Fiction

What follows may have actually happened, or it may have been a response to a writing exercise. Believe what you will....

As I stepped out of the corner store, my eyes caught it. Double breasted, broad lapels, horn buttons, slit cuffs. None of that mattered. I pressed myself back into the entranceway, steadying myself. Looking at it made my stomach churn. It was an impossibility, too thick. I remembered the thickest wool I'd seen, a 32 oz. felted winter blanket. I looked again. This was maybe eight times thicker, or maybe eighty. Tension, then pain. The thought couldn't fit in my head. Distorting with every loop, a mic too close to the amp. My mind was being overdriven.

Yes, too thick. They don't make needles that big. You can't wear something that can't be made. Was it even being worn? It smudged my thoughts. Surely everyone else on the street had missed it, or they'd have done something. Right? I'd been watching for half a minute now. I couldn't believe it'd gotten away with it for this long. Any second I expected a shopkeeper to hurdle through their display window and throw it to the ground and stomp it into nothing. They'd be a hero. Like someone diving on a grenade. I watched as its woolen dissonance started to catch on the brick storefronts, tearing off in wads, dampening all reason. It was getting harder to hear myself talk. I'd be the hero. I was right. And I knew it.

That One Time I Went to See Avatar
by Rubin Quarcoopome

Pt. 1: Avatar

Over Christmas Break, I went to see Avatar, James Cameron's stupid, loud, blue adaptation of Pocahantas. I didn't really like it, and about halfway through I couldn't help but think, "Damn, shoulda seen Sherlock Holmes instead." When the credits rolled, several people clapped, something that utterly baffled me. They liked it that much? Really? On the drive home, I went through several post-Avatar phases: mild respect for how pretty it was, slight arousal, annoyance, irritance, itchy testicles, upset stomach, and general diarrheic anger.

"Fuck James Cameron," I muttered. "He owes me my ten dollars! If I can't rewind time, I'll certainly get money instead!"

I turned the car around sharply and began driving west, to Hollywood.

The following piece was contributed by Lia Wolok, PhD student, friend of the Gargoyle, and all-around wonderful person.


Chad checked himself over in the mirror; his $70, ultra-fitted flannel shirt looked appropriately tousled.

The setup was perfect: his West Quad roommate would be gone all weekend getting his wisdom teeth pulled. While Paul was home secretly watching a Princess Diaries double feature (over and over again due to his Vicodin-induced stupor), the trite Pink Floyd posters in this very room would bear witness to the realization of a new level of intimacy in Chad's relationship. Honesty, love, union-- His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

Amanda sauntered in, the very vision of his deepest desires. Underneath her marshmallow-shaped Northface jacket, she wore leggings (gold) as if they were pants and an ill-fitting, low-cut shirt (purple) from American Apparel. Chad was intoxicated by her heady scent and all-too-aware of the tender heart beating beneath her fully-displayed bosom. The two clung to each other for a moment, and then stepped apart. Chad watched as blood flushed her fair cheeks.

"I want to talk to you about something," Chad explained nervously.

Another story from the inestimable Peter Eldred:

When Mark returned home from work, his eight year old daughter Vanessa was nowhere to be found.  The phone rang.

"We have your daughter.  Deliver $100,000 to us by tomorrow at noon if you ever want to see her again." A deep voice said.

Mark considered this briefly.  "What if I don't?"

"Do you really want to play games with little Vanessa's life, Mr. Huxtable?"

"No, no," he said firmly, "I mean what if I don't want to see her again? I don't know if you've noticed, but she's kind of a little bitch."

"Steady now, Ensign, that speeding car isn't necessarily going to try to ram the wooden gate," the Security Chief said blandly, "No, it's likely going to turn wildly... yes... and drive clear through the--" the bright orange 77' Chevelle plowed through the wooden security station, losing only a fraction of its impressive velocity, and leaving the remains of a very shaken-up security crew the task of extracting itself from the wreckage, "...security post," finished the Security Chief, before losing consciousness for what would be the last time. 

Douglas stumbled into the hallway and noticed an unfamiliar noise. It sounded light and fluttery, a bit like two leather gloves slapping together; it was one of those noises that invited you to look about anxiously, wondering if you really wanted to find its source. Up in the corner of the hallway ceiling, approximately seven feet from Douglas's pillow-sculpted hair, was a god-damned bat. It was only the size of a Russian nesting doll, but Douglas shrieked like a prepubescent girl and ran back into his room, slamming the door behind him.

By Zachery S. Beauvais

I work in a sloppy land for a sloppy man. His name is McPherson.

Fifteen years ago, I left home to go and find the world. I thought I was a musician. I left for a fantasy land, a bohemian paradise, but all I found was goo.

Twelve hours a day, six days a week, I mix the slop--a steaming concoction not dissimilar to gravel and afterbirth.  I was starving and needed work. The Factory was my only choice.
    
The slop pours out of four tubes into the vat. Splish-splashing out onto the steel grate. There is where I stand--a man with his paddle. Alone. Mr. McPherson says it's crucial the goop is mixed evenly and constantly. Once a shift, a truck pulls up to the vat. A man in a plastic jumpsuit and winged-frame glasses nods up to me and attaches his hose to the vat. He leaves. I am relieved by a burly man with a cigar, and then return to my chambers. The same day--nine years.

Please enjoy this taut and thrilling exploration of the darker side of children's television by a staffer who wishes to remain anonymous, for reasons that might soon become apparent.

The mission was clear and simple. Get in, get out, no dicking around. Brian hoped this was all worth it. The operation hadn't been easy, and the doctors had almost thought he wasn't going to make it. Some idiot somewhere (probably a darkie, he didn't trust them and their shifty ways) had written that the fusion should occur at his ass. Luckily, the mistake was caught before irreparable damage occurred and Brian could never go to the bathroom again. After a month of recovery, Brian finally removed the bandages from his chest and gazed down at it.

God damn undercover work, he thought. God damn it to hell.

"Time for Teletubbies! Time for Teletubbies!" the obese baby in the sky screamed out.

"No," thought Brian. "Time to die."