1/15/2012: Super Powers

We are back after an extra long holiday hiatus! It seems all of the festivities and travel just sucked the creative juices right out of us. I trust everyone survived the last couple of months in one piece (I barely made it through with all of my hair this year). In honor of making it through another 365 days we started off the New Year with a fun topic; this week we examined what life would be like if we had super powers. Writers were only allowed one power and could write about how they obtained the power or what they do with their power.

Before we get on with the stories I just wanted to send out a quick reminder! We are looking for new members! If you would like to join our casual creative writing group check out the informational pages here on this blog and if you are still interested even after reading all my rambling shoot me an email at weeklystory@yahoo.com.

 

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Super Telekinesis

When I was fifteen I discovered I had the unique ability to move things with my mind. Not just one thing but multiple things and not just small things but things the size of tractors. For the first three years I mostly kept it hidden just moving things around in my room. I guess you could say I was practicing. Soon I had nieces and nephews coming around so I decided to have a little fun. There would be times when I would levitate things just at their peripheral then drop it just as they turned their head, or show them a magic trick and have the completely baffled at how I was doing it.

Now I was about twenty and began to think what I could really do with this ability that I have besides tormenting my sibling’s kids. So I took a trip to Vegas and made my fortune. I guess now that I look back it was a low move to take money from people the way I did, manipulating spin wheels, dice rolls, and machines.

Now I’m twenty-four, rich, and still I feel like I could do more with my ability. Well it seems like my opportunity just dropped in. Three armed and masked men come into the bank I frequent. “Everyone down on the ground!” they say pointing their guns. I think to myself that I could easily stop these guys without any danger to anyone. Is this what I would be some hero that runs around in tights and a cape? Maybe nothing so dramatic, but maybe I should do something for others.

It’s settled then I’m going to do it. All a have to do is make sure I know where the robbers are. Just one little peek. Got it! Guns bend and rip from their hands. Slam crooks to the ground. Keep them there. Wait for one of the other civilians to react and get up before do. Cops are called. Crooks arrested. Could this be a new way for me to live, or am I just a rich bored person? Only time can tell.

©Robert Owens

 

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Untitled

I can’t remember a time in my entire twenty-six years when the weather in Michigan had ever been this strange. Don’t get me wrong! Michiganders refer to this place as the Bi-Polar state because one minute, it’s sunny, blazing hot and beautiful and fifteen minutes later, it’s pouring rain and thundering. Another fifteen minutes can by and you’ll find yourself catching snowflakes on your tongue. Yep, That’s the mitten for you!

This day was different. No matter how unpredictable the seasons can be around here, there is absolutely nothing like a Michigan winter. The time may vary within a three month range of when the cold sets in and when we see the first snow of each year. The thing is, though, from there, we all know what happens.

From the day the snow falls, we can expect it to continue. Harsh storms coupled with icy roads and freezing winds overtake our lives until April, on a good year.

This year hasn’t been like that at all. January is already here and just two days ago, it was fifty-nine degrees! The river in town is still wide open and the ground has yet to actually freeze. The grass grows green in my front yard as we speak!

The logical conclusion here is global warming and that seems to be the bandwagon everyone is jumping on.

Only I know differently…

I read this story once, about a girl who had her heart broken. She was so enveloped in her emotions that they controlled everything she did. She practically ate, slept and breathed everything about the one she loved. She couldn’t distract her mind from her own heartache.

One day, while she was staring longingly at a picture of him she kept on her bedside table, something strange happened. She stared into his eyes through the glass of the frame. She wanted so desperately to feel connected to him because without him, she was empty. She couldn’t break away and stand on her own. The more she thought on that emptiness, the more of herself she poured into the photograph.

One moment, she was sitting cross-legged on her bed, holding the picture frame tightly in her hands. The next, she simply disappeared. The end of the story explained that she put all of her energy into this unreciprocated love that she completely forgot how to be, or rather, how to exist outside of it.

The picture of her love transformed into a picture of the two of them; he faced forward and she on his lap, staring longingly at his smile.

I read that and thought it was crap. The idea of expending your energy in such an outward way, outside of physical activity of course, seemed so far-fetched to me. It begged the question, is it possible for one to control the electric energy running through us all. Is it a force within the average person that we just aren’t in touch with?

I spent some time meditating on this thought. I did my best to focus my mind to absolutely nothing. I wanted to feel everything inside of me, how it moved and what every inch of my genetic makeup felt like.

I felt pretty in-tune with myself after a few weeks and meditating once again became part of my regular routine. I forgot fairly quick about my goal to reach into this untapped energy and simply used the time to relax and reach within myself for peace within my mind.

The last time I saw my own heartbreaker, I’d let my deepest emotions show. He never shared my feelings but that night, I’d found my best friend within him and contentment raced through my blood.

That night, as I sat cross-legged, meditating on my own bed, I found myself unable to focus on the pure nothingness that I often did. I felt him in my blood. He was in my soul and I could think of little else but his eyes, a gentle blue like the sky on a beautiful summer day.

I could remember how to stand on my own without him, but there was no denying that he had become a part of me. The feelings he stirred in me, I had no idea right then, would cause me to stir up the weather around me.

Previously, snow had only delicately coated the ground but the temperature had dropped quickly and the average Michigan winter seemed to be right on schedule.

In the following weeks, I noticed changes in the weather patterns that I could not chock up to a coincidence.

When I thought of his eyes, the way they envelop me in warmth and happiness, the day became beautiful. The sun would shine in the blazing blue sky.

When I would dream of his sandy blonde hair and the way I could run my fingers through it and shiver with ecstasy, the wind would whip intensely and whistle through around the windows.

As I imagined our most intimate moments, the intoxication of his mouth on mine and the pure bliss that was every entangled moment with him…

Well, let’s just say the weather became far too erratic for the local meteorologists to comprehend.

 

©Angela McGillis

 

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And since I seem to have lost my story for this week that is all we have. I will add it later if I find it.

Untitled

Untitled

I can’t remember a time in my entire twenty-six years when the weather in Michigan had ever been this strange. Don’t get me wrong! Michiganders refer to this place as the Bi-Polar state because one minute, it’s sunny, blazing hot and beautiful and fifteen minutes later, it’s pouring rain and thundering. Another fifteen minutes can by and you’ll find yourself catching snowflakes on your tongue. Yep, That’s the mitten for you!

This day was different. No matter how unpredictable the seasons can be around here, there is absolutely nothing like a Michigan winter. The time may vary within a three month range of when the cold sets in and when we see the first snow of each year. The thing is, though, from there, we all know what happens.

From the day the snow falls, we can expect it to continue. Harsh storms coupled with icy roads and freezing winds overtake our lives until April, on a good year.

This year hasn’t been like that at all. January is already here and just two days ago, it was fifty-nine degrees! The river in town is still wide open and the ground has yet to actually freeze. The grass grows green in my front yard as we speak!

The logical conclusion here is global warming and that seems to be the bandwagon everyone is jumping on.

Only I know differently…

I read this story once, about a girl who had her heart broken. She was so enveloped in her emotions that they controlled everything she did. She practically ate, slept and breathed everything about the one she loved. She couldn’t distract her mind from her own heartache.

One day, while she was staring longingly at a picture of him she kept on her bedside table, something strange happened. She stared into his eyes through the glass of the frame. She wanted so desperately to feel connected to him because without him, she was empty. She couldn’t break away and stand on her own. The more she thought on that emptiness, the more of herself she poured into the photograph.

One moment, she was sitting cross-legged on her bed, holding the picture frame tightly in her hands. The next, she simply disappeared. The end of the story explained that she put all of her energy into this unreciprocated love that she completely forgot how to be, or rather, how to exist outside of it.

The picture of her love transformed into a picture of the two of them; he faced forward and she on his lap, staring longingly at his smile.

I read that and thought it was crap. The idea of expending your energy in such an outward way, outside of physical activity of course, seemed so far-fetched to me. It begged the question, is it possible for one to control the electric energy running through us all. Is it a force within the average person that we just aren’t in touch with?

I spent some time meditating on this thought. I did my best to focus my mind to absolutely nothing. I wanted to feel everything inside of me, how it moved and what every inch of my genetic makeup felt like.

I felt pretty in-tune with myself after a few weeks and meditating once again became part of my regular routine. I forgot fairly quick about my goal to reach into this untapped energy and simply used the time to relax and reach within myself for peace within my mind.

The last time I saw my own heartbreaker, I’d let my deepest emotions show. He never shared my feelings but that night, I’d found my best friend within him and contentment raced through my blood.

That night, as I sat cross-legged, meditating on my own bed, I found myself unable to focus on the pure nothingness that I often did. I felt him in my blood. He was in my soul and I could think of little else but his eyes, a gentle blue like the sky on a beautiful summer day.

I could remember how to stand on my own without him, but there was no denying that he had become a part of me. The feelings he stirred in me, I had no idea right then, would cause me to stir up the weather around me.

Previously, snow had only delicately coated the ground but the temperature had dropped quickly and the average Michigan winter seemed to be right on schedule.

In the following weeks, I noticed changes in the weather patterns that I could not chock up to a coincidence.

When I thought of his eyes, the way they envelop me in warmth and happiness, the day became beautiful. The sun would shine in the blazing blue sky.

When I would dream of his sandy blonde hair and the way I could run my fingers through it and shiver with ecstasy, the wind would whip intensely and whistle through around the windows.

As I imagined our most intimate moments, the intoxication of his mouth on mine and the pure bliss that was every entangled moment with him…

Well, let’s just say the weather became far too erratic for the local meteorologists to comprehend.

 

©Angela McGillis

1/15/2012: Super Powers

Super Telekinesis

When I was fifteen I discovered I had the unique ability to move things with my mind. Not just one thing but multiple things and not just small things but things the size of tractors. For the first three years I mostly kept it hidden just moving things around in my room. I guess you could say I was practicing. Soon I had nieces and nephews coming around so I decided to have a little fun. There would be times when I would levitate things just at their peripheral then drop it just as they turned their head, or show them a magic trick and have the completely baffled at how I was doing it.

Now I was about twenty and began to think what I could really do with this ability that I have besides tormenting my sibling’s kids. So I took a trip to Vegas and made my fortune. I guess now that I look back it was a low move to take money from people the way I did, manipulating spin wheels, dice rolls, and machines.

Now I’m twenty-four, rich, and still I feel like I could do more with my ability. Well it seems like my opportunity just dropped in. Three armed and masked men come into the bank I frequent. “Everyone down on the ground!” they say pointing their guns. I think to myself that I could easily stop these guys without any danger to anyone. Is this what I would be some hero that runs around in tights and a cape? Maybe nothing so dramatic, but maybe I should do something for others.

It’s settled then I’m going to do it. All a have to do is make sure I know where the robbers are. Just one little peek. Got it! Guns bend and rip from their hands. Slam crooks to the ground. Keep them there. Wait for one of the other civilians to react and get up before do. Cops are called. Crooks arrested. Could this be a new way for me to live, or am I just a rich bored person? Only time can tell.

©Robert Owens

 

 

11/13/2011: A Moment in Time

It seems that most of us around The Story of the Week Group have had an incredibly busy week (I know I have). Our theme was “A Moment in Time” and I am finding myself wishing that I would have had one to write something other than academic papers! There are moments that you wish you could get back; moments that you want to store away and never share with anyone, moments that you wish you could avoid or forget all together… take a look at two of our members’ interpretations of these moments.

The Story of the Week Group is looking for new members! We would like to add to the already lovely mix of people contributing each week. This is a no pressure writing group! If you think you want to give it a try email Katie at weeklystory@yahoo.com

 

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Her Name Was Natalie

The decision had been made abruptly, as I recall. Our relationship was something no one else could truly understand but we both knew it held some inherent beauty that stood invisible to the rest of the world.

I cradled my stomach in those final hours before the arrival. I talked as calmly as I could, hoping my reassurances would reach the tiny soul within me.

Before I knew it, there in my arms lay the most precious jewel I would ever touch. She was swaddled in a purple blanket, a tiny pink cap over her head with her name embroidered across the front that he’d had made for her.

Though I’d promised when the agreement was discussed that I would take care of her myself, he and I both knew in that moment that he’d never abandon her. He could never have only been the co-creator of this perfect creature. As we sat there together, his arms cradling us both protectively, we stared in aw at the love we’d created.

Every complicated emotion, every almost-regret, and each moment that had ached inside of us both disintegrated immediately as she opened her eyes, and gazed at the two of us.

©Angela McGillis

 

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The Room That God Forgot

My heart was heavy as soon as I entered the building, but as I neared the room, I could feel my spirit sinking more and more with each step. My eyes focused on the floor, which was that awful shade of blue you often see in institutions because of its calming effects. After years of coming to these places, though, the hue is simply another reminder to you of lost hopes and broken dreams. You pass by hollow souls, one by one, and you can almost hear their secret thoughts of longing for revival and second chances… longings that you know are in vain.

As I near the door to his room, I find myself gasping for air but doing my damndest to go through the motions, as always. My brain is set on autopilot, so I follow the routine of throwing on the blue-paper gown which comes fully equipped with matching match, for those of us who like to accessorize. I close my eyes and try to find that elusive center, to no avail. My tiny hand reaches out to the door knob, but before I have the chance to turn it, an angel in white comes to my side and tells me that I don’t need to bother with the gown now that he’s gone.

I didn’t know. No one had told me. Even in this age of cell phones and technology attached at the hip, there had been no way to reach me. Who would have thought that four simple letters, combined in patterned syntax, could hold enough weight to knock me down? Just like that… he’s gone.

The angel scoots off to follow her own routine, as if nothing had happened… as if she’s grown accustomed to this inevitability by now… and I find myself wishing I could be as jaded as she. Instead, I am left here alone with my thoughts to swallow me whole, as they always do. No more late-night crying on the phone to a man who makes it all go away. No more having my hand held as I cross the busy street of my hometown. The days of laughter that fill the halls of places in dire need of stimulation are gone for now. And suddenly, my lungs shut down and I can’t breathe. My knees give out and I can’t walk. My brain function ceases and all I can do is stare vacantly at cracks in the blue of the floor.

Regret is a word that I do not recognize in my life, but perhaps I have two. I should have gone into that room to say goodbye, and I should have played cards with him that night. The word “father” will never sound the same again.

©Ashley Porter

 

The Room That God Forgot

My heart was heavy as soon as I entered the building, but as I neared the room, I could feel my spirit sinking more and more with each step. My eyes focused on the floor, which was that awful shade of blue you often see in institutions because of its calming effects. After years of coming to these places, though, the hue is simply another reminder to you of lost hopes and broken dreams. You pass by hollow souls, one by one, and you can almost hear their secret thoughts of longing for revival and second chances… longings that you know are in vain.

As I near the door to his room, I find myself gasping for air but doing my damndest to go through the motions, as always. My brain is set on autopilot, so I follow the routine of throwing on the blue-paper gown which comes fully equipped with matching match, for those of us who like to accessorize. I close my eyes and try to find that elusive center, to no avail. My tiny hand reaches out to the door knob, but before I have the chance to turn it, an angel in white comes to my side and tells me that I don’t need to bother with the gown now that he’s gone.

I didn’t know. No one had told me. Even in this age of cell phones and technology attached at the hip, there had been no way to reach me. Who would have thought that four simple letters, combined in patterned syntax, could hold enough weight to knock me down? Just like that… he’s gone.

The angel scoots off to follow her own routine, as if nothing had happened… as if she’s grown accustomed to this inevitability by now… and I find myself wishing I could be as jaded as she. Instead, I am left here alone with my thoughts to swallow me whole, as they always do. No more late-night crying on the phone to a man who makes it all go away. No more having my hand held as I cross the busy street of my hometown. The days of laughter that fill the halls of places in dire need of stimulation are gone for now. And suddenly, my lungs shut down and I can’t breathe. My knees give out and I can’t walk. My brain function ceases and all I can do is stare vacantly at cracks in the blue of the floor.

Regret is a word that I do not recognize in my life, but perhaps I have two. I should have gone into that room to say goodbye, and I should have played cards with him that night. The word “father” will never sound the same again.

©Ashley Porter

Her Name Was Natalie

The decision had been made abruptly, as I recall. Our relationship was something no one else could truly understand but we both knew it held some inherent beauty that stood invisible to the rest of the world.

I cradled my stomach in those final hours before the arrival. I talked as calmly as I could, hoping my reassurances would reach the tiny soul within me.

Before I knew it, there in my arms lay the most precious jewel I would ever touch. She was swaddled in a purple blanket, a tiny pink cap over her head with her name embroidered across the front that he’d had made for her.

Though I’d promised when the agreement was discussed that I would take care of her myself, he and I both knew in that moment that he’d never abandon her. He could never have only been the co-creator of this perfect creature. As we sat there together, his arms cradling us both protectively, we stared in aw at the love we’d created.

Every complicated emotion, every almost-regret, and each moment that had ached inside of us both disintegrated immediately as she opened her eyes, and gazed at the two of us.

©Angela McGillis

11/06/2011: Things That Make You Go “Hmmmm…”

Do you ever see something that you don’t quite understand? Ever hear about something that makes you wonder what in the hell is wrong with people? Find yourself unable to wrap your brain around the fact that you find something you really shouldn’t to be completely hilarious? These situation all fall into the category of “Things That Make You Go Hmmmm…”.

This is our theme this week and as you can imagine, there are some very interesting interpretations of this subject. One writer even wrote two stories because she had so much to say about this one! As always, we hope you enjoy the stories this week. Please spread the word about our group! Tell your friends and family and if you would like to join us email Katie at weeklystory@yahoo.com

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Guthrie and Jesus on a Cool Desert Night

Well, I’d like to move out to the country—buy up the last piece of untouched, unmanned, untamed bit of soil in the desert where I can start up a revolution of the time-wasters and unbecoming. Not much money in my pocket, but my girlish wiggle and my perky smile just might get me there by dawn. And after a few solid weeks of stalling by laying on my back in the sandy earth, letting it form to my contours like a custom-made glove while I stare up at the diamond eyes spread across the sky of my mother, I could foot the rest of the bill by opening a side-show flea circus… where the little parasites are tethered to trapezes and unicycles with leashes as fine as horse hair, just in case they ever get the wild bur up their critter-sized asses to bolt and take the taste of freedom. The life of a gypsy-lover is like that, sometimes. And before I know it, I would be growing old, sitting in the back of a near-vacant bar, tickling the stale strings of old guitars to the melodies of Woody Guthrie for the pure enjoyment of a few rag-tag men with names like Utah and Sarsaparilla. And one day, I might find Jesus sitting at a bus stop, waiting for a ride that stopped coming this way long ago. After buying him a shot of good old fashioned bathtub moonshine, like the kind my grandmamma made when I was young, I might—just might—be able to use my girlish wiggle to get him to read my fortune. It may not sound like much of a future… but this is a simple story for a simple girl who needs nothing more than a wink and a smile from strangers to warm her heart and curl her toes… so this will suffice.

©Ashley Porter

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Corporal Kumquat: The Siamese Gem

The wonders of Umatilla are few and far between… such is the nature of the beast. But if you venture towards the sunset until your feet have carried you two-hundred miles or so—past the forest and the town of burning wood—and peak through a window that is always open in winter, you will find the Siamese Gem. Escapee from the Piccadilly Circus and roundabout master of all-things ridiculous, he hides his birth name from those he encounters for fear of being found out… but if you have just the right combination of peculiarity and lack of concern, he will introduce himself as Corporal Kumquat and he will let you hold his lucky charms.

Six and one when he rises and six and two by day’s end, the Corporal is a brute of a man… not necessarily in stature, but in nature. When he enters a room, he pounds his gargantuan fists against tables and counters and other such surfaces just to see what new sounds he can make… and with a bent clove cigarette hanging from between his lips and eyes that kind the darkest secrets of the circus, he can be intimidating at first glance. But this is just his test of character. If you pass, Kumquat Siamese will smile with endearing bits of preciousness and warming hints of sensuality… so, again, is the nature of the beast… and the beast will leave thumbprints of finger paints on your soul, as with all else that he might fondle.

If you see him riding bareback through the rainy streets on the back of his exceptionally large and well-bred ferret—appropriately named Skittles, for reasons we shall not name—do not be afraid and do not shy away… for Corporal Kumquat, the Siam Gem from Piccadilly Square just might be the greatest accident you will ever stumble across… just be sure to mind the nature of his beast.

©Ashley Porter

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Statutes of Limitations

The amount of problems in this world could, in the United States especially, fill a list a thousand miles long, I’m sure. Our government is a laughing stock. We can’t properly feed our country. We overindulge. Our children aren’t being given the proper education. There is a lack of jobs, a lack of decent income in available jobs and crime is on the rise, just to name a few.

I could go on for hours on each of these topics, just as everyone else could. Each of these problems and the plethora of others I could name off could spawn debates that caused the next war to start.

However, there is one in-particular plaguing me this week; It’s called the statute of limitations. This is an enactment put in place to keep legal proceedings from taking place after an event if ‘too much time’ has passed since it occurred. We hear about this common law most often in relation to rape and abuses cases.

As far as I am concerned, this basically allows people who have done wrong to escape punishment if they manage to keep their crime quiet for a long enough time period.

The biggest reason this bothers me so much is due to a video that has gone viral on the internet this week.

In Arkansas County, Texas, a twenty-three year old girl named Hillary Adams posted a video of her sixteen year old self being maliciously beaten by her Court-At-Law judge father, William Adams.

The stories differ on both sides as to why the abuse occurred, why Hillary chose to post the video now and whether the ‘discipline’ was warranted.

Shortly after this initial information came out, a second article followed. William Adams won’t be charged over the abuse of his daughter because, of course, the statute of limitations is up after five years.

What really grinds my gears here is that the reason Hillary offered for why she waited so long to bring the video forward is that she was terrified of what would happen if she went to the authorities while still living under her father’s roof.

Not only is this a valid concern, but let’s look at some other facts here: A younger sister was also living in the home at the time, for one thing. Very often, if one child does escape the home where abuse is happening, the situation is taken out on remaining children. Is it so farfetched to believe that Hillary had concern for her sister’s well being?

It also would not be an exaggeration to assume that Hillary may have found comfort from her home life in school, friends and extra curricular activities. Concerns surrounding what would happen to her, what situation she would find herself in and the same with her sister I am sure would have scared her as well.

Another point is that very often, children who are abused get to a point where they convince themselves that they’ve done something to deserve this treatment. Perhaps Hillary was afraid of splitting up the only family she’d ever known.

Now, granted, this is all guesswork on my part, but I have a point in pondering these thoughts.

The statute of limitations on causing injury to a child and/or other abuse related offenses is five years. It has been seven since Adams beat his daughter.

Now, I was a wonderfully lucky child. My parents never abused me. They nurtured me and cared for me the way great parents should, therefore trying to put myself into the mindset of an abused teenager is very difficult for me. However, I don’t believe it is too far of a stretch to think that the many reasons above that Ms. Adams could have thought of herself could have kept her from turning her father in for abuse until recently.

Hillary’s story is just one of many. Not every abused child draws national attention the way this one has. Unfortunately though, the ending is often the same. Fear of retaliation and other reasoning keep people from opening up about their experience for many years and when they finally find the courage to do so, a common law enactment practically says, “Too bad. You were quiet too long. You’ll just have to deal with it.”

Is this fair? Is that just?

I can understand a statue of limitations on minor crimes. If you’re sixteen and rob a liquor store and get away with it, and ten years later, you’ve got a great life going, sure. If you’ve straightened yourself out, you’re working hard and supporting your family and don’t want a stupid decision as a young and impetuous child to come back on you, I can support that.

I simply cannot support a time limit on punishment for cases of abuse.

Consider this thought; Victims aren’t given a time limit on how long they have to suffer their experiences.

©Angela McGillis

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Send in the Clowns

2012 was nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy. Oh, it happened but not with the big, cataclysmic thunderclap that all those granola munching, self-important, pothead, conspiracy theorists claimed it would. The world as we know it ended on my fortieth birthday alright, December, twenty-first, two-thousand and twelve. But it had been coming since the turn of the 16^th century. It crept up on us so slowly that only a few felt the brush of its white gloved hand.

We have always been persecuted, for centuries those of us who didn’t fall for the conspiracies and distraction tactics have been burned at steaks, drown, hung by our necks from ropes, taken away to detention facilities, and tucked away in padded cells. They have fed us all the pills in the world… crazy… criminals… witches… they have called us many things but now they seek us out, worship us as oracles. Some have packed up their bitterness and retreated so far underground they will never be found again. The rest of us, the ones who have something to loose, we take what we can in trade from you fools so that we can survive. Don’t even make the mistake of believing that any of us do it because we care about those who shunned and mistreated us.  We only want what the rest of you do; to live out the rest of our days warm and with full bellies.

I have survived forty years like this and am an old woman now. I did this for my children and grand children. When I am gone I don’t know what will happen but I have trained those who also see well and this is all I could have done to ensure the family’s safety. I have contracts signed in blood, this in exchange for my services, contracts that promise their protection… but in the end these are just words on paper.

Sometimes I laugh at you all. I laugh until my weary old bladder gives way and I have to change my clothes. Not an easy task with a full body cackle wracking my arthritic joints. You all see what has happened now. Isn’t hindsight a wonderful invention? Now that the aliens, who tried to help and warn us for decades, openly deliver what news we still get in their true forms rather than disguising themselves as humans… now that the Olympic athletes compete freely with their gears agleam and wires aglow in a state of pre-programmed pride… now that all of the politics have been decided for us… Now you can see what puppets we have been, but what good does it do you? If only you would have listened instead of ridiculing and making jokes. If you hadn’t been such fools we wouldn’t have to live in a world like this.

It was all distraction. All the wars, the political debate, the religion… all of it was just a way to busy your pathetic little minds. All of it fabricated and presented to us as acts in one long comedy of errors. But none of you listened, did you? If my survival didn’t depend on your pathetic need for guidance I would delight in watching your demise just as I did in the beginning.

How did none of you see it? The politicians spewing their rhetoric only to be exposed doing the very things that they so easily convinced you that you shouldn’t be doing by the aliens. None of them cared what you thought. You were a joke to them. How could you see them for anything other than clowns without their makeup? Oh yes, they freely wear that pancake garbage now. Their faces painted white around dead eyes, false smiles drawn around mouths full of fangs they no longer file down, baggy Technicolor trousers protecting those barbed tails, and over sized shoes and gloves housing razor sharp talons the size of magic markers. Now you see the daemon clowns for who they really are because they let you. And they let you because you fear them as you should have all along. But you wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t listen to me or anyone else who knew what they were.

You labeled us, made up names for our “condition”! Coulrophobia! Ha! Such fools you all are! My suffering is over. Now that you all see them for what they really are, now that you all cower in fear and run away, smothered in your hysteria at their sight, I can rest easy. I now understand that my fear was never of clowns but of what the rest of you didn’t’ see. I wasn’t frightened for myself or of what they would do to me; I was frightened by what you people were going to let them do to this world and now that is has happened I no longer have anything to fear.

You are their slaves. You work for scraps and what shelter they allow you to have, when they allow you to have it. Those of you brave or stupid enough to lodge a complaint when you are mistreated in an out of the ordinary way, those of you who dare seek medical care or make requests for aid suffer through the agonizingly ridiculous task of communicating with mimes and every last one of you leave in defeat if you leave with your lives.

I don’t’ know how much time I have left here; it could be five years or another twenty, although I do hope that I don’t live to be a hundred-years-old. I do know that I will not make it to see the uprising. The plans are in motion and I know this because I have been involved from the beginning but we are decades away from being organized enough to take them on and succeed. I will do my work until my last breath fails to fill my lungs but understand that I do not do it for you who let this happen. I do it for mine and mine alone.

The only satisfaction that I have is knowing that one day the revolution will come and that those of my children’s, children’s, children’s, children who survive will live in a world free of clowns. This thought brings me peace on most days. And the days when I am so wracked with despair I feel I will never move from my bed again the thought of your faces lifts me from my tattered bedding.

Forcing myself to recall my fortieth birthday, that crisp cold winter solstice night as we exited Mary’s Club to hail a cab, the night we first heard that damned bastardized, Wagneresque rendition of Judy Collins’ “Send in the Clowns” blaring from every rooftop of every building in every city of every nation… the night the clowns revealed themselves for who they really are in mass… it is the looks of confusion and terror on your ridiculously naïve faces that are my driving force when I can find nothing else to fuel my soul; for I am a bitter old woman and it will soon be my time to go.

©Katie Cahill

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Photograph use under creative common license with the permission of  Tyne & Wear Archives & Museums and was obtained from Flikr Creative Commons.