Life on Another Planet

I watched the sun cook the corpse before me as I sat drooling all over myself. Another human, another delicious meal.

For whatever reason, these strange human creatures kept coming here in flying machines wearing white suits. They trotted all over my beautiful yard and sometimes even had the audacity to take some of my yard and put it in a little container to take with them. That’s what this one tried doing. I spotted him near the sand beds surrounding my favorite rock before I tore his white suit off and watched his eyeballs pop out and his bones turn to mush. The sweet mush which give the tendons a little spice to my meals on Mars.

And now here I sit watching my meal prepare itself for consumption. I wish he’d hurry up and cook already. I knew there were other hungry creatures around that wouldn’t hesitate to steal my meal.

And as if the Great Sky God read my thoughts, the human was ready for my tummy.

I was halfway through his bowels when I heard shouting nearby.

“Get off him!”

“What the hell are you doing?”

I looked over my shoulder at two other white suited blockheads bounding towards me.

“Fuck off!” I said.

“No!”

“Please?” I begged.

“No! Oh my god.. Oh my god… David, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“I think so,” the other one said.

I turned around to face them as they studied me closely. What’re they gunna do, put me in one of their test tubes? Better not. I’ll eat them. Hell, I’m going to eat them anyways.

“What’re you two staring at, huh? Never seen a martian before?” I said.

“You-You’re…”

I was losing my patience. “Spit it out!”

“You’re Carl Sagan!”

How did they know my name? Too much talking, time to pop their eyeballs out.

The two humans looked at each other then back at me. Just then, another white suit came barreling around the corner in some motorized scooter.

The scooter parked next to me and its rider looked me up and down.

“Carl?” it said in a strange tone. “It’s me, Stephen, Stephen Hawking. Class of ’49, remember?”

I tore his white suit off and ate his face. The other two humans ran but I caught up with them and ate their faces as well.

I remembered. But Stephen was such a dork, I had to eat him.

Life on Mars has been a lot more fun than I expected. Hope to get more visits from humans soon.

-From a torn page of Carl Sagan’s Journal circa 1972

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Daily Prompt: Torturing Annabelle

Write a story or post with an open ending, and let your readers invent the conclusion.

I fingered the carving of the bullhead on the wooden stock of the carbine, listening to the wet smacks of fists against flesh. Kevin had been at this chick for the last hour. He never said a word, only letting his fists do the talking. That is, until he called my name.

“Ed, get your ass over here.”

I stood and made my way towards Kevin.

“Idiot!” he said. “Bring the fucking gun with you!”

I quickly snatched up the rifle and appeared next to Kevin, staring down at the helpless soul tied to a iron pipe that ran from the floor to the ceiling.

“Hit her,” Kevin said.

I brought the butt of the rifle down hard against her face.

“Again.”

This time it met with the bridge of her nose sending blood and chunky clots shooting down the front of her face and bare chest.

“Again. Harder.”

I held the rifle like a golf club and swung with all my strength. The stock of the gun smacked into her mouth, crushing teeth and bone. It sounded like snapping a CD in half.

The womans head had swung violently from the blow before settling her chin back on her chest, blood still coming down like water through the gutter. I said, “What should I do now?”

Kevin was smiling. “Shoot her in the fucking head.”

My eyes went wide. We weren’t supposed to kill her. That wasn’t part of the plan. All we had to do was send her into a coma and have her body back at the house before her kids got home from school.

I swallowed hard. “But our orders were-”

“Fuck the orders!”

I removed the rag from my back pocket and wiped her blood and skin off the rifle. A thousand thoughts ran through my head. You never disobey orders from the top. But Kevin was a psycho who acted without restraint and I can only guess what he’d do if I refused…

Weekly Photo Challenge: Pop-Tart

Look at this photograph. Examine the exotic sugar rubies coating the surface pairing well with the marshmallow-white frosting. This elite double team of oral pleasure compliments the freshly baked crust harvested from the wheat fields at the base of Mt. Kilimanjaro. The ingredients are then flown to Venice where specialists examine the acquired goods and, if they’re of only the most exceptional quality, they give the green light for production. Mixed, shaken, baked, sprinkled, and cooled, the finished products endure the packaging process in an underground cellar in Paris where F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote Tender is the Night. One sample is pulled from the batch and flown on a private jet from an unknown hangar at an unspecified time to parliament where the decadent treat is heavily scrutinized by a board of aristocrats and the Royal Family. If visually appealing, it makes it to phase two of inspection.

The individual bestowed with the responsibility of tasting the pastry is chosen by the people of the world. Ballots are cast and collected from all reaches of the earth from the Sandwich Islands to North Dakota and the tribes of Budapest. The United Nations serve as a type of electoral college who also perform a full physical on the elected taste tester. After being knighted by the queen of England, the Chosen One is ready for the tasting ceremony.

The ceremony takes place at the Vatican in the presence of one first grade class, one UPS deliveryman, a Professor of History (also serving as a scribe to record this momentous event), one scientist, five randomly selected civilians from around the globe, and the Dalai Lama. The Chosen One is clad in only a white silk robe and has their head shaved and tattooed. The world waits. Will it taste good?

The Chosen One removes the treat from a gold platter lined with diamonds and sapphires. Sniffs it. Mouth waters. Brings it to their mouth and takes a generous bite. Those in attendance are at the edge of their seats, some begin to perspire. The Chosen One chews for a solid two minutes to fully exhaust their sense of taste. If the pastry is of the most exceptional quality, the Chosen One will drop dead. The first grade class put their hands together and pray that the Chosen One dies. Everyone wants the Chosen One dead so bad. “Don’t ruin this for us,” the UPS man thinks. The Chosen One swallows, loses his footing, and falls to the floor. The Chosen One is dead.

Everyone shoots to their feet, roaring with applause. Tears are shed for the martyr that has given the world its greatest gift. A moment of silence for the Chosen One. Moment over. The United Nations alert Kellogg’s that production of Pop-Tarts is to commence immediately. The world weeps collective tears of ecstasy. Babies are born and named after famous flavors. Cookies n Cream, Raspberry, Blueberry, Hot Fudge Sundae, strawberry, AND PLAIN. I rushed to the market searching for a box of Pop-Tarts. I snatched the Strawberry off the shelf and ran out of the store without paying. Sorry. I get home and back-flip up the stairs to the kitchen, rip open the box and unwrap my nutritious breakfast. I fix my eyes on this glorious sight. I cry. I cry because this work of art and personification of the divine is sacrificing itself so that I may, for the briefest of moments, satisfy my empty stomach. In memory of strawberry Pop-Tart 2/1/2013 1:30 PM – 2/1/2013 1:34 PM. 

An Offer I Couldn’t Refuse

While on vacation in Washington I decided to drive up to Seattle to celebrate my birthday. Now, turning 25 really isn’t that big of a deal. And if it is, I must be missing something. The only significance appeared to be the fact that I was even closer to 30, I was single, no solid career, and several credits short of a college degree. Despite all this, my birthday was still my special day and I was going to make a big deal out of turning 25.

At the hotel I showered, shaved, and dressed in the flashiest outfit I had in my suitcase. I checked myself out in the mirror, combed my dark hair over to one side, plucked a couple rogue brow hairs, and tested out a few flirtatious smiles. That last part didn’t work too well. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t crack a decent smile. They all seemed to say, “come home with me and nobody will ever see you again.”

Oh well.

I checked my wallet. I needed to stop by the cash machine in the lobby. Since the room was charged to my card, I decided to get started on a little pregame. I opened the black mini fridge and gazed at the assortment of alcoholic beverages. A wave of relief seemed to trickle down my body and through my bones. Tonight was going to be a good night. I snagged three mini bottles of the Jack Daniel’s honey whiskey and sat on the edge of the bed. I unscrewed the cap of one and downed it in a few seconds. While my throat was still on fire, I opened the next bottle and poured that right down my gullet. I squeezed my eyes shut as the burning sensation caused them to water. I blew out a small breath before I freed the lid of the last bottle. I stared at the pirate caricature on the bottle and whispered, “to you, captain Jack,” and sucked down the sweet liquid.

I felt the blood creep up to my face as I stood up. I looked in the mirror and smiled at the reflection. Much better, I thought. I checked my cellphone before stuffing it in my pocket. No new messages. I slipped on some shoes, switched off the lights, and made my way down to the lobby.

I left the ATM with a few hundred bucks. I exited the hotel. It was already getting dark and it wasn’t even dinner time. I started walking down the street to one of the local bars an employee at the hotel told me about. Halfway there, a black woman stepped out in front of me. I stopped in my tracks, apologized, and started to walk around her. She, too, sidestepped to block my path. I looked up at her. “Excuse me,” I said.

“No, no, excuse me!” she said. “Oh, you know me, always finding a way to keep people from getting to where they need to be.”

I let out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, for sure. Goodbye now.” I began to walk around her and again, she stepped in front of me.

“Sir, I’ll suck yo’ diiiick.”

“What?” I said.

She looked from side to side and started picking her nose. “I don’t normally do this type of thang but hey, I’ll suck yo’ diiick. I’ll suck it good and dry for two dollas. I’ll suck it for tree dollas.”

I started to laugh. This was a joke. “Tree dollars?” I asked. “How much is that exactly?”

She began to growl and scratch her head with both hands. “Gimme yo’ dick! Lemme suck it! I want money!” she cried.

I had a feeling this wasn’t a joke. I was dealing with a crackwhore and I wasn’t so sure what to do. How was one supposed to politely decline a blowjob? I’ve never been approached by a woman offering to blow me for money. Especially not by a woman who looked like she hadn’t bathed for weeks with dirt in her hair, stains and tears in her clothes. God, she reeked.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I have to be getting to the bar now,” I smiled. “It’s my birthday.”

“Happy birthday, nigga!”

This caught the attention of a couple people who were talking near us. I quickly exchanged glances wearing my best “please help me” look on my face. It didn’t work.

“Thanks,” I mumbled. I started to feel light headed. The JD was starting to hit me a bit harder.

“I’ll give you a special deal since it’s ya birthday.”

“Oh yeah?” I said with feigned excitement.

She nodded and leaned over to whisper to me. She said I could put it in her butt. I shuddered.

“You know what, I just met you and I don’t know if I really want to do that right now,” I said. She looked up at me with big puppy eyes looking as if she was about to cry. “Don’t take it personally, I just planned to spend my birthday over at the bar and get smashed.”

Then she began to cry. “Please lemme suck yo’ dick. Please. I need crack. Oh baby, baby.. I need my crack.” She then walked up to me, rested her head against my chest, and wrapped her arms around me. Her sobs grew louder and longer with each passing second. I shushed her and awkwardly patted her back with one hand. The woman then started spewing out huge, wet, nasty coughs into my new shirt.

“Easy!” I said. She seemed to settle down a bit. I felt terrible. I haven’t felt this bad since that summer in high school when I took a girl out on a date and she crapped her pants at the movie theater. I tried settling her down by telling her it was all going to be alright.

“It ain’t gunna be ‘ight. I need crack,” she said.

“I know, I know.” I then began running my hand through her nappy ass hair. “Everything’s going to be ok.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Yes,” I assured her.

“How?” she asked.

I then pulled her hair behind her ear and whispered, “I don’t use lube. Get ready to make some money.”