Mandy White's Blog: Dysfictional, page 11

Jake the Cat Needs Your Help

Vampire Maman

When I started vampiremaman.com in April 2022 I had no idea that I’d be joining an amazing community of bloggers, writers, and cat lovers.

I also had no idea I’d make so many wonderful blogging friends. There is a group of you who’ve kept me going over the past 10 years. I had no idea I’d have so many amazing readers as well. Thank you everyone for your support.

One of my greatest supporters has been Aurora Jean Alexander. From the start I followed her advice on life, writing, and of course her wonderful cat Jake. She was one of the first bloggers to follow me – as in the first six.

Jake needs your help. He is extremely ill but he isn’t lost, and he has many more cat lives ahead of him.

Sure Jake is 12 but cats have long lives. My cats are 17 and 12. Both…

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A Feast Not so Fancy

They say that if you die alone, your pets will eventually eat you. But what if you aren’t dead?

Arnold was eating his dinner the first time it happened. His meal was nothing fancy; just standard bachelor fare of franks and beans – an oversized can of baked beans with a dozen boiled hot dogs, chopped up and mixed into the sweet brown mixture. ‘Fart Fuel’, he called it, laughing to himself. It didn’t matter if he let the gas fly, since he lived alone and had nobody to be polite for.

He was alone except for the ‘Slinky Seven’, as he called them – a cluster (or was that a ‘cloiter’? Or a ‘glaring’?) of seven house cats that shared the house with him. They slithered in a continuous, fluid motion around his ankles while he was cooking or quietly sat vigil when he was sitting and eating in his La-Z-Boy chair. Yellow eyes, and a few blue ones fixed him with a placid gaze as he ate. They stared, unblinking, each one confident that eventually a tasty morsel would drop en route from the bowl to the man’s mouth. Arnold was accustomed to the way the Slinky Seven stalked him and their silent stares weren’t unnerving in the least. They were the only company he had, and the only ones whose farts smelled worse than his.

It was during one of these mundane franks-and-beans affairs that the strange thing happened. Arnold reached for his coffee, took a sip, dumped the rest of the contents on his chest and then casually tossed the mug over his shoulder. The mug sailed across the room and bounced off the wall without breaking. The Slinky Seven scattered, hissing their indignation as they sought shelter from what appeared to be a random, unprovoked attack.

“What the fuck?”

Arnold leapt out of his seat in surprise and from the shock of the scalding liquid seeping through his shirt. Luckily, it had cooled below burning-skin temperature but now he had an unsightly stain (another one) on the front of his t-shirt. Still muttering curses, more irritated by the stained shirt than by the involuntary muscle spasm, Arnold found a cleaner shirt to change into and tossed the soiled one into the overflowing hamper.

The shirt was pretty much worn out but stained or not, Arnold didn’t like to throw anything out. The clutter that surrounded him attested to his hoarding of smaller objects. His yard was filled with cars and trucks, all in varying states of repair. In his garage was a speedboat he had only used twice because it was too much trouble launching and reloading it by himself. He didn’t have any friends to go boating with so the boat had been gathering dust for years. Arnold had no intention of selling the boat or any of his other treasures. He had been poor once, but now that he could afford it, he liked to surround himself with all the things he had wished for when he was a teenager, struggling to survive on the streets.

His financial woes had ended with his father’s death. He inherited a shabby but inhabitable house in the country along with a tidy sum of cash from the old man’s life insurance policy. His father also left behind an extensive stock portfolio, which didn’t quite make Arnold a millionaire but close enough that he would never want for anything for the rest of his life. Arnold cashed in the stocks and withdrew the entire wad, except for a small amount needed to keep his bank account active for bill payments and writing an occasional cheque.

He kept the bulk of the cash at home, where he could keep an eye on his money. His king-sized mattress and box spring were stuffed with rows of plastic bags, each containing bundles of cash. Arnold did not believe in banks. He preferred to keep his assets where he could see them instead of in the hands of some greedy corporation where sleazy bankers could get rich embezzling endless amounts of useless fees from his fortune. The concept of earning interest from his own money escaped Arnold. He irrefutably believed that everyone but him would benefit from his funds being kept in a bank.

Keeping the funds liquid and hidden allowed Arnold to feign poverty to prevent his greedy ex-wife from gouging him for more alimony. He could hold out as long as she could. Sooner or later her goody-two-shoes Bible-thumping boyfriend would insist on marrying her and Arnold would be free and clear. Bible Boy wouldn’t be willing to live in sin forever. What would the rest of the congregation think? Pretty soon the bitch would have to give in and marry him or risk losing Meal Ticket #2.

Arnold supposed he could sell the house and buy a nicer one but he was a lazy man who preferred smoking pot and stuffing his face with junk food in front of the big screen TV to housework. A larger, newer house would expect to be cleaned and he didn’t want to deal with the guilt of watching his clutter accumulate on a shiny new floor. Nor did he want to deal with the arduous task of moving or getting rid of the mountains of ‘belongings’ that had been slowly growing in the home since he moved in.

Arnold was satisfied with his surroundings and grudgingly fixed whatever needed to be fixed around the place – when it absolutely needed to be fixed. The roof was one of those things. The house had a flat roof, which sagged in a few places. The gutters only worked well when they were completely free from blockages. The mixture of fir and spruce trees surrounding the house continuously rained debris over the place, blanketing the roof and its drainage system with needles. It was worse when the wind blew. In stormy weather, it didn’t take long for the gutters to clog with needles. Then, the water pooled on top of the roof in all the low spots, forming larger and larger puddles until it reached the one area that actually leaked – right over his bedroom. Every few days or after each major storm, Arnold had to climb the ladder to clean the clogs out of the poorly functioning drainage system and clear the rest of the needles off of the roof.

He could never take a vacation even though he could easily afford one. A stretch of typical rainy West coast weather could hit while he was away. He might come home to a leaking roof and one soggy king-sized bed.

Cleaning the roof was only a short-term solution and Arnold knew he would have no choice but to re-roof the house and replace the gutters. He had the funds to pay for it but it still irked him that he was being forced to spend his money in such a way.

It began to rain again – those giant dime-sized drops blown sideways by an angry March wind. Arnold wished summer would hurry up and arrive so he could get this whole roof business over and done with once and for all.

The next time it happened, Arnold was shaving. He scraped the razor over his cheek as always. Without warning his hand twisted, drawing the double bladed disposable sideways, down over his jaw line toward his neck. Twin lines of red beaded in the razor’s path as he felt the sting of the steel.

“Shit!”

He jumped back several steps, throwing the razor into the sink where it could do no more harm. He tripped over Sneaky Pete, a slim black creature who was forever slithering around his ankles and nearly fell ass-first into the bathtub.

“What the fucking shit?” he shouted at no one in particular.

Jasper, a rotund silver tabby who had been watching from the doorway, mrrowped in agreement.

Arnold looked down at his right hand – the trusted appendage he used for everything from signing cheques to masturbation – in disbelief that it was capable of betraying him in such a way. He flexed his fingers and twisted his wrist. Except for a slight tremor he hadn’t noticed before, the hand seemed fine. It didn’t even cross his mind to consult a doctor. Arnold didn’t believe in doctors any more than he believed in banks. Crooks and shysters, all of them. All they wanted was to separate him from his money.

He shrugged it off. It was probably just a pinched nerve from when dragged the Shop-Vac up the ladder to vacuum the roof. Maybe it was time he splurged on a massage or something. He could go to one of those massage parlors that offered a rubdown with a happy ending. That sounded nice. Better yet, maybe he could get one of those girls to make a house call. He sighed. He’d probably have to shower first and put on some clean clothes and that sounded like too much effort. He rubbed some Ben-Gay on his shoulder and popped a couple of Ibuprofen instead.

Arnold nuked a heaping plate of Pizza Pops in the microwave, along with a couple of frozen beef and bean burritos. Armed with plates of hot food, a few bags of chips and a six-pack of beer, he plopped back into his La-Z-Boy to watch some more TV.

When all else fails, do nothing and smoke another joint.

It was a motto that had served him well all of his life. As he waited for his food to cool below molten-lava temperature, he settled comfortably in his chair. On his lap was the little wooden tray that contained all of his necessities – a pack of rolling papers, a Baggie of sticky green buds and a small pair of resin-coated scissors for cutting the weed.

He found a porno movie just starting on the Hustler channel and slowly puffed the joint, savoring the smooth, skunky flavor. One thing about the West coast – it was rainy and shitty all winter long but they grew some of the world’s best indoor pot. The local growers were masters of hydroponics.

As always, the Slinky Seven assembled to watch him eat, in anticipation of possible dropped morsels. He had already fed them, but the cats were always more interested in what he was eating than the seven open cans of Fancy Feast and dry kibble poured into three large bowls on the kitchen floor.

Vultures, he thought. I bet if I died in my sleep you bastards wouldn’t hesitate to make a meal out of me.

He pulled a piece of pepperoni out of one of his Pizza Pops and tossed it into the cluster of felines, just to tease them. He chuckled at the furry melee that ensued as several cats pounced at once but only one, a quick, wiry calico named Lizzie, managed to snag the prize. He had named her Lizzie Borden for her particularly ruthless hunting prowess. The little tri-colored cat had a penchant for beheading every one of her victims, be it rodent, reptile or bird – before proudly presenting it to her master.

Arnold fell asleep halfway through Diddle Her on the Roof. He woke several hours later with a weight on his chest and two yellow eyes gazing at him from a round gray-furred face.

“Get off, Oscar. You need to lose some weight,” Arnold grunted as he sat up, forcing the plump gray-and-white cat to jump down to the floor with a heavy thud. It was dark outside and still raining, from the sound of it.

Great.

He would have to go up and clean that fucking roof tomorrow, rain or not. He might as well just go to bed.

When Arnold lowered his footrest and tried to stand, he found that his right leg wouldn’t move. It was asleep, from the foot all the way up past the knee. He slapped it to wake it up and found that it wasn’t numb, just immobile for some reason. He lit a cigarette while he waited for the circulation to return. By the time his smoke was finished he was able to wiggle his toes again and managed to push himself to his feet. He was getting old, he supposed. When stuff stopped working – that was the first sign of old age.

Arnold limped to the bathroom for a piss, then hobbled off to bed, which was where an old fart like him belonged.

* * *

The weight was on his chest again.

Probably that damn Oscar. As usual, that particular cat had chosen Arnold’s torso as his favorite nesting place.

Oscar, get off me! He tried to speak the words but for some reason he was mute.

Great, I’m still asleep and dreaming, and that damn cat is weighing down my chest.

Arnold’s eyelids flickered and opened a crack but he couldn’t seem to open his eyes all the way. He glimpsed a bit of gray through his slitted eyelids. Oscar was on his chest, just as he thought. He tried to push the cat away but found that his arm wouldn’t move. It was just like his leg the night before but this time it was his arm. And his other arm too.

Panicked, Arnold tried to move the rest of his body but found that nothing would move. Not an arm, a leg, or any part of his body. He tried to move his head from side to side. Still nothing.

He couldn’t move a muscle.

Arnold, now fully conscious, tried to relax and wait for the paralysis to subside. It was just a pinched nerve or something, he told himself. It would pass. It had to. It would pass, wouldn’t it?

He took stock of his entire body, muscle by muscle. There were muscles he hadn’t even thought about for years and now he was aware of them and trying to make them work. He wasn’t numb by any means; from what he could tell, he could feel everything but simply couldn’t move. Nothing below his neck worked. It seemed that his autonomic system was functional; he continued to breathe, his heart continued to beat and his eyelids blinked. His gag reflex was functional, causing him to swallow from time to time but he had no control over it. His vocal cords were paralyzed and he was unable to make a sound.

If he concentrated really hard, he could open his flickering eyelids enough to see the ceiling above him, where his digital clock projected the time. He knew that it was an hour behind because he hadn’t gotten around to setting his clock ahead yet. It said 8:35, so he knew that it was actually 9:35… 9:36… 9:37. Arnold watched the minutes silently tick by as he waited for his unresponsive muscles to wake up.

He felt the pressure on his chest lift and the brush of fur from Oscar’s tail as the cat left, probably to have some breakfast. There would probably be some cat food left in the bowls, which he had filled to the point of overflowing the previous night. He would need to get up and refill the bowls when the food ran out or they would not be happy cats.

It was 10:38 and Arnold’s body still refused to move.

He was beginning to notice a new sensation. He had to piss. It wasn’t urgent yet but would get to that point soon… and then what? He listened to the sounds of the house – the pitter-patter of paws as various cats moved around, the scratch-scratch of someone in the litter box, the clatter of raindrops against the window and the howl of the wind through the trees.

Shit. The roof.

He had planned to clean that damn roof off today. The gutters were probably already clogging with needles and before long the puddles would spread. He could see the yellowish stain on the ceiling over his bed, where the roof had leaked before he knew about the drainage problem. It was just a matter of time before a fresh water spot would form.

Thinking about rain, puddles and dripping water wasn’t helping the pressure he was feeling in his bladder, either. He focused all his energy on moving something… a finger, a toe… anything. He had to get moving soon or he would not make it to the bathroom in time. A sudden rush of warmth in his groin told him that he no longer needed to worry. Nature had taken care of things and his bladder was no longer full. It made him wonder what would happen if the urge came to have a bowel movement.

By 4:00 pm the rain had not subsided and activity inside the house had increased. The Slinky Seven were restless. The ones who went outdoors on a regular basis were displeased at being imprisoned. Lizzie was particularly disgruntled because hunting was part of her daily routine. She seldom went more than 24 hours without murdering something.

A plaintive “MrowOW!” from the kitchen told him that the food bowls were probably empty. The Seven would eventually figure out that the two large bags in the corner were full of cat food. Arnold wondered which cat would be first to discover the food and claw the bags open. His money was on Frank, the Siamese who had just complained. Frank, named after Sinatra for his blue eyes, was the innovative type and the only one who had figured out how to open cupboard doors. He had gotten in the habit of pulling over the open bag of food when it was hidden in the broom closet, so Arnold had put a latch on that door. Frank didn’t normally touch unopened bags of cat food but it probably wouldn’t take him long to open them if he got hungry.

Arnold felt the bed move as first one, then two furry bodies jumped up beside him. Oscar’s whiskers brushed his cheek as the gray cat rubbed his face against Arnold’s. A velvet paw patted his cheek. He could feel another cat stalking the length of his bed before jumping over his head and settling on the pillow next to him. A flash of black overhead told him it was Sneaky Pete. Rustling sounds near the doorway indicated that the rest of the Seven were assembling in the room, having realized that this was where the Food-Giver was.

Arnold slept restlessly throughout the night; restless for one who couldn’t move a muscle. His paralysis hadn’t improved or worsened. From time to time an involuntary muscle spasm would move one of his hands or feet, disturbing whichever cat happened to be curled nearby. Each tiny twitch gave Arnold hope that he might be regaining control of his muscles but control did not return.

He’d lost count of how many times he had pissed himself in the last 24 hours. His bladder had a tendency to relieve itself at will now, without waiting to be full. He felt cold and clammy. He was grateful for the warm bodies of the cats, which were accumulating on the bed.

You faithful buggers, he thought. Here you are, cuddling up to me, trying to comfort me in my time of need. I’m sorry I ever called you vultures. I just wish one of you could call 911… or open the door and go for help.

He wished it wasn’t March. If it had been summer time he surely would have had a window or two open for the cats to go in and out and maybe… just maybe someone out there might notice a few hungry cats and realize that something was wrong.

If only he hadn’t been too damn lazy and cheap to install a cat door for them.

If only he had friends or family that might miss him.

If only… if only…

He had plenty of time to analyze his situation, as he lay immobile on the bed, cold, wet and full of regret. He’d watched enough Discovery Channel to know that the human body was capable of some strange shit. A neurological disorder could be responsible. Maybe something in his brain or nervous system had misfired. Maybe he had suffered a stroke. He wished he had seen a doctor about the strange muscle spasms. Hell, he wished he even had a family doctor. He hadn’t had a checkup in more than twenty years.

Day Three passed much like Day Two had, except that his last meal of Pizza Pops and burritos had finally decided to make an exit. He now lay in a stinking pile of his own filth, still unable to move. On a more positive note, (maybe) his bladder had stopped emptying itself every hour or so, probably because he was becoming so dehydrated that he had no urine left. His mouth was dry and occasional involuntary swallowing didn’t generate any saliva.

The cats had begun to protest more loudly about the fact that the Food-Giver had not refilled their bowls. Their complaints were indignation more than starvation. True to his nature, Frank had figured out that the two large bags in the corner of the kitchen contained food and clawed them open. The prissy bastards who were complaining would just have to suck it up and learn to eat food that had not been placed neatly in bowls for them.

The automatic watering system had a reservoir large enough to last a week for two or three cats. For seven, it was good for about three days. Arnold tried to remember if he had put the lid down on the toilet last time he used it. Probably not. Hopefully he had remembered to flush what would become the only source of water once the reservoir on the water dish was dry.

The storm continued to rage outside all week, but to Arnold’s surprise the roof didn’t start to leak until Day Six. He woke to a tap-tapping sound and for a moment he thought someone was at the door. He tried to shout but as usual, no sound came out. He felt colder than before and noticed that his blanket of cats seemed to have exited the bed. When he looked up at the ceiling he saw the reason. A large water stain half the size of his bed had appeared, directly over his legs and lower body. The tapping was the sound of water dripping onto his quilt. The part covering his legs was already soaked. The cats had vacated the area in favor of drier quarters.

On Day Seven the storm finally stopped and the sun came out, spilling through the window and warming the room. Between the sunlight and the baseboard heater, Arnold stayed warm enough to avoid hypothermia but he was still wet and cold and more uncomfortable than he had ever been in his life.

Lying in the exact same position for a week was agony. Every day new aches and pains ravaged his body, particularly on what bed manufacturers refer to as the ‘pressure points’ – each part of the body that bears the most weight when lying down. When lying on one’s back it was the hips and shoulders that absorbed the most pressure. What had begun as small aches had turned into scorching pain. It felt as if his skin was worn raw in every spot that came in contact with the bed.

His groin area stung, from what could only be described as a chronic case of diaper rash – the result of being covered in his own waste for a week. He had stopped pissing a few days ago, much to his relief because the urine burned his skin like acid every time he took a leak. The coolness of the wet quilt offered some relief but its heavy weight added to his discomfort and aggravated the bedsores that were surely forming on the underside of his body.

The cats had found the toilet and were using it as a water supply. Judging from the sounds of paper tearing in the kitchen, the first bag of food was gone and they were working on the second.

Another pungent odor besides his own now permeated the house – ammonia and cat feces from three unchanged litter boxes. With seven cats in the house, Arnold rotated three litter boxes, changing a different one each day so that one was always fresh while the other two were being scooped. He was more diligent with his litter box routine than he was with any other type of housework. Cats could be vengeful creatures. Failure to make their environment pleasing could result in waking up with a pillow full of cat piss. It had now been more than a week since any of the boxes had been changed and Arnold guessed that pretty soon the cats would stop using them altogether if they hadn’t already.

He wondered what was going to kill him first – starvation, dehydration or being buried alive in cat shit. Most likely it would be dehydration that got him. He had stopped feeling hunger after the fourth or fifth day and now his gut just felt tight and achy like the rest of his body. The thirst was maddening in the beginning but that too, had faded. Arnold believed his body was shutting down in preparation for death.

The ninth or tenth day – he wasn’t sure because he was starting to lose track – the rain started again. The ceiling had slowly been dripping on him even while the sun shone, because the puddle on the roof hadn’t dried up yet. Now, it took little time for the puddle to fill and the leak began to drip more urgently once again.

The damp quilt once again became a wet one. The mattress beneath him was saturated and cold. The cats no longer cuddled up next to him. Arnold wondered why he wasn’t dead yet. It was probably the rain. He had heard somewhere that the skin was capable of absorbing the equivalent of drinking a glass of water, just from taking a shower. He must have been absorbing the rainwater as it leaked on him. As long as he continued to lie on that soggy mattress covered by the water-soaked quilt he was absorbing water, probably just enough to keep him alive without actually drinking anything. His bladder relieved itself again, as if confirming the theory. It was just a trickle of urine but it felt like sulfuric acid on his thigh. He screamed soundlessly.

Arnold faded in and out of consciousness for the week or so that followed. He had lost count of the days. He managed to keep track until approximately Day Sixteen, then it became a blur of dark, light, cold and pain.

And smell.

Oh, the smell! It was a mix of untended cat box, human waste and another, even more sickening odor that smelled like rotting flesh. He wondered if one of his cats had died. Flies had somehow gotten into the house and kept landing on him. He could feel their disgusting little feet walking on his skin as they disappeared beneath his pyjamas, to the underside of his body.

His back was on fire.

He could feel something writhing and squirming underneath him. It had to be imagination. Arnold screamed and screamed inside his head until the darkness of unconsciousness took him again.

When he woke again, he felt pain in a new location. His hand. Something was chewing on it. He felt the bed move and then a hiss as another cat joined the first one. He felt a tugging sensation as tiny needle-like teeth tore into his flesh and pulled a piece free.

Please God, let me die. Please let me die, he prayed over and over as he faded from consciousness once again.

He woke with the familiar weight on his chest. It was difficult to breathe. He felt the comforting vibration of Oscar’s purr and the light prick of his claws as the grey cat lovingly kneaded Arnold’s chest.

Good old Oscar. At least you still love me. Not like those other fucking vultures.

Suddenly Oscar was on top of his face, smothering him, claws digging into his master’s scalp as he sunk his teeth into Arnold’s cheek. Oscar rumbled a menacing growl as another cat approached. He bit down harder, pulling and tearing until his prize came free. Warmth gushed down Arnold’s cheek. He felt the scratch of another cat’s tongue as it licked the fresh blood from his skin before helping itself to a bite of fresh meat from his face.

“Meerrrowp!” a voice said from the doorway.

“Mrrrrr,” another one agreed. It was answered by a hiss next to the bed. Arnold heard the tha-thump of more paws on the floor as more cats came to investigate. He knew that sound. The Slinky Seven were assembling for a feast.

This time, Arnold was the main course.

* * *

“You sure about this, Leroy?” a voice whispered in the dark.

“Fuckin’ rights,” the other replied. “I’m telling you this dude’s loaded, and he keeps the wad right here in his house. Besides, he owes me money. He didn’t pay for the last bag of weed I sold him. I’ve been waiting for him to get back from vacation or wherever the hell he went.” The man spat on the ground before pulling a full-face ski mask over his head. “I’m sicka fuckin’ waitin’.”

The two dark-clothed figures approached the house cautiously. No lights were visible but Arnold’s car was still parked in the driveway.

“The way I figure it,” Leroy said, “Is that numbnuts here fucked off to Mexico or somewhere and got someone to drive him to the airport. Left his vehicle here to make everyone think he was home. To prevent guys like us from breaking in – right, Chucky?” He gave his friend a playful nudge. “Bet he thinks he’s pretty clever. But I’ve been watching for him, seeing as how he owes me money and I can tell you that he’s been gone for the whole month. I know that for a fact because if he was here I’d have my fuckin’ money by now.”

“If you say so,” Chuck said. He wasn’t nuts about the idea of breaking into a place so close to where he lived but Leroy said it was a sure thing.

They hugged the side of the house, staying in the shadows just to be safe. Leroy was pretty sure that ol’ Arnie didn’t have any security cameras but with these reclusive rich dickheads you could never be sure. Any dude that kept wads of cash in his mattress wasn’t all right in the head to begin with.

“What’s that smell?” Chuck asked, covering his nose and mouth with his arm.

“Cats. Lots of cats. I told you, this dude’s one of those crazy cat guys.”

“What kind of cats? Dead ones? Fuck!”

“Shh. Just shut up. Don’t be a pussy. Get out of my way. I’m going in.”

Leroy pried the window open with his crowbar and slid it open. “Boost me in and I’ll unlock the door,” he ordered.

Chuck’s boost nearly launched Leroy into the window head first and he groped in the darkness to catch his balance. He opted to slide in hands-first, then stand and get his bearings. He knew he was in the living room, but that was about it. When he hit the floor, he felt something wet and squishy under his hand.

“Aw, fuck! Fucking cat shit! Gross!” he cursed under his breath. Chuck was right; the smell was gawd-awful. Much worse than he’d ever remembered from his many visits to Arnold’s house.

Leroy got to his feet and groped for his flashlight, looking for somewhere to wipe the cat feces from his hand. He shone the light around the room. It didn’t look right. It had to be the shadows playing tricks on his eyes.

Small dark lumps covered the floor and furniture. It appeared as if the cats had been using the entire house as a litter box for a long time. Each time he took a step his shoe squished another turd. It was too disgusting for words.

This had better not be a wasted trip, not now.

Arnold had obviously gone on vacation without arranging for someone to care for the cats, or the person he had gotten was an irresponsible asshole. Leroy suspected the latter, given the number of friends Arnold had. He wasn’t the most popular guy. In fact, as the reclusive man’s dope dealer, Leroy was pretty sure that he was Arnold’s best friend. He cursed and squished his way to the front door, where an apprehensive Chuck waited on the step.

“It’s disgusting in here,” Leroy whispered. “Watch your step, there’s cat shit everywhere.”

“Eww!” Chuck whined, “I don’t wanna go in there.”

“Just shut up and get in here!” Leroy ordered, grabbing Chuck by the jacket and yanking him inside so he could shut the door. He used the cat-shit hand. Leroy grinned in the darkness. He’d found a place to wipe the shit off his hand after all.

Leroy closed the blinds to prevent nosy neighbors from seeing anything and the two made their way to the bedroom. The smell got worse as they approached the bedroom door. Leroy used his clean hand to stretch his mask over his mouth to filter the stink. For the first time he began to suspect that maybe, just maybe Arnold hadn’t gone on vacation after all.

Oh well, fuck it, he thought. It don’t matter, as long as the money’s there.

 “Geez, what is that smell?” Chuck asked again, pulling the neck of his t-shirt up over his face.

Leroy shone his flashlight through the doorway, then groped for the light switch to confirm what he thought he’d seen.

He wished he hadn’t chosen to cover his entire face because when he puked, it stayed mostly inside the ski mask, filling it right up to the eyeholes with vomit.

The pair ran from the room, each shoving the other out of the way and trying not to slip on the layer of cat shit that covered almost every inch of the floor. They burst out the front door onto the porch, where Chuck spewed his guts over the railing. Leroy peeled the disgusting ski mask from his face. This was not turning out to be his night at all. Both men gulped in the fresh night air to quell the nausea they felt.

Finally Chuck broke the silence with one of his usual dumb questions. “Did you see that?”

“Yes, you dumb fuck. I saw that. Looks like Arnie-boy has gone on a permanent vacation.” Leroy spat into the shrubbery, trying to cleanse the taste of puke from his palette.

“But did you see that?” Chuck repeated, “It looked like they… they…”

“Were eating him,” Leroy finished. “Yeah, I saw it, all right.” He spat again and wiped his face with his sleeve one more time. “The question is,” he continued, “Are you ready to go back in and get the money?”

“What?” Chuck spun around to face his friend. “Are you fucking nuts?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Leroy said coolly. It was true; he had been diagnosed with schizophrenia in his late teens. Leroy did not take prescription medication for his condition, opting instead for ‘natural’ treatment, AKA smoking copious amounts of marijuana. He financed his pot habit by growing and selling some of the best weed in town, hence his relationship with Arnold.

“I’m not going back in there,” Chuck said, shaking his head. “Nope, no way.”

Leroy grabbed him by the front of the shirt. “Yes, you are. You have already committed a break-and-enter. Leaving without the money when it’s sitting there for the taking is just fucking stupid.”

“But he’s in there!” Chuck whined.

“So? Does he look like he’s going to be needing it? He’s fucking dead! That means he isn’t going to report it missing. It’s free fucking money, dipshit!”

“I can’t,” Chuck protested.

“You can, and you will. You know what they do to pretty boys like you in jail, my friend? Yeah, you heard me. You’re either in all the way or you’re going down for it.” Leroy wasn’t kidding. Framing Chuck for a break-in would be easy. They were roommates and there was plenty of evidence he could spread around.

“Look,” Leroy said, “Sooner or later they’re gonna find this sorry bastard. Nobody’s going to know his cash is missing because nobody knows about it, not even his ex-wife. He thought I didn’t know about it either. If we don’t take it, then what’s gonna happen to it? Either his ex gets it or it’ll wind up in some cop’s fucking pocket. Do you really think Arnie would want that? Or would he want it to go to his favorite dope dealer and his best friend, to improve their quality of life?”

“We don’t have to touch him, do we?”

“Only enough to get him off the bed because the money’s underneath. But we can roll him in the blanket. No touching the corpse.”

 They took a moment to draw a few more breaths of untainted air before venturing back inside the house.

Even though they were ready for the smell this time, it was still brutal. They navigated the cat-shit minefield through the living room and down the hallway to the bedroom. The light was still on and the horror that they had seen before still waited in the bed. The odor of decomposition that emanated from Arnold was overpowering, making the smell of cat excrement seem tame by comparison. The cats had been chowing down on him, for sure. Both of his hands were nibbled down to the bone and chunks were missing out of his forearms. His face was the worst. His cheeks had been chewed away to the point where his teeth were visible through the sides of his face.

Leroy gingerly lifted the quilt; curious to see just how far the cats had eaten him and nearly puked again, from the sight and smell of what lay underneath. The sheet beneath the body was covered with a blackish stain. The underside of Arnold’s pyjamas moved as if alive. A multitude of maggots squirmed in and out of Arnold’s decomposing body, spilling out of the space between his pants and shirt.

“Aw! Gross!” Leroy jumped back, dropping the quilt before Chuck had a chance to get a good look. He didn’t want him turning pussy and running out of the house again.

“What?” Chuck stepped forward nervously.

“You don’t wanna know,” Leroy said quietly, “Let’s get this poor dead fuck off the bed. He leaned forward to pull the sheet from under the mattress where it was tucked.

That was when Arnold’s eyelids flickered.

* * *

Arnold woke to a blinding light and the sound of voices.

I’ve been found!

The paramedics had finally arrived. Maybe he was going to make it after all.

“Motherfucker! He’s alive!” a familiar voice said.

“Geez Louise!” a second voice said.

“Arnie? Can you hear me?” Leroy said, as a blurred image of the dope dealer leaned over Arnold’s ruined face.

Kill me. Fucking kill me. Please kill me. Arnold begged soundlessly, the words coming out as nothing but air.

“How the fuck is he alive?” the other man said.

“I dunno,” Leroy replied. He hesitated for a moment, studying Arnold’s face for signs of recognition. “Well, Arn,” he said, “I hate to do this to ya, but you still owe me for a bag. Turns out it was primo shit. REALLY primo shit, so this one’s gonna cost a little more.”

“You thieving bastard!” Arnold screamed, but it only came out as a whistle of air from his dried-up throat.

Leroy finished pulling the sheet from the edges of the bed and flung it over Arnold’s body.

“Help me out here, Chuck,” he said, “Grab that end and we’ll just roll him over the edge.”

“Oh, gross!” Chuck said, “What the fuck is that under him?”

“Nothing,” Leroy said, “Try not to look at that, it’s nasty. Now lift.”

* * *

Arnold’s body came alive in a firestorm of agony when they moved him. Using the sheet, they rolled him off the edge of the bed, where he thudded to the floor, the soiled quilt breaking his fall.

Something else happened when they moved him.

The sheet covered part of his face and he moved his head slightly in reflex, trying to free it.

Wait a minute.

His head had moved. Just a little, but it had moved. He tried moving his legs and the muscles responded but they were too weak to create any movement. His eyelids were fully open now, being the only muscles that had had any exercise during his ordeal.

One of his arms had lifted up when they moved him and his hand was now resting near his face. The hand wouldn’t move but he could see it if he rolled his eyes. He struggled to focus and saw something straight out of a horror movie. It was a skeleton’s hand, devoid of meat except for some rotted tissue between the bones.

Arnold screamed but it came out sounding like a wheeze.

He could hear rustling sounds as Chuck and Leroy cleaned out the secret stash of money that he kept inside the box spring of his bed. He wondered how Leroy had known about the money then guessed that the drug dealer must have followed him one of the times when he went to get money to pay for his weekly bag of pot. That’s what he got for letting his guard down.

You can’t trust anyone, not even drug dealers.

Now he had no money left; nothing to live for.

Oh well, at least that greedy bitch won’t get any of it.

Maybe it was better this way.

Let me die now. Please God let me die now.

* * *

Leroy shouldered his garbage bag full of money. As usual, Chuck was dragging his ass.

“You coming or what?” he asked. He was running out of patience, tired of constantly having to babysit Chuck.

“Yeah, yeah,” Chuck grunted, hefting his bulging bag to see if it would hold the weight.

As the pair moved toward the door a sound from the floor beside the bed made them pause. It sounded like a wheeze, followed by a croak. They listened. Another croak, this time forming the faint sound of words.

“Kill ne.”

Chuck bolted for the door, making an involuntary, “Eeeewwww” sound.

“Whoa,” Leroy said, “Hold up.”

“Are you fucking nuts?” Chuck whispered. “We got the money, now let’s get the fuck outta here!”

Leroy didn’t answer. He had placed his bag of money by the bedroom door and was slowly making his way to where Arnold lay, between the bed and the wall.

“You say something, Arn?” Leroy said.

Arnold struggled to pronounce the words through what was left of his lips.

“Kill me.” The words were little more than a whisper but unmistakable.

“You sure about that?”

“Yesss.”

“If you say so. Leroy always aims to please.” There was a snick sound – a switchblade knife, which Leroy never went anywhere without.

“What’re you doing, Leroy?” Chuck whined, “Can we just go, please?”

“Shh!”

“No. Oh, no. I did not sign up for this shit! I’m outta here.”

“You take one step and I’ll do you next. Now shut the fuck up.” Leroy growled. He edged closer to Arnold, staying as close to the wall as possible to avoid touching the horror that lay on the floor before him.

“Now, Arnie, I promise I’ll make this quick. And remember: You asked for it. I’m just doing what I’m told, right?”

Arnold’s lips moved in reply but he was too weak to form any more words.

Leroy brought the blade down lightning-fast and stabbed Arnold in the throat, severing his jugular on the side farthest from him. He jumped backward to avoid the arterial spray that he knew would follow but it was unnecessary; there was very little spray at all. Arnold’s blood pressure was so low that the blood spilled out of the wound in a slow trickle, which increased only slightly with each beat of his failing heart.

Leroy grabbed his bag of money and let Chuck lead the way to the front door.

Before he left the house, he called,

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty! Din-dins!”

* * *

It was late November.

Gord Mackie, the local wildlife conservation officer was responding to a complaint about bear sightings in the neighborhood. Usually the bears were hibernating by this time but sometimes they stayed awake to forage if they didn’t get enough to eat. A hungry bear in a residential area was a dangerous one, and it was Gord’s job to eliminate the danger, either by trapping and relocating the bear or by shooting it. He hoped that with the recent snowfall he would be able to spot some tracks near where the bear was last seen to get an idea of how large the animal was.

The place where the neighbor had reported seeing the bear was a deserted house set back in a grove of trees. Apparently the owner had vacated the place sometime during the summer. Now, a bear was hanging around the house, probably attracted by unpicked fruit trees.

As Gord neared the house, he realized that this wasn’t any ordinary bear sighting. The well-worn trail encircling the house and multiple sets of paw prints in the snow told him that this was a bear highway. There was something inside the house that was attracting bears – a lot of them. When he got within spitting distance of the front door the smell hit him.

Death.

Death and… sewage? Maybe a sewage pipe had ruptured under the house. That would explain the smell.

Gord called his head office first, then the police.

* * *

“Good God!” Constable Martin rushed out the door, gloved hand over his face. Corporal Andrews had sent the rookie in first to break him in. Andrews had a feeling that this wasn’t going to be a pretty scene, if the smell was any indication but even the seasoned veteran cop wasn’t prepared for what waited within.

“What you think happened to him?” Martin’s voice sounded hollow and muffled from behind the gas mask, an item both partners had donned before entering following Martin’s initial dash in and out.

“I’m no coroner, but from what I can see, this poor sap must have died in his sleep and his cats made a meal of him.”

The skeleton in the bedroom was picked clean and some of the extremities had been pulled away from the body. The corpse lay in a jumbled heap beside the bed, looking like it had been the object of several tug-of-war competitions. Judging from the cat skeletons that littered the house, the animals had turned on each other once they ran out of meat from the human carcass.

A rustling noise behind them made both officers jump. A grey streak dashed past the bedroom door and exited through the open front door. A cat. Further investigation revealed that the lone surviving cat had been munching on the freshly killed carcass of another cat – a small calico. There were five other cat carcasses in the house, but this one was the freshest.

Wild-eyed and skittish, with ribs showing on his sides, Oscar was no longer a fat, lazy house cat. He was a lethal predator who had learned how to survive… by whatever means necessary.

Copyright © 2012 Mandy White

Available on Amazon.com as a stand-alone short story. Soon to be featured in WPaD’s upcoming pet anthology.

Dream Catcher

When Andy showed up with Max in tow, nobody wanted to include him. He was too different, they said. He wasn’t smart enough to learn to play baseball, and with the upcoming season to practice for they had no time to waste teaching a player who obviously wouldn’t be allowed to play in tournaments.

Andy insisted and gave them an ultimatum:

“Either Max plays, or I’ll find another team,” Andy said.

Andy was the best pitcher the Raccoons had ever had, and the team couldn’t afford to lose her, so they relented and let Max play.

“He’s your responsibility, Andy. You teach him. And if he can’t do it, he can sit on the bench,” Steve, the team captain told her.

“Deal. Trust me, I’ve been practicing with him at home, and he’s going to be great.”

Andy’s parents were fostering Max, and she affectionately referred to him as her brother, which understandably raised a lot of eyebrows. Max’s appearance took some getting used to, with his sloping forehead, dark skin and wide, flat nose. Max was a happy fellow and he smiled often, stretching those weird, pliable lips into an impossibly wide grin, displaying rows of large, yellow teeth. His close-set brown eyes sparkled with a glint of intelligence, despite the fact that he didn’t speak; he only made unintelligible chatter and screeching noises. Andy communicated with him using sign language, which he seemed to understand.

Max already knew how to throw and catch, thanks to Andy’s home practice with him, but he was easily distracted and had a tendency to fool around and climb the backdrop when he became bored. She positioned him behind home plate, where she could maintain eye contact with him and give instructions when necessary.

As it turned out, Max was a natural. His reflexes were lightning-fast, and he never missed a pitch. His long, powerful arms delivered a ball to any base with precision and speed that left the recipient’s hand stinging in their glove. And beware to any runner who happened to be sprinting toward home. Max would be waiting; an immovable wall covering home plate, ready to tag them out.

With Max on the team, the Raccoons would be invincible. The problem was they had to convince the committee to let him play. The team didn’t have high hopes, but Andy was determined to try.

“It wasn’t so long ago that girls weren’t allowed to play on teams with boys,” she pointed out. “And we won that battle. We just have to present Max as a ‘differently abled’ player, and they will have no choice, or they’ll be accused of discrimination. We’ll make it go viral if we have to. Trust me, this will work.”

* * *

“Absolutely not! We can’t possibly allow that creature on the field! This is a junior baseball league, not a zoo!” the league manager said.

“Watch it, Mister Bentley! That is my brother you’re talking about!” Andy said. She planted her feet firmly on the ground, one hand on her hip, the other holding Max’s hand. The team stood behind them in solidarity. “My brother is differently abled. Are you trying to tell me that you would discriminate against him for having Down Syndrome or Cerebral Palsy or anything else that might make him a bit different?”

“Well, no, of course not, but…but…” Mr. Bentley sputtered, “But that isn’t the case. He’s…”

“He’s a member of our team, is what he is,” Andy stated. “And he’s a damn good player. You tell me where it says in the rules that he can’t play!”

“But there’s nothing in the rules about having a Chimpanzee on the team!”

“Exactly.”

In the end, the commission had no grounds to prevent Max from playing. With their dream catcher on the team, the Raccoons swept the tournament without a single loss.

Copyright © 2022 Mandy White

Well, Holy Cow! I Won!

Today I was pleasantly surprised to hear that I won!

Meet my pal, Moofoo!

The Evil Squirrel’s Nest holds an annual Contest of Whatever and I try to participate each year (unless I forget that it’s February, like I did last year…) This year my friend Juliette (The Vampire Maman) reminded me of the contest with mere days left before the deadline to think of something. The preceding post is my entry, and it was a hit!

I will enjoy a sandwich made from slices of my delicious friend, Moofoo as I peruse the Evil Squirrel’s Nest’s extensive catalog of cool merchandise to choose my prize. I highly recommend you check it out. It’s a fun site with plenty of cool goods.

Have a happy Sunday!

Friend or Food – or Both?

The following advertisement is my official entry to the Evil Squirrel’s Nest Ninth Contest of Whatever – 2022!

Ever had this happen?

You try to make a sandwich, but the deli meat doesn’t match the bread?
Who thought round meat belonged with square bread, anyway?

Or are you vegetarian, but tofu makes you gag and you just can’t stop craving the taste of meat?

Lonely? Looking for a friend to share a sandwich with?

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He’s cute, cuddly, and delicious! And best of all, Moofoo fits perfectly on a slice of bread.

Simply shave a few slices from Moofoo’s succulent rear end and enjoy. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt Moofoo! He will purr with delight and regenerate an endless supply of delicious deli slices. No more messy mismatched sandwiches!

Moofoo: The best friend you ever tasted!

No more lonely nights eating alone!

Cuddle up and watch a movie with Moofoo, and even share your sandwich with him.

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Moofoo comes in seven flavors! Collect the whole set and never go hungry again!

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Moofoo is gluten-free, dairy-free, peanut-free, soy-free, meat-free, and guilt-free. (Exact ingredients unknown.)

Disclaimer: The makers of Moofoo are not responsible for side effects such as eating disorders, injury resulting from misuse of the product, allergic reactions including acne, male pattern baldness, uncontrollable sneezing, impotence, social awkwardness, unibrow, extra toes, or belief that you are Florida Man.

Moofoo: Best buddy in your tummy!

Evil Squirrel’s Nest Ninth Contest of Whatever – 2022

This week I thought I’d add a little plug for a fun website – one I’ve enjoyed immensely over the past few years: The Evil Squirrel’s Nest. Every year they hold a silly contest with a random theme and almost no rules. The winner gets to choose a prize from their extensive inventory of cool merch.

I won this cool mug a couple of years ago and it is one of my prized possessions.

You don’t have to be skilled or even mentally prepared to participate; the only requirement is you have a blog where you can post your entry and link back to the contest page. And of course, you need to follow whatever theme they are going with this year. I believe this year, they are trying to figure out what a weird looking stuffed toy is. Just go to the site and check it out if you want to learn more.

For this week’s Short Story Sunday I present to you my entry from a couple of years ago that won me the awesome mug you see here:

The theme that year was “Murphy’s Law”:

The Murphy’s Paw

Ashley ducked into the first shop she saw with an OPEN sign, praying it had air conditioning. The bell jingled and she breathed the cool air with relief. She had an hour to kill before her audition and didn’t want to sweat away her perfect makeup. If she waited in a coffee shop, she was sure to eat a donut or three, and she was desperate to keep her weight under control. The last three auditions, they had told her she was too heavy for the role. She wasn’t fat, but by Hollywood standards she was twenty pounds overweight. If she wanted to land a breakthrough leading role, she needed to slim down.

She wandered through the dusty little shop, examining the odd assortment of objects in the display cases. What the hell kind of store is this? she thought. She hadn’t noticed a sign on her way in. The place seemed to have a little bit of everything: old jewelry, books, odd ornaments, even some taxidermy. A stuffed possum lay belly-up on a log with a squirrel standing triumphantly atop holding a tiny sword to the possum’s chest. The squirrel was dressed in an adorable Confederate soldier uniform.

An item in a glass display case caught her eye. She paused and leaned forward for a closer look.

“Interesting, isn’t it?”

Ashley looked around for the owner of the voice. “Hello?”

A thin old man stood up from behind the counter. “Sorry ’bout that. Cleaning is a full time job around here.”

From the look of the place, he hadn’t been cleaning for long.

He nodded toward the object in the case. “It’s an interesting piece, isn’t it?”

“It looks like a… a hand.”

“That, me lass, is none other than the Murphy’s Paw.”

“Don’t you mean Monkey’s Paw?”

“No, Murphy. It belonged to me great-great grandfather, Seamus Murphy. He lost it in an accident.”

Ashley jumped back a little. “You have an actual human hand, and it’s from your grandfather?”

The store proprietor beamed proudly. “Great–great grandfather. Yes, indeed!”

“Isn’t that kind of gross?”

“Not at all. It’s well preserved.”

“What’s that mean?” Ashley asked, pointing at the sign. It read, Wishes Granted, Results Guaranteed.

“Just what it says. Legend has it, the hand has the ability to grant wishes.”

“Interesting, if true. How much?”

“Fifty bucks.”

“Are you kidding? For a stupid hand?”

“This is no ordinary hand. This is the hand of THE Seamus Murphy.”

“Never heard of him. What did he do that was so great?”

“Oh, it’s a heck of a tale. Y’see, Seamus was a bit of a drunk. He was also accident prone, probably due to the fact that he spent most of his time drunk. He was always falling down stairs, or tripping over things. As the story goes, one night in a Dublin pub he met a shifty salesman who convinced him to buy some salve he called ‘The Luck of the Irish’. Being the shrewd fellow that he was, Seamus refused to buy anything without trying it first. The salesman instructed him to rub some of the stuff on his hands and then try his luck at a card game. Seamus won, of course, given that the fellows he was playing against happened to be accomplices of the salesman. Seamus gave the salesman all of his winnings, plus the rest of the cash he had in exchange for what was probably just a big jar of lard. He slathered the stuff all over himself from head to toe, boasting that he was now the luckiest man on earth. He staggered out the door of the pub and promptly slipped on the ice and fell. Greased up as he was, Seamus slid down the stairs at lightning speed and shot out into the street like an Olympic luge racer, right into the path of an oncoming tram. The tram car missed his head by inches, but ran over his arm, severing his hand. Seamus kept the hand as a souvenir, calling it his ‘Lucky Paw’. By his reasoning, having lost only a hand in such a freak accident was a stroke of luck, when he came so close to losing his head. Seamus carried the hand with him everywhere, which was usually to one pub or another. In exchange for a pint of beer, he would allow people to touch the hand for luck, and make a wish. After Seamus died, his ‘Lucky Paw’ was passed from one family member to another, and eventually ended up with me.”

“So it’s kind of like a family heirloom, and you’re selling it? Why?”

“I sell antiquities and oddities. This is both. And I believe that it may be of use to someone.”

“Why would someone want a gross old hand?”

“For its power. According to the old stories, it really does grant wishes. Of course, every wish has its price.”

“You stole that from that monkey story.”

“No, no, nothing quite that dark. The Murphy’s Paw will give you luck. Grant wishes even, in exchange for the equivalent in… misfortune. Nothing devastating, of course. Just a bit of inconvenience. Give and take.”

“I’m no stranger to bad luck,” Ashley said. As she gazed at the hand, a sense of calm came over her. She felt oddly attracted to it. “It does have a kind of gothic charm. I could do with a little luck right now.”

Ashley purchased the hand and went to her audition. As she waited for her turn, she wished and wished to land the role, whatever it was. She was nervous,as she always was before an audition. She reached into her bag to find her lipstick and felt movement. A finger caressed her hand, almost lovingly. Instead of scaring her, it had a calming effect.

The audition went well. They liked her, but not for the lead role. She was cast as the lead character’s chubby sidekick. Work was work. She accepted the role, but she wasn’t satisfied. She wanted to be a star.

Back home, Ashley removed the tissue-wrapped hand from her bag and examined it. It didn’t disgust her the way she thought it would. It felt warm and comforting, like a hug from an old friend. She clasped the hand in hers. The fingers seemed to close over hers, surprisingly warm. She closed her eyes and wished. She wished to lose weight effortlessly and stay thin forever. She wished to be thin enough to land a role that would make her famous. She wanted to see her name in lights.

Six weeks later, Ashley arrived at an audition for the lead role in a major motion picture. She nailed it. They said she had the perfect look for the role. She had lost more than twenty pounds. Sure, the sudden onset of multiple food allergies, gluten and lactose intolerance was inconvenient, but it did keep her thin. She couldn’t eat anything anymore without suffering severe gastric distress, except for salads and plain rice.

The movie was a box office hit. She became one of the biggest names in Hollywood, and her face – at least the face of the character she played – was on the cover of every magazine. The problem was, nobody was interested in seeing her. All they saw was the disfigured serial killer with a unibrow that she played in the movie.

It wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when she wished for stardom.

She held the hand once again, and wished.

She wished for an Academy Award. But no ordinary one. She wanted a truly historic Oscar moment; one that people would be talking about for years to come. She would be world famous, and nobody would ever forget her face. When she walked down that red carpet, all eyes would be on her.

* * *

Oscar night arrived, and Ashley had been nominated.

She was so nervous, she downed a bottle of champagne in the limo on the way to the awards.

Her stomach gurgled. That salad she’d had earlier wasn’t agreeing with her. She had ordered gluten and dairy-free, but the salad dressing tasted suspiciously good. When she inquired about it, the waiter informed her that their house dressing contained cream and the kitchen had gotten the order wrong. It was too late; she’d already eaten it. It was probably fine; there couldn’t possibly be that much cream in it. The champagne calmed her nerves, but it made her a feel bit queasy. Walk it off, Ashley. You’ve got this, she told herself. She took a breath and checked her makeup one last time. She was ready for the red carpet.

Ashley stepped out of the limo to a flurry of camera flashes, a vision of glamor in her sparkly white gown.

Everyone was there. OMG! Was that Meryl Streep just ahead of her? It was! She waited until Meryl had entered the building, then began her walk down the red carpet. She smiled and posed, ignoring the perfect storm brewing in her belly.

Someone from People Magazine was asking her a question. She leaned forward to hear, and then suddenly with a huge URP! she vomited champagne all over the reporter. The force of the puke unleashed a geyser at her other end and she splattered the red carpet with foul brown liquid.

People screamed. Cameras flashed. Hands holding cell phones raised high, all recording video.

Ashley did win the Oscar, but was not present to accept it, having fled following the incident, which became known in headlines as “The Shittening” and “The Shart Heard Round the World.”

Copyright © 2021 Mandy White

The Red House

Mona sloshed the mop into the steaming pail, the aroma of bleach strong in the air. It was industrial strength; several times stronger than ordinary household bleach, but it was necessary, for this was, after all, an industrial task. Back and forth she scrubbed the floor and the plastic walls; section by section, panel by panel.

It was important to do a thorough job, for any contaminants could result in mold and other fungal growth, which would harm the seedlings that would soon fill the greenhouse.

Scrubbing greenhouses was one of the least desirable jobs at the nursery, so nobody objected when Mona volunteered to take on the task. She was on her third of twenty greenhouses, but it was necessary work. It was solitary work, and it gave her plenty of time to reflect on her life and how drastically it had changed in such a short time.

Her husband had never allowed her to work outside the home. She had enough to do, he said, keeping his home clean and caring for the children. But once the children were grown and able to care for themselves, Mona found herself with little to do. When Richard lost his job, the bills began to pile up. When Mona suggested he apply for work at a local nursery that was hiring, she received a black eye for her trouble. Richard frequently let his fists do the talking. Mona had always cowed to his will, but this time she swore it would never happen again.

The bank was on the verge of foreclosing and Richard still hadn’t gotten a job. He sat at home in a drunken stupor, day after day.

Mona went behind her husband’s back for the first time, and went to work. She accepted the same nursery job he had refused. Richard didn’t appear to notice she was gone each day.

Until he did.

She didn’t notice his truck, following at a distance as she walked to the bus stop, and then following the bus until she got off and walked the rest of the way to work.

She didn’t hear him enter. Mona listened to her radio as she used a razor knife to trim excess plastic from a newly installed panel in the greenhouse wall. She was unaware of his presence until her head was yanked backward, cruel fingers entwined in her hair.

“You fucking liar!” he growled into her ear, spraying spittle on her cheek.

“Ow! Rich, you’re hurting me!”

“Oh, you don’t know hurt, you sorry bitch. I’ll show you the meaning of hurt. You don’t lie to me and get away with it.”

“Rich, no! Please!” Her plea was cut short by rough hands around her throat, choking off her air.

Mona struggled to breathe. Flailing, she tried to thrust his hands away from her neck.

The world turned red.

At first she thought blood vessels in her eyes had burst from being choked; all she could see was red. Then Mona realized she could breathe again and the pressure on her neck was gone. She wiped her sleeve across her eyes, and then as her hand touched her face, she felt the sting of a blade on her cheek.

“Ow!” The razor knife dropped from her hand.

She touched her cheek where the blade had scratched it and her hand came away red. Far too much blood for such a little scratch. Or was she cut deeper than she thought? She looked down at her clothing to find them also covered with blood, and a dark pool surrounded her shoes.

Oh my God, I’m bleeding to death!

She stumbled backward, frantically patting her body in search of mortal injury and finding none. Her foot struck an obstacle on the floor and she fell, landing on top of the lifeless form of Richard. The dark pool of blood originated from a gash in his neck.

The razor knife lay where she had dropped it, covered in his blood.

“Oh, Rich! What have I done? What did you make me do?” she whispered.

So many times he had uttered those very words to her after beating her black and blue. He always blamed his rage on her.

* * *

Mona stabbed the compost with the pitchfork, lifting forkful after forkful of the heavy, smelly material. It was important to turn the compost regularly to speed decomposition. It was an unpleasant task that the other workers were happy to let Mona take on. She was going to be very busy, between cleaning the greenhouses and maintaining the large compost pit. Springtime was on the way and new crops needed to be planted.

Mona had a hunch the compost would be extra Rich that year.

Copyright © 2022 Mandy White

Your Heart Will be Mine

It’s that time of year again. You know the one –
that day with all the hearts and stuff…
I like to post this story because it’s the closest thing to romance I can seem to write.
Like I always say, when I try to write romance, someone always dies…
Happy V-Day! ~*~

You twist through my heart

Like a bolt through a nut

I am a nut

Think twice before you bolt

~*~ Your Heart Will be Mine ~*~

Megan wept, curled on her side in the tightest ball she could manage.

She had been curled up in the fetal position on her bed for hours – days, actually, doing nothing but cry. Barely moving except to use the bathroom and drink a bit of water. She couldn’t eat, she couldn’t sleep and the ache in her chest wouldn’t go away no matter how many painkillers she took.

So this is what a broken heart feels like.

She now understood why they called it heartbreak. What she felt was beyond sadness; it manifested as a tangible physical pain in her chest that radiated down into her belly. It was the most horrible sensation ever, and it was all HIS fault. How could he have been so cruel to her when all she had done was love him? She didn’t know where she had gone wrong. She had given him everything; waited on him hand and foot and catered to his every wish but in the end it wasn’t enough. He took her heart and tore it to shreds and then walked out the door as if the last two years had meant nothing.

She wanted to die.

If I died, you’d be sorry! You’d have to live with it for the rest of your life, knowing that YOU were the one who drove me to suicide!

Died of a broken heart.

That would show him how much she loved him.

Nobody else will ever love you the way I do! You’ll see! One day you will come crawling back to me with your heart in shreds, then you’ll know how you made me feel. And then I can kiss you better. We can heal together.

No, she would not end her life. Life was worth living as long as there was a chance of winning him back.

She would get him back.

Or die trying.

Richard tried to leave her several times during the last year but each time she convinced him to stay. She begged and pleaded and promised to be everything he wanted in a woman but he became cold and aloof nonetheless. He didn’t want intimacy anymore. He participated in sex when she was persistent enough to make his physical urges overcome his mental reluctance but his lack of desire was obvious.

She was willing to accept his lack of enthusiasm in their relationship as long as he didn’t leave. They could work things out. She would make it better. She just had to make him see how much she loved him and he would know they were destined to be together.

The pregnancy changed everything.

The one thing that should have cemented them together forever was the catalyst that ended their relationship. He was willing to stay for the sake of the baby. He even agreed to marry her after much pleading and cajoling on her part.

It would be the perfect wedding. She had already chosen her dress – a high-waisted design that would look stunning even with the bulge in her belly. She booked the church and hired the caterer and sent out invitations. It would be the beautiful fairytale wedding of her dreams. Afterward, he would take her in his arms and carry her over the threshold and make love to her, tenderly and passionately the way a husband should. Their life together would be picture-perfect.

There was just one small detail:

She wasn’t pregnant.

Megan thought she was pregnant, without a doubt. Even though the pregnancy tests (three of them, to be exact) were negative, she assumed it was too early for them to be accurate. She experienced all the symptoms – the missed period, tender breasts, bloated belly, and irritability. She even felt sick in the mornings. When her period arrived late, it was easy to hide it from him since he showed no interest in her physically. Since their engagement Richard had become even more distant, never meeting her eyes and only speaking to her when necessary.

It didn’t matter that the pregnancy was a false alarm. She would be pregnant by the time they got married; she would make sure of it.

She managed to convince him to have sex once during the following month but it did not result in pregnancy. Panicked, she redoubled her efforts to seduce him, but the harder she tried, the less receptive he became. When they did try, he couldn’t sustain an erection long enough to finish.

Four months passed. Then five, and still she wasn’t pregnant. She faked the symptoms, pretending to get sick in the mornings and eating like a horse so she would gain some girth and appear pregnant. The wedding was just six weeks away and she only needed to keep up her charade until after the minister declared them husband and wife. After that, she could fake a miscarriage and he would be there to comfort her and they could try again to start a family.

She began to wear padding under her clothing to keep up the appearance of an advancing pregnancy.

* * *

She didn’t hear him come into the house that day.

The past few months, he had been moving around the house like a ghost, silent, never speaking unless spoken to. On that particular day, he came home from work early. Megan wasn’t expecting him. She stood in front of the bedroom mirror; trying on the next size pillow she was going to bind to her belly to make it look thicker.

She had no idea how long he had been standing there, watching her in silence.

He said nothing, but his eyes spoke the rage in his heart.

He refused to speak to her, no matter how she cried and pleaded. He started packing immediately and left that night, taking only the bare necessities. She clung to his leg, begging him to stay but he peeled her off of him in disgust. He walked out of her life without giving a second thought to their future together, leaving her blubbering on the floor.

Megan was not only heartbroken; she was humiliated. He told his family and all of their friends about her deceit and his reason for leaving. Nobody would speak to her.

She was alone.

* * *

A year later, Megan still sobbed herself to sleep but not as often. The pain in her chest had diminished to a dull ache but it never went away altogether. They said time heals all wounds but she knew that in her case it wouldn’t. She still loved Richard heart and soul and would never stop. They were meant to be together. He was hers and no amount of time or distance would ever change that.

She wasted her Saturday afternoons wandering through the mall, gazing at the gowns in the bridal shop, the sexy lingerie in Victoria’s Secret and the endless displays of adorable children’s clothing. From infant to toddler to preschooler… there were too many cute outfits to choose from. She should have been buying clothing for her own child – for their child. Instead, she could only look and dream.

She wandered toward the food court to feed her craving for sweets. She had been living on junk food and had gained a considerable amount of weight. It didn’t matter because she had nobody to stay thin for. At that moment, Cinnabon called to her.

A baby stroller blocked her path as she navigated through the tables to get to the food counters. She edged around it, pausing for a moment to admire the baby, a little girl about three months old, dressed in an adorable pink outfit. The parents, engrossed in conversation, giggled and shared an intimate kiss.

Megan froze.

No.

It couldn’t be!

It was him. Richard.

Her Richard.

Judging from the age of the infant in the stroller, he hadn’t wasted any time after leaving her. He might have already been seeing that woman behind her back! That would explain his lack of interest in Megan. The slut had already tired him out before he got home.

Rage boiled inside her when she saw the engagement ring on the woman’s finger – a large, stunning diamond solitaire. Nothing like the cheap little band he had grudgingly given her.

“YOU BASTARD!” Megan roared, sweeping the food and beverages off the table onto the couple’s laps.

“YOU DIRTY CHEATING MOTHERFUCKER!”

“Richard?” the woman said, her voice fearful. She pulled the baby stroller away from Megan.

“You stay out of it, slut! I’m talking to my husband. You’ve done enough already!”

Richard finally spoke up. “Get the hell away from my family, you crazy bitch.”

“YOUR family? YOUR family?” Megan sputtered. “What about OUR family? The one you couldn’t even give me because your dick was always limp!”

“I never wanted you, Megan. I never loved you. You were a mistake. The biggest mistake I ever made.” Richard’s tone was calm. He spoke the words without emotion. How could he not feel anything after sharing his life with her for two years?

Richard’s bitch had taken her child and moved away from the table. She was talking to the clerk at Cinnabon and a security guard was making his way toward them.

“You think you’ll be happy with her?” Megan yelled. “She’s nothing! You and ME! WE were meant to be together! Nobody will love you the way I do. Nobody!”

The security guard stepped between them.

“I’ll have to ask you to move away, ma’am. Leave these people alone.”

“Fuck you!” she spat, leaning around the uniformed man to make eye contact with Richard once more.

“You can’t escape fate, Richard. You’re mine! One day you’ll come crawling back. You love me. I know you do.”

Two more security guards came from behind and took her arms, leading her away from the food court. They demanded that she leave at once or the police would be called.

Megan left. She had said her piece.

Richard knew the truth.

She would make him see the truth.

* * *

Megan’s outburst with Richard energized her; freed her from the shackles of depression. She felt electrified, filled with new hope. She had a purpose again: Richard, and her future with him. She just needed to take the place of the baby-making whore in the food court and everything would be perfect again.

She would win him back. His heart had always been hers; he just didn’t realize it yet.

Having been banned from the local mall, Megan’s Saturday shopping trip took her to the streets and a new neighborhood where she had never been. Her Obsessive Compulsive Disorder made it difficult to deviate from an established routine. As a result, she seldom visited new places. Occasionally change was forced. This time she found it refreshing instead of disturbing. Her therapist, whom she hadn’t seen in more than five years, would have called it “a positive step”.

The weathered red brick buildings offered a nice change of scenery from the icy-smooth grey concrete downtown. The new neighborhood featured a wealth of second-hand stores, a few hippie bong shops and some dusty-looking used bookstores. It was in one of these bookstores that she found it.

The tattered brown binding of the book caught her eye and immediately she reached for it.

The Joy of Spellcasting.

She chuckled at the silly title.

It sounds like a cookbook. Why not? It could be fun. Megan purchased the book and walked home with a spring in her step.

She opened the book to the table of contents and quickly found what she sought.

Love Spells – page 131.

She noticed handwriting at the bottom of the yellowed page. The ink had blurred over time but was still legible. Megan held it up to the light to make out the words.

“Be warned, ye who goest here. Think ye long on what thou desirest. The spells contained within be those most powerful. What thou desirest, thou shalt receive.”

Megan smirked. It sounded like something out of a low-budget after-school Halloween special.

Good to know. Let’s see if it’s true.

She turned to page 131 and began to read.

There were several love spells and potions but most of them looked complicated. They contained ingredients she had never heard of and took too long to yield results. They ranged anywhere from six months to three years to complete a spell. Megan wanted results now.

She settled on the One Moon Love Charm. It claimed to return a lost love in one month and she had all the ingredients to make it work:

A container made from wood or metal.

A likeness of your lost love. OR

An object belonging to your lost love, OR

A sample of your loved one’s blood or flesh.

Write on a piece of parchment exactly what you desire.

Seal with your own blood or flesh to bond with your lover’s flesh for all eternity.

Bury the container three feet deep in dark soil under the light of the full moon.

Stand over the burial site and turn around three times and then say the incantation every night for one month. When the moon reaches its next fullness, the object of your desire will come to you.

Megan selected a heart-shaped wooden jewelry box Richard had given her when they first started dating – back when he still knew he loved her. The box held no jewelry except the engagement ring she no longer wore. She had been using it to store her favorite photos of Richard, all carefully cropped with a pair of scissors to a heart shape.

A likeness of your lost love.

What better likeness than an actual photo? She left all of the photos in the box.

OR an object belonging to your lost love.

Richard had left most of his belongings behind when he left, so why not add that as well? She selected a watch she had bought him for Christmas that he always seemed to forget to wear and his razor, which he had left in the bathroom.

OR a sample of your loved one’s blood or flesh.

Technically, the razor already had that covered, since it contained beard stubble and probably skin cells as well. She wanted to add as much punch to the spell as possible. More would be better, right? She cleaned the bathtub drain, extracting a slimy hairball made up of both his hair and hers. That covered both samples of their flesh.

On a plain white piece of paper, she wrote the words she had chosen:

Richard Cole, I desire your heart and nothing else.

She folded it neatly and placed it in the box.

She sliced her index finger with a razor blade and let the blood drip over the contents of the jewelry box.

Under the full moon she stood, on the fresh mound of dirt beneath which the box was buried. She turned around three times and then recited the incantation, which she had memorized:

“By the Earth below and the moon above,

You will be my one true love.

Bound in blood and sealed in Earth,

Waiting for our love’s new birth.

Empowered by the Law of Three,

Richard’s heart will come to me.

Three times Three.

So mote it be.”

She repeated the incantation two more times just for good measure. If the Law of Three was a real thing, then it made sense to do everything three times to amplify the power threefold.

The following night she repeated the ritual, chanting the incantation three times. After a pause, she recited it three times more.

She couldn’t stop the pattern once it had begun. Richard had hated her OCD but it was one of the things that made her organized and precise in everything she did. Every night she added three more repetitions to the incantation. When she reached the 29th night she recited it a total of 87 times. When she went to bed at night, the rhyme played over and over inside her head until she fell asleep.

The moon had reached the first day of its three days of fullness. It would be at its fullest the following night. Megan snuggled happily into her bed, confident that Richard would be with her soon.

* * *

 “Jenkins! Get in here! You gotta see this!” Ralph Anderson shouted to his assistant.

Jenkins wandered through the double doors of the morgue, stuffing the remains of a tuna sandwich into his mouth.

“I’m still on break. Couldn’t you have waited another ten minutes?”

“No, I need you to see this. You gotta tell me I’m not crazy.”

Jenkins approached the table where his superior was conducting a routine autopsy. The ribcage was splayed open, revealing the inside of the stiff’s chest.

“So what’s the deal? You find an alien in there? Looks pretty normal to me.”

“Look again. Tell me what you see. More specifically, what’s missing?”

Jenkins leaned over the corpse to take a closer look, licking mayonnaise off of his fingertips.

“Yeah, so it looks like you’ve already removed the heart, and—”

“But I haven’t,” Anderson said, almost in a whisper.

“Sure you have. It’s not in there.” Jenkins looked around at the empty stainless steel trays that surrounded the autopsy table. “So, where’d ya put it?’

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t in there when we got him.”

“So, what is this then, a serial killer case?”

“No. Probable heart attack. Sudden death, cause unknown.”

“So, where’s the heart?”

“That is the question, isn’t it? There was no incision in the body, no sign of hemorrhage inside. It’s just… missing.”

“We gonna record this?”

“Who’s gonna believe us? I’m closing him back up and labeling him a coronary.”

* * *

Megan woke the morning of the thirtieth day, feeling well rested and energized. Today, Richard would return. She would take a nice long bath and put on something pretty and fix him a nice dinner. It would be the perfect day – one for which she had worked very diligently.

She stretched and yawned, rolling over to caress the pillow where Richard would lay his head that night.

Her hand touched something wet.

Something rounded, about the size of her fist.

It was warm, and pulsed with a steady, rhythmic beat.

Copyright © 2012 Mandy White

Previously published in DysFictional and in WPaD’s Passion’s Prisms.

Vacation

As promised, here’s the sequel to yesterday’s story about the coffee apocalypse.
~*~ Previously published in DysFictional 3 and WPaD’s Goin’ Extinct Too ~*~

“Are we there yet?”

“No.”

“How much farther?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m bored. Can’t we stop somewhere?”

“Will you stop harassing me? We will get there when we get there.”

“Don’t yell at the children, Dax. They’re just restless. They’ve been cooped up in this vehicle for ages. Can’t we find a place to stop so they can get some exercise?” Sky said.

“Where would you suggest?”

“I’m sure there’s someplace suitable around here. How about that place?”

“What if it’s no good?”

“There’s only one way to find out. Scan it.”

Dax entered the coordinates into the computer and read the results.

“Sounds ok, but might be some kind of tourist trap.”

“Well, we’re tourists, so it sounds perfect.”

Dax sighed. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to stop and stretch our legs for a while. Maybe we will find a nice place to camp.”

“That’s the spirit. We’re on vacation. Let’s relax and enjoy ourselves.”

* * *

The place looked promising. Clean air, trees, plenty of water. The children scrambled out of the vehicle and rushed toward the beach. Within moments they were splashing happily in the water.

Sky nuzzled her mate. “See? That was all they needed. Why don’t you relax while I find us something to eat?”

Dax was feeling more relaxed already. The place was pretty nice, he had to admit. Maybe they could stay a while. It seemed like a great place to spend a holiday.

Sky wandered away, taking in the sights while Dax basked in the sun, lying on a large flat rock near the water. Some time later, Sky returned, her arms filled with tasty looking food.

“What are those?” Dax asked.

“I don’t know, but they taste good. Here, try one.” She handed a wriggling, furry creature to Dax.

“Children! Come and get something to eat!”

“But I wanna swim!” Chi whined.

“You can go back and swim after you eat something and warm up for a little while. You don’t want to get a chill,” Sky ordered.

Pouting, Chi and Dik left the water and joined their parents on the beach. Their reluctance quickly turned to enthusiasm when they saw the delicious treats their mother had brought.

“This is nice, don’t you think, Honey?” Sky said, gazing up at the brilliant yellow sun on its backdrop of blue.

“It sure is,” Dax agreed, “Why don’t we stay here for a while and camp? Looks like we have the whole place to ourselves.”

“Yes! Let’s do it.” Sky said.

“Yay!” the children shouted in unison.

* * *

The next day, the children did some exploring while their parents napped in the sun. They happened upon a strange object.

“Wonder what this is?” Chi said, examining the rounded metal thing.

“I think it’s some kind of lid. Help me open it.”

The steel door groaned open. They peered into the hole, closing their inner eyelids against the rising dust.

“What is this?”

“I’m not sure. Looks like some kind of ancient ruins. There’s a cave or something down there. Let’s go down and check it out.”

They scuttled down the shaft into the cavern below.

“Look there! Bones! What kind of creature is that?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not one of us. Look, only four appendages and it doesn’t even have a tail! Must be some kind of weird old fossil.”

“What’s that object beside it?”

Dik’s webbed, green-scaled hand reached for the metal object.

“Is it some kind of weapon?” Chi asked.

“I don’t think so. Maybe it’s food or something. Look, I can open it.”

Sniff. Sniff.

“What is that?”

“I don’t know, but it smells delicious! Should we taste it?”

“No, it might be poison. Let’s go and ask Mom first.”

“What’s this other thing?”

“I don’t know, but it looks like it was as important to this creature as that container. It died holding both of them.”

* * *

They ran back to their parents carrying the metal container and the other strange object they had found clutched in the arms of the fossilized remains.

“Mom! Dad! Look what we found!”

Dax and Sky examined the objects their children had found. The container was filled with dry, dark brown granules that had an intoxicating aroma. The other object appeared to be a collection of ancient writings, inscribed on thin sheets of a brittle, delicate material.

“I’ll scan this with the ship’s computer. Maybe we can decode it,” Dax said.

He scanned the documents and then left the computer to analyze the alien language. Meanwhile, the family went out to explore, starting with the cave the children had found.

It appeared to be some sort of underground home, accessed by a metal tube. The remains of a lone life form lay below. Nearby, they found some ancient ruins, above ground. Inside, they found the remains of another life form, and its death appeared to have been caused by a large hole in its head.

“What happened to these creatures?” Sky wondered aloud. “Do you think any of them are left?”

“I don’t know,” Dax said. Maybe those ancient writings will have a clue.”

“Let’s look around some more. These things are fascinating if nothing else.”

Some distance away, they found more ancient ruins that appeared to be untouched since the demise of the civilization that had built them. It was an archaeological marvel, this crumbling city, destroyed by some sort of war or disaster. They found more remains, lying where they had fallen. Whatever had happened, not everyone had seen it coming.

They explored until dusk, and then returned to camp. Dax checked on the ship’s computer to see if it had made any progress decoding the ancient language. It had. The results were amazing.

“Sky! Children! Come here! You have to see this!”

They crowded around the screen as Dax read what the computer had translated.

“According to what the being in the cave inscribed, this planet was once a thriving civilization, but it was destroyed by war. That cave was not a home, but a shelter, built to withstand the blast. It seems that poor fellow went down there to escape the war and ended up starving to death, even though he could have come back to the surface.”

“What made him stay down there?”

“He was protecting a substance more valuable than anything on the planet; the very cause of the war. It seemed this civilization worshiped the substance, until one day the plant that provided it became extinct. When the supply ran out, war broke out. They bombed themselves out of existence with their own weapons. That guy found a treasure trove of the valuable substance down in the shelter, so he went to ground and locked himself in. He had one container left when he ran out of water. He died down there, probably of starvation, locked in with his treasure.”

“The container! That must be the treasure!” Chi exchanged an excited look with her brother. “We just found the most valuable thing on the planet!”

“So, what exactly is this treasure?” Sky asked. “What makes it so valuable?”

Dax leaned over the screen again.

“It says here that it’s some sort of drink. They called it COF-FEE.”

Copyright © 2018 Mandy White

Battle of the Bean

I have posted this story before; I post it often because it is one of my favorites. Come back tomorrow for the sequel, Vacation.
Previously published in DysFictional 2 and WPaD’s Goin’ Extinct ~*~

It was the end of the world as we knew it, and nobody felt fine. Remember that song by R.E.M.? It’s been stuck inside my head since this whole thing began.

Anarchy reigned; society was in chaos. People rioted in the streets. Yadda-yadda apocalypse…

All because of one little thing. A tiny thing, really. Not quite miniscule, perhaps the size of a pea, but a tiny thing nonetheless.

The all-powerful coffee bean.

We were warned of the impending extinction of our precious bean, but like so many warnings before it, we chose to ignore it until forced to confront the ugly truth.

It began early in the century, when farmers in Colombia noticed a troublesome blight affecting the Arabica plants. The blight, known as “coffee rust”, was a type of fungus that spread rapidly, despite all efforts to eradicate it.

Some blamed pollution, others blamed global warming, but regardless of whom or what was to blame, Arabica crops in Latin America were wiped out by 2027, and from there it spread to crops in Africa.

Still, the public pooh-poohed. As long as Starbucks kept pouring eight-dollar lattes, there was no cause for alarm. The problem was far away from their sheltered yuppie environment. Cultivation was the farmers’ problem, not theirs. Even when the Arabica crops were gone and the price of that particular variety skyrocketed, people simply switched blends.

It wasn’t until every coffee plant on the planet was dead that we were willing to acknowledge that we had a problem. The problem escalated to catastrophic levels when the governments took control of the world’s remaining supply of coffee.

Coffee disappeared from supermarket shelves. Starbucks went out of business. Coffee shops with boarded-up windows littered the urban landscape.

At more than ten times the price per kilo, coffee replaced cocaine as Colombia’s most lucrative illegal export. Coffee cartels waged war on each other in hopes of controlling the world’s dwindling supplies of the precious brown bean. Penalties for smuggling coffee ranged from several years to life in prison or even death by firing squad, depending on which country one was arrested in, but that didn’t stop an intrepid few from trying their luck.

Street value of an ounce of ground coffee climbed higher than that of gold. Users traded automatic weapons, priceless family heirlooms and even the deeds to their homes for a cup of espresso, just to get one more fix of that aromatic black nectar.

We tried consuming tea, colas and caffeine pills, but it didn’t take us long to learn that caffeine wasn’t what gave coffee its addictive nature. It turned out there was another ingredient we had overlooked. A mystery ingredient that latched onto the brain much like cocaine did. Suffice it to say, lack of this ingredient made some people very unhappy indeed. Scientists analyzed it, tried to isolate it and tried to synthesize it but to no avail.

The increase in violent crimes due to coffee withdrawal led to the global legalization of marijuana. Pounds of Purple Kush, Amsterdam Indica and BC Big Bud now occupied the shelf space that had once displayed pounds of French Roast, Breakfast Blend and Decaf. A society of anxious, stressed-out bean-hounds became laid-back and complacent, sleepily smiling as they crammed their mouths full of snacks.

Of course, there were still the hardcore addicts, for whom nothing else but the bitter ambrosia would do. White-collar professionals became organized crime bosses, dealing the world’s most valuable substance to street addicts, some of them former colleagues. When the coffee finally ran out, one country accused the next of hoarding it, even though nobody had any coffee anymore.

With everyone at each other’s throats, the UN dissolved. Their final meeting ended in a massive brawl; a Battle Royal between nearly 200 delegates that resolved nothing. The situation deteriorated to the point of war, with everyone pointing warheads at everyone else.

With a bunch of coffee-starved world leaders holding their jittery fingers over the red button, I did what any sensible man would, and went to ground.

I found the bomb shelter in my neighbor’s back yard after investigating the sound of a gunshot. I found him at his kitchen table, where he had been trying to snort lines of instant coffee before giving up and swallowing the barrel of his .357. Poor bastard – everyone knows there’s no real coffee in that instant stuff, but looks like he died trying.

I found a shovel and thought I’d do the neighborly thing and give him a decent burial, but damn, the ground was hard! I tried a few different spots but kept hitting rocks, then at one point I hit something metal. Curious, I dug it up, and damned if I didn’t find a bomb shelter! Probably built during World War II and long forgotten under layers of landscaping. My neighbor probably bought the house without even knowing it existed.

So, when the threat of nuclear war became imminent, I packed some supplies and retreated into the shelter with plans to stay put for a few weeks or months until the coast was clear. I brought food, plenty of water, books to read, flashlights and batteries, but I needn’t have bothered to pack so much because when I got down there I discovered the shelves well-stocked. Sure, eighty-year-old canned goods might not be ideal, but they were better than nothing if it came down to it. I scanned my flashlight over the shelves and lo and behold! What did I see? Coffee! Cans and cans of magnificent, marvelous coffee!

I had packed a butane camp stove and several cases of fuel, so I was all set to prepare hot meals. Now hot coffee would accompany those meals! This dark, dusty hole in the ground had suddenly become paradise.

I’m writing this down, partly to keep myself busy so I don’t think about coffee. I also thought it would be a good idea to record what became of our world just in case nobody else is alive to do it.

As close as I can figure, it’s been about six months since I felt the first of the bombs hit. My food supply is dwindling, even the really old stuff. If I have to eat another can of cold lima beans I’m going to scream. Who the hell puts lima beans in a bomb shelter? I guess I could leave the shelter, but as long as I have coffee in my possession, I run the risk of getting robbed, maybe even killed for it. Lord only knows what’s happening up on the surface.

I’m down to my last can of coffee, but I’ve been putting off opening it because once it’s gone, then I truly will be out of coffee. After that, I will leave the shelter and see what awaits me up above.

I’ll wait one more day to open it. I can go without coffee for just one more day. I’ve been saving one last can of butane to make it nice and hot. Cold food I can handle, but cold water won’t brew coffee.

See? One day wasn’t so tough. Why not make it two? If I have a cup of coffee every two days, it will last twice as long. If I wait one more day before opening the last can, that’s one more day before I run out for good.

I made it a whole week. Wow. That’s one more week before I run out. As long as I have that can of coffee, I’m the richest man on earth. I might also be the only man on earth, but… mere details.

Two weeks, and that damn can of coffee sits there unopened, mocking me, daring me to open it. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Nice try, coffee can. I’m smarter than you. After all, you’re just a stupid can of coffee. I’m over you. I don’t love you anymore. I could quit you cold turkey if I wanted to.

Aw, fuck it. Since I know I can quit anytime I want, I might as well drink it and enjoy the last coffee on earth.

I’m doing it. This is it. I’m opening the can.

Tomorrow.

I’ve been out of food for weeks now, and starvation is weakening me more each day. The can of coffee still sits unopened, though. I have decided to save it until the very end. If the last thing I do before I leave this world is drink the last cup of coffee in that can, I will die a happy man. I’ll have to do it soon, though. I’m on my last two gallons of bottled water.

Maybe it’s time I left the shelter. There is probably clean water on the surface. Hell, I don’t even care if it’s contaminated, just as long as it will make a decent cuppa Joe. But… what if it’s total chaos up there? I’d be killed for my can of coffee for sure. I guess I could leave it in the shelter. Nobody knows it’s here. But what if I was followed on the way back, or worse, what if someone found this place – and my coffee – while I was away? Without my coffee, I have nothing. No, the only way it will be safe is if I stay and guard it.

When I finish the water I have open, I will open the last jug of water along with the can of coffee and brew a nice steaming cup of Heaven. When the coffee is gone, I will leave the shelter. If the world is destroyed, I’ll use the revolver I took from my neighbor’s hand and exit in likewise fashion.

NO! NO!!!! I went to open the last water jug and found it empty! DRY! All this time I thought it was full but I didn’t actually pick it up and shake it. The jug must have had a leak at the bottom because the water is long gone. No! No! No! I can’t live without water, because without water I can’t make coffee. A world without coffee is not one I want to face.

Goodbye world, whatever’s left of you.

* * *

The steel door groaned open. Two faces peered into the hole, closing their inner eyelids to shield their eyes from the rising dust.

“What is this?”

“I’m not sure. Looks like some kind of ancient ruins. There’s a cave or something down there. Let’s go down and check it out.”

They scuttled down the shaft into the cavern below.

“Look, there! Bones! What kind of creature is that?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not one of us. Look, only four appendages, and it doesn’t even have a tail! Must be some kind of weird old fossil.”

“What’s that object beside it?”

A webbed, green-scaled hand reached for the metal can.

“Is it some kind of weapon?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe it’s food or something. Look, I can open it.”

Sniff. Sniff.

“What is that?”

“I don’t know, but it smells delicious! Should we taste it?”

“No, it might be poison. Let’s go and ask Mom first.”

 Copyright © 2014 Mandy White