SF Drabble #453 "Castle Doctrine"

Two eights, three eights, four eights and counting. More every day. Come down from sky in made things like a hoor cocoon that pisses fire as it falls.

Family come from all around, long way away, come without being called, heard the noise. Cousins of cousins of cousins who almost smell right stalk my ground. Fathers of uncles say it is like war-time and to show patience.

So many of us, no normal prey left. All are hungry and tempers short. But more cocoons fall and more eights of standing talking prey come every day. Soon we will eat well.

Take Me To The River

It doesn't matter to me that I'm alone. They say not to dive without a buddy, that people have drowned, but no one can every name anyone who drowned, so fuck that, I do what I want.

The water speaks to me. I don't mean in some bullshit artsy-fartsy way where I'm just saying it's my 'thing'; I mean it speaks to me in words. I have to be deep enough that getting down and back takes all the air I can hold in my lungs, but for the short time I'm down there, man, it's talking my ear off.

Maybe there's something down there beside just the water, I don't know. But whatever it is, it says more nice things to me than my fucking mother and her fucking boyfriend Red ever do, so I'm gonna keep on diving down there and listening. What else am I gonna do?

You Make Me Feel There Are Songs To Be Sung

Grandpa cooked for us on the weekends. During the week he was off playing chess in the park or reading the paper at the club or arguing politics at the café, but on weekends, he was ours. While he cooked, he always danced. He'd set a little transistor radio on the shelf tuned to some oldies station and he'd sway, tap, spin.

I often tried to ask, "Why are you always dancing in the kitchen, Papa?", but mother would tell me not to bother him, saying, "It's just what he does. It's an old habit. Now shoo! Go wash up."