R.M. DuChene's Blog, page 2

Updates from the Couch: Day 17

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Sorry I’m so late getting back on. I’ve had a lot going on today between work and the baby. So…today was eviction day – right? Yeah right! So, when I first came downstairs this morning, I completely forgot about you know what. I fired up my work laptop, put my little Princess in her corral, then proceeded to get some shit done. Of course, about halfway through the first spreadsheet I was working on, I heard the beginnings of what would continue to be a crazy amount of noise from the down-stairs closet. I ignored it at first, but then I remembered that I told everyone in the world I was going to evict the little turd. So, with an awfully loud grunt, I picked myself up from the couch and made my way to the wall just around the corner from the closet. Then I just squatted….and waited. The baby wasn’t amused. I kept having to shush her. Eventually she became involved again in her musical cartoons and forgot was there. God exists.

So, anyways… There I was, waiting for the little bastard to come out of the closet. That’s when my eighteen-year-old decides to come romping down the stairs. I looked up at him as he exclaimed, “good morning!” and then I heard a slam. I knew it was the sound of the closet door closing. “Shit!” I yelled and went to the kitchen. Sure enough…two more bagels were missing. Pissed as all hell, I decided to wait just around the wall of the kitchen. It took a good thirty minutes, but eventually, I heard the little shit-bird opening the refrigerator door.

When I heard the fridge open, I jumped out from behind the wall. The Closet Troll was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, staring up at me – frozen. He had a container of Green Onion Cream Cheese under one arm and a half-pack of hot-dogs under the other. “I got you – you son ‘o biatch!” I yelled at him and began towards him. He didn’t hesitate. He threw the container of cream cheese and hit me in the knee. Then, all at once, I was assaulted by at least eight cold hot-dogs. By the time I regained my composure, I heard the closet door close again. “Shit!” I yelled. Then, the baby began to cry.

So…that’s how my day’s going so far. I’ll keep you posted.

I promised…

Tell them what you are going to tell them.

Since she’d been born I’d been promising her the moon, I told her I’d even throw in a few stars..
That not only is this whole world hers, that she could even take over Jupiter or Mars…
Tonight I thought to myself, it’s the time, the moon looked so beautifully divine, to fulfill my promise I had made to mine….So I flew all the way up and tied the moon,
with a fancy string like a balloon,
and handed it over to my Amberleigh June.

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Updates from the couch: Day 16

It’s 11:47 on a Tuesday afternoon. Outside, landscapers are destroying lawns up and down the block – but otherwise, the street is barren. Inside, I’m spending time with my one-year old daughter and editing my old stories in between work projects. Upstairs, my eighteen-year-old son is in the middle of whatever an eighteen-year-old dreams of these days. My wife is here as well, but she can give her own account. I don’t want to ruin it for her. I’ll just say it’s been nice to spend more time with her. I’ve missed her. Somewhere in the closet, the Troll has been knocking stuff over and scratching the walls.

Yes, I said the Troll. Normally, I’d only hear him at night, but since I’ve been home, I’ve been hearing his shenanigans at lot more. It seems too that as each day passes, his movements become more frequent. It’s like the little shit wants me to hear him. I tried opening the door the first few days I was home, but he’s a fast-little bastard. He knows now that I won’t try to catch him, so he roams freely in the closet, knocking over my things and making a shit-ton of noise. This morning, there was a loud crashing sound. I figured the Troll must’ve knocked over my computer equipment, so I didn’t rush to check. I didn’t want him thinking I was trying to catch him. We have kind of an unspoken agreement, the Troll and me. You stay in the closet I’ll pretend you don’t exist. It’s worked so far. So, I waited for my wife to ask what the actual hell (not exactly that word) that noise was. I told her something fell in the closet and she shrugged it off. Then I went to the closet, rapped quietly on the door to let the Troll know I was about to open the door. I heard a bit of scrambling. When the noise stopped, I opened the door, turned on the light. The first thing I noticed was that the dick did knock over my computer parts; the second thing was the two half-eaten bagels on the floor. As you can imagine, I was pretty pissed off. Not only did the little shithead break our unspoken agreement and leave the closet (those were my bagels man! I bought them!), but it seemed he also had company. I decided that I’ll have to evict the Closet Troll. Subletting without management approval or knowledge is just plain rude. I sighed, went back to the couch, and resumed editing one of my old stories and watching Black Summer on Netflix. It’s a good freakin show. Whoops…baby needs a change. I’ll be right back.

Okay, I’m back. So, funny enough, while I was changing what was perhaps the shittiest diaper in the universe, I spotted (peripherally) the little shithead jackass soon-to-be-evicted Troll creep open the closet door and peek out at me. He knows he’s in deep shit too, because when I turned to look at him full-on, he quickly closed the door. I can’t deal with the balls on this guy. I have half a mind to go grab his dinky Troll ass now and… oops… Wife just hit me with a honey-do. Be back in a few.

Back again! Welp, that took a while. I wasn’t going to come back at all, but I didn’t want to leave anyone hanging. I told my wife what the little shit is up to and my plans to evict him. She told me, “Good luck with that.” Umm…excuse moi? Perhaps she’s forgotten how many trolls I’ve already evicted from our home. Let’s see… There was the Meth Troll (she was extremely old…and short). Then there was the Rat-Troll. He was extremely short too (and fugly). He also liked to do pull-ups outside. A Crusty Couch Troll and… Oh, I even had to evict a porn-watching Crotch Troll (That was the last one). So, evicting Trolls has become of sort of specialty of mine. I’m sure this closet Troll will be gone in short time.

I’ll keep you posted.

OBSOLESCENCE

Michael stared up at the night-time sky. Thousands of commuters crisscrossed above him, zooming by at the speed of sound. Seeing the commuters made him wish for home, but he still had six more hours left on the line. Then he could go back to his family. He thought of Billy and smiled. I’m off the line tomorrow, buddy, he thought. Then we can play that game of catch like I promised. A horn screamed across the complex. Break-time was over. The line was waiting.

Back on the line, Michael put on his protective suit and manned his station. When the commuter vehicles drifted up to his station, his job was to apply the magnetic field. The suit prevented arcs of energy from injuring him – or worse. He waved a hand in front of a panel to let the mainframe know that he was back. Three of the commuter vehicles flew by him to other stations up the line. The fourth one stopped in front of him and hovered. He pressed a large blue button. There was a hissing sound as metallic gas particles surrounded the vehicle. Then he pressed the red button. The cloud of particles attached to the outside of the bird-shaped machine. A push of the green button sent a surge of energy through the outer shell – magnetizing it. Once the process was complete, the vehicle zoomed off. It would now go to the color station – then the interior station after that. As soon as it departed, another vehicle took its place.

About an hour after Michael came back on line, Jerry’s voice sounded over the intercom and told him that Mr. Pritchard wanted to see him. Michael’ d been working at the factory for just over three years and had put in a request to have his salary increased so he could better take care of his family. He thought about how happy Jenny would be that he’d gotten a raise. She may finally be able to get Billy that new hover-board that he’d been asking for over the past year or so. He approached the main office, placed his hand on the sensor by the door. A white light scanned down the length of his palm, then back up.

“Access granted,” Jerry’s voice announced and the heavy metal door slid open. As Michael walked into the outer office, he thought for the thousandth time how adorable Jerry’s voice sounded to him. He wondered, not for the first time, what she would look like if she actually had a body. He stepped up into a large chamber in the center of the large outer-office.

“Please raise your arms,” Jerry’s voice said. Michael obeyed. Another line of white light scanned down the length of his body and then back up again. When the scan was completed, Jerry said, “Please exit the chamber, Michael. Mr. Pritchard will see you now.”

Mr. Pritchard’s office door was already open when Michael stepped out from the chamber. The heavy-set man sat waiting behind his desk, smiling. On either side of him were his two assistants, Mr. Thompson and Mr. Dale. Michael could never tell them apart. Not only did they look exactly the same, they always wore the same color suits.

“Take a seat,” Mr. Pritchard said. After Michael sat, his supervisor continued, “Hello, Michael,” he said, folding his hands on top of his desk. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“No problem, Sir,” Michael said.

Mr. Pritchard cleared his throat.

“Well Michael, I’m not the beat around the bush kind of man, so I’ll just get to it. I’ve got some bad news.”

“Bad news, Sir?” Michael didn’t expect to hear bad news. “My family, sir – are they okay? Billy…”

“Calm down,” Mr. Pritchard said. “Calm down. Your family is okay. This isn’t about them, Michael. It’s about you.”

That’s when the real fear showed in Michael’s eyes. His throat went dry. He could feel his body temperature begin to rise. This isn’t what’s supposed to be happening right now, he thought. But it is…it is happening. He knew where this was heading, but all he could say was, “Ahhh…Me, sir?”

“Yes, Michael. There’s a new unit coming in tomorrow that will automate the magnetization process. You understand what that means?”

“Am I going to have to learn a new process?” Michael responded. Stranger things have happened.

“No, Michael,” Mr. Pritchard said. “It’s going to do everything that you currently do.” He waited a few seconds to see if recognition would show in Michael’s eyes. When it didn’t, he said, “I’m very sorry, Michael. You’ve been coded obsolete.”

I can’t be obsolete, Michael thought. I just can’t be.  I have to play catch with Billy like I promised. I have to provide for my family. “Sir,” he said. “This can’t be. I’m supposed to get a thirty day notice.”

“I know, son.” Mr. Pritchard said. “I am truly very sorry.” He stood and held out his hand. Michael stood as well, he legs feeling wobbly under him. He reluctantly took his boss’s hand. “You’ve done a great job here, Michael. This decision is in no way a reflection of your service. I hope you know that.”

Michael nodded. There was nothing else he could do. The decision had been made.

“Good,” Mr. Pritchard said. “Good. Your retirement ceremony’s been scheduled for tomorrow. Your family’s already been notified.” He walked around his desk with his two assistants following him, patted Michael on the back, then led him toward the office door. “If it makes things any easier for you, your family is extremely upset.”

At the door, Michael turned around.

“My family,” he said. “Who’s going to take care of them?”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Mr. Pritchard said. “We’ve got it covered. Dave, from the interior decorating department lost his family in an unfortunate commuter accident last month. We feel that he’ll fit nicely.”

“Dave’s going to take care of my family?” Michael asked. “Who the hell’s Dave? It’s my family, not Dave’s! They’re my responsibility!” Anger finally overtook him. He lunged at Mr. Pritchard. Mr. Thompson and Mr. Dale grabbed his arms and dragged him out of the office. A small alarm sounded. Mr. Pritchard’s office door slid shut. Michael fought the twins as hard as he could, but in the end, he couldn’t match their combined strength – or the electric shock that they sent through his neck, rendering him useless.

When he woke, Michael found he couldn’t move. Standing on the very platform where he’d watched so many other fellow workers retired, he knew that struggling was useless. He was obsolete. When a job is terminated, he must be retired. That was the law. Below the platform, thousands of workers were already gathered – silently watching. A door slid open to his left.  Mr. Pritchard walked stepped onto the platform, followed by Michael’s family.

“Billy!” Michael called out. “Billy, I’m sorry. I wanted to play catch with you!”

Billy began to cry, turned away from Michael, buried his face in Dave’s side Dave patted the boy’s back and told him it would be okay. That this was the natural order of things. Michael looked to at Jenny, but she was looking down at the floor. Her husband, Ken wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close.

“I know you’ll miss Michael,” Ken said. “But, I’m sure that Dave is going to work out just fine. He’s a newer model, you know? That’s good – right?”

Jenny nodded and wiped her eyes. She still refused to look at Michael.

Mr. Pritchard walked out to the center of the platform and stood beside Michael.

“We’re here today to say goodbye to Michael – model number 57. He’s been an outstanding producer and will be missed.” He turned to Michael, patted him on the shoulder. “Just so you know, Michael – I would’ve been more than happy to give you that raise.”

Michael didn’t say anything, couldn’t. He knew it wouldn’t make a difference. Also, it would only make things harder on his family if he fought. He looked over at them. “Take care of each other,” he said. Then, to Dave, “Take care of them. Play catch with Billy. I promised.” When he was finished, Mr. Pritchard nodded to Mr. Dale. Mr. Dale nodded back, then opened a small panel on the back of Michael’s neck.

“Goodbye, Michael,” Jerry said, her voice booming over the small chatter coming from the crowd “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Michael said. He looked back at his family, then the crowd. “I’ll miss all of…” Mr Dale cut a cord in the back of Michael’s neck. His head fell forward.

THE END

Sacrificial Mound

Chris started small, as his dad suggested. The first pet he sacrificed was Chewy.

Chewy was lovable for a hamster. He’d climb up Chris’s leg and sit on his lap. Most of Chris’s pets turned out to be more lovable than average. He suspected that some malignant force was making them that way – and making it harder for Chris to sacrifice them. In spite of that, Chris did exactly what his dad told him to do and kept all thirteen of his pets for only a few months, just enough time to grow to love them. Then he freed them, often looking into their eyes as they drifted away.

Chewy was followed by a rat, then a cockatoo, then a Chihuahua. The Chihuahua’s name was The Ricker. The Ricker lasted the least amount of time. Chris planned on keeping him for a few months, but after the shivering little shit pissed on the couch, he’d bought his ticket. Chris actually enjoyed sacrificing The Ricker.

After The Ricker, the pets got bigger, ranging from a small shaggy poodle hybrid named Goofy Joe, to the 13th and last of Chris’s pets, Benjamin Franklin. Benjamin Franklin lasted the full three months. Chris and the Bull Mastiff would be in the back-yard for hours, Big Ben barking through the cracks in the fence, Chris staring at the grass-covered mound in the middle of the lawn, wondering how he was going to fit Big Ben beneath it. When the time came, Chris found that Big Ben was too large to strangle, but a simple shot to the back of the dog’s head with a .22 did the trick. The dog was happy to go to the river that day. When the job was done, Chris loaded his friend up into the back of his SUV and took him home. An hour or so with a hand saw solved the puzzle of Big Ben’s size.

Benjamin Franklin was the last of Chris’s pets – the final animal sacrifice. Finally, Chris was ready to move on to larger, more intelligent creatures.  But Who? His boss came to mind, but he dismissed the idea. He was too close to her. Besides, he didn’t think he’d have the time and strength to dig a hole that deep. She’s a very large woman. He thought about making his nosy neighbor disappear, but Mr. Mitchell was too close to home – and even bigger than Chris’s boss.

More than anything, Chris wanted to be successful in his new hobby – like his father was. After four decades and dozens of sacrifices, His father was never caught. Even now, so many years after he sacrificed himself, nobody so much as suspected that the senior Mr. Mercer was a superior being. Chris doubted that he would’ve ever figured it out himself if his father hadn’t shown him the ropes. The greatest memories of Chris’s life were when his dad took him on their trips. The cabin was the perfect destination. In that cabin, Chris learned where to cut. In that cabin, Chris learned he was a superior being just like his father – at least he had the potential to be, with enough experience.

Putting off the, “who-shall-I-kill” question until later, Chris retreated to his office and checked to see how many visitors stopped by his blog. When he saw that one of his readers left a review on his latest story, he was excited – until he read what they’d written.

“Unrealistic?” He said. “Amateurish? Who the fuck is this asshole?”

He scrolled to the bottom of the page.

“James Elliot. Mr. Elliot, you don’t know what you’re talking about! I was there! I saw what my dad…”

That’s when the idea hit him, turning his scowl into a smile. He fetched a black ink pen and a notebook.

***

Dear Mr. Elliot,

Thank you for your recent review of my story, To Kill with Style. Although I thoroughly enjoyed the way you picked apart my story’s plot and poked fun at my grammar, I feel that your review was a bit short-sighted. Perhaps you lack the insight required for you to adequately rate my work? If this is the case, I would like to let you in on some background information.

The ‘unrealistic’ description of Mandy’s decapitation was actually spot on. Yes, there really was white fatty stuff that oozed up from her neck after her head was cut off, so for you to say that those details are unrealistic shows just how much you know about the human body. You also said that eyeballs do not pop when someone rips one out and squeezes it, that they actually become gelatinous puddles when removed from the head. I completely disagree. Andrea’s eyeballs actually did pop. Not only did they pop, but they squirted a clear fluid all over my dad’s hands that took quite a while for him to wash off.

You also stated in your review that my story, ‘wasn’t very well thought out’ and that it, ‘just didn’t make much sense.’ I ask you this sir; when does life make sense?

In the final part of your review, you said it was impossible for a single man to take control over and then torture and kill two people. To prove you wrong, I’ve left a little surprise for you in your bedroom. You’ll be happy to know that in this case; your wife’s eyeballs didn’t pop – but your housekeeper’s did. I had quite a bit of fun testing your theories and proving them wrong… one body part at a time.

Now, as I’m sure that you’ve rushed off to your bedroom and are not even reading this last part – where I’m telling you that after leaving this note on your desk, I decided to stick around. I figured you would rush into the bedroom, see the mess I made of your wife and housekeeper, then fall to your knees, crying out in terror. Your eyes will be fixed on the art that I have created – relocating various body parts and removing skin in those intricate patterns that I wrote about in my story. I hope that before I come out of your closet and open up your throat, you’ll have time enough to appreciate just how hard it was for me to eviscerate your housekeeper and use her intestines to bind your wife before enjoying her flesh. Anyway, I’m off to your closet now. I’m not really sure how this will all end, but I bet it’ll make one hell of a story.

Crown

How could a crown so small

adorn such a beast?

Sending everyone inside

to hide

as you roam free

Hitchhiking on the ignorant

right into our homes

To get us anyway

and kill us in our sleep

Xeno Hunt: An A to Z Tale

A short distance from the place where I grew up is a new building (the invader’s fortress). Battles were many and lasted decades – sometimes lifetimes. Combat consisted of buttons, laboratories, and nanotechnology.  Doubtlessly, the invaders thought it was more civil that way. Everyone I loved withered away before my eyes from the artificial disease the Xenos released. Fear of the “Slow death” caused many to flee into the safety of abandoned buildings, caves, and the tunnels they dug with their own hands. Gone is the world I once loved.

Hiding for weeks and running low on supplies, I decided to search the charred remains of the city for food. I chose to leave in the early morning vs. night because the sentries traveled in smaller packs in the mornings. Just beyond the twisted gates of my hiding place, I heard two distinct sounds – a drone, whistling in the distance – and a rustling, from the building across the street. Knowing that the drone was closing in, I ignored the rustling and found shelter beneath a large slant of fallen building. Low in the sky, the drone whizzed over the city and disappeared beyond the rooftops.

“Maybe they’ll come back around,” a voice called from across the street. Narrowly missing being sighted by the drone, I spun around; my rifle raised.

“Oh, hello Zach,” I said, lowering the rifle. “Perhaps, but I doubt it.”

Quick and agile, the teen scrambled through the window of the dilapidated building and joined me on my side of the street. Ruins towered over us on both sides as we began to slowly make our way down the vehicle littered road.

Seven blocks, and a half hour later, we found ourselves huddled inside the doorway of a long-abandoned butcher shop, watching quietly as the two-man team of sentries worked their way past. They moved cautiously, raising their weapons to clear every window, every doorway. Up until I heard footsteps coming from just outside, I thought that our little hunting expedition would probably yield no results. Very slowly, I followed them (those pricks) after they passed the butcher shop with my rifle held out in front of me. When I shot them in their backs, they were both too surprised to scream.

Xeno-meat isn’t the best meal, especially when the creature that you’re eating is earthling, still, our many hungry mouths found joy in every crispy, greasy morsel, even the parts where the smell of their singed, wispy fur still lingered.

“You going to eat that,” Zachary asked, his hungry red eyes homing in on the half-eaten hand resting on my lap. “Zach,” I said, pointing to the remains of two other humans, there’s plenty more where that came from.”

Call of The Windigo by Johnny DuChene

As I lay in the woods
near the indigo waters
I hear the Windigo
Its velocity
Its monstrosity
Its sound is drawing near
I am stunned
full of fear
Could it end right here?
How could I escape?
I am a mere mortal
and cannot travel in portals
I live on in pain
and travel my lane
The lane to death
cannot be more plain
I am at my dying breath
It leaves no one living
but all things dead
It feels no sorrow
today or tomorrow
for those in dread

True Hell

You shiver in darkness

all warmth forgot

Immersed in a coldness

evil has wrought

Lack of sound

lack of light

Blacker than the blackest night

Suddenly before you

a glowing a path

bricked by hatred

self-pity

wrath

Blisters form upon each stride

beneath the soles of your soul inside

Lighting the walkway

grasping hands

reaching out through flames

fueled by man

thousands of voices

cry out in pain

from souls that have been

burned insane

Within the flames

faces twisting

eye-sockets burning

swollen tongues glistening

Tortured expressions

scorched flesh cracks

Whip marks scars upon their backs

Your soul recoils

it tries to flee

from the sight of so much agony

But your mind has trapped your soul inside

which is is where true hell resides

Lost at Sea by R.M. DuChene

To be lost at sea

To be free

To catch the winds and soar

To drop the sails

and slowly drift

Or raise them high

and move so swift

There’s nothing I crave more

I’d face a monstrous tempest

challenge its mighty power

Then,

 I’d drift along

after the storm has gone

recalling it, hour by hour

I’d feel the mist upon my face

taste the salt in the air

I’d point my bow towards the sun

or stars

and travel everywhere

My feet would never again touch the sand

The ocean would be my home

And after my life’s clock

moved its final hand

my ship would continue to roam

Over earth’s oceans

It would sail around

upon water rough and still

And when my ship eventually ran aground

they’d find my corpse where it could only be found

with its hands still tied to the wheel