Jie Jie Sola-Binna sat at her desk, in her illegally built wooden house in the countryside outside the village of Cou-Poux (neck poop) where she lived. She had had it built by her son Tony and his friends, from the left over monies of her dead husband Jackie. It was a modest house, but well put together mostly, though the tin roof made it insufferable during the summer months. She wrung her big old hands together while staring at her computer screen, the arthritis taking a toll on her hands the more she aged. She was close to 70 years old now and had on occasion thoughts of death. She knew that that day was coming and she wondered about her existence, had she lived a life worth living? Hell, no! Of course not. The fact that she hadn’t already killed herself or one of her two children when they were young had always amazed her. Now, of course, she was glad that she hadn’t, she loved her grand kids who lived next store, or at least the youngest one who still lived there. It gave her something to do, something to ease the pain of her own painful thoughts. Life had seemed like that: just a series of painful memories or realities in progress. She alone knew that she suffered from BPD (borderline personality disorder) but she had pretty much control of that today – or so she thought. Nothing was perfect or forever.
It sat on a street with a dead end. It was the last house. A small wooden house from the forties; white with dark green trim. It had a garden in front of it, a tiny lawn, a stunted Japanese Maple and a fat laughing frog. Facing it, on the left side a double swing perfectly angled to catch the sun, when it came out – a place where you’d want to sit. Behind the house, a forest of dark green, tall trees and little creatures, mulch galore because no one ever walked there, human that is.
Spiders lived inside the house, but then they lived everywhere in the forest – and in all of the houses. Being that all of the houses on the block also straddled the forest – it was of no surprise that spiders lived in them. The wooden houses (they were all made of wood) were merely an extension of the forest for the spiders….
Bee-Bee lived in that last house, on that block known as Idlewhile. A place where they painted green beer glasses on the streets for Saint Patrick’s Day. Where everyone seemingly had a taste for a perfect mix of wild nature and tamed nature in their gardens. No one wanted their yard to look like something out of a California suburb. This was Washington, not California.
Bee-Bee had lived in California before, but never offered up that information as she knew Washingtonian’s didn’t really care for Californian’s that much. Bee-Bee was a quite woman in her early seventies, she enjoyed taking care of her garden, feeding the birds and looking after her five cats: Edna, Bjork, Nana, Burt and Ernie. All street cats, all different colors. They loved Bee-Bee as much as cats can. She always gave them delicious food and always waited for them to come to her, never seeking them out first. They slept on her bed at night when it was cold outside, they sat near her when she ate. Often she would give them bite sized tidbits of whatever she was eating. She understood cats, their nature. They were hunters. But then, so was she.
It all began when she was in her sixties. She had gone shopping at the nearby Sprouts on Heavenly Road and while coming out of the store with her cart full of groceries she began watching a woman. A woman in her early forties with red hair and a pale yellow Vera Wong dress. There was nothing special about her, though better dressed than most. Bee-Bee had seen her earlier inside the store and had witnessed this woman’s nastiness to a check out lady. She’d been surprised to see such vehemence coming out of the woman’s mouth – something about a product she’d returned. “You owe me!’ The woman had yelled. Bee-Bee thought to herself, “That entitled bitch.” The woman had been quite insulting to the cashier, flaunting pink manicured nails at the cashier Bee-Bee had always liked so well. Bee-Bee pinched her mouth over the incident and thought briefly that ‘someone’ ought to put that woman into her place. Preferring to focus on the task at hand and not on the woman Bee-Bee went about her business. That is until she saw the woman again in the parking lot. This time she was yelling at a bag boy who had helped her with her groceries, and of course she didn’t give him a tip. This time, Bee-Bee felt a twinge in her gut.
It was on automatic that Bee-Bee found herself turning the steering wheel in the direction of the woman’s car and slowly following her. Bee-Bee’s car was an old ’67 Oldsmobile in mint green and in a perfect state. The red headed woman drove a fancy new black Audie. She pulled out rather fast out of the parking lot and Bee-Bee had to accelerate to catch up with her. Her long gone husband had always kept their car in pristine condition – it still looked brand new after all these years – so she had no trouble at all keeping up with the newer automobile. On and on they went the two of them driving towards the Olympic Mountains. One black car being followed by one mint green one…
Bee-Bee didn’t consciously know why she was following this woman. Something in her mind had shut off. She was no longer thinking, but reacting, sensing, observing. Her heart was excited. She knew that she shouldn’t get too close to the car ahead of her, that she wanted to remain at a safe distance. Safe for what? She didn’t know; she just continued taking slow deliberate breaths and watching with cat eyes the car in front of her. Waiting. This went on for several miles until the woman stopped on an unpaved turn out. Without considering what she was doing, Bee-Bee stopped too pulling very slowly up near enough to observe the woman. The red head got out of her car, slipped off her Vera Wong dress, pulled on tight black yoga pants, put on her gold rimmed Nike’s, her ear bud’s, adjusted her Fitbit and while warming up moved towards the woods. BeeBee followed her unnoticed.
Not more than fifty feet a head of her she heard a noise in the bushes. She felt her heart race further, tiptoed without a sound until reaching a short distance away. The red head was stretching her calves on a log. Then she stood up, turned around and looked right into Bee-Bee’s green eyes who now stood a mere two feet away.
Startled and angry ; suddenly she said with beligerance, ” What the fuck?! Who the hell are you? Scared the shit out of me! What do you want old lady? Are you some kind of perv….” Before she could utter another word a blade flashed from Bee-Bee’s hand and was thrust into the younger woman’s throat. A horrible gurgling noise followed as the red head tried to speak, grasping fraily at the knife now protruding from her blood gushing throat, not totally comprehending what was happening – all of it so quickly. She fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, twitched for a brief moment and then was dead.
Bee-Bee stood for a moment and observed the lifeless body lying there. And for the first time in her entire life, she felt truly alive. An indescribable elation filled her to the brim. She took a deep breath and smiled to herself. What a wonderful feeling! “Wow, she’s dead as shit!….That’s one less entitled bitch in the world…” She said out loud and bent over to retrieve her favorite ceramic kitchen knife. “How’d that get here?” She asked humming to herself as she wiped the blade on a Kleenex in her pocket.
“Do I feel good or what?!” She exclaimed as she walked back to her car. There was no one around but she preferred leaving quickly just in case. Her heart was still beating fast, the freshness of the kill still alive and well in her breast.
It had been an exceptional day. “I think I’ll bake some chocolate chip cookies and make some tea….” And she sped off to her little wooden house. The last house on the block.
‘I’m An Alien in A Human Body!
by matthew carlson
I am here, safely landed onto alien territory. After having parked my space vessel, now hidden as a family style Peugot 307, (an unassuming replica of a native mobile transportation unit- with appropriate dent markings), I have recently secured quarters in an ancient building in the southern part of the city known as Paris. My two furry four footed drones ‘IDU’s’ (Interstellar Drone Units) alias Foebbe and Fender have accompanied me on this mission, berift of danger and the unknown.
Through no fault of my own, recent planetary voyaging has created a rift in my neurological pathways whereby I have forgotten at least a part of my mission here in this stange land. I am in the middle of a thorough analysis which should be completed within a twenty four hour period. I have great hopes to remember soon my primary function here on this planet known as Earth.
The two drones due to their altered state, actually require processing matter in order to utilize their new physical units, as do I. Although pleasurable to consume, the appropriation of food is a strange process: one must render physically to structures where supplies are kept. These supply structures are known as ‘grocery stores’ and are heavily guarded by security personel, along with video surveillance systems. When entering, it is a custom to utilize a kind of cage on wheels, whereby one puts young children and required nutrition known as ‘food’. Although, there does seem to be some confusion as a great deal of these elements placed in the cages, are not nutritious. Further research is required to understand the hording of such objects.
My two drones have been refused at the door, forcing me to return them to my current living structure. I have been warned not to leave them secured at the entryway of the ‘grocery store’ due to individuals who may ‘steal’ them away for ransom ( money in exchange for rending the animals stolen) or for food at one of the many asian restaurants within the city limits. Though I am quite sure, my drones could protect themselves from such a misadventure, I do not wish to implicate myself into such a messy affair. They will, from now on when I procure eating material, wait at our sleeping quarters. After filling ones’ ‘cage on wheels’, it is customary to wait in a line with other people who are also supplying their own cages with food stuffs. While waiting, it is customary too, to either look at your smart phone, talk on it or send brief messages called ‘texting’. If you do not have a smart phone, you either avoid looking directly at people or do the opposite by engaging in ‘small talk’, or eventually when the occasion arises, talk badly about the person behind the ‘cash register’. “She’s so slow” and “there she goes again picking her nose…” etc.
Now the cash register is a computer which reads numbers on the objects that we ‘slide in front of it’ something called ‘scanning’. The machine takes all of the indentification sequences along with a second number called a ‘price tag’. These price tags are added up at the end and one must ‘pay up’ (render the desired sum) with something called ‘money’. Money is a form of exchange, measured through a very complexe system called the ‘monetary system’. There are many terms related to money; further investigation is required to fully understand the process.
In any case, once it is your ‘turn’ with the computerized cash register and the person behind it, you either give money (rectangular paper notes and or coins, small round hard shaped flat objects) or insert a small square card into another small box. Then you must enter a designated code to activate said card, whereby an account is ‘debited’ for corresponding money due. Then you mst engage once again in small talk, but this time with the ‘clerk’ behind the cash register, which seems odd especially if you’d been ‘talking badly’ earlier about her performance levels.
All is terribly confusing. I have managed to obtain the neccesary ‘bills’ in order to procure nourishment. I am exhausted though, from the experience. The terrible lighting, horrendous vibrations known as MUSZAK, and the anxious natives running through the aisles of packaged foods has zapped me of energy. I require rest and quiet….and a relief room to dispose of waste materials. Hmmm, hopefully that will not be too complicated.
A Faulty Kiss
(A chapter in the FRESNO TIMES CHRONICLES)
by Matthew H. Carlson
She had a large mouth and big lips which were red and wide, an entrance to the snake-like tongue that lived behind them.
The beast was now hard at work, slithering with slobbering, searching those intimate places in my own mouth, hungry for more. But more of what, I wondered? Cathy had stayed late – a kind of last minute date on this, my 18th birthday. Mom had politely gone off to bed leaving us alone in the living room.
Within moments, the lights were out and Cathy and I were on the old lapidated couch, me lying on top of her. We were kissing fervently, or at least she was. I wasnt really kissing as much as imitating a mechanical movement of kissing. Her huge mouth seemed to be engulfing my own.
I was doing what I thought was expected of me, but it was a faulty kiss.
As she continued withering her snake-tongue within the perimeters of my poor mouth, she produced extreme levels of saliva. How was she doing that and WHY was she doing that?! This was not my first kiss with a girl either, girls loved to make out with me. But this one had mistaken some ancient spitting or ‘slobber – exchange’ tradition with actual kissing! For all the good it was doing me, I might as well have been kissing a refrigerator that someone had begun to clean with a water drenched sponge…I was a good kisser too, but what do you do when someone is trying to swallow your face? And that tongue! It seemed to be a living creature with a mind of its own.
I did the best I could. Moving away from her lip soaked orifice I pulled down her flimsy top to get a titty out and gave it a good lick bashing. She seemed to really appreciate that, twisting and moaning underneath the weight of my young athletic body and apparently already expert tongue. I was quite pleased for a moment – it was after all my first breast licking! I had a go at the other one and the response was the same, though her snake-like tongue tried to have a go at one of my ears during a short tit-licking-break… I tried to imagine her sexual organs and their location and though I had no intention of actually going there, for the sake of decorum, I give it a quick massage with my hands through her jeans. To my amazement, she was wet! I wondered if that was normal but quickly decided it had to be, otherwise shed be up, embarrassed and apologizing for being incontinent…
Getting more and more uncomfortable, I wondered how was I going to get out of this? She wasnt stopping me! Girls I dated always stopped me before it got this far. Cathy apparently was ready to go through all the bases (though I had absolutely no idea of their order of tribute). First base? Second base? Pure theory and belonging to another species of boy.
“Cathy,” I said sitting up suddenly with a brave face, one that I hoped conveyed a natural expression of sincere disappointment. “We can’t do this here, my Mom is in the next room”. She sat up holding onto me.
“But I want you so much,” she said glassy eyed. I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant.
“Its better we stop before things get out of hand, okay?” I felt at a loss hadn’t she noticed that there hadnt been any awakening in Big Red aka big Dick and the twins?
“Of course”, she said she understood. A few minutes later she was out the door (another kiss) and I watched her drive away. I hadnt wanted her sexually. I realized at that moment that I hadnt wanted any of them. They were friends, but anatomically they didnt have what I was looking for and much, much more
I needed to be alone to think, but first I needed a towel.
Paul Herbert Hubert and Mickey Nahuup had known each other for a long time. Mickey was a famous tennis player in France, a professional and a well respected man off and on the courts. Paul aka PH was a young boy learning tennis and as luck would have it, Mickey aka Mic was often there teaching him this beautiful sport during his youth.
It was many years later, when PH found himself selected by the French Federation of Tennis at Roland Garros as an upcoming talent, that they saw each other once again. Ph was now a young man of twenty, Mic in his early thirties and still playing professionally and doing well at that.
Mic was quite tall, with thick dark blond hair, slender of build, but well defined, blue eyes and an unassuming personality. PH was a bit shorter, but not by much, had brown eyes and a well sculptured physique. They were handsome guys, though well over ten years in age difference.
Mic, heterosexual (or though everyone thought) was married and had a child already and PH was out of the closet with his family, comfortable with his sexuality since childhood. He loved men and though he too led a discreet lifestyle, his comfort with his buddies and men in general would have made it easy for him to score. But he wasn’t like that, though he could appreciate the beauty of some of his friends, or a handsome stranger, he was searching for love, just like everyone else his age.
It was at Rolland Garros, during an intensive tennis training session of two weeks that they met up again, PH and Mic. They had gone out for a beer with everyone, and found themselves alone in Mic’s private hotel room after everyone else ahd bailed out to go to bed. One thing led to another, masks came off, especially Mic’s, unsettled by his immediate attraction to an all grown up seductive and sexy PH.
Ph made the first move by touching Mic’s shoulder affectionately; the electricity was immediate and they found each other kissing and hugging like teenagers, dry humping and slobbering all over each other. They just couldn’t get enough : each touch, each caress was exhilerating: it felt so incredibly good. Clothes came off rapidly and before they knew what had happened, the most intimate of relations incurred between them.
Needless to say, the next morning was a bit embarrassing, not to each other, but in leaving the room so as not to announce to the world their private business. It was a whirlwind love affaire, but in the context of an intensive tennis training at Rolland Garrow, well, they had to keep their love affaire under wraps. Not to forget that Mic was married.
Time went on and they found themselves traveling to similar destinations as the tournaments were usually in the same towns and countries. Mic was, of course in the main draws and PH struggeling to win challenger events in order to get into the main draws of tournaments. With the constant presence and help from Mic, PH got better even faster, so fast in fact that when the Australian Open came around, they decided to play doubles together.
It was a doubles team made in heaven, a manner of speaking of course, Mic was always at the net, PH more at the back court, but equally as comforable at the net. They made the perfect, complementary doubles team. Before they knew it, they were in the finals! They had been unseeded, in the shadows of Vaseline and Bennepeau who had won Rolland Garros last year, and were now facing another top team in a grand slam final.
When the last ball was played and PH put away that last volley, they just looked at each other with immense joy! The thousands of people appaluding in the Rod Laver Arena in Australia….But also the millions of others through Internet, television and radio, plus all the social medias.
They moved towards each other like in a slow motion commercial, though everything was actually moving quite fast. There was no hesitation as they moved into each others’ arms, their lips moving towards one other. At contact, it was so natural, so warm, so soft, lips parted and tongues met, saliva and Mic’s unshaven face against PH’s softer one. The audience seemingly did double takes, not sure if what they were seeing was actually happening.
Were Paul Herbert Hubert and Mickey Nahuup actually making out on center court? Making out on the Rod Laver Arena???
Yep. They were. And it was a grand day for many people seeing that.
A gay couple had just won a grand slam title…
A fictional story by Matt Carlson 😉 well, for now anyway
Cherie Sheripova was a rich, russian, global tennis star. She had won several Grand Slam tournaments already by the age of 29. Tall, blonde and cute enough to get by as pretty because she was photogenic.
She was also a porn star.
AND a business woman. She hadn’t initially planned to become a porn star, but when that private video of her and Arnie Agaçant had mistakenly been published onyoutube.com, there was no stopping it!
Being the business woman that she was, she decided to capitalize on it almost immediately. Too bad for Steppie Grief and THE husband Arnie, whom she had been sleeping with for quite some time. Of course, she hoped that the marriage would hold together, after all they had kids and everything! She was no home wrecker.
Her first idea were edible panties, made of pink candy. Written in Baby Font on the crotch was : “Eat me” and in smaller letters, “the good stuff is this way”, with a cute arrow pointing south…. Not especially in good taste, but after the media hype over her affair with Arnie, those panties made her millions. She knew she was on to something, so in between her tournaments and preparation for the big tournaments, she made porn films: quality porn films with a story line and everything. Of course, she had the money to hire all the right people and she was actually a good actress. Her films were a hit too, and began to change the way people looked at pornography. After all, it was just Mother Nature, right? She wasn’t doing any strange stuff, pretty basic in fact.
Her next candy scheme however, was a bit different. She actually had a model made of her vagina and called it Cherie’s Bon Bon (french word for candy). It was a reduced size of course, a bit like a chocolate Kiss, but made in the form of her vagina, ‘made of sugar and spice and everything nice’ written on the packaging. It too, was pink.
They began a big marketing campaign during the United States Tennis Open in New York. There were needless to say, alot of grumblers, especially from the Christian right wing conservatives, but Cherie had paid good money to be a sponsor of the tournament and the negotiation included her new Cherie’s Bon Bon. The trouble was how to market so that the entire family could be swayed to buy it? It was impossible to market pussy shaped candy to families.
Finally while everyone was screaming during an important meeting, the factory called from China where Miss Sheripova’s candies were being manufactured. The candies had accidently came out mishapen! They were all round…..and the color bright yellow!
Cherie, took 60 seconds to think while her team waited patiently watching her from their leather chairs in the conference room.
“Change of plans!” She announced. “We will not sell mini vagina’s, but small tennis balls, Cherie’s Tennis Ball Candies!!” Everyone sighed with relief and began talking at once. “I must go to practise, someone come to my room at 7:00 pm with a final mock up of this new idea!” She walked briskly off and out of the room.
Turning to the elevator, she reached to push the button when a hand pushed hers’ away.
“Not so fast big bird…” It was Steppie Grief!! (Good grief, she thought.)
“Steppie, how wonderful to see you, how ar…”
SLAP! Went Steppie’s hand across Cherie’s face…Cherie didn’t move, the redness and numbness, mixed with humiliation was immediate.
“I only have this to say to say. Stay away from Arnie. If you don’t I promise, you will regret it”. Off went the still classy and beautiful Steppie Grief.
Her forehand slap was as good as her forehand which had helped her win 22 grand slam tennis titles.
Cherie took a deep beath wanting to scream, get the last insulting words out, but it was useless. The tears streamed down.
She hadn’t meant any harm, she just didn’t get other people’s bounderies about sex. To her, everyone should sleep with everyone. The most natural thing in the world.
It was Arnie who had given her the idea of the undies and the candy. He always said that her love mound was like candy and that everyone should be able to eat some. Great ideas like that, you couldn’t make up.
She got into the elevator and began thinking about that new young japanese tennis player.
What was his name? Neishikorri? “Nishy-korri” she sang out loud. “Get some today – you deserve it”….a new candy idea was born! And there was such a great market over there. She could sell her tennis ball candies along side Neishikorri bubble gum or one of those swords, hairy kerry something or other. It could look like a penis! She smiled and went to change for practise.
“O” was short for Oliver, after the tree. But in french the sound “O” is also “eau” (water) , so a play of words too. O loved visual things, that’s why he had finally settled on graphic design after art school. It was also because it was the only thing he understood. It was a way to live out his emotions, because otherwise there wouldn’t be any expression of them.
Hard times had fallen on O, but he had no one to blame but himself. He had planted the seed of miscontent and made it his M.O. : his way of dealing with everything around him. It had to be conflictual. It was all that he knew. Or conflict with no words at all. The mask. He had learned that from his alcoholic Dad and evil Mother Jie-Jie. She had accidently killed her baby boy fetus just before getting pregnant with O. How could she have known that that giant vibrator would damage her unborn kid? True, she didn’t want to have it, the first one already had been too big! And then before she knew what happened, she got pregnant again. She tried to will it away but it was of no use. O was born during the summer and she felt stuck, sticky and hated being a Mom again.
O had made considerable progress the last few years living with Gelledge. They had bought a house together in a small village in Provence and though the inheritance that was promised from Gelledge’s family never arrived, they did the best they could with what they had. At least the inheritance from O’s deceased Dad had come through. Gelledge had pushed for O to invest together as the money was being spent without any consideration. O didn’t like to count his money, only spend it.They had named the place, Le Pin Pasteque (the watermelon pine tree) after a certain time and were rather good at organizing parties in their countryside ruin of a house. Gelledge had bought a wooden chalet and they put it up together. When O had had the first of his many Borderline Personality attacks, Gelledge had thrown himself into rennovating, adding on two large rooms in wood and getting tendinitus all over his body. He paid for it with over three years of physical therapy. O didn’t seem to notice.
O stood by most of the time, saying nothing and doing almost nothing. He was able to do gardening, since it fit into his conception of visual pleasure and though it would never be Brad Pitt’s and Angelina Jolie’s beautiful garden, it was okay on some level. The rest of the house, he could do little. There wasn’t enough money, so why even try? Though he did get persuaded to do the kitchen counter with a sink in it. He even had a little fun doing it. But their arguments between the gay couple were often and there never seemed to be any solution. O had absolutely no idea of what a compromise was, being Borderline well, it could only be a black or white answer.
Of course through the early years, Gelledge had no idea he was dealing with someone suffering from BPD (boderline personality disorder) and questioned himself numerously over the years to make sure it wasn’t HIM that was crazy. Upon seeing on Google the profile of someone with BPD, he too a huge sigh of relief. His lover was written all over those pages!
When O had left their home after too much water under the bridge, he said he was going to stay with his Mother. Gelledge never knew if this was the truth as O always lied. Once even during one of his hospitalizations when Gelledge visited, one of his “tricks” was there. Surprise! The guy apparently came regularly to cut O’s hair. That of course was a final straw, but Gelledge was an accepting person and also considered O’s emotional state. He really believed that O could turn himself around and become someone better. And too, O had taken care of him with his HIV woes.
Fast forward into late 2014, O had completely lost it. One week before Gelledge was to leave for a summer job in England, his back gave out suddenly. Strange the timing…The day after Gelledge had left him the dogs for a few days so that they could re-acquaint themselves with him. They hadn’t had any contact for a couple of months.
Laying in the hospital, only morphine could calm the pain. And it felt great. Jie-Jie of course was there, she would take care of him….and the dogs. She was a parasite in life. She always longed for what she didn’t have and with that, would do her best to get what others’ had, no matter the cost. Her son O was born too soon after the accident and besides she never really wanted kids. It was just something you had to do back then. She would have much preferred to be with a woman, her husband wasn’t what she had wanted. But it became something practical.
She had never cared for her son’s lover. Something about him grated on her nerves. She could never figure out what it was, but she knew he had something that she didn’t. So holding on to Fipus and Freedom seemed to be a good choice, though she had said when offered a Jack Russel years before that she preferred French Bulldogs. When they rushed O into the hospital, she didn’t bother to telephone Gelledge though their relationship had been on it’s eleventh year. She didn’t feel like it.