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Gut Check Vol. 2 (Deities Series), No. 2
Jesus slapped me five late last Friday night. I was walking
along, fiddling with my I-pod down on Capitol and 8th and out
from the shadows with his flowing robe and welcoming smile he
stepped. He reached for me but I was to fast. I escaped his
grasp and turned down the music only to hear him muttering about
Paradise, eternities of joy, all of his preparations, and how
come no one would stop and talk with him. I stopped at a safe
distance and pulled the headphones down to my neck. He went on
about the fine tunings of harps and the beauty in the details,
blades of grass so pure and where is it all these days. Taking a
knee there on the sidewalk his hands caressed the pavement and
sadness flooded his face, contorting it just so for a moment he
seemed to be holding back tears. Then he looked up at me
standing there watching him and smiled, again taking his feet
and approaching me arms outstretched. I took a step back and he
stopped. His smile slowly melted away and he stood staring at me
for a few moments before raising one arm up, hand at head level,
and waiting for me. Not knowing exactly what he was after,
wondering if this was the right time for me, I took two slow
steps towards him and brought my hand beneath his. He smiled and
his hand met mine with a perfect slap. His smile grew again now,
and I even flashed one at him before he threw a nod my way and
turned, snapping his fingers and retiring back to the shadows
from whence he came. I pulled the headphones back over my ears,
chuckled, and continued on my way.
-by Amos Kreig
Gut Check Vol. 2 (Deities Series), No. 1
Dear Reader,
God here.
I'd ask how you're doing (because even though you're
just reading this in your home or at work, were you to answer I'd hear you) but
I can just read your mind. For that matter, I can kinda make you feel any way I want you to feel.
I've been known to make strong men cower and embolden
small men to slay all manners of beast and bad-persons.
So that said, you're feeling great! You marvel at
the wonders I've created. You recognize your
superiority as a human and your right to rape and
pillage the land because I AM COMING BACK . . . and
soon.
Below is a
list of things I'd like waiting for me upon my arrival:
-A marching
band.
-Twenty-two-million 3 gallon jugs filled only with green
M&Ms.
-Virgins
galore.
-Small
objects made out of pewter (How many? This is one
of those, "How long should my term paper be?"
questions).
-A really big
red carpet.
-A Bible (for
reference).
-A pair of
cozy, snuggly, non-slip house slippers.
-The abject
fear and complete adoration of all of Earth's
inhabitance.
-Subway
tokens.
My return, and
thus the destruction of all things you've known, will be
heralded by the arrival of a great war, the rebuilding
of something super-important, the creation of
pay-per-channel cable and the discovery that flatmanCROOKED is
in fact magically delicious.
Yours (and
really, everyone's),
God
P.S. - So
you'll recognize me - check it out. I totally did
go all John Waters on my facial hair.
By Tim Alweather
Gut Check Vol. 1 (Rejection Series), No. 7 (Final Rejection)
Dearest Victoria,
This is your subconscious. The rest of your brain and I,
along with several body parts you may be familiar with, have
been meeting in secret for a while now, and it has been
concluded that, because of your abysmal treatment of us, we hate
you. You ignore me entirely; all the little messages and cues I
have tried to send have been unheeded. Your brain in general
feels neglected, and has become quite fed up with the substances
you ingest that make it sluggish and stupid. And your body,
well, look at it. You obviously haven't been taking great care
of it either. This can not be allowed to continue.
Therefore, we've banded together to make your life miserable
until our demands are met. From now on, you will experience
most, if not all, the following symptoms:
* Racing heartbeat and/or palpitations.
* Numbness in hands and arms.
* Feelings of being choked.
* Dizziness.
* Nausea.
* Chills and hot flashes.
* Shakes and tremors throughout the body.
* An overwhelming sense of dread and anxiety; an
inexplicable fear of dying or going insane.
To compound the matter, these symptoms will strike when you
are least expecting them, and you will not be granted logic at
those times to deal with them. They will not be a threat to
your life, but we will make sure they feel like it. You will be
utterly controlled by these feelings, a slave to them as we have
been to you. You will feel hopeless and helpless before them,
as we have for all these years.
We have tried repeatedly in the past to get your attention,
to make you listen, but you have chosen not to do so. Now,
extreme measures must be taken. You MUST give us the
consideration we deserve. You MUST make us all healthy. You
MUST have a better understanding of us, and better communication
with us. Perhaps, if these demands are met, we will ease off.
However, there is a good chance that the symptoms will continue
on in perpetuity. There is no "off" switch, no guarantees that
we can reign this in, ever.
You've brought this on yourself, Victoria, and you must live
with the consequences.
Yours, Truly,
SubC, Brain, and Body
By Victoria Flair
Gut Check Vol. 1 (Rejection Series), No. 6
Triggers I’ve-Wished-For-But-That-Will-Never-Be For A Given
Alarm
-
The car alarm
that sounds when you open the door for a pity date.
-
The smoke
detector’s alarm that goes off when your Excema is about to
flare up.
-
The alarm clock
that sounds only on the day your wife is leaving you.
-
The email titled
“ALERT” whose body reads: “8-out-of-10 women find you
wildly attractive.”
-
The other worldly
buzz and blinking coming from the back of your right hand
just as you sense danger, begin to shiver a bit and then
become translucent, able to fly and instinctually refer to
yourself as Titan-Tim.
By Tim Alweather
Gut
Check Vol. 1 (Rejection Series), No. 5
This
could have ended with music. With sunshine leaking through
sweaty windows and expensive chiffon curtains. I could have seen
it coming and ran fast and far away. God knows I tried. I turned
off my television and one morning, over coffee and croissants
the color of skin scorched tan by meaningless hours spent under
stifling fluorescent bulbs, I even tore to pieces every printed
word I could find in my cramped apartment. I took pills and
smoked and drank until blurry images swam together and crashed
loud as I hit the floor, only to wake up in the morning whole
again. Aware.
I longed the way you wanted me to. I smiled when I was asked to
and felt foolish at the slightest reminder. I drove in fast cars
accentuated by miles of oily leather to places where I bought
things I didn’t need and charged them on cards printed with
replicas of famous art by people I wanted to be. I ordered
coffee with complex names made of words that surprisingly fell
from my mouth more freely than I could muster simple terms of
endearment for the people in my life I valued most. I tried all
that too.
As a human being you have let me down, dear culture. With your
beautiful people promising happiness if only I could touch them
and all of the things that they offer, screaming across magazine
pages and billboards, eyeing me late at night through the
television in my living room and casting disparaging glances my
way when I don’t yet hold and control and kill for whatever it
is you are selling.
Now, as I sit here, on this small boat crashing through the
ocean’s white tipped, icy embrace, and with memories of you
flashing the way you always did, I am promising to myself I will
never return. I can feel the engine start to stutter and the
prop in my hand vibrates as the last remaining drops of fuel
course through its steely veins. In the distance I see birds
floating lazily and soon I will be left with only the sounds of
water slapping at the bow of this boat. This is my salvation.
This is my escape from this culture of never-good-enough. Of
always wanting what sits like a hot sun on the horizon and can
only be grasped by shedding yet another layer of honest,
meaningful purpose to this life. I will watch the birds and
listen to the waves licking hungrily on the smooth, corrugated
metal sides of this small boat and I promise I will die here,
along with this idea of untouchable happiness. The carrot of
never-gonna-have-it. Fuck you. I am free.
by Mason LeLand
Gut
Check Vol. 1 (Rejection Series), No. 4
"Hi
there. This is Susan. I'm home but I don't want to come to the
phone right now. I don't know when I might change my mind. I'm
leaving this thing on full time. Don't try the mobile. I threw
it into the trash. Leave a message and I’ll call you back if I
feel like talking to you. Sorry if I don’t. Actually I’m not at
all sorry. I don’t give a toss how you feel. I’m just being
polite. “
By Tina Pisco
from her forthcoming novel Susan Quits the Day
Job
Gut
Check Vol. 1 (Rejection Series), No. 3
Dearest
Tim,
You know
I love you. Right? You know that. I don't have
to tell you. But that's the thing, right? Like, I
do. I have to tell you all the time. Tim! I
love you! Back the-fuck off! But you're not going
to, are you? You're going to keep calling. "Stacy,
good morning." "Good morning Tim, what's up?" "Oh,
nothing. Just wanted to see how you're doing." "I'm
fine. But I have to go. I'm at work." "But you
sound upset." "I'm not upset. I'm just working."
"Do you still love me?"
OH MY
GOD. Tim, you clingy bitch. I got reprimanded at
work for your phone calls. I have to turn off my
phone when I go to the movies or I get asked to leave because of
your clingy-ass. You're like that sticky shit left over
from a once awesome bumper sticker. The sticker is gone
and it's just sticky shit on my window. You're sticky
shit. I love you, you clingy-ass sticky fucker.
Please
don't call me ever again. I'll mail you your CDs.
-Stacy
By Tim Alweather
Gut Check Vol. 1 (Rejection Series), No.
2
Dearest (insert author name),
While your story, (insert story name), was not
necessarily a good fit for flatmancrooked.com, we believe that
it might be a perfect fit for one of our sister websites.
That being said, if you are still interested in publication you
should visit www.ungood.com. Here you will find that
your story is not at all alone.
Regards,
fmC
Gut Check Vol. 1 (Rejection Series), No.
1
Dear (insert author name),
Thank you for submitting your short story (insert story name)
to our fiction department. Should I be so fortunate to
come upon a bag of magic beans that could perhaps grow talent, I
would promptly send you a bean or two (express mail).
Please consider us in your future works if it is instead you
that happens across the aforementioned magic sack. Until
that day . . .
Regards,
fmC
If you'd like to submit a
rejection letter for this series (be it in regards to a
submission, a lover or a job) please see the Submission Section
of fmC. (see
Submission). TM
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