Guess what…

we-moved

Because of my biweekly show Origins: Stories on Creativity I had to pick up shop.

I welcome all of my friends to join me on:

Bryanaiello.com

thank you

.

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Somewhere Else

Location set. 

***

The sun shines bright. The day is warm. The breeze comforting and filled with the flavors of late summer. Maybe noon at a table in the middle of a grassy yard sounds harsh, but summer was ending and its a perfect place to collect a little sun, spend time with new friends,  listening to kids play and lawn mowers churn angry.

***

Target marked.

***

Sara and Dan did not know the MacLeans well, but when invited they accepted happily.

Deanna was dark and willowy and Sara knew Dan found that attractive, which was fine it proved he was still alive, which after twenty five years of marriage feeling alive is a good thing.

Mark was dark also, but in a mysterious, dangerous way. When he was around Sara could taste his presence like salt on the air.

***

Awaiting final orders.

***

The two couples sit and drink cheap Merlot and talk about the weather.

Small meaningless talk really and Sara begins wondering what that buzzing sound is before never wondering anything again.

***

Mission accomplished.

Poor Chickens

Thomas wears a grey tweed suit that matches his pallor and limply hangs on his tall thin stooped frame.

He stops and eyes the tour group while laying a hand on a red button next to a rolling door on the front of a giant warehouse.

He states, “There are over fifty billion chickens held in captivity world wide and long ago most of them were beaked, meaning the hard keratin shell that covers the the upper-maxilla and lower-mandible has been removed.

An old lady in the back gasps in horror.

“Its okay my dear, its supposed to be painless and reduces chicken cannibalism,’ he says in a soothing voice while hitting the red button and turns to face the rising door.

A cloud of ammonia scented bird guano seeps out along with the sad moan of depressed clucking.

Dive Bar

The place is on the water. It has little umbrellas that have frayed in the wind. The fresh salty air from the gulf can’t penetrate the smells of stale beer and greasy food that surround the plywood structure like a fugue.

Gulls circle looking for morsels of food. With protesting squawks they fly off when the big bikes roar into the parking lot. The leather-dressed men smell of piss, shit and vomit. They have long greasy hair and beards. They wear dark glasses and scowls. They step off loud machines onto sun bleached cement stained with blood and violence.

One after another they park until twenty bikes are lined up.

When the last one enters the dive bar the door closes after him and the music inside kicks off and the gulls return to search for food.

Wish Granted

With a deep bellow the mountain raises and the Earth shakes. The ground is torn. Large roots and rocks pour from the being’s undercarriage. It moves its head, swiveling it from side to side, its mouth opening and closing, bits of stone chipping off its gnashing teeth, crashing into the forest below as its tongue attempts to work a word. Yellow eyes glow bright in the gloom searching for the one who called.

“Mother!” The twenty-billion-tonne creature bellows.

Mother stands in a small flowered glen in urine soaked garments.

The book worked.

“Come,” she stutters unsure, but her progeny obeys.

In Loving Tribute

Things die. That’s what they do. They die and rot and new things grow. Benjamin put the bench on the grounds over the place he buried his wife because things that once lived here would one day start to die.

And she would live.

He knew the woman, black-hearted and proud, would find a way back.

That was the promise she made with her last breath.

He trekked for miles into the back-country. Dug the red clay deep and planted her coffin under a headstone he bought expecting questions.

None came.

He waited.

Until today.

Today things started dying.

 


 

frost-on-the-tombstone-liz

Photo prompt courtesy of:

Liz Young

A Work Untitled

She puts the black heels with the ribbon lace up next to the ancient copy of the Oxford dictionary her grandfather bought her.

The dictionary smells of thrift store.

Dusty and used.

Since her grandfather died it reminds her of him.

She put the shoes next to the giant heavy book, because one day she might wear them. They make her look tall. They give her legs a shape she assumes men might enjoy. Maybe she won’t shirk from the attention if it’s the right type of guy.

Maybe, like one day she might start her novel.