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Sir,
I guess I should get the big secret out there first. I am nuts. Ha, see I can at least laugh at myself. The problem with being crazy is not the moniker, but actually the anonymity until your cover is blown. Sounds crazy doesn’t it? Exactly my point. People are unforgiving until they believe. You MUST believe that somewhere in my mind something isn’t quite right. Once you do, all my foibles, follies, well, blunders, can be forgiven. Until you realize there are bats pooping in my belfry, you get upset with me, you frown, you mistrust. Had I millions I could be promoted from crazy to eccentric. I don’t have millions, but I get by. Currently I come up with ideas for video games. You don’t believe me do you? No, of course not. How could a woman who keeps only Kleenex in her purse actually contribute to society? Well just because I fall under the umbrella of unbalanced, it doesn’t mean I can’t function? I have ideas, loads of them. Most are discarded, but I type them up anyway. Not convinced? I’m not surprised. Ever heard of Guitar Hero? Of course you haven’t, but believe me. Every electronics store in the world has a demo if it out right now. I didn’t invent it, but I came up with the idea that became FreQuency. I sold it to a company, and have broken my contract telling you this. Anyway, a couple of iterations later and boom, you have Guitar Hero. Oh well, the money is gone, so who cares right?
Continue reading ‘Letters From The Edgy’
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Dana hung up the phone and stood at the bedroom window. She looked out over the dock to her brother waiting next to the idling shore boat. Behind her, Stan lumbered up the stairs. He took one deliberately slow step after another, allowing the echo of each stomp to resound throughout the house.
Stan stopped at the landing and looked up the hall toward the bedroom. A pool of light bled into the hallway, and he watched for shadows. Inside the bedroom, Dana eyed her coat that was draped over the recliner, focusing on the pocket holding the gun. Another thump coming from the hallway, then another. Dana turned and met Stan’s eyes as he entered the room. He was an imposing figure - six feet four inches tall, but another inch or so with his work boots which he insisted wearing everywhere – even around the house. He had thinning black hair which was drawn back to a weak pony tail. An unkempt goatee punctuated an otherwise handsome face that, at one time, Dana mistook as kind. “Who was on the phone?” Stan asked, picking at his fingernails with a match book cover. This was how the attacks always started. Dana knew his questions held no more relevance than her answers. Two weeks prior Stan stormed into the room and asked “Who ate the last of the cereal?!?” That simple query was the spark of outburst that left Dana with a black eye and a dislocated shoulder. Over the years Dana had tried being sweet, tough, loving, even crazy, but each charade ended the same way. So now she just said whatever came to mind. This time she told the truth. “Peter.” Dana said. “It was Peter on the phone.” Stan’s brow narrowed as he spoke, “Did you tell your brother that he doesn’t need to call here everyday? Did you tell him I can take care of my own damn wife? Did ya?!? His bloodshot eyes drilled into Dana’s. She held his gaze. “The subject didn’t come up.” Dana said. “What did you say?!?” Stan said, leaning toward her. Dana backed up a half of a step, keeping herself in line with the recliner.
Continue reading ‘Enough’
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