Mr. Monkey and the DFB - June 25, 2007

Mr. Monkey and the DFB - 6/25/07

Mr. Monkey and the DFB - June 22, 2007

Mr. Monkey and the DFB - June 21, 2007

Mr. Monkey and the DFB - 6/20/07

Mr. Monkey and the DFB - June 19, 2007

Mr. Monkey and the DFB

Just pick one

I may have posted this before. . .

Damn the Cancer

190? Really?

Dandelion

Untitled

2007 by Brett Fauver

Dandelion, a short, bright 19 year old girl with green eyes and red hair, dove into her dessert – a hot fudge sundae. She smiled gleefully as she plunged her spoon through the multi-colored sprinkles (Jimmies, her Ma corrected somewhere deep inside her mind), the white and creamy whipped topping (better from a can if you can't make it yourself, Ma said again), and parted the bright red double maraschino cherries (Bing are better, Dandelion) into the luscious chocolate ice cream below. She pulled up a spoonful of delightful coldness and seductively pulled it into her mouth, letting the ice cream move and mush around the inside of her mouth.

The dessert moved down her throat, leaving a trail of cold numbness inside. She smiled and licked her lips, grabbing a remnant of whipped cream. She opened her eyes and looked down at the remainder of the sundae and smiled again. The rest of Happy Sundae's, bustling with activity and other customers eating and drinking, echoed with voices of thirty different conversations. Dandelion heard nothing and kept digging into her dessert.

“Hey, I don't think I've ever seen anything that sweet,” said a man standing above her, next to the table. He looked down with lascivious eyes and a grin that stretched unnaturally from ear to ear. Teeth the color of stones peeked through the lips. He slid soundlessly into the seat across from Dandelion and removed his “Fisherman have the Longest Rods” hat and dropped it on the table. Although Dandelion heard nothing from his mouth, she heard everything he had said. She looked at his hands, avoiding the soulless brown eyes, and noticed the nails were cut short, with a collection of dirt and grime beneath each of the nine fingers. She counted only nine fingers on his hands, four on the left and five on the right, but no sign of a stub or missing finger.

“You come here a lot, dontcha, sweetheart,” the man asked, gravel in his voice. Dandelion again heard him, which sent a shock of surprise and recognition through her body. Her hands fluttered several signs in front of her.

“What do you want,” she asked.

“I want to help, sweetness.”

“Stop that,” she demanded, slamming her hands on the table hard to make her point. “Don't call me that ever again.”

“You can move your hands pretty fast, sweetcheeks,” said the man, surpressing a chortle. He sat back and his dirty denim jacket fluttered against the orange of the booth's seat. He smiled wide again and his eyes flashed. Dandelion wanted to move, wanted to run away as fast as she could, but found she could not. She wanted to stay, not to listen to the man, but to finish her dessert.

“Let me eat in peace,” she signed. A resigned and pleading look crossed her face. Her eyes gathered moisture and glass.

The man ran his four-fingered hand over the gruff stubble of his face and head, in a mock act of contemplation. He pursed his lips and scratched his left ear, thinking about what to say next. Rather, thinking of the next line of his twisted script.

“You seem anxious for a deal, my sweet flower.”

Again, it unnerved Dandelion that he could hear what he said.

“No deals,” Dandelion signed. She went back to eating her sundae, trying to ignore the man in front of her.

“Oh how I'm shocked and dismayed,” retorted the man, smiling.

Dandelion ignored him, yet his voice rung in her ears.

“Yes, you can hear me, little flower,” the man said again, still smiling but not moving his lips.

Tears trickled down her cheeks and fell onto the table. Her chin crumpled as she grimaced, trying to choke back emotions.

“Ma's been lookin' for you.”

Dandelion could not hold back the tears any longer, and the squirted from her eyes. Her mouth opened in a horrible moan, but no sound issued. Her body wracked up and down in bursts of frustrated tears. Yet still, Dandelion put spoonfuls of sweet chocolate ice cream into her mouth. She cried and gobs of brown liquid fell across her chin.

“Dandelion, sweetie, don't do this to yourself,” said the man in mock comfort, “Ma only wants what's best for you.”

Dandelion looked around Happy Sundae's, looking for an escape or help. Nobody noticed the cute young girl bawling noiselessly into a hot fudge sundae. She quickly calculated how far she would have to run to the door.

“Don't even think of it, flower,” snarled the man, grasping her arm.

She backed away in pain from the unnaturally hot touch that seared her arm. The tears of frustration evaporated and turned to tears of agony. She felt the heat scorch her insides, radiating like an infected wound on her arm. Her fear and pain turned quickly to anger and rage. It filled her insides and turned the green eyes red. She stared at the man, her eyes piercing his. She opened her mouth wide like a boa constrictor feeding on a large mammal.

The man tried to peel his hand from her arm and escape, fear suddenly bursting onto his grizzled features. A low-pitched rumble emanated from Dandelion's maw, sending visible shock waves through Happy Sundae's and ripping apart the man in front of her, blowing away fabric and skin, bone, muscle, organs and churning them with massive force into a pink and grey mist. He screamed before his head exploded, but nobody could hear it over the deafening sonic vibrations.

Several customers turned to look at the booth with the man and the girl. Before they could react, a massive pink spray enveloped them before the sonic boom ripped apart their bodies. The sonic wave blew over chairs, ripped open booths, took down the front wall and shattered glass. Bodies lay contorted and armless in the wreckage. Glass tinkled and people screamed. Cars outside lay in waste and several alarms sounded in the distance. Sirens could be heard coming in closer.

Dandelion, however, straightened herself out and continued eating her sundae, hearing nothing but music in her mind.

Spelling Geekery

I always have trouble spelling the word "tomorrow", but Superman helps me remember. It may not have been Superman, but some other comic book superhero. Maybe even Superfriends. Don't know. All I remember is some guy named T. O. Morrow, who was able to look into the future. So whenever I want to spell Tomorrow, I remember that stupid T. O. Morrow dude's name.

So now you know. . .