Essence of literary burn out
Seems to be mine, not yours
As I etch into computer code
Many words few wish to read.
Does my pain beget pleasure?

Deborah was a beautiful redhead and I wanted to sleep with her in the worst way, and I did. Later, I had to kill her to protect myself. Let me explain:

It began a week ago, jus’ before the full moon. I met her at a family gathering, she was the date of one of my cousin’s and she and I hit it off nearly right away.

Her perfume was enough to drive any man wild and I couldn’t get enough of it. There was also that something else, a scent not identified that I also felt animalistic over.

Two days later, I ran into her at the local grocery store. We ended up going to a nearby coffee shop for what became a long afternoon of conversation.

During our conversation she explained that she had a long scar that ran from the base of her skull, clear to her tail bone. She said she’d gotten it after a car accident as a child.

“I’d love to see it one day,” I said flirting with her, immediately wishing I hadn’t the second it passed my lips.

Debbie, as she liked to be called, smiled and winked, “How about now.”

My heart leaped for exited joy. I followed her in my truck to her apartment, where we spent the entire night lustfully engaged.

The next morning I was scheduled to go into the high-desert for a geological survey. This is where things took a turn for the worst.

Being by myself, in the company of only a full moon and the stars is nothing to me. I’ve been camping and hiking and working in the wilderness by myself since I was a teenager.

This night though, there were none of the customary sounds one might expect in the desert. And the lack of noise set my nerves on end.

Then came a terrifying and terrific howl from somewhere nearby my camp site. It was a cry that I had never heard before and not being as brave as I’d like to think of myself, I decided to beat feet the high ground of Egg Rock.

This rock is as exactly as its name purports it to be, a nearly perfect shape of an egg, smooth and oval. It is also considered to be one of the more difficult boulder climbs within the rock-climbing community.

Frightened by nothing more than my gut instinct, I raced for the rock. Once there I found only a small divot in the boulder’s face.

Frantically, I searched for a second one, wasting several minutes. Meanwhile, the howling had ceased and turned into a low menacing growl.

Whatever it was, it was tracking me and I was certain I would die unless I made it to the top of the Egg. Finally, I found a second hold, then a third and fourth and then I was on top of the stone, able to look down at my surroundings.

With only the full moon to see by, I watched. Suddenly and without much sound, came looming out of the nighttime, a large wolf-like animal. It’s yellow-eyes remained fixed on me as it circled and circled, seeking a way up the natural edifice.

This continued throughout the remainder of the night and the early morning hours. I watched as the beast made pass after pass, stood on it’s hind legs, leaning against the rock as if beckoning me to come down, only to return to the circular pacing.

As the night grayed and dawn showed, I noted three things about this creature: its reddish fur, a massive scar from its nap to where the tail should be. I say should be, because this thing lacked the tail of a canine.

I finally climbed down after it raced away, fully convinced that it was not a canine, but something else entirely.

Abandoning all my gear and the job at hand, I raced to my truck and sped home. Two nights later, I was standing at my bedroom window when I saw Debbie, as she came up the sidewalk to my front door.

She knocked and I opened.

“I was hoping I had the right place,” she smiled as she entered.

“How did you find me?” I blurted out, not thinking.

Her smile changed into a slight grin as she answered, “I was afraid you might wonder about that.”

Not waiting, I drew the hunting knife tucked in my waist band and jammed it into her. By then her transformation had already begun and I had to resort to removing her head.

While Debbie’s death was neither quick nor a clean, I’m now free to shape-shift, creating that unholy chaos I know that my traditional being is meant to cause. But for right now, I need to clean up this mess.

Bought a chicken to make sandwiches. It doesn’t. It shits on the floor.

As I walked by Mister Nate’s home, he called me up onto his porch. I could tell the nonagenarian had something on his mind.

I took the cushioned rocking chair next to his.

“Son,” he started, “I jus’ got back from visiting my kids in California.”

He paused. I didn’t interrupt.

“They’ve gotten stupid,” he started, “Not only my grown children, but everyone. Wanna know why?”

I nodded yes.

“I grew up in Tennessee, during Jim Crow,” he said, “Can recall being called ‘nigger,’ the back door to diners, separate toilets and fountains.”

His wife brought out some unsweetened sun tea.

“Never tried sitting at a segregated lunch counter,” he continued, “Instead, I joined the Navy in ’44, served 20-years.”

He paused as if thinking.

“Know why I’m telling you this?” he asked.

“No,” I answered.

“Folks no longer going to the backdoor or the front door of restaurants. Instead they’re eating outside in the parking lot like hobos, bums and beggars. And they don’t even realize they’re willingly segregating themselves and not even putting up a fuss over it. Understand what I’m saying, son.”

“Yes, Master Chief,” I answered.

“I knew you would,” he said.

Since March 20, 2020, I’ve been unemployed, because of the state shutting down for a two-week  period to ‘flatten the curve’ on COVID-19. That is 150 days ago.

During this time, the company I worked for permanently closed its facility, and I’ve been unable to collect any unemployment benefits because I can’t get through either the online system or by phone.  I’ve even emailed Senator’s Catherine Cortez Masto and Jacky Rosen, as well Congressman Mark Amodei’s offices for help with this, but they can’t be bothered to respond.

On August 6, I wrote a letter to the Department of Training, Education and Rehabilitation (DETR) and as of yet, have received no response. Then yesterday morning, it was announced that Nevada’s Department of Motor Vehicle’s is increasing their hours of operation Monday through Friday’s.

Here’s the final rub: when called, DETR’s automated telephone recording states that they can only help callers with claims on “Monday’s and Wednesday’s.” Furthermore, they state that the remaining workdays are dedicated to “providing ‘information.”

Day 150 of a two-week period that is promised to flatten the curve…

Fella said his wife was an Angel that fell from Heaven. Ruined it by reminding him that’s also the Devil’s backstory.

I feel like a chocolate Easter bunny — hollow inside.

It’s been one of those mornings. Up early to take care of some outside chores before the heat becomes intolerable, but that isn’t what’s made this morning so frustrating.

First, I got out my favorite coffee cup and poured some java in it. I picked it up and the handle simply fell off, splashing hot liquid all over my still-bare legs, the kitchen floor and a nearby cabinet, not to mention breaking the cup.

Then while I was raking up dog crap like a dutiful human (pun intended,) the wooden handle came off the fan. The funny thing is that when it happened, I was leaning forward, dragging the tines towards me, causing myself to lose my balance, stepping forward on the handle and snapping it in half.

Finally, as I finished putting away the lawn mower and dragged in the garbage can filled with poop, grass clippings and such, I turned to go inside the house from my garage and the god damned door knob, which I jus’ replaced a couple weeks ago, popped off in my hand. It took me about half-an-hour to figure out why this happened and fix it.

And now, I’m afraid to go pee.

All political jokes are in bad taste because all politician’s are in taste bad.