Bag of Sand's Stories

The Spots

2008-08-24T22:04:38Z

As County Attorney, it was J. Edmund Wakefield’s job to officially determine people dead. It was never a tough job, and this case was no exception.

“So the wife cuts her wrists in the bathtub and the husband comes in and finds her,” an officer whose name Wakefield could not place, said, reading from his notes. “Then, as near as we can tell, a struggle ensues, she runs him through with the towel wrack – that must have taken some muscle – he falls on the bed in their bedroom and she crawls out into the living room and bleeds to death. The paperboy saw her body this morning.”

“So we’ve got blood in the bathtub?”

“Buckets.”

“A dead husband on the bed?”

“The towel wrack was circular. That’s why the stain is an oval like that.”

“And she dies in the living room?”

“Yup. That’s the mess you’re looking at now.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope. Seems pretty open and shut to me.”

Wakefield had a nasty feeling start in his intestines and spread like a stain.

“Open and shut,” he said. “I guess so.”

The Spot Spreads

2008-08-23T03:24:43Z

The final instance of bloody spots appearing in the house again showed with no warning, a deadly storm with no wind.

For weeks since the bathroom incident, Karen had taken to lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling. Sam had consulted the police, detectives, psychics, and even e-mailed a science podcast searching for some sort of reasonable explanation. No one had any idea why one minute everything was normal and the next minute, Sam’s healthy, unwounded wife was covered in blood.

Sam had promised to help and Karen had reminded him over and over. When he couldn’t help, she started lying on the floor.

“You can’t help me,” she spit out one night, the sound of her voice dampened by her angle.

“I’m trying,” he replied.

“You promised,” she said, and when she got up, the spot was there, crimson and urgent. Then it started to spread.

Sam, not knowing what to do, jumped on the couch and watched the blood with no source spread in concentric circles.

Karen looked at the gory spot and laughed.

The Spot Moves

2008-08-18T03:38:45Z

Two weeks after Karen had thrown her matress to the curb after failing to kill the spot with bleach, it appeared again in a diluted form. The stress of finding a bloody spot on her bed, and being unable to locate a cause for the spot brought stress upon Karen that could only be broken by long, hot baths. And it was during such a bath, with steam overtaking the mirrors and slicking the tiles, that the spot appeared again.

Sam was nearby this time, reading in the bedroom when Karen screamed. The narrative was clear by the tone, pitch and longevity of the scream. While it was shocking, it was not surprising to find Karen naked and trembling, a bathtub tinged deep red with blood behind her.

Again he checked her for wounds and found none, save her mental state. Karen described her fear of The Spot as a dead hand reaching into her innermost being and ripping out chunks. She didn’t sleep that night, nor the night after.

“Help me,” she asked Sam.

“I’m going to figured this out,” he said.”If it kills me.”

The Spot

2008-08-13T03:38:56Z

Karen first noticed the spot when she was making the bed. Sam was in the shower, the water insulating him from the shriek. It wasn’t until he pulled the towel from his head that he heard his name desperately being called.

Sprinting up the stairs to the bedroom, he burst in and found a bloody circle, roughly the size of a bowling ball in the middle of the bed.

“Where did this come from,” Karen asked.

Steve stammered and immediatly looked at his girlfriend in a panic. His mind swam until logic drained the pool.

“Take off your clothes.”

“What?”

“I want to make sure you’re not bleeding.”

Each stripped and examined each other, combing over each other’s bodies and finding nothing. The dog came next, with no wound, cut, lasceration or gouge to be found on any living creature in the home.

They were safe, but there it was – a big bloody circle on the sheets, still wet and glistening in the morning sun, a crimson puzzle with no answer. They were safe, but they never felt that way ever again.

The Moment It Almost Ended

2008-08-09T17:09:09Z

As the credits rolled, he turned to her, eyes wide and expectant.

“So, what did you think?”

“Eh.”

He blinked, and his brow forrowed.

“Eh? I just showed you The Godfather, one of the greatest American films ever made and you say ‘eh’?”

“I thought it was too long.”

“Too…too long? Are you out of your mind? You don’t build a tapestry of character and channel the American immigrant experience through the prism of the mafia in 90 minutes. You don’t get scenes like the garlic slicing scene in 90 minuts.”

“Yeah, what was the point of that.”

“Are you being dense?”

“Your ears are getting red.”

“Yeah, my ears are red because my girlfriend fails to appreciate movies with real character. What, did Michael Corleone need to blow up a hospital for you to appreciate what a great movie this is?”

“OK, you’re over reacting.”

“I am not over reacting! You being vapid to piss me off!”

With that, she packed an overnight bag and went to stay with a friend and he watched The Godfather Part 2.

656 Feet Down

2008-07-24T03:27:58Z

“No, it’s not even close to the worst place I’ve ever slept. Actually, the sleeps not bad. It’s definitely not the worst thing.”

“Really?”

“I’ll tell ya, boy, there’s nothing better after a long day on your feet than a hammock. Not a damn thing.”

“Huh. What’s the worst part then.”

“The worst part of life on a submarine isn’t the stink or the constant pressure outside or the grub. Not even close. The worst part is when the captain calls you to battle stations and then clams up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Think about it, boy. You’re working on the engine, or somethin’ and the captain gets on the horn and says “run silent, battlestations.” You know something’s out there but you don’t know what other than it wants to kill you and all your friends. You dn’t know if its on top of you or underneath you or about to blow you up. If it hits you, you won’t know until your lungs pop. That’s the worst part.”

“How do you deal with it?”

“You cling to your friends and if you can’t, you go crazy.”

Monkey Versus Robot, Part 3

2008-07-21T02:34:30Z

After 10 minute of battle, both The Monkey and The Robot were facing defeat.

The Monkey’s left paw was smashed and unusable, making escape through vines impossible. His left leg gushed blood from a perfectly circular wound in his lower thigh. His left cheek featured a bruise with an alarming radius, but he felt strong and capable.

The Robot was equally damaged, his right arm gone as The Monkey had ripped it off and beaten him with it. The Robot had not anticipated that The Monkey would use weapons, and had been ill prepared. Still, he had landed some crushing blows to The Monkey, and his power level remained high.

As the two rushed at each other again, The Monkey bellowing, The Robot silent, a strange but unmistakable sound in the underbrush struck fear into the hearts of the two warriors. They looked skyward, as if willing the battle to go a different way.

But neither warrior, no matter how skilled or bent on revenge or thirsty for blood or oil, was any match for the giant right foot of Godzilla.

Monkey Versus Robot, Part 2

2008-07-21T02:04:50Z

They say robots have no memories. They are wrong.

The robot remembered each and every monkey crushed by his mechanical hands. He remembered their cries as he strangled them, remembered their desperate attemps to claw and scratch. He remembered their faces, stored deep in his memory banks and kept for further replay.

Ever since a lightning strike had given him a semblance of awareness, the robot hated monkeys. They were filthy, they were unpredictable, they threw their own poo at the robot. They needed to be destroyed.

The robot worked methodically, clearing monkeys from the north, then the south. He would kill those who attacked quickly, drag the women off for a slower death and then return for children not smart enough to run. One kill had been particularly memorable, as a child had watched the robot pull the clawing mother into the underbrush.

All scans indicated that monkey had returned and wanted to fight. It mattered little to the robot. If you have killed one monkey, you’ve killed them all.

Monkey Versus Robot, Part 1

2008-07-21T01:59:01Z

They say monkeys have no memories. They are wrong.

Monkey remembered the sound his mother made as the robot drug her off into the jungle 8 years ago. Her eyes pleaded with him to run, while expressing the fear of the pain that was to come. She knew her fur would soon be ripped from her hide. The Monkey never forgot that sound, never forgot that look.

He used that look to become stronger and faster than any other monkey. He had that look in his mind when he destroyed BoBo, breaking his skull open with a rock to become the leader of their tribe. The look inspired him to swing further in search of the infernal machine that haunted his dreams.

And at last, he had found the machine alone and unmoving in the jungle. None of The Monkey’s tribe had been strong enough to follow. It was he alone that would fight. He alone that would destroy.

He was strong, broad chested and fast. He could kill the machine.

His battle cry was long and shrill. The robot stirred. The Monkey’s life had built to this moment.

One More, Then To Bed

2008-07-15T02:56:47Z

He stumbled just a bit with the card, the price of four beers in two hours, but eventually found the security lock. The light clicked green and he whipped back around. She hadn’t moved a muscle.

All at once, it spilled from his lips, forcibly, almost against his will. He leaned toward her ear, and whispered, fast and close, expelling his mind into her ear.

“Vous êtes bel et si j’ai eu l’hasard pour toucher votre peau, je tout ferais dans mon pouvoir pour faire vous vous sentez que vous êtes beau.”

He backed away. She was sparkling.

“What did you say?”

“If I tell you, we’ll both be in a lot of trouble.”

“What did you say?”

“This is your last chance. Don’t ask again.”

She leaned forward so the space between them was inperceptable.

“What did you say?”

“To parahrase, I said you are incredibly beautiful, and if I had the chance to touch you, I would make you feel every bit of your beauty.”

She staggered and grinned.

“If you had the chance?”

The door shut hard behind them.

Why We Threw Out The Couch

2008-07-14T03:47:19Z

“911, what’s your emergency.”

“Yeah, there’s a dude in my house.”

“Please repeat that sir.”

“There’s a dude. He’s in my house, I don’t know who he is.”

“Is the man threatening you or your family?”

“No, he’s asleep on the couch. And he’s snoring.”

“He’s asleep?”

“For the time being. I aint waking him up ‘till you folks get here.”

“We’re on the way, sir. Please stay on the phone with me until officers arrive.”

“OK. What’chu want me to talk about?”

“Can you describe the man?”

“Yes. He’s about 6 feet tall, he’s buck naked and he’s on my couch.”

“Does he have any distinguishing marks?”

“Yeah, he’s got a strawberry birthmark on his right butt cheek. His butt’s real hairy, but I’m pretty sure that’s what it is. He also likes Doritos.”

“Sir, how do you…”

“Cause he broke into my house, ate up all my Doritos and fell asleep bare assed naked on my couch! Are the officers on their way.”

“Sir, please don’t yell.”

“I can wake this dude up if I want to. It’s my house.”

Why We Threw Out The Couch

2008-07-14T03:47:01Z

“911, what’s your emergency.”

“Yeah, there’s a dude in my house.”

“Please repeat that sir.”

“There’s a dude. He’s in my house, I don’t know who he is.”

“Is the man threatening you or your family?”

“No, he’s asleep on the couch. And he’s snoring.”

“He’s asleep?”

“For the time being. I aint waking him up ‘till you folks get here.”

“We’re on the way, sir. Please stay on the phone with me until officers arrive.”

“OK. What’chu want me to talk about?”

“Can you describe the man?”

“Yes. He’s about 6 feet tall, he’s buck naked and he’s on my couch.”

“Does he have any distinguishing marks?”

“Yeah, he’s got a strawberry birthmark on his right butt cheek. His butt’s real hairy, but I’m pretty sure that’s what it is. He also likes Doritos.”

“Sir, how do you…”

“Cause he broke into my house, ate up all my Doritos and fell asleep bare assed naked on my couch! Are the officers on their way?”

“Sir, please don’t yell.”

“I can wake this dude up if I want to. It’s my house.”

Why We Threw Out The Couch

2008-07-14T03:46:37Z

“911, what’s your emergency.”

“Yeah, there’s a dude in my house.”

“Please repeat that sir.”

“There’s a dude. He’s in my house, I don’t know who he is.”

“Is the man threatening you or your family?”

“No, he’s asleep on the couch. And he’s snoring.”

“He’s asleep?”

“For the time being. I aint waking him up ‘till you folks get here.”

“We’re on the way, sir. Please stay on the phone with me until officers arrive.”

“OK. What’chu want me to talk about?”

“Can you describe the man?”

“Yes. He’s about 6 feet tall, he’s buck naked and he’s on my couch.”

“Does he have any distinguishing marks?”

“Yeah, he’s got a strawberry birthmark on his right butt cheek. His butt’s real hairy, but I’m pretty sure that’s what it is. He also likes Doritos.”

“Sir, how do you…”

“Cause he broke into my house, ate up all my Doritos and fell asleep bare assed naked on my couch! Are the officers on their way.”

“Sir, please don’t yell.”

“I can wake this dude up if I want to. It’s my house.”

Giving Blood

2008-04-01T03:31:35Z

Things were going great until she got to the question and answer part or the process.

Giggles escaped her lips when he made a joke, her neck blushed red when he remarked on her necklace, and their mutual philanthropic interests only made the flirting more fulfilling.

She had pricked his finger (“This might sting.” “I think I can handle it), taken his blood pressure and placed the paper strip thermometer under his tongue, her neck getting a deeper and deeper scarlet.

But in order to ensure blood safety, there’s a set of questions. That’s where the trouble began.

“Have you ever had a skin matter graft?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had Babsiosis?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had sex, even once, with another man since 1977?”
“Um…once, but it was after drinking waaaaay too much.”
She paused for a long, long time.
“Have you ever exchanged drugs or money for sex, even once, since 1977.”
Allen hung his head.
“Yeah.”

It might have been his imagination, but the needle stick seemed to really sting this time.

Size 12 1/2

2008-02-28T04:51:54Z

The only thing worse than sweating at night was when the dirt stuck to that sweat, creating a fragrance suitable for gagging. Amy had been working hard, but the dirty sweat paste was grossing her out.

She wiped her brow with a filthy blue dish towel and stepped back, almost tripped over the damn thing.

It had been his, obviously. Aside from the fact she didn’t wear boots hardly at all, she could probably fit booth her feet in that Wolverine Work Boot. Then, there had been the times when she’d heard the hard rubber soles stomping across her floor and been filled with desire. Then trepedation. Then dread.

The boot had belonged to the right foot of the guy who used to kick her in the stomach, stealing wind and pride. It belonged to the right foot of the guy who dented her Impala in anger in front of her mother. It belonged to the right foot of the guy who had held her down and raped her when she tried to leave.

There it was, splayed out on the dirt.

The things you forget when you bury a guy.