Walk the Walk.

Complicated things usually are complex, that being said, it's when things are simple, that the complexities can take you by surprise.

That's what happened to her, she was taken by surprise.

No one had told her that she would actually have to do this kind of work at her job. It was implied in the position, sure, but no one had told her. And after ten years of working there, she had never been forced to perform this act. Yet now, here she was.  About to perform it.

Her title at her current employ, was Killer.

She had been working for the company for ten years, and never thought to ask why. Why? Why, was her title Killer? Why, on each pay stub statement, was that listed as her actual title? Not once, in ten years had she killed anything.

After today, she supposed, it would be once in eleven. She also came to the conclusion that you only need to kill once to be a killer. In that sense then, she'd been a killer her own life. Some people were afraid of spiders. She was one of them, which is why she gladly killed any spider when she got the chance.

The subject in front of her was not a spider.

The company was a technology company, that did some stuff with biology? Or was it chemistry? She didn't know, she was just a middle-man. Between labs, she would take whatever container they brought her from one place, and bring it to the chute. The chute would take it to wherever. She didn't know, she never asked. She would then file a form, by checking off all of the boxes, signing it with the date and time. The boxes on the sheet(which she had not read in over five years), said that she was sure that everything inside her container was dead. She would get one container a day, and then go home.

Today she was given a large container, and the thing inside it was not dead.

She looked at it's eyes and quivered, doubting herself. For ten years she had been paid to be a killer that never had to kill. Talking a talk, she supposed, without walking the walk.

The eyes could see her through the container. The eyes were huge, and pleading. She had to make a decision, but she knew that there was difference between spiders and this. She knew that there was a difference when you knew that it was killing, and not just getting rid of a pest.

The eyes pleaded. The eyes begged. They were crying. She was crying.

Now, she thought, I have to walk the walk.

Float

He just wished that he was floating somewhere. Either in space, or the open air. He knew he was more likely to float in a pool, or the ocean. He wished he could just float in the air, or float up in to outer space. Water would have to do.

Even then though, he had yet to fulfill his wish, it was hard for him to take the time.

Nothing could stop that longing though, he felt it in all of his muscles, the need to float. If he closed his eyes, and imagined himself floating; it was his shoulders that longed for it the most. No more pressure for him to be on the ground. Gravity would pull at him a little less. And everything would be okay.

Two years. He never went to the pool. Or the ocean. He dreamed for it each day. Never did it.


Tells a lot about a man, who could easily give himself the release that he desires, and chooses not to. Eventually you run out of excuses for why you're not allowing yourself the nice thing you desire. It quickly becomes clear; that you hate yourself.


He hated himself.


He didn't need to hate himself, then again, so rarely do the ones that should hate themselves; hate themselves. Too often do those, that deserve no scrutiny, scrutinize themselves. To a standard that no one could hope to achieve.


Sometimes, he would run a bath when got home. He would let the water run, and he would put his hand in to the hot water, and close his eyes, imagine that his hand was floating. He would then step slowly into the tub. Hoping, against hope really, that he would float in the tub. Each time the hard ceramic of his tub, would be a disappointment that would bring him to tears.


So he hated himself. He wouldn't ever stop. He was on a one track mission to cause himself grief. Not by imagining a wife, or love of any type. Not a great vacation. Not a foot message. His one track mission would be to force himself to yearn, to be in physical and emotional pain from a yearning. To float.


Sometimes people are like that.

A Man with a Backpack

There was a kid watching me form over on the other side of the shop. It was making me feel uncomfortable. The kind of feeling that you get when there is a guy yelling up and down the street, and when he gets to be near you he stops and stares at you. Usually he goes back to screaming, but that electric moment where eye contact is made, and you're not quite sure if the guy is going to throw a punch at you, and time stops as you wait for him to make a decision. That was the kind of feeling this little kid was giving me.

I guess he worked there, and I guess maybe I made him feel off. I make a lot of people feel off. I'm an off kind of guy. I'm not that big, and I'm not that small. I'm the kind of guy that when you look at me, you don't quite know how well I'm going to hold up in a fight. I'd either do really well, or very poorly.

Most people, in an every day fashion, assume the former. This kid didn't.

I wear a lot of layers, and I carry a backpack. It's important that I carry the backpack at all times because a lot of people are thieves in this world. Which is why I didn't obey the sign to check in my backpack at the door. Too many times I've had to replace my backpack for one reason or another. And I just got this one not too long ago. I wasn't about to lose it.

“Sir, if you don't put your backpack behind the desk. I'm going to have to ask you to leave.” Ah, the kid, from behind me no less. Hoping to get a startle out of me. As if I didn't know where he was at every moment since I walked in the store.

“My money no good here?” I turned around and put my rough and scratched hands up for him to see.

“We don't allow people to walk around the shop with back packs. Too many people steal.” He took a step forward. Kid was tall, at least six three, he was trying to stand over me. Very intimidating.

“You're telling me. I was in a shop just last week, and I checked it in. And you wouldn't believe it. But somebody stole my backpack.” I took a step to meet him. “In fact, I think I was in a store almost exactly like this one. With some punk kid just like you in it when it happened. Except, I saw the kid steal it. And so I waited, and I followed him. I followed him to an alley a couple of blocks from here, I watched him meet up with a guy, and I saw this kid give him not just my backpack, but about ten others.”

The kid took a step back, sweat was beading down his brow.

“See I figured it out, the kid must steal one every two or three days, usually the ones that look full, and then he gives em to a guy once every two weeks. They both get paid. A little extra money on the side, nothing fancy. A good deal. Such a good deal I decided to follow the guy who had my backpack. I followed him to a little storage area, and that little storage area was filled with backpacks. Now, being a reasonable guy, and it being such a good scam, I asked him if I could get in on the action. He said no. But as you can see, I did get to leave with this brand new backpack.”

I took off my backpack and showed it to him. It was a little dirty, it had a big red stain on it.

“Well, new to me.”

Half Man

In his heart, there lacked the correct amount of devotion.

It was a problem, not just for himself, but for those around him. Mostly for those that loved him. Especially for those that loved him romantically.

He argued often and repetatively, never budging in his stance that "There is something to be said for going someplace half way, and then turning around and remaining exactly where you were." or that "Sometimes thinking about a taking a step, is just as satisfying as walking, without all the sweat."

He could only do things fully, it seemed, if they were done halfheartedly or absentmindedly. This is how he was able to argue the justification for his glutenous appetite or enjoyment of orgasms.

In his honor, the story stops here.

Worm Music.

There was a lingering hue of confusion in the air. The room was filled with people causally making faces, the kind of faces people make when they smell a really bad fart in a large public space.

Except no one had farted this time. This time it was her doing, and she knew it.

It wasn't that she wasn't talented. She was a great musician. Fantastic in fact. No one could deny that she might be one of the most talented musicians to have ever lived.

She even had that reputation. Her reputation was probably what set off the crowds confusion. It wasn't her talent. It was her lyrics.

Her lyrics were, in a nut shell; disturbing. Very disturbing.

Not in a way that punk or punk-rockers, or punkers, or medal-heads might enjoy. Not that kind of disturbing.

She had a disturbance that made it feel as if the song and the lyrics were going into your skin like tiny little worms. And then they wriggled about your whole body for the duration of the song. But when the song was over. You could still feel the worms in your skin. They didn't go away. They just stopped moving.

In fact, when you went home after her concert. You learned to love the feeling of the little worms inside your body, even though there were no worms. The feeling of them never left you, for as long as you lived. But if you played a recording of her music, they would dance again inside your body. They would dance, but not in the same way that they did that first time. That only happened if you saw her live more than once.

Eventually, people got sick of the tiny wriggles from recordings. And needed the full blown experience. It became so much of a frenzy to see her live. That she stopped playing live shows.

There was mass hysteria, and a hunt to kidnap her and force her to play live became the worlds priority. Eventually one of her own body guards killed her, accidentally while trying to force her to play the piano. The details were vague.

When she died. The worm feeling disappeared in everyone. And everyone in the world all felt really sad.