Stories that go nowhere

Monks
Old Bill was watching from the docks. If Christ is going to come from the east, then death, I suppose, will always come from the west. Dark ships bobbed like cork in a bucket of water. Their familiar shapes, dragon crested, becoming clearer as that endless day wore on.


Vikings
Lo, and behold there on the low slung horizon, what did I spy but the dark mass of land as if from some distant dream. The dark shapes of mountains, the likes of which we had never seen rose up like ancient sentinels keeping watch on that barren land. The oars move rhythmically through the rough green water as we head towards safer shoals. In the distance I watch as a slow line of boats are being dropped into the water by men in dark robes.

Amelia E.
“It appears that we are here for the long haul,” Amelia told me, minutes after we’d put down on this piece of crap island, Gardner’s, I suppose. And neither one of us with a scrap of no how in terms of staying alive. Who knew how much I’d regret not spending any time in the scouts. She insisted I was just glum because nobody would remember my death.

The journey down
Janice was the first one to climb down. The heat was unbearable, as it always was in that god-forsaken valley. The grass was timid and brown. I admit that I stayed up in the tree for the first few days until I was sure that Janice wasn’t going to be killed. I told her that I was keeping watch for snakes.

Relieving yourself
It weren’t the type of day that you’d want to do much more than take a piss on if anyone asks me, which happens near never. To say that it was a fair battle would be



Ventriloquism
I start with a voice. Nothing more. Nothing less. It ain’t an easy business that I’ve been sloughing around in these past six years. A lot of my friends have moved uptown to shittier apartments with prettier girls. I ain’t in to that kind of selling out. In fact, I can’t think of a worse thing that a man could do.

When I was a kid, my father used watch a bit of SNL with me before I went to bed. I miss pops you know. Every time I see a six pack of beer or the bruise on the leg of a hooker I think of the man. I get all worn out and teary eyed. We used to love the guys who could imitate the voices the most. Hell, I can’t even remember who they was. I just remember them talking like someone else. I suppose that’s how I got started doing this whole cheap thing.

But you know. Not everyone can be good at every damn thing they pick up. Some of us is just good at one thing. I’m good at voices. What’s so bad about that? Johnny C. and Will got out of the business because they met some big assed girls who told them what they could do better. I’m just not the type of guy who stops being who he is because of a little bit of tail.

A lot of fellows rely on me to do them a favor, and I don’t consider that to be a bad thing.