian shrugged. Melnir led the way.

The hallway ended after about two hundred paces (for Brian, at least), branching in two directions. To the left was yet another downward stairway, the chanting louder in that direction. To the right was an open doorway. 

No one seemed to want to make a decision, then Tipps grew impatient. “I’ll sneak downstairs and see what we’re up against,” he said. Bungo was standing behind him, clutching his cloak in one hand. She grunted and cleared her throat. “Bungo and I will sneak downstairs,” he amended.

“I’ll clear the passage,” said Brian. “Anyone want to come with?”

Melnir raised his hand eagerly. Leannan and Xan had trailed behind the rest of the group on the way down to the sublevels, the former lost in thought examining his chainmail shirt,  and the latter studying his new book. “We’ll wait here and keep a lookout,” said Xan.

Brian and Melnir went through the doorway as Tipps and Bungo started off down the stairs. The passageway was like all the others Brian had seen so far – crumbling, dusty, cobwebbed. The halfling walked on without a care until Melnir stopped him with a strong hand on his shoulder. Brian looked up at him, questioning, and the firbolg pointed at the ground. There was a ten foot section of floor just ahead that differed from its surroundings. It looked newer, maintained. Brian raised a hand to his chin thoughtfully. “Seems like this is becoming a theme,” he said. 

Melnir shrugged and swiveled to face back the way they’d come. “Lennon! Xon!” he bellowed down the passage, his guttural speech contorting his pronunciation of their names.

The two stowed their treasures in irritation. “Here we go again,” said Leannan. Xan nodded and they went to meet Melnir down the hall. Leannan immediately noticed the peculiar floor when he arrived and went to stoop next to it, lightly pressing on it with one finger. The stone depressed almost imperceptibly, and Leannan knew what it meant. “Trap,” he said gruffly. “There are probably two and ten spikes just under that floor plate.”

*    *    *    *    *

Meanwhile, Tipps crept silently down the spiraling stairs, the chanting gettin ever louder. The bard was skilled at going unheard and unnoticed on the rare occasion he desired to do so. His goblin companion – now his wife, he remembered – was not. Partway down the steps, Bungo slipped on a rounded step and clattered down the stairwell, grunting and making squishing sounds the whole way down. Tipps cringed. She landed on the top of her head and it stuck fast to the ground, her legs flailing wildly in the air. Taking in her surroundings upside down, she saw there was no immediate danger. “Tippy!” she called, her tone making her annoyance clear.

Tipps hurried down. The stairwell led to a large circular chamber, its walls lined with torches and studded with small alcoves. Though well lit and evidently well maintained, the chamber was empty. There were tall archways on opposite sides of it, both sealed by riveted iron doors. Despite Bungo’s cacophonous descent, the chanting coming from behind the western door never paused. Tipps knew not to go further without the others, but he and Bungo were both intrigued by the alcoves. There were stone pedestals in the recesses, each with something different on display. The two paced around the room, examining them all. 

A long, gnarled finger. A pouch so full its seams threatened to burst. A varnished wooden orb. A razor sharp dagger with a rat’s skull set into the pommel. A small, yellowed hand with sharp claws where fingernails should be. A nondescript dining knife. A tarnished metal aspergillum. A crudely stitched and folded cloak made of something’s skin. A desiccated frog lashed to a stick. A wooden figurine of a mummy. A small wooden coffer. And…the shrunken, shriveled head of a halfling.

Tipps was contemplating opening the coffer when Bungo guffawed, pointing up at the head. She tried to swipe it off the pedestal but couldn’t reach, yelping in frustration. Tipps noticed and came to help. He lifted the halfling head by its hair, too disgusted to touch the flesh stretched over its bones, and held it out in front of him. As Bungo reached for it, Tipps clapped his hands together with a flourish and showed Bungo his empty palms. She gaped in astonishment and he smiled with satisfaction, then he reached behind one of her huge ears. “Ah, here it is!” he said, rematerializing the head and dropping it into Bungo’s hands. She gaped at him, overwhelmed by awe and adoration. “We’d better go get the others,” said the bard.

Bungo slapped her feet as she led them toward the stairs, imagining the many ways she could employ the head in pranks to horrify the one called Smallberries. She spared one glance at the rat skull dagger. Tipps, ever attentive to Bungo’s desires, noticed this too and swept the dagger from its display as he passed – a gift for later.

[mrblathers]

Bungo’s Band of Ugly Bumpers, Chapter 1

Part 1: A Fateful Encounter

Brian Smallberries awoke quietly from a pleasant, private dream. His eyes peeled open and he breathed a deep sigh, lying still and relaxed. It had been a long time since he could recall sleeping so soundly. Is this it? Am I finally dead?, he thought hopefully. As the fog of reverie started to fade and the crushing pain of existence set in, it occurred to Brian that he had no idea where he was and little recollection of where he’d been. His mouth was dry and his tongue swollen. He could smell bong residue and dwarven wine on his breath, heavy and rank. 

Brian’s memory was a blur of tavern noise, toasts, and a flashback of washing some kind of thick, sticky substance off his small berries. He had a thundering headache, worse than any hangover he’d had before, and he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head. As he reached up to feel it, his hand bumped into something at his side. He attempted to sit up and bounced his head off something above him. He whispered, “What the fuck?�� and started to feel out his surroundings – walls all around him, a ceiling…made of wood.

Brian relaxed, settling into the idea that he may actually be dead, at last allowed to enjoy eternal rest – if only he could be rid of his headache. Then he heard muffled noises. Voices, he thought, and footsteps getting louder. The unmistakable clank of plate armor. A wet, slopping sound and shrill intonations that seemed familiar. Well, if I’m not dead, maybe whoever’s out there will kill me.

Brian began thrashing his itty bitty limbs around inside what he realized must be a coffin. “I’m here!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Kill me!” The voices stopped, a single set of footsteps approached, and a dark figure pried off the coffin’s lid. 

“By Armok’s beard!” the figure exclaimed, raising a lantern to scatter the darkness. “It’s the halfling from last night, the one with the prenup.” Several other dark figures crowded around the opening in the wall in which Brian had been entombed, their dimly lit faces all vaguely familiar. Then it washed over him – the drinking, the excessive drinking, the impromptu wedding, the spell of mad, sexual liberation that had entranced them all, a gory battle, and a blow to the back of the head.

Brian crawled out of the tomb and brushed the rock dust off his leathers, head still throbbing. Encircling him, gawking, were a dwarf, a human, some kind of freaky elf, a firbolg, and a sickeningly ugly goblin covered in the mucusy secretion from his flashback. “I’m Brian,” he said, “Brian Smallberries. Anybody need adventure insurance?” He extended his hand in formal greeting. The human reached out to take it and Brian withdrew it at the last second. “Too slow!” he said as he coolly waved his hand over his head.

The group retreated to a spacious hallway and made their introductions. First was the dwarf, Leannan Drakenboon, clad in chainmail, stout and muscular. He wore a massive warhammer slung over his shoulder. He clapped Brian on the back and jovially proclaimed, “Any halfling who can drink with a Hill Dwarf is a friend of mine.”

The flamboyantly dressed human – no doubt some sort of struggling artist – was curt, still triggered by Brian’s suave handshake prank. “Tipps,” he said, “and this is Bungo.” He gestured to the filthy little goblin, who waved a dripping hand and winked. Her huge, leathery ears sagged from the weight of the goop. Somehow even her scalemail armor was covered in the stuff.

The elf appeared to be looking at Brian, but his gaze seemed far away, as if he was looking through him. His face was an expressionless, ageless mask. His long, dark hair flowed over his shoulders and blended seamlessly into his robes. 

Leannan threw a muscular arm around the elf’s waist and said, “This here is Xanarel. He’s not big on pleasantries.”

“Silence is a true friend who never betrays,” said the elf.

Leannan stared up at him for a few seconds. “Uh huh,” he said hesitantly. ”Exactly.” 

The firbolg was the last to introduce himself. He was massive, towering over Brian even as he bowed. His rattling heavy plate armor limited his range of motion, making the gesture look awkward and uncomfortable. His jaw was wide, his nose tall and broad, giving his voice a deep, resonant quality. “This servant is called Melvin,” he said deferentially. “Wait…no, that’s not right.” The firbolg stood up straight and scratched the bridge of his nose with a fat, hairy finger, a look of bafflement on his face.

“Melnir,” Xanarel sighed. “Your name is Melnir.”

Melnir continued scratching his nose in contemplation, then his face brightened. “Melnir! This servant is called Melnir,” he exclaimed, bowing again. Xanarel muttered in frustration and put one hand to his forehead, massaging his temples. Brian took a mental note of the gleaming holy symbol hanging from the firbolg’s thick neck, habitually reaching into one of the hidden pouches sewn into his tunic and wondering if it might fit.

The company then spent a great deal of time sharing their personal histories, insecurities, and motivations with Brian. In a shocking turn of events not even Xanarel could have predicted, they found they shared a purpose with the halfling and agreed to seal their eternal companionship in blood.

Part 2: A Firbolg’s Courage

“Right. Now that we’ve established narrative continuity, let’s proceed,” Tipps suggested. He swung his pack around, put his mouth to a hose protruding from it, and started marching down the hallway. At first Brian thought he must be drinking from some kind of fancy water bladder, feeling envious of the human’s apparent wealth. Then the pack made a discordant, droning sound, and Brian realized Tipps was attempting (and struggling) to play bagpipes. Before Brian could cover his ears, the bard mercifully stopped.

“On second thought,” he said, “Where are we going, exactly?”

Brian seriously surveyed their surroundings for the first time. He could not simply see – it had been years since he could see anything for what it was. Instead he assessed risk. He always assessed risk. When he’d first seen Bungo’s filthy excretions, he evaluated whether it made the goblin uninsurable. When Leannan first shined his oil lantern into the halfling’s crypt, he envisioned his ogre boss, Glorban, son of Glorban, silently demanding he deny a claim on the basis of arson.

There was the stairwell the companions had come from, the crypt in which Brian had been entombed, and one other room shrouded in darkness. Brian could not resist the directive to investigate that had resulted from years of conditioning and abuse at the hands of Glorban, son of Glorban, and Glorban’s eldest son, Glorban, son of Glorban Junior.

“I’ll check that room out,” he said. “I’m a sneaky boy.”

Brian crouched, entering stealth mode, and crept into the dark room. As his eyes adjusted, he saw it was small and unadorned, no larger than a servant’s quarters. There was a faint scratching sound coming from one corner of the room, and he inched forward to investigate. He heard Bungo make a guttural, slurping noise, and Leannan sharply whispered, “Wait!” The dwarf’s eyes, better adapted to the dark, had seen something Brian couldn’t, but it was too late. 

The skittering, scratching noises became louder as Brian approached. From what little he could see, the walls appeared to be moving. “Amend risk level to moderate,” he noted to himself. Then a stabbing pain stung one of his outstretched fingers and the walls erupted. Insects. Gigantic, undulating insects exploded forth from cracks in the walls. Brian stumbled backward. 

“SHIT!” Brian shouted. “RISK LEVEL SEVERE. SEVERE!” He readied his hand crossbow as he  retreated and loosed a bolt in the direction of his attackers, but it clinked uselessly off the wall. Then a strong hand gripped his arm and heaved him back into the hallway. Melnir stood over him, grinning stupidly. The firbolg lifted Brian to his feet, then began fumbling for the glaive strapped across his back, his plate mail again impairing his movement.

“Make way!” cried Leannan, warhammer in hand. The dwarf’s lantern, now hanging from his belt, illuminated the room as he leapt forward and swung his hammer with both hands in a wide arc, striking what surely would have been a mortal blow if it had connected with anything other than the ground in front of his feet.

The lantern’s light glinted off innumerable, blood-colored carapaces and ochre legs clicking against stone and chitin. They were centipedes – enormous, vicious looking centipedes with mandibles the size of Brian’s fist – so great in number it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began. Leannan quickly realized his mistake and bolted from the room, the swarm biting at his heels.

Brian and Tipps loosed more bolts into the chitinous mass to negligible effect. As Brian readied another bolt, he heard a wet choking sound behind him that turned his stomach. It was Bungo. The goblin’s eyes were wide, her mouth agape, but it wasn’t fear Brian recognized on her face. It was uninhibited desire.

“It’s…beautiful,” muttered Bungo. Then her face contorted in animalistic mania and she sprinted face first into the mass of centipedes, snapping her jaws at everything she could see, grabbing centipedes by the handful and shoveling them into her fathomless maw of overlapping fangs. The swarm momentarily dispersed, evidently recognizing the danger posed by the goblin’s unhinged feeding frenzy and giving her a wide berth as it continued to advance.

Mere seconds passed. Centipedes already carpeted every inch of the room, and still more were pouring from the cracks in the walls. Bungo was no longer visible, having been replaced by a thrashing, goblin-shaped mass of skittering nightmares. Brian felt a tickle on top of his head. He looked up and saw Xanarel babbling in a language he did not recognize. The elf’s eyes were closed and sand was falling from between the fingers of one of his hands. His other arm pointed ahead. Then, just as the first centipedes breached the hallway, Xanarel’s eyes opened and a gout of flame shot from his outstretched fingers.

Brian’s mouth fell open in unabashed awe as fire engulfed the infested room. He had met clerics and magic users in passing through his work, obligated to harass a new contract out of every traveler unfortunate enough to stay the night in Beggar’s Hole, but he’d never see one in action. It was marvelous.

“Now,” said the elf gravely, “We’re cooking with fire.”

The death screeches of dozens of centipedes were accompanied by the bubbling and popping sounds of their boiling innards. The entire swarm seemed repelled by a shared shock of pain and abruptly halted its attack, disappearing into the cracks in the walls as fast as it had emerged.

“Bungo!” Tipps cried. The goblin was lying still in the middle of the room, covered in burnt gore, several charred centipedes trapped in her fetid ooze. Tipps rushed to her, kneeling at her side. 

“Oh, my Bungo,” he said, cradling the limp goblin in his arms. Tipps wept and squealed like a newborn, imbuing the moment with all the drama he could muster. “Why, oh why?” he cried. “You were so pure, so brave.” The companions bowed their heads.

Then Bungo groaned, convulsed, and vomited up a gelatinous glob peppered with shards of carapace. “She lives yet,” said Leannan in disbelief, lowering his lantern over her face. 

Bungo raised her arms overhead, stretched, and sighed in utter ecstasy before finally opening her eyes. She gazed lovingly at Tipps as she plucked an especially crisp centipede off her backside, dipped it in the offal she had just ejected, and popped it into her mouth. Then she caressed Tipps’ cheek, leaving a gooey residue behind. “So good,” the enraptured goblin said, eyes rolling back in their sockets. Xanarel heaved in disgust. 

The companions surrounding the goblin breathed a collective sigh of relief and started to relax, when a booming voice caused them all to whirl around in fear.

“Aha!” Melnir’s clumsy hands gained purchase at last, and the huge firbolg hefted his glaive in front of him, his eyes glinting with resolve. “Melnir vanquish –” he began, then his brow furrowed in confusion as he saw only his friends before him. Assuming his mighty presence must have caused the swarm to flee in terror, he lowered his glaive and huffed in satisfaction. 

“No foe face mighty Melnir,” he said proudly, his practiced warrior’s glare giving way to the vapid smile and disarming, thoughtless gaze that so endeared him to everyone he met.

Part 3: Aghast!

Despite everyone’s desire to see the odorous goblin washed and dressed in fresh clothes, the company agreed it wasn’t safe to rest and they pressed on. While they explored, Tipps and Leannan quietly told Brian what they’d learned about the manor so far. It stood upon a high, sheer cliff overlooking a pine forest ringed in dense fog. They couldn’t recall how they arrived and they hadn’t been able to find a way out. Dozens of disused, once opulent rooms broke off from its labyrinthine halls. Furniture had been covered with white cloth. Paintings had been taken down and leaned in stacks against the walls. The stones of its many hearths were cold to the touch. Brian felt there was something off about its state of dilapidation – there was something orderly about it, as if it was kept just so on purpose

“Melnir fumbled straight into a living door on the top floor,” Leannan explained, spreading his arms to emphasize the thing’s size. “If it had been me, it probably would have swallowed me whole.”

Xan noticed Brian raising a finger in question and said, before the halfling could ask, “A mimic.” Brian nodded in feigned understanding, recalling an insurance claim he had denied years ago. A supposed widow had come to collect on her husband’s adventuring policy. As he remembered it, the fraudster claimed a “living windmill” had tipped over on her husband, making a red paste of the man, his horse, and everything else except his gaudy lance, which she had splashed with red paint and brought with her as “evidence” – or so Brian suspected. 

The group progressed slowly, anticipating danger around every corner, from every cavity in the crumbling stone walls. There seemed no end to the depths below the manor. Reaching the end of yet another dark, downward stairway, Leannan paused. The stair widened at the bottom and opened into a cavernous, quiet atrium.

“My knees need a break,” he groaned and sat heavily on the bottom step. I’m a hill dwarf, not a blasted stairs dwarf.” Bungo gratefully plopped down beside him, and the others followed their lead.

Except for Brian. He’d had a long rest in the sarcophagus and his natural curiosity, starved from mindless years shuffling papers in Beggar’s Hole, implored him to keep exploring. While Melnir snacked happily on dried rations and the others rested, he dimmed his lantern and slipped off into the dark.

He crept ahead until he could see a wall, then walked along it for a few meters before the stonework was interrupted by a heavy wooden door, as he knew it inevitably would be. The door was cracked open. He looked back in the direction from which he’d come and could still see the flickering of his companions’ torches around the corner of the hall. No harm in a little nudge and peek, he supposed. He pressed his shoulder against the door and gave a small heave. Its rusted hinges complained loudly and it barely budged, but it was enough.

He opened the lantern’s shutters and held it up to the crack, pressing his face against the door frame to see inside. It was a modest looking bedroom. All the way down here? A burgundy eiderdown hung over the sides of the bed. There was an armoire against the opposite wall, ornate carvings on its doors. What stood out most, however, was a polished footlocker at the foot of the bed. Everything else in the room was covered in dust and cobwebs, but the locker gleamed pristinely. A dark colored cloak was carefully folded on top of it.

Every fiber of his being compelled him to investigate more closely, but he was held fast by a foreign apprehension stabbing at the edge of his mind. How, in a room that looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed in decades, was the locker untouched by dust? While Brian wasn’t afraid – fear was as unknown to him as to any other halfling – but he couldn’t ignore his menacing suspicion. He sighed, resigning himself to the “smart” course of action. 

Dimming his lantern again, he returned to the group.

“What did you find?” asked Xanarel, evidently unsurprised to see Brian creeping out of the dark. The halfling’s approach had broken his trance. He unfolded his legs and stood up as the others turned their attention to the pair.

Brian bowed his head sheepishly, embarrassed to find he’d not been as sneaky as he thought, “There’s something strange about the room down the hall,” he said.

Leannan breathed an exhausted sigh. He slapped his knees and stood. “Right then! Suppose we have to see what that’s about.” The crew gathered their things and held their lanterns and torches high – everyone except Bungo. The goblin was sprawled across a lower step, fast asleep. Melnir, as if this was a matter of course, lifted her with one hand and slapped her against his breastplate. She stuck like glue, half-snoring, half-choking on the mucus dripping from her hooked nose.

They followed Brian back to the bedroom, where the halfling once again held his lantern up to the crack in the door. Leannan and Xan lined up behind him, attempting to see inside. Melnir followed suit, but his giant head was too wide to line his eye up with the opening.

“Can’t see,” he grunted in frustration. Before anyone could stop him, he slammed the side of his mailed fist against the door. It swung wide and thudded against the adjacent wall, bathing the room in light. Brian cringed. Everyone froze and listened intently as the sound echoed down the hallway. After a few agonizing moments, they allowed themselves to breathe. The room was empty.

Unable to restrain their curiosity, Brian and Tipps hurried to the footlocker. Their feet kicked up small clouds of dust. The others were more cautious, the centipede swarm still fresh in their minds. Tipps picked up the cloak and unfurled it. It was fine indeed, dyed deep sea blue and trimmed with gold filament that made it shimmer in the light.

While Tipps tested the cloak for fit and Brian knelt to inspect the small padlock protecting the locker’s contents, Xan was scanning the room with his faraway look – sensing more than seeing. He’d felt the same apprehension as Brian upon noticing the stark difference in condition between the footlocker and the rest of the room. There was magic at work. He could feel it. Focusing his senses, Xan honed in on the source. The bed, the footlocker…the lock. 

“Stop!” he yelled, too late. The moment Brian took the lock in his hand, the armoire’s doors flew open and a creature burst forth. It looked almost human but it was unnatural, abhorrent, wrong. Its flesh was as gray as stone. It wore a fine black suit and a blood red cape fastened around its neck with a bronze clasp. The frilled white cuffs of its blouse hung tattered over elongated hands that ended in blackened claws. It roared ferociously, a long pale tongue lolling over the jagged fangs lining its distended jaw.

Brian whirled around as it lunged at him, barely managing to duck a vicious two-handed swipe that surely would have taken his head. The monster crashed hard into the bedframe, an utterly horrifying odor in its wake. Both Tipps and Brian were assaulted by the stench of death – rot, decay, excrement. They stumbled back to the wall on either side of the bed, gagging as they unslung and loaded their crossbows. Tipps loosed a bolt into the thing’s shoulder as it pushed off the bed to stand, but it didn’t even flinch. Brian recognized the creature as a ghast – a man cursed with undeath by necromantic magic – another monster he’d once thought was the invention of fraud. He raised his crossbow and aimed at its head.

Before he could fire, Melnir leapt mightily from the doorway onto the bed. The wooden frame strained and buckled under his weight, throwing him off balance as he swung his glaive down in front of him. His attack went wide and the force of it caused the glaive’s blade to lodge firmly in the footboard. The commotion woke Bungo at last. Still stuck to Melnir’s breastplate, she screeched in befuddled terror as her mind struggled to piece together what was happening. She tried to run, but her feet wiggled pointlessly in the air. Out of pure instinct, she wrenched a chime free from her belt and shook it, pointing at the now-standing ghast. “Fuck off!” she trilled. The dolorous sound of the chime reverberated around it and it staggered backward. 

Xan whispered the last word of a spell and the ghast doubled over, clutching its head in pain. Leannan circled behind it and swung his warhammer sideways with both hands, smashing into the creature’s ribs. The force knocked it shrieking to the ground in front of Brian, but it quickly shambled back to its feet. There was uncertainty in its eyes as they flitted from one companion to the next, settling finally on Brian. With Melnir still fighting to wrench his blade free from the bedframe, there was nothing that could block its path. 

The ghast shrieked again, louder, and rushed at him. Brian braced himself against the wall behind him, aimed for the thing’s head, and fired. Too low. The bolt lodged in its neck and momentarily interrupted its advance, but it didn’t fall. There was no time to reload, no time to unsheath his handaxe, and nowhere to run. At least it’s an interesting way to go, he thought. The ghast dug its claws into Brian’s shoulders and reared back, preparing to sink its teeth into the halfling’s neck. There was a blur of movement on the bed as Tipps jumped up and reached across Melnir’s broad back. Leveling his crossbow at point blank range, he fired a bolt into the side of the creature’s head. Its eyes rolled back as the bolt exploded from the opposite side of its skull in a shower of gore and bone fragments. This time it slumped to the ground. For good.

The companions’ adrenaline gradually faded, restoring some semblance of calm. Bungo was last to regain her composure, squirming until she freed herself and flopped onto the destroyed bed. A fine layer of down clung to her back when she stood. 

Xan felt the aura of magic leaving the room. Then it was gone. “It’s safe,” he said, gesturing to the footlocker. Leannan walked over to it and smashed the latch with the butt of his hammer’s handle. It clattered to the ground, padlock and all, and he opened the lid.

[mrblathers]

Capital! (1500 words)

Forward

I received this document via a series of time-Tweets from my future self, who included an unflattering photo of myself eating a Vatican®brand candy bar, the wrapper of which doubles as an absentee ballot in favor of Supreme Holy Commander Santorum for all future elections. The piece is titled “Capital!” and, incidentally, is the story that made me famous.

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Capital!

An Account of the Meeting of the officials of the presidential campaign of Supreme Holy Commander Santorum That Resulted in his Nomination as the Republican candidate for the 2012 General Election

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“What do the numbers say?” said the Brains guy.

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“Outlook not so good,” said the Numbers guy, who was a magic 8-ball.

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“We're up shit creek,” said the Public Relations Guy, whose outlook was generally grim.

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“There must be another way,” said Brains, opening the “Winners” file. He thumbed through its remaining leaves, tossing them as he went at the “Losers” file, which was the overflowing wastebasket. The last sheet was marked all over with red pen, scores of secret weapons that hadn't panned out. He scanned it item by item and at the very bottom, scratched in between “PMS + Combat = Terrorists Win” and “Vaginal Sovereignty?” was his final, untested idea. It was more of a brain fart, really, the afterbirth of two better ideas, barely worth writing in pencil. But that was before his disappointing “Disregard Education,” and now it sounded good.

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PR Guy nudged Numbers with his knuckle. “How many of those have blown up in our faces?”

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Numbers chuckled quietly and rolled around the table. “Better not tell you now,” he said.

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Brains handed the sheet to Numbers. “It's my masterpiece,” he said, pointing to the fantastic idea. “What do you make of that?”

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Numbers mouthed the word now circled in red ink a few times, testing its shape, teasing out its campaign value. He double-checked the sheet, rattled his brain around, and said, “Cannot predict now.”

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“Give it here,” said PR Guy, reaching for the sheet.

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Brains snapped it up first and said, “You wouldn't understand.” He paused dramatically, letting PR Guy steam for a few more seconds. Then he handed it over.

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“That's it?” PR Guy said. “It just says 'survivor.'” He was deflated. “That must be the most dimwitted idea in the universe, the sorriest byproduct of your peanut brain I ever – ”

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“Hear me out,” Brains interrupted. “The numbers check out. Do the numbers not check out? They check out, don't they?”

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“Concentrate and ask again,” said Numbers.

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“Make your pitch,” said PR Guy.

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Brains cracked his knuckles and took a few deep, rapid breaths. He was a nervous speaker, which is why he wasn't the PR Guy. “Okay,” he said. “We need a red herring, a big one. We need to stir the pot, toss the salad, wash the beans, so to speak. We need a dead issue we can drop on the media like roadkill. That is,” he said, “Like roadkill that comes back to life, you know what I mean?”

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After a few seconds of thought, PR Guy said, “No idea.”

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“This race is all about the economy,” said Brains. “It keeps coming up no matter how many times we change the subject,” which he had to do often because that was Romney's ballgame.

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PR Guy nodded.

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“Until now,” said Brains.

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“Until...now?” repeated PR Guy, skeptically.

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“It works like this,” said Brains. “Think about these words: Capital punishment.” He paused for a long time to let the words sink in. Then he continued, “It's a dead issue, swept under the rug years ago. Everyone's forgotten it even exists. Now think about the sorry state of the economy, the money wasted on life sentences.” He hesitated, turned to Numbers. “We waste some money on that, right?”

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“Yes,” said Numbers.

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“Right,” said Brains. “That's the problem, so what does capital punishment need?”

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PR Guy looked confused. “Reinstatement?”

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“More than that,” said Brains. “What it needs is the capital.”

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“Without a doubt,” said Numbers.

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“We're going to put the capital back in capital punishment,” said Brains, “And at the same time, we're going to bring back America's all-time number one reality TV show.”

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This was an unexpected turn of events. “That's where Survivor comes in!” said PR Guy, who felt nostalgic attachment to those simpler Tuesday nights, when he could watch Survivor in his boxer shorts with his Shih Tzu, Esmeralda.

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“What if,” said Brains, “We cordoned off a section of the Amazon rainforest, airdropped death row inmates into the middle of it, and paid five teams of indigenous tribesmen to hunt them down. Whichever team nabs the bastard gets some, some – what is it tribesmen want?”

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PR Guy and the Numbers exchanged looks, then PR Guy said, “Tee shirts and fanny packs, I think.”

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“Right right – Santorum tee shirts and fanny packs provided by corporate tie-ins, and throw in a couple weeks of immunity from first world intrusion,” said Brains, who was riding this wave to exciting new heights.

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“My god,” said PR guy. “That would nab votes from the guilt-riddled millionaire demographic, maybe even some disillusioned Liberals.”

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“And,” said Brains, poking PR Guy on the forehead, “The endorsement deals and marketability would draw stingy tea partiers.” He tipped the busy finger skyward and chimed, “Economize.”

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“Don't count on it,” said Numbers.

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“He's right,” said PR guy. “A show like that can only off so many cons in one season. We'd need to put a bigger dent in prison populations or we wouldn't have a chance against Romney tax cuts.”

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“Hmm,” said Brains. “Let me think.” He took a page from the Losers file, flipped it over, and started doodling. PR Guy, whose terrible ADHD had gone remarkably undiagnosed all his life, wanted to focus, but wound up trying, unsuccessfully, to make up new “Mitt” puns. And Numbers – who had been preoccupied since the meeting began with deciding for himself whether or not Pluto was a planet – continued struggling with his many conflicting opinions.

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“I've got it!” shouted Brains.

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This startled PR Guy, who instinctively shouted back, “We have no comment at this time!”

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“Very doubtful,” muttered Numbers to himself, nearing his decision about Pluto.

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“Sorry,” said the embarrassed PR Guy. “You were saying?”

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“I know how to beat the Romney tax cuts,” said Brains. “It's brilliant, my best idea to date.”

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“Spit it out,” urged PR Guy.

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“It's simple – we do another show, but this one will net us some environmentalists, possibly some lesbians, and the 18-24s.”

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“Impossible,” said PR Guy. “How?”

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“We partner up with ESPN, Discovery Channel, UFC, and the U.S. appellate courts. Then we do this: We let the lifers appeal their sentences by combat.”

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“By...combat,” said PR Guy, a little deflated. “Didn't they already try that on Real American Gladiators? Pretty sure it didn't test well – ”

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“By combat,” insisted Brains, “Against endangered animals.”

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This hit PR guy harder than when he figured out how to use the book of Leviticus to disenfranchise dwarfs and midgets, who typically vote Democrat. “Jesus H. Christ,” he said.

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“Right?” said Brains. “Nature vs. Man in a battle to the death, hand-to-hand like nature intended – we can pit them against tigers, polar bears, and...other endangered animals. Americans would eat that up even if it killed them. The eco-nerds will get hard just thinking about nature’s chance at revenge.” 

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“What if an inmate actually won?” asked PR Guy.

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“Against a polar bear? Well, he would be freed, obviously,” said Brains. “I mean is anyone going to throw a fit over a guy winning his freedom by killing a polar bear with his bare hands? I think not.”

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“We could call it 'Apex Predator,'” said PR Guy, who was paid to have insights like this.

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“Genius,” said Brains. He slapped PR Guy on the back, then thought for a moment. “There's just one thing...how do we get the networks to bite?”

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PR Guy dismissed this concern with a grunt. “Won't happen,” he said, “But that doesn't matter, because the press and the voters will. The networks won’t have a choice.”

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“Most likely,” said Numbers, having flip-flopped his opinions about the might-be planet. Then, figuring he'd better commit or the question of Pluto would float around around his watery brain forever, he said, “It is certain.”

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Brains and PR Guy leaped out of their chairs and high-fived. “Get Rick on the phone,” said Brains. He crumpled up his final idea sheet and tossed it free-throw style at the trash. It went wide. “And make sure you tell the future president: This time, we have a winner.”

[mrblathers]

New Navigation

Here is our scuttled ark, surfing the bed

of a static sea, no harbor ahead,

no breeze and no helmsman to navigate

the foggy strand of minutes ago.

Its splintered freight pollutes the rocks,

remnants of a journey the captain forgot

when he loosed the lifeboat, took oar in hand

and rowed toward the seemingly infinite strand,

where rest the illusory treasures he seeks.

But his raft, like his mind, is subject to leaks,

and the waiting shores are littered with waste,

where data collects and history fades,

and amnesiac drifters drip memories

like raindrops into a digital sea.

[mrblathers]

Forbearance

You are like the cottonwood

in the wild corner tucked between

our home and the neighbors.

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I remember the spindles of shadow

reaching into my childhood as if to touch

the dinosaurs you painted on my walls.

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I imagined it must have always been 

there, watching quietly over my sleep

like a proud father.

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Of course, I was a smiling boy

and could not have believed it would succumb

so easily to rodents chewing holes in its roots.

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Now bent and uncertain, it leans 

in the slightest winds, no longer feathers

the undergrowth with promises of new life.

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Go and see -- though it stands,

it has given up its vigil and languishes, while I beg

for the strength to swing the ax.

[mrblathers]

Sutures

I see ghosts of my inheritance

in photographs, wrinkled and imperious.

Only the dead know their unsmiling repose,

and I cannot find in their whiteness

the instruments with which to close

the lips of old wounds.

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She was burned in Peshtigo

and no portrait remains. Her children

abandoned her legacy, carried on the fare

of the rootless mayflowers whose unlikeness

scored the skin of time, a brand that reminds me

I am owned by tradition.

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Now they judge me

from the bench of the open bureau,

lighter than the halides that preserve them,

and I feel the phantom ache

of a festering limb, a transplant

that would not take.

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Here in the attic, their sentence

seeps through generations of gauze

like poison into my ears: Do not mourn

your amputation. The blood will not mix,

and all skin turns black in death.

[mrblathers]

Missive from the 1%

We want to say we sympathize with the everyman's struggle.

We know it's hard to get by in these trying times but please realize

we're suffering too (how can we decide between chilled rubies

in our cognac and strip-mined gems of another kind?).

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To the protestors toting signs ten-wide shoulder to shoulder,

we have this to say: Consider Wall Street occupied 

by Black Friday shoppers standing in line and iPeople 

at the app store wasting time (and We, the 1%, looking down

from our billion dollar windows since 1929).

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See our diamond-crusted spectacles shine in the sun? Of course not,

we're harder to find than hope for mankind, but we're here

in our offices dumping five-fingered paper into loans

on foreclosed homes with a grand design that would blush

the cheeks of the monopoly guy.

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"Shit is fucked up and bullshit," you say,

and we agree -- American values should be realigned.

A few ideas come to mind: take the focus off the dollar sign,

readjust the poverty line, the 99% be damned. If we were so

inclined, we'd leave our private Polynesian islands behind,

fly to the states and hire a force of economic hitmen

to eradicate the poor and build a poor man's shrine,

then etch an epitaph into its side that reads:

Class Divide: Equalized.

[mrblathers]

Stay

Now a car passes, belts squealing

as a shock of dried leaves opens in the push.

No birds to watch today, just a nervous hoarder

flicking his tail, heaving his bounty up a tree.

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The people have all gone marching inside

heavy coats, trying coldness on for winter.

Many are fascinated by the groaning sidewalk

and do not look at me on my stoop with my red hands.

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The only sun blinks on a seed sock, swaying

happily used from an abandoned branch.

It will stay there until summer unless I cut it

down, like the pumpkins gone black with rot.

[mrblathers]

Whiteness

This kind of just fell out of my brain after my first read through Funk Lore by Amiri Baraka. I love the verbal quality of his poetry. The "stanzas" were originally two quick poems...not sure if I like them together but that's the way it is for now.

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Whiteness

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The light is

only lightening always

the light is not God

salvation savior the light

will not, can not save

but is all that lightens

bulbs. lightning and sun

never nothing else

than beating fist, barrel flash

what fills the open eyes

at the end. best

keep 'em closed.

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I am cracker brittle

I congeal when swallowed

stick in your throat 

like putty like dough

kneaded. roll me on lead

and color peels away

off the grand page fold

me over 'till it goes

bye-bye inside my salty

cracker tummy. I am blanked

guilty conscience afraid to have

and not, which I am knot

noose, nor branch nor atomic

bombed but all are pieces of me

when I crumble white bread

is the first to mold.

[mrblathers]

Quiet in a Quiet Place

Tinkling squealing jazz sax like fingers

falling down a staircase of keys played.

He thought, What does soprano mean?

And a grit-faced Ital popped roundly to mind,

many many forehead lines.

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Hand to forehead, he counted four fingers.

She'd said he had a five-finger one, with her little

hands. Why the stumbling out music fits

heavy lampshades and on purpose sagging

recliners, he had a dim idea he couldn't catch

when fished for, just figured: Jazzed up

on coffee inside, soft like cigarette clouds

in the sun outside, where it belongs.

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But what art is this? Burned houses, house-frames

rather, red and white only and seen in moss-green

jagged pieces of mirror, house-frames on jagged ugly water.

Probably the artist was jazzed up too, he thought. Then:

What exactly am I saying? Then: Do all these dull

plaid hipsters think so? Someone here is absent.

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Someone is swimming in the river of shards, of painted

and reflected house-frames. Abstractly swimming,

he thought. While he watched he was perfect still

but for timid finger tremors when he touched

his glasses to his nose, which he didn't need

for reading, and he stayed so,

wanting to move and not seeing how.

[mrblathers]

Neon

doors swinging in and out

of bloodstream hotel like bandit

valets jazzed up on dextroampetamines

posing as tourists and bellboys and the fuzz.

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Their clumsy waltz killed the lights

in cornea ballroom, blind fat heels stomping

all over nervetoes until marble floors cracked

and from the dark like a lightning storm

stars came flashing out.

[mrblathers]

Land Fill

While hosing Doritos bags

and other spoiling crumbs off the weighbridge

Dom explained how we are hustler-surgeons,

primordial magicians who dress

waste in vanishing bandages.

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Rolling with Woodie Guthrie, fuzzed

just right in the smokewhipped compactor's

cabin, those words get me buzzing

with self-importance. I'm doctor general

of airborne debris, bonesharp scalpel poised 

over the bleating electric jugular of mankind.

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I lay over, knead this heap with steel

pegs on some-ton wheels and the settling

metamorphosis thrums in marrow.

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It's the persistent clank of a radiator's rustbeaten

heart, resonating under old and careful sutures

of chemical loam and diapers, vermin

flattened and liquefied, trapped

while saltlicking appliances 

from the nuclear '50s.

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[mrblathers]

Collectors

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If you'd asked why are we doing this

I'd have let your noise float unheard eardrum

to eardrum and when this agitated you

into buzzing shaking repetitions I'd have lacked 

a thoughtful answer, and instead of saying

so I'd have stuck you to a cork board 

under the oppressive thumb and tack

of puppy videos, but you didn't.

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Shame, because you'd have smiled

which is more than my sagging twin

too beaten down to give a good squeak

ever did for you. 

[mrblathers]

Surf

Click.

Here we is, billion-eyed

ten billion drunk clacking fingers,

try to see something in the webbed kaleidoscope,

rapt in the light of two-way mirrors

show us one pixelated reflection.

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Here we is (the colorful links 

take you to your settling place,

I to mine). We was hunting

serifs and spaces to complete a word

whose meaning would make sense

of everything tumbling among painted shards

a masterpiece in need of reassembly.