Nicholas De Marino
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We will, we will … provide a socially acceptable outlet for violence that’s effec-
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tively a proxy war and fosters intense hatred and bitter rivalries, just like George
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Orwell’s said in “The Sporting Spirit,” though it sure as shit beats actual war.
Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at foofaraw and nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
“But Anya says we can choose—”
“Stop right there, Beryl,” I tell my darling daughter, patting her gnarled, bony knee. “Anya’s full of you-know-what.”
“But—” she starts.
“But nothing, young lady,” I say. “Now tell me again, what are you going to do when you get in the pod?”
It’s hard to believe this dithering crone will be gone in three days.
“But I—” Beryl starts.
“But, but, but. If you keep going on about buts, your butt’s gonna fall off,” I say. “Then where will you sit?”
You can’t argue with confident nonsense. Especially when you’ve got dementia.
“Okay,” she relents, rocking her chair. “I press the button.”
“Which button?” I prompt.
“Fuchsia. The fuchsia one,” she says.
“Fuchsia” sticks better than “pink.”
“And then?”
“Type III,” she recites. “Eye-eye-eye.”
“That’s right, darling,” I say, wiping spittle from her chin. “Fuchsia. Type III. Eye-eye-eye.”
After Beryl rocks herself to sleep, I pull her baby clothes out of storage. The only thing harder than the first week is the last.
Maybe I’m lucky. All I’ve got to do is drill colors and numbers. Anya’s mother has to wrangle a rogue senior with a self-determination complex.
I hold up a pilly onsie and frown. Biotic bodies are such a hassle.
I check Beryl’s still asleep then go into maintenance mode. As my circuitry idles, I wobble my metallic heart. Just a little.
Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at foofaraw and nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
i.
Melted.
Erupted.
Crystallized.
ii.
Gnawed.
Drowned.
Entombed.
iii.
Abducted.
Desecrated.
Trafficked.
iv.
Fetishized
Strangulated.
Anathematized.
Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at foofaraw and nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
Grandma loved to tell this one. ... Forever ago, Dog barked up the OG elements: EARTH, WIND, and FIRE. It was totally dope. One day a baller thief unstrung the fibrous cords from Dog's throat. No elements? Not cool. Hades pinged her socials and caught lil' homie in the hollow earth plucking away, cords stretched over a big-ass chasm. But he dug the beats and decided they should stay. Then Dog's bad bitch Cat pulled up and the after-party started bumpin...' Anyway, that's where earthquakes come from. After she finished talking, Grandma would spit bars. She loved that old school shit.
Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at foofaraw and nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
September sun ignites snow, blinding a thawed penguin in the polar dawn. It stumbles and flails atop blue-gray glacier. A quintet of explorers laugh. You've got to appreciate the little things, pratfalls included. The penguin rights itself and waddles through their wispy, spectral forms, plunging into six months of day.
Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
<<Hey!>>
This won't be like the last job. You're going to make a difference.
<<I know you can hear me!>>
And money. You need to make money.
<<You can't ignore me forever!>>
There's no helping her. She's long gone.
BBRRRING-BBRRRING!
Thank Allah-Buddha-Christ.
“9-1-1, what's the address of the emergency?”
That might've been too chipper.
“Uh, yeah, well,” the caller stammers, “my dog got loose.”
“Sir, this is an emergency line. You — <<He sounds cute! Get his number!>> — Animal control.”
“Well, thing is,” the caller stutters. “She's kinda aggro.”
“You think she's a danger to the community?”
“Yeah,” the caller says. “She's a pit bull.”
<<A pit bull!>>
Concentrate.
“Sir, where did the dog get loose?”
<<Like Michael Vick!>>
Deep breath. Hold it. Release.
“500 block — <<It's a dog fighting ring!>> — Street,” the caller says. “Up by Green.”
“You said the 500 block of Green Street?”
<<Send the SWAT team!>>
“No, Birch Street, by Green Street,” the caller says. “Look, I don't —”
Stick to the script.
“Sir — <<Let's get this fucker!>> — I, um, what's your name?”
CLICK.
<<What a jerk!>>
Enough.
“Look, if you shut up at work, you can talk as much as you want at home.”
“Who are you talking to?” asks the dispatcher at the next desk.
“Myself.”
<<Hey, he's kinda cute!>>
Why's it so hard to make a living?
“CAREFUL,” my Great Old Man howls as I hook piscine lip and mouth profane incantation, not-my-hand, not —
“My hand!” I squeal. Dad erupts in miasmal laughter below ophidian whiskers.
“I SAID 'CAREFUL,'” he bays and thunderclaps me on the back.
Dad's baited hook tears like a comet through the void. Mine floats until my heart sinks, then drags unfathomable depths.
We slumber for aeons. Such is fishing.
My line jolts, then ululates. I strain against the unseen force.
“EASY DOES IT,” Dad bellows.
“I can't!” I screech.
The conflagrations below his cordilleran brow freeze my blood. I flail with impenitent fury!?
At last—Victory!—my prize spools down to the ocean floor. Nothing titanic, but no mere rowboat. The gnarled vessel shimmers, impossibly glabrous.
“AHA HA-HA-HA!” Dad roars as I unknot the netting. He pries open the steely sepulcher and we swallow sallow meatthings.
Dad's line yanks taut. With a single flick and torrent of current, an amalgam of maculate tubing sinks nearby.
Dad's features contort in a horrifying labyrinth of mirth. He lifts the crumpled oil rig and wolfs down effluent. Viscous brown-black blobs speckle his bloated tentacles.
He proffers a swig.
“THIS'LL PUT SUCKERS ON YOUR CHEST,” he booms.
“But Mom said...,” I squeak.
Another abysmal look.
I choke down my first sip of fossil fluid and cough, wheeze, clutch, can't–can't—
“AHA HA-HA-HA!” Dad roars, thunderclapping me again, ungumming my gills.
I look up at this hulking, unimaginable form and contemplate my own impending Great Old One-hood.