a phenomena of plesiosaurs (for Ivan Marrinson)

Maybe Ivan Marrinson knew something they didn’t, as he sat with his feet in front of him buried in the sand.

Victor’s orange campus fest t-shirt from 2006 and cut-off jean shorts were balled up in a pile next to him, a notebook, a pen, and empty orange pill bottles. Ben’s white t-shirt and black slacks were next to that. And next to that was Eli’s purse which was overflowing with random bullshit.

It was 90 degrees.  They were melting: drips of sweat were coalescing into bigger drops until they formed salty tributaries that flooded the epidermic crevices of their bodies flowing down towards the earth’s core. DNA sizzled out of existence on the grains of hot sand. Some people might call it heat stroke. 

Ben and Victor collapsed on the sand in two solid thuds, which formed craters, as they clutched the left side of their chests in horror. Pretending to die on a beach. A mother stared at Ben and Victor in their boxers (Ben’s: Cotton in the shade of grey; Victor’s: faded blue Buffalo Bills boxers, thigh high) and was trying to decide whether she should have a talk with her thirteen year old daughter about vaginal intercourse and the ramifications of unprotected sex, or if she should tell us to put an actual bathing suit on because it’s a public place, and there are children around. But they were already half submerged in the lapping waves, swimming towards Eli. Out of shouting distance. Her head was a hairy buoy bobbing in the waves of the lake.    

Ivan Marrinson didn’t join them. He stayed on the shore, fully clothed in a brown band t-shirt and jeans nervously piling clumps of sand onto his exposed feet and patting the mounds flat with his palm. Distracting himself.

Ivan Marrinson does not swim in the lake. Ivan Marrinson has never swum in the lake, and doesn’t have any plans to do so in the near future. He told them it makes him uncomfortable: appendages disappearing in a green haze.

“You never know what’s next to you, or under you, or touching you, or tasting you. It just freaks me the fuck out.” he said passing around a joint the other night in his apartment.

And it’s not that unusual. People have been seeing strange figures in this lake ever since the 1600’s, when it was first explored. Large shadows under the waves.  Bulbous bodies. Scales. Four flippers. Long serpentine heads and necks, which make the creatures look like large reptilian swans.  

Some experts think they are plesiosaurs. Some experts think they are waves. Some experts think the creatures can use sonar. Some experts think plesiosaurs were not equipped with sonar. Some experts think the plesiosaurs were trapped in the lake after it lost its connection to the sea, then adapted to the various obstacles they encountered within their new environment, and are able to satiate themselves on the hordes of fish provided by the lake. Some experts think the extinction of plesiosaurs occurred during the end of the Cretaceous period, and no evidence exists to suggest that they survived.

Ivan Marrinson learned these facts ten years ago after moving here with his family from Oklahoma. 

But maybe plesiosaurs were not the root cause of Ivan Marrinson’s lake phobia.

Some people chose not to swim in the lake because of phosphorus pollution.

Which could lead to algae blooms.

Which could lead to decomposing clumps of algae wrapping its limbs around a human body—a bunch a limp arms covered in mucous hugging/strangling the outer layer of skin.

Plus it smells really bad too.

Plus you never know when a thunder storm will show up and fuck up a good time.

Ben, Eli, and Victor swam past the kids carelessly wading along in their yellow duck inner tubes. Past the teenagers gathered in a crowd playing chicken. Past the people with swim caps. Past the married middle-aged couple in a kayak. They were treading water, unable to touch the bottom. And they had plans to go farther out to a wooden structure jutting out of the lake. It looked like an upside down ice cream cone floating on the surface. Rotting away. They decided that it was too far and too disgusting, after all three of them were molested by slimy leaves of seaweed.

After his feet were sufficiently buried, Ivan Marrinson picked up the notebook and pen, and began to doodle:

First, he drew a cat sitting on a toilet reading the newspaper. And in a thought bubble the cat is thinking, “Shit happens.”

Next, he drew the sun setting behind the mountains—but he fucked up the geometry of the sun, and couldn’t get the sky mirrored on the top of the lake to look right, so he scribbled aggressive black lines of ink over the image.

Then, he drew a pot leaf on fire screaming in agony.

Finally, he drew three objects with long necks and flat heads that were silhouetted against the super orange light of the setting sun.

Ivan Marrinson’s mouth filled with and oozed blue ink as he gazed at the three shadows in astonishment. He was chewing on the pen when his eyes discovered the black shapes, and his teeth bit that piece of plastic in half out of shock. Blue drops stained the sand in front of his feet as mothers bustled children away to mini vans, and old men in polo shirts shot photos with pocket-sized digital cameras.

Ivan Marrinson was concerned about the safety of Ben, Eli, and Victor.

He called out their names. No response.

Ivan Marrinson thought about calling the fire department, but realized there would never be enough time. Nor would they believe him.

Ivan Marrinson unearthed his feet from their tombs by standing up and moving his legs forwards towards the precipice of liquid water flooding land below sea level.

Ivan Marrinson ran out into the water in a panic. His legs were knee deep and sinking deeper, but his head was still above water. He is screaming. He is also nervous that he is embarrassing himself.

Ivan Marrinson notices Ben, Eli, and Victor walking up the other side of the beach, and sprints out of the lake, tripping on rocks.

Ivan Marrinson is out of breath and slumps over with his hands on his saturated thighs.

“CONGRADULATIONS IVAN! You’re not scared of the lake anymore.” Ben said as he patted him on the back.

“WAY TO GO IVAN! You’re so heroic. A true inspiration. A role model for youths who are scared of swimming in lakes.” Victor said clapping.

“Aw, Ivan you did it. I’m so proud of you. Growing up right before our eyes” Eli said staring at him with a sympathetic/unsympathetic expression.

“Hey…Assholes…Shut the…Fuck up.” Ivan said between breaths.

He finally regained his spindly structure by standing kind of upright with his shoulders hunched forward.

“Please tell me you saw those things in the water. Those three shadows with elongated necks and flat heads?”

“No.” Victor responded.

“Na.” Ben replied.

“I was focused on the shore and trying to breathe the whole time.” answered Eli.

Later that night, Ivan Marrinson ran his hands through his blonde locks of hair, which made them stick upwards.

No one believed him. The whole event was dismissed as a hoax. A hallucination.

Ivan Marrinson will see those three silhouettes every day until his death: A Phenomena of Reptilian Swans nesting behind his eyes, starting a family.

Ivan Marrinson will never swim in the lake again.

Nouns of Assemblage: Cryptozoology

Earlier this year, I read Housefire Publishing's Nouns of Assemblage on my lunch at work. It is an amazing collection of short stories written by various authors about various topics. Some of which include deer with fangs, a lawyer floating in the middle of a pond, a choice between whether or not to explore a cave, a warning about the platypus, a culture of bacteria, a skulk of foxes. Each story's title is a noun of assemblage, which is a word used to represent a collection of things, in this case animals.

This is an awsome book, which everyone should pick up since it is showcasing some of the best contemporary writing out there from the minds of xTx, J.A. Tyler, Cameron Pierce, Bradley Sands, etcetera, but I think the creators of this awesome collection missed out on a whole class of mysterious animals, which are rarely seen. I have started working on including these animals so they don't feel left out, sad, and/or awkward.

The first story is a phenomena of plesiosaurs.

“Here, Read This Paper. I’m Not Good With Face to Face Encounters Because I’m a Compulsive Liar.”

My heart is a ghetto advertising nice, affordable housing on a billboard sticking out of my chest, but it is barely visible.

I only filled my ears with a couple of drops of bleach because they’re not paying attention most of the time anyway .

I’m sorry when I blurt out one word answers and/or rhetorical questions —I know it means, “I really don’t care, but I want to seem interested so I don’t hurt your feelings.”

I’m a terrible person. I hope the good me visits from an alternate universe and chops off my head with a sword made out of forgotten words that were never put together.

Let me lick your skin to see if it tastes like the cherry lollipops at doctor’s office—the flavor always took my mind off the needle penetrating the wall of a vein.  

Let me throw up in the silence that permeates in the seconds that pass by before you answer.

I should work at a job with little to no interaction because my college diploma has no aspirations except attracting dust particles. I want to routinely experience the solitary fog of tv, white noise, and reheated leftovers most nights of the week.

You should squeeze me hard enough until my skeleton oozes out the top of my body like toothpaste because dying like that wouldn’t be so bad.

Just to let you know, I’m nowhere close to buying a house. I also work as a high school janitor. Plus smoke. And spend a lot of time in my room pretending I’m wafting in the ether of outer space with the lights off under my spaceman sheets staring up at the glow in the dark stars and planets on ceiling.

Looking at patio furniture late at night makes me suicidal.

Tessa sits down on a beige aluminum lawn chair in the dark on the back porch, and surveys her yard. Her creation, partly illuminated in an artificial blue haze by 24 solar powered LED lights winding along the perimeter.

The landscape had completely changed: The garden was dugout and replaced by an in-ground pool + pool shed + patio + patio furniture set recommended by a home and gardening magazine. The tiered flower beds were erased in order for the backyard kitchen to be built + a new BBQ grill for her husband + BBQ utensils. Circles of slate were swapped for a cobblestone path. A new aluminum fence was erected.  And the two 18 year old miniature conifer trees were ripped out of the ground for a pool heater.

It’s perfect.

At least in her mind.

And the interior (knick-knacks, décor, appliances, and husband) would still be up to date for the next five years. And that includes every season.

But its completion left her with nothing to do.

The only genre of literature she was into was home and gardening magazines.

The only tv she watched was home and gardening shows.

Same with the internet.

And her husband took care of the maintenance duties while getting drunk on canned light beer, which leaves virtually no time for maintaining a healthy relationship + her two children have grown up and moved away.

Tessa nuzzles her shoulder blades into the malleable plastic material, which is weather resistant, trying to make herself comfortable.

Boredom.

She opens up a bottle of box wine and slugs it straight from the tap while popping two bars of anti-anxiety medication.

Admiring.

Hating.

Admiring.

Hating.

Tessa looks at the inflatable pool toys (a yellow duck with black and blue eyes, a pink translucent beach ball, and a couple of neon green and yellow rings) skimming across the dark reflective surface of the water. Chaotically. Randomly bumping into each other.

She takes another hit of the wine, shakes her head from one side to the other, and thinks:

“Looking at patio furniture late at night makes me suicidal.”

Cybernated Therapy Sessions #3

Insert status symbol (here) if you need to express your social or economic prowess to your "friends" because they need to know how cool and successful you are. Because you're insecure and need validation. It's all about the validation. Afterwards, kill yourself. Rip a page out of your autobiography and slide it across your throat until the skin splits and forms a bloody smile. Because it's the only way for you to realize that the human body isn't composed of designer jeans, diamond earrings, VIP concert tickets, muscle cars, high-end vodka, paychecks, smart phones, careers, and college diplomas.

Greasing the paw of something that is seven times smaller (It has a tiny brain)

Jim slides four 10 milligram tablets of Percocet into the left pocket of his khakis while his grandmother’s dog, a tan toy poodle, sits next to him on the carpet.

The poodle stares at Jim. Two inquisitive black eyes under a poof of fur make her aware of the outside world. And that makes her a witness.

The poodle racks her tiny brain: To bark or not to bark? That is the question. And she has the leverage.

Jim picks the dog up under her front paws and contemplates killing her. He can get her with one hand clasping her neck. A quick jerk and it would all be over. Afterwards, he can run to the pet store and buy a poodle that looks exactly the same. The old switch-a-roo. He’s seen it work a variety of times in his favorite tv sitcoms. But then he remembers that eventually the owners always decrypt the truth. Either the pet is a complete fuck up that shits everywhere and obliterates every expensive object in said person’s house/apartment. Or the perpetrator confesses to the crime. Shit hits the fan either way.

But there’s another option, which is the one he always chooses because this has happened a number of times  before.

Jim puts the dog in the middle of his lap. She carefully lowers her slender frame into the largest crease in his pants. Jim’s fingertips delicately massage the small gaps between the ribs before they steal a couple of the meat treats from the jar on the counter and offer it to her as a sign of peace. The poodle devours the meaty morsels. She shows her loyalty to silence by licking his fingers. Then the poodle jumps down and trots away confidently with her head held high because she got her cut of the pie and ate it. The grease is still stuck between her paws.

Used. Jim feels like a smear of shit on a wad of toilet paper waiting to be flushed. His friends and his family members will probably talk about all the potential being wasted as they repeat the word, “disappointment” over and over.

“Under the control of something seven times smaller than him. What a disappointment.”

Jim inhales two of the percs, so he can tolerate himself, and wipes the counter clean with his hand making sure that nothing is out of the ordinary. His grandmother will be back in a few minutes to talk with him about her childhood after she’s finished folding the laundry.

Bring the Violence, I’ve Just Converted to Cannibalism

Walking up the driveway you will notice that the front door is open, which is never a good sign.

And the garage door stays shut when you press the grey button on your remote control because the power is cut.

I’m inside. Sitting in the dark on your recliner. Wearing a zombie mask. Fake blood. Missing teeth. Sores all over the face. And glow in the dark eyes.

The mask won Boy Scout Troop 194’s scariest costume of the year in 1999.

No, it’s not Halloween.

No, I’m not an actual zombie.

But I bumped bath salts earlier tonight.

And watched a horror movie marathon.

Which is why I’m dressed this way for the occasion.

When you decide to walk through the front door, you will see the shimmer of silver steel in the streetlight coming through the window. And a note saying, “The only way to kill a zombie is to destroy the head. Destroy the head. Even if it’s someone you know.”

You will round the corner into the living room with the steel in hand. The only objects you will be able to see are two neon green orbs floating in the darkness. They will stare back at you and shrug their shoulders. Because they are telling you I don’t give a shit.

I hope you scatter my thoughts into the creases of leather so my leaking head can ruin your carpet.

If my leaking head doesn’t ruin your carpet, I will rip your chest open like an eight year old assaulting wrapping paper, and throw different body parts into the air like confetti.

Because I know the fucked up shit I am capable of. 

And this is a better option than silently walking away from each other in two opposite directions.