“It looks like… A flower dog,” he said, looking at it with ever growing fascination
He didn’t know what a ‘flower dog’ was but those were the first words that came to mind as he beheld the thing
Others would’ve had different words for it
like roadkill
He hit it with the car this night and stopped to pick it up and took it home
talking to it along the way
He didn’t know what kind of animal it was
only that it was dead now
“I never was smart when it came to labeling things,” he said to the flower dog now lying on a square coffee table that was turned upside down to better contain all its scattered bits and pieces
There was a surprisingly small amount of blood though
and a surprisingly large amount of bone shards
“You are very weird, my little friend. And I do not know how you came to be. I don’t know a lot of things. But I will tell you that if God ever created a flower dog you’re it, hehe.”
in the darkness the flower dog looked up at him with bloodshot eyes that spoke of understanding and even compassion
after all it was in the presence of someone equally hard to understand by the world
I mean, the guy was way too rich and privileged to have missing teeth
yet his mouth opened like some rusty dungeon gate
Every time they tried to fix his teeth he’d break them again
intentionally
with the claw of a hammer or with a rock when a hammer wasn’t available
What a lad
He kept all those rotten vegetables and fruits and meats under his bed and in drawers just to feel the smell of death about him
Death was everything to him
His god
His world
So it’s small wonder that he eventually met his idol or rather gave himself to it
at age 22 he weighed no more than a 12 year old but had the wisdom of a 62 year old who’d made it in life
and that’s apparently where the problem lies
when the mind knows too much about too many things it grows interested only in the supreme thing
Death
and eventually the body follows
“Dying in a dream is always followed by waking up,” he used to say. “For the mind doesn’t know what to render in the dream afterwards and crashes. The dream ends. Whether it’s a dream or a nightmare. Death is the way out.”
He got out, alright.
First out the window and then
as his body hit the pavement below
out of this dream
In this moment he is all over the place
in my writings first and in the reader’s mind second
But it should be fine since I did not share his name, right?
and in just a few very short years he became the inspiration and the motivation for all things associated with late blooming
He sure proved to the world that it’s never too late for dreams
“But what made you start?” I once asked him
and he said, “a fingernail.”
Clearly he wanted me to ask, ‘A fingernail!? Oh my God, what in heavens do you actually mean by that, sir?’
but I kept silent
just watched him
and then he went on
“Yeah. One day at the age of fifty-three I just found this broken fingernail lying on the floor of my bedroom. I’ve never even spoken to a woman in well over ten years, let alone inviting one over. Hahah! So you can imagine my shock as I observed that broken fingernail just lying around on the floor. Fear was obviously the first, most primal feeling that inundated my soul. And I was right to fear. For I was indeed stalked and about to be possessed. And that, my friend, is how I met my muse. It wasn’t some apparition coming and looking for her broken fingernail. No. It was all my fear and morbid curiosity that brought her into my life, summoned her if you will. The mind conjured her up and as I started writing about her, about the event of finding that fingernail on my bedroom floor, our relationship caught outlines. But one thing I do know and that is that it’s different for every writer. Your muse might not come to you in the form mine did, but don’t give up. Keep looking, my friend. And one day, one night, you might just be surprised by what you’ll find.”
I thanked him for the advice and went home and got drunk
“You wanna write about it sometime?” she asked
“Sometime,” I said. “Sure. But not today. Today let’s just get drunk and feel shit and sit in silence.”
she had those ridiculously long and sharp fake nails that doubled the length of each finger
Those on the right hand were painted silver and those on the left black
and she liked to poke things with them
and one of those things was my side every time we sat next to each other
at times she’d poke hard enough to hurt her own finger and then would give a mock cry and say it was my fault and then laugh about it
“Aren’t you gonna ask how I wipe my ass with these?” she said
“Nah. I figure too many people did it already.”
“Many people? Whaaaat? Who d’ you imagine I talk to? I don’t interact with many people. No people actually.”
“What about your family?”
“Family… Yeah, I still think about turning on the gas in the house and leaving them to die. They never open a window in that house anyway. It would make it easy.” She poked a nail into the side of her head a few times. “Ah, why am I such a coward?” And then suddenly her eyes lit up. “Say, how about you help me a bit?”
“No thanks. I don’t feel like murdering anybody.”
“Dummy! Who said anything about murder?”
“I could’ve sworn it was implied.”
“Was not! On the contrary! You could actually save some lives if you help me.”
“Oh? And what do I gotta do?”
“Easy! You come home with me an’ we tell ‘em you’re my boyfriend of years and years and I trust you with my life and the life of my dear ones. You have a car, right? Well, you can use it to take my grandma to church. It’s been her dream to go there one last time, you see? But since she’s so old and sick and can’t move and has nobody to help her, well, she suffered a great deal because of it. Grandpa can’t even move from his bed. He’s far worse than her. But we have unfinished business, him and I. And I fear he’ll depart from this world before we can properly settle our scores, you see? So, if you could take grandma to church where she’ll be for about three hours and then bring her back… Well, I’ll get to spend that time alone with my grandpa and…”
“And what?”
“Let’s just say you’d save grandma’s life. She’s mostly innocent. Mostly. It’s the old bastard I wanna have a private talk with, not her. She can live for a few more years. So, um, we got a deal?”
“My car’s broken. I’m waiting to get it fixed.”
Her nails were quick to poke me in the side again “Liar! You don’t wanna do a good deed for a good soul in this ugly world!”
I’m not sure who the good soul was in her view but I’m sure the world she talked about wasn’t ugly
No, it was just very interesting, that’s all
we’re both blessed enough to live in interesting times
Somehow the answer, “he who wins most and loses least is a great gambler,” remains unsatisfactory
It would’ve been fine if we were talking about a boxer for example, but gambling… that’s another hell entirely
winning a lot doesn’t make you a good gambler. A lucky guy maybe but great gambler? Not so much
I don’t think there’s such a thing as a great gambler but I do think this one kid from my hometown came quite close
He didn’t win or lose or gamble a lot in the first place, but he was always the dumbass who said shit like, “Hey! Bet you I can throw this here stone all the way over that there branch on that tree.” And before picking up the stone he’d take out a butterfly knife from some pocket and open it before you. “If I miss, I get eight cuts across the arsehole. But if I don’t miss, you get the cuts.”
Or he’d say, “Look, we stand right here an’ toss the coin at the wall, see? The one that lands closer wins. The loser gets this nail stuck into his dick hole. You in?”
Whenever there was any competition of any kind, he’d instantly come up with something like, “Loser has to cut off his foreskin and wear it like a wedding ring for seven days.”
An’ he was hella serious with that shit too
He wasn’t the smartest fellow in town and I’ve never seen any of those penalties being carried out
Soon as he came of age he suspended all school activity and got a job as a construction worker
I’m pretty sure he never won any money from gambling
Yet he’s still the greatest gambler I know
Cuz no matter what he does he always bets on his life
Daydreaming as a profession 