Day One

Wright's bullet exited his gun faster than the speed of sound and burst Simmons' head open like a dropped tomato. Blood and headguts ejected from the fresh smoking hole in his head. It was like watching a flower bloom in the morning. Simmons fell to the ground in centipede slow motion: feet, knees, waist then neck. The air smelled like gunpowder brains and skin. It was a good smell. It was the smell of success, the smell of breathing for another day. It was the smell of Mika's happiness.
Wright whistled to Selecta, "Message Scopes. Tell him that we managed Simmons." Selecta nodded her understanding and snapped her beetle to attention. She peppered it with her sachel of spices. The beetle responded and it carried her off, scuttling across the sand to the Union Station. Wright hostlered his gun and took out his Sharknife and cut off Simmon's ear. He added it to his belt, looping it via Simmons' Armada ear ring. It jingled against the other ears, the ones that were smaller, baked and salted by the sun. He took some spices out his his satchet and jingled them in his hand. His beetle, Mephisto, crawled out from under the earth and shook herself. Wright patted her horn and mounted her. He gave her more spice to indicate that he wanted to go to the Axelrod. He licked his cracked lips. The drinks would refresh him. He scanned the children's room sky. Nothing in sight. No gyros, no radio birdmen, no skyapes. Contented, he set off.



Ash burned Selecta's face as she and her beetle scurried across the Smoke Plains. Union Station was relatively close, 2 hours straight, if she rode in the shade of the Rail Project, but the Smoke Plains were safer for her. Alterbus Wright paid her good money, but they were both unlicensed managers and the DoC wasn't fond of that. So she stuck to the Smoke Plains.

Axelrod sprawled out of the desert like a maligilant weed. It was created decades ago, during the great coal rush. Workers came from

Axelrod was a mangy patchwork of a pity. On the Western outskirts were the bones of a decades old mana harvesters. They were dilapidated half domes covered in dead ether tendrils. They were frozen mid movement, appearing to look like ragged hair instead like effecient tools. Some farmers stayed there after the crash, trying to churn some mana out of the air or soil, but the dividents were sparse. Where the air onced burst with life, it now smelled racid and Godless. The eastern section of the city was the polar opposite. It teamed with life and money. They called it New Steel, after the metal economy grown bythe Rail Project. Work not done gratis by the Tinfolk of the Chinese was funneled by Domionion reps to local foremen. The the help that they needed was enourmous and varied. Hextionists magicked the rail, hoping to starve off curses from the States or potential golumnization that had occured near Temblock. The Temblock golumn put back the Rail Project several months, causing the Domion to bleed moeny to get back to speed. Constructionists and forgers strengthened the rails, insuring that when Artemis was functional and made its way past the city that the rails wouldn't buckle under the stress. The Dominion paid the workers with heavy coin, the slaves with high grade whores. But what seperated Alexrod from other industrial towns along the Project like Temblock or Packerton was the Empress.
The Empress was the economical hub of Axelrod. It was Mayor Treble's project after the Mana-crash. He wanted the city to keep clockwork and not evaporate like others after the crash. A trading port, hotel and market streched into a scythe curved tower. Mana scientists magicked the tower into holding its impossible shape, while sacrificies to the twin Luck Queens kept money flowing into the city. Cloudhooks and skylarks would dock at the bottom of the curve while their crews could supply themselves with wares and arrange opportunities for quick coin. At night, the Empress would be illuminated for dozens of klicks by a large neon green sign announcing its name in a babel of languages. Even the blind knew the name. Axelrod was a dirty city and money and opportunity flowed through it like blood. Wright hated it.

He waited for Selecta in their usual job after a management, the Sliced Thumb. It was an old underground tavern burroghed deep beneath the Empress where a Queenery once swarmed with life. Because of its past, it was a great place for wanders to keep their beetles. The soil in the caverns was rich and soft, perfect for sleep and feeding. The cantina was filled with a mixed sort. Burned out bear riders hunched in corners, empty husks of soldiers, slowly waiting to die. The rougher workers from New Steel would visit if they were looking for trouble or extra coin. Clockworkers toiled away on their creations between drinks. Air travelers would find company or fresh meet for new outputs. There was always energy in the bar. Wright occupied himself with a drink and a message from Mika that he received from the wire.
CONTST TODY. THNK IL D OK. MS U. ND U. CM BK SN!

He read it over and overa gain, filling the missing letters and exchanging it with her voice. How long will it be? Another two months?
"Congratulations," Selecta said from behind him, breaking his concentration. " Your bank account is pregnent. Scopes is the pa, and his load is mighty."
Wright nodded. "How thick we talking?"
"Fresh cow cream. The man's oiling you up, Alterbus, but you don't need me to tell you to bend over."
"Next time you go to Union Station, tell him to that I have staint scrape for him and I want him to shove it up his ass. We've sparked too much with Armada. Money aside, we can't afford to spark shit with them. I don't want to be a holy man, dig?"
"He's adamant. Says that the cream's a taste of the job. Says that it'll pay mighty."
"Mighty generous. Tell him I send my thanks, but no thanks."
Wright downed his beer and started to leave but was stopped by Selecta's hand on his shoulder. She showed him her closed hand, buzzing with life. Wright knew that Scopes meant business. Selecta held a mouth bee.
"Like I said, he's adament. Wants a meeting in the basement of your brain."
"And...?"
Selecta jingled her spice sack.
"A little bit of column a and a little bit of column bee and you're head'll be hollowed out. It's up to you."
"Sounds like he oiled you up too." She smiled an ivory grin.
"There's fat dollars in my purse and it needs to go on a diet. After you visit Scopes I'm going to help it lose weight by helping me find some release. You're a man. You understand release." She handed the bee to Wright and he tilted his head back and snorted it. At first, he felt a small buzz of vibration as it worked its way up his sinus into his skull. Then, he felt nothing. Wright started to drink, to kill time. One never knew when the bee would do its work. Then there was a spark pain in the back of his head and the room started to shutter like a moth's wing.
"See you on the flip," Selecta's voice said, distending and straining. Colours brightened and the room began to implode. The smokey skin of the room faded out and was replaced with the electrical hues of the Basement. Scopes was waiting there already, slumped into a fleshy chair grown from the room. Wright started to sit and as he did so, the ground pulsed with electricity and thought. By the time his knees were bent, he found himself sitting in a chair much like Scopes. Scopes stared at Wright with his eyeless sockets. ?He was all business.
"We have a management issue for you, Wright."
"Better not be another Armada one. They'll get fierce and they'll get fast if we don't sit some down for a bit."
"Crickets and fires. You're done with Armada for the moment. Your management helped us elevate a mole. That'll keep the sun out of your eyes for a while. Things will stay cool. You're no lizard."
"So why the quick business? I usually get some down for a bit. There's shit I need to take care of. Snap quick, move like a lunatic."
"Your situation with Mika is well known to us."
"Fuck you."
"You're going about it the wrong way, you know. Chemicals and surgery? There's better options for her situation. Do what we want and you'll be in the black all your life. Money talks, bullshit walks, right? You're always about coin."
"Bullshit's walking this evening, and it's taking the long and winding road."
Wright started to move out of his chair and the room started to dim and fade as the smells of the ar became stronger.
"Wright, we have one of the Twelve." Wright spat dismissively.
"You're talking shit."
"This is mighty fierce, and we need you for this. We got people all around. We're going to stop the Rail project and you're going to help.
"Right. And how am I going to do that? The Project's almost finished and Artemis and guarded mighty tight. There's not much you guys can do. The Dominion's tough, and they're tough. They're like the Pilgrims, oiled and spineless. You won't be able to get a bead on them."
"It's easy if you hold the puppet strings. I have one man handling the MoD. Like I said, we have a management issue for you. We want you to kill the PM."
"Impossible."
"Not if you have the President's Tear."
Wright did a double take.
"You're utterly serious? You know where the President's Tear is? I thought that bullshit. Like holy grail, or somethng like that."
"We're good as gold, Wright." Scopes spent the next hour telling him about it. Everyone in powered feared the President's Tear. It was the Magic Bullet. One shot could tear through guts and bone. It was the weapon of revolutions. And Scopes knew where it was.

All Thumbs

Under a toenail moon, Hollywood elite gathers. A nest of pearl handled teeth, surgically carved buttocks and corn shapes cocks. They buzz like WASPs. It was thumb night and thumb night was delicious. Served on stainless steel tables, obsidian jewels would orbit cooked thumbs, brownish grey. An alminac of world flavours is represented. Fat American ones with loose, flavour saturated skin to tiny Cambodians plucked from the finest child soldiers. Retired, naturally. Adam West greedily tears the flesh off a meaty Samoan. His comments alternate from the piquant aftertaste to how Tim Burton fucked him over of a cameo apperence in Batman. Porn starlet and subpar hotel, Paris Hilton, a neophyte to the scene, comments on how much freshly cooked skin smells like pork. Robin Williams, informs her in the high pitched voice of a New York Jewish matriarch that the food is kosher. Really. Meanwhile, Matt Damon tries to win the favour of his best friend's wife, Jennifer Garner. She'd be rosy with the happy bloat of pregnancy if Matt didn't bore her his vacation with Walter Murch after filming the Talented Mister Ripley) Sensing that he'll never be the Godfather of her unborn child or have another threesome with Ben (who quiped that she was lactating ambrosia, and it was turning him off of normal milk), he brings out the big guns. He removes his tuxedo and removes his machette expertly hidden in his back fat. He explains to her that machettes are a fine example of fine German engineering and won it in a game of poker with Franka Potente. He steadies his left hand on the floor with a ten thousand dollar shoe and carfully saws through his thumb. He finds it hard to continue his conversation with her on the benefits of using machettes versus swords, especially as he cuts through the bone. He switches to quick chops instead. It seems to work better. He offers her the thumb. She chews on it thoughtfully. If Richard Gere was there, he would have remarked that her mastication reminded him of the peace he saw in the dull eyes of a Buddist cow. While cradling his bloody hand and waiting for Jen's vallidation, he watches her pumpkin shaped belly. A baby grows in there. He decides to use his X-Ray eyes. The first bits of Mattflesh slowly tumbles their way into the baby. It kicks in approval. At least the evening wasn't a total loss.


Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews

God Only Knows

Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews
I've wanted to meet Felicia since I saw her. A glamour shot in a glossy fetish magazine. Slick leather, black, covered her mouth gagging her like a winter scarf. The rest of her body was contained in tight belts. Zebra marks on her smooth skin. Her eyes were delicious. Apple sized and bulbous, they threatened to escape from her skull. An anime girl brought to life. In one of the photos, my favourite, a bald man with metal hands licked her eyeballs with his tongue. Toad long, split in two at the end, snakish. The write up mentioned that her eyes had halucinogenic properties. She cried LSD tears. I googled her name and discovered her website. It was an extention of the magazine. She naked, cruxified to power lines with electrical stigmata. Stump armed men massaging her back with smelly pink lotion. Finned mermen swimming around them, trailed with seahorse eggs. Glorious. I paid my fifty quid for perfered membership and downloaded an ocean's worth of content. I wanted to meet her and I asked her how I could do so. She told me that if I wanted to meet, I'd have to find her. She told me that she was Shangrila. A coveted golden land explorers longed for. A challenge. I accepted. I dug through the site like an archeologist detective, sifting through video, audio files. What I needed most was an olfactory file, a new file type offered to scent fiends on smell fetish sites. Hidden deep, encrypted with a googleplex password I found it. I connected my deepwire to the B: drive and began to download. An audible ding and days later, the wire glowed red. Download complete. I took the wire to the queen's room. It was time to make some bees. I sampled her scent: sweaty leather, lemon soap and handwashed blue jeans. I programmed the maker with Felicia's biometrics, instructing the bees to find her. They would harvest her location like polen and make information honey. I sent out the bees. An old age king waiting for his carier pigeons.

Weeks later, they returned, carrying invisible packages of fleshy bits. Dandruff, hair folicles, microscopic nail clipping. The abandoned snake skin of her body. To their combs they went creating their strange honey. Dead skin yellow instead of lustrious gold. I hungrily ate the honey and waited for the information to congel in my brain. It comes slowly, like a fog on a river. Shapeless ideas and half formed sights and smells. Like an alcoholic buzz in reverse, the image of her location calcified in my brain, becoming stronger and stronger. Blocks of salt, twisted knots of trees and saphire waterfalls. And then there she was. Beautiful, lounging on an a Victorian sofa surrounded by doors of differing shapes and sizes. Ten in total. She diligently worked on her fingernails, sculping them into intricate shapes. Keys. Her hair flowed like a basket of snakes, writhering with enough life that suggested that she had an electrical generator brain. She stuck her finger into a door and twisted, and it opened with a sound that sounded like a mixture of a slurp and a kitchen vent. In front of her was a vortex with the consistency of oatmael, sticky and thick. She stepped into it, swallowed by the liquid and my senses were overwhelmed with the sensation of drowning in a deep ocean of carpet.

She wasn't going to make it easy for me. That's why I loved her.

The best party of the summer

Filed under:personal,writing,Rob Andrews
Usually, when my Korean or Chinese friends hang out with my white friends, I take the opportunity to mess with them a bit. For example, when I went to Humpty's a couple of months ago and got an omlette served with a slice of pineapple. I told that Anson that in Canada that if you were served a slice of pineapple with your meal, you were supposed to use it to clean off your face, then afterwards you could eat it. I demonstated to a wide eyed and rapt Anson the technique of washing one's face with a pineapple and told him that next time he eats with us that he should do that. Luckily for me, the next time that we went out, Heather was with us and he dutyfully showed her how to wipe off his face with the pineapple. Heather punched me a couple of times for laughing so hard. Since Megan was coming to Jung's farewell party last night, I decided that it would be fun to flip the tables, and teach her non-sensical "Korean traditions" that didn't exist. I had planned on telling Megan it was the first time that she was going to come to a Korean party, that she was supposed to bring some smoked salmon. During the party, she would be instructed to get on her knees, place the salmon in her palms and make an offering to Jung, saying that it would be example of goodwill between Canadians and Koreans. Sadly, since the party was moved down form 8:00 to 7:00, I didn't have enough time to give her the head's up. On the way to the party, when I was picking up a going away gift for Jung, he came across a bunch of cards. Stephen pointed out to one, saying that we should give it to Megan and tell her to give it to him as a gift. I nixed the idea as being too cruel. The card was "Congratulations! We hear that you're expecting a baby!".

Stephen and I arrived 10 minutes late to the party, but didn't miss that much considering that half of the people were there. Jung was there, of course, since it was his going away party, as well as Joe, since it was his house. The cadre of Japanese girls that always hang out together were there too: Miwako (Vivianna's room mate with a bad tooth), Manami (cute girl, who Anson told me who was single, a little shy), Mari (extremely cute girl, fantastic dancer) and Takane (one of Anson's obsessions). Last, but not least was Natalia, a Columbian girl who was leaving on Sunday. Since not much was happening up to that point, Jung tossed me a deck of cards, and I performed a bunch of card tricks for the girls for a while. The hardest part was trying to explain to the girls what they had to do.
"You can choose, the third card if you want," I'd tell them.
"I choose three cards?"
"No, not three cards, one card, but you can choose the third card, if you want, or the fourth one, or the fifth one"
"Can I choose 8 cards."
"No. Just one."
This went on for about 20 minutes. None of us were drunk by that time.

The party eventually warmed up once more people arrived. I spent most of my evening sandwiched between Mari and Jung-woon. I wanted to chat with Jung-woon for most of the evening since I had been told by Jung that she had wanted to go out for a beer with me. When comfronted, she agreed that she did, but the reason for doing so was for me to introduce her to more men that I knew. The topic changed to Korean women, and the guys and Jung-woon wanted to know who I thought was the best looking. I told them, honestly, that I liked Jung-woon and Narae the most. Jung-woon spent the rest of the evening lamenting the fact that she wasn't married, and kept on talking about how fat her thighs were. I didn't think that she had anything to complain about.

Megan came about two hours later than planned. She announced to all of us that she had forgotten her keys in her truck and apoligized for being late. I introduced her to litterally everyone at the party, which boggled her.
"You know that I'm gonna forget these names, right?" I shrugged, and continued to re-introduce her to everyone until she knew a couple names. She spent the first bit alone, not chatting with anyone while I was hanging with the Koreans. Not wanting her to feel alone, I got her talking with Manami. I busted on her for a while, calling her names in Chinese and in Japanese. Manami caught on, told Megan what I was saying and I got punched a couple of times for it. Despite that, she said that she had a good time and left early to spent time with her mom. For the rest of the evening, I had to explain to everyone that she wasn't my girlfriend, and just a friend. Not that many people caught on.

I spent a fair bit of the evening chatting with Natalia. Federico introduced me to her at his going away party, but we really didn't chat that much until then. At the time, Federico mentioned that she was his kind of girl. Smart, nice and kind. She blushed when I told her this, and agreed too that Federico was an outstanding guy.
"He called me all the way from Columbia to wish me a happy birthday. I will never forget that." I found out that she and Federico live near the capital city, Bagota, and made fun of the way he dances.
"I was under the impression that's how men danced in Columbia," I told her.
"Oh no no. It's aweful. It works for him, but he moves like a snake."
"That's weird. He always reminded me like a cat. Him moving like that and his chesire smile."
We danced for a bit, and I tried my hardest to capture Federico's moves. My gaucky gyrations were nothing close to his moves.

Around 1 or so, the party was winding down. Since Natalia was the only Columbian girl there, I thought that it was my duty as a man to walk her home, so that she wouldn't go alone. We spent most of our walk home chatting about her life, and occationally bursting into song. I'd sing the English version of Evita and she'd sing in Spanish. When passersby made fun of us, she swore at them in Spanish.
"Puta!" That's motherfucker, or whore, in English.

"You know what's weird," she asked me.
"What?"
"We've only known each other for four hours, and I feel like I've known you for days."
"Funny how that works, eh?"
"You know how you meet someone and make a connection? I feel that way with you."
I put my arm around her waist and we looked at the clear night sky. A meteor shot overhead. I pointed to it.
"In Canada, if you see a shooting star, you have to make a wish."
She broke down, her body heaved with sobs.
"I wish that I could stay here for longer." I hugged her and massaged her back. I whispered in her ear that it was all okay, that I'd miss her too. I held her hand, the bare tips of our fingers touching, until the tears wouldn't come anymore. I went to Tim Hortins afterwards and asked for some napkins. She wouldn't let me look at her when she blowed her nose.

I dropped her off at her house later that evening, around 2:30 in the morning. I asked her if she wanted to go on a date the next day, telling her that I'd make her last day in town special. She agreed and we hugged again. It was a good Friday the 13th for me.

The next day, I took her to Fogg 'N' Sudds for supper and afterwards I took her to my old place in Taylor. We watched the sunset together over the Peace River and chatted about our futures. I told her that I'd love to visit Columbia one of these days, saying that I could pick up Columbia pretty fast and could hang out with her and Federico.
She blew the seeds off a dandylion and watched them drift to the river.
"I would love that very much."

We drove back, not saying anything to each other. We listened to Modest Mouse. I found the music apt.
"I love my friends, my habits, my family. They're so good to me." I sang along to the music and she looked outside, collecting the Canadian landscape for the last time. I dropped her off at her place and wished her well for the future, and gave her a going way gift. A card and a photo-album. She gave me a kiss.
"I'll see you in Columbia." I watched her walk to her house, and she waved to me. I waved back. I made my way home and she made her way to hers.

That's the last I saw of her.

Janet's wedding night.

Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews
Industrial saliva when C577 kisses Janet, industrial pistons coughing out smoke. Her tongue artfully dodges his grinding gear teeth of her husband savouring the tang of steel.
"REMOVE YOUR DRESS!" C577 mechanically intones, his clunky radio voice box echoing through their upscale hotel room. Thick mechanical fingers glowing with snake green wires helped her unzip her dress revealing pale milk skin. Despite her attempts to upgrade C577, he still moved in jerky staccato at times. Ackward pauses as his brain would whirr with input and instructions. When he cupped her breasts she couldn't help but shiver, warm electric pulsations vibrating through his hands. Hours earlier, a bee hive of reporters had covered their wedding. "The cyborg marriage" "Hardware meets wetware" A curious spectacle, acording to the rest of the world. A car crash; a messy mix of flesh and metal. Her family had avoided the wedding, agast that their daughter would marry a machine. C577's creator gave Janet away instead.
"Call me if you need repairs," he whispered in her ear, before he took her down the aisle.

He pulled down her panties, black french maid cut and inserted his slick robotic cock into her pussy.
"DOCKING PROCEDURE COMPLETE!"
She sighed. This is love, she thought.

Angel of the Arches

Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews

On the third day, Big Extra Meal, only 3.99, an angel removed Ronald MacDonald from the arches. Young perky, her face scarred with grease stained acne. Naked with silk feathered wings. She removed the nails made from yellow red straws and chaulk white spoon holding Him to the neon iconograph. MacDonald's stigma was caked in brown blood, smelling of coke syrup and grease. Below, the sleepy disciples had awoken. Their belief of MacDonald's doctrine was manifest in their weight. Fat turtle shaped bodies. Hunched over, heads swallowed up by celulite. The more devoted sit in scooters, gold plated arches dangling from their tree trunk necks. The angel cradled Ronald in her freckled arms and began to ascend into evening sky. For following years, the followers would re-enact the last days. They would share coke and pass the fries. The Last Happy Meal of Ronald MacDonald. Supersized.

Ideamine

Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews
Miniscule specter vultures orbit our thought aura, the unseen sticky storm mess of ideas, searching for paradigm fetuses. Through their cholesteral eyes they see them, the larva of half formed thoughts, smelling of New. On silver specled wings they descend with the precision of a brain surgeons' scalple and bursts through the placenta of the aura. The beak, curved like an ancient sword, swallows the thought-form. The vulture flies out again, curving through electrical charged brainstorms and tsunami waves of amnesia to it's ultimate destination, the ideamine.

The paradigm fetus doesn't wither inside the vulture's beak. Its umbilicle finds leech mouthed holes on the tongue and burrows deep, sucking ghost meat and blood. The fetus will survive. The vulture follows the phermonal scent of the ideamine and moves into a razorwind channel. Oil feathers smoke, smelling like burned glass. Scenery changes. Powder blue skies are replaced with the ruffled blanket curve of the blood dome. The air sounds different here. Chalk board screams instead of the whisper of ghosts. Potched in stereo mountain like an acne scar is the ideamine. Glass moles expande the mine in decades long slow-motion. Deeper inside is the Vatican Without Light where the Calculus Pope waits for his birds. The vulture lands on the coal cobbled floor and desposits the fetus in the hands on a needle eyed monk. The Calculus Pope rewards the animal with mole charion and ushers the monk to the monestary.

The monk's lips are sewn shut, years old scabs covering the thin steel stitches. The Pope asks them to take a vow of celebacy. They are verbal eunuch. Curving through tunnels smelling of mole shit and methane, find their way to the library. There through the glittering reflection of incubating diamonds, the Pope performs the Sacrament of Whispers. The fetus evaporates into brown smolder and His Creepiness applies the ashes to the monk's ears.
"Hear what has been unthought," he tells the monk, "And capture it in stone." A sliver of enlightment for the monk. The idea is chisled into the stone in a mathematical language known only to the order. Sheet music for ideas. The Pope leaves the monk to toil away at his thankless work. He returns to the tower and waits another another vulture, contented that the Status Quo has been maintained for another day.

Maria artwork

Filed under:art,Mike Myhre

Artwork by my good friend, Mike Myhre, inspired by the story Maria.

The Suicide of Alice Templeton

Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews
Alice bought the cement blocks at Walmat. The bricks were orange, perfectly rectangular. Oversized lego blocked sanded down. She couldn't find any rope while she was there. She could have prowled the box store looking for it, or she could have asked a moon faced acne scarred employee to help her. She didn't want them to make the grim connection. Cement blocks plus rope equals suicide, she mentally calculated. She was afraid that her purchases would secretly alert an anti suicide squad within Walmart. An amber alert for those who were left with nothing to live for. In retrospect, it would seem that Alice over analyzed things. She bought bootlaces instead, thick red ones that looked like minature snakes. She stared at the contents of her cart: a handful of bricks and shoelaces. This wouldn't do. Lingerie would be the answer. She rolled her cart to the underwear section and bought herself the sexiest pair of underwear that Walmart allowed. Pink french cut. The cart was looking better. The next stop was the pharmacy. There was a plefora of prolfilafics. She had to bend down to examine the condom boxes. Ribbed for her pleasure. Magnum XXL. Flavoured. Assorted Colours. Choices, choices. Having never tried the ribbed ones, she went with that. She bought a tub of butter too. Something to give the clerk to think about when she swiped her choices. The clerk didn't comment. Perhaps she should have bought more butter.

Alice had put a lot out thought into her suicide. She had read about what happened to the human body when it stopped functioning and decided it would be wise to go for a colonic before the big event. Two hours later, a couple pounds of shit were sucked out of her body and she was 10 pounds light. This corpse would have clean panties, thank you very much. She bought herself the wedding dress that she wanted as a child, a silk red Chinese one. A pile of hundred dollar bills reserved her a top spot at the local beauty spa. She told them what she wanted. A tower of curls. Dark, the blonde washed off like paint on a beach house. Death would be her groom.

She wrote out multiple copies of her suicide letter, mailing out a couple of personal ones to her friends. They were each hand writen. Inked in her blood, red turned brown. For her ex-lovers, she sprayed the letters with their favourite perfumes. She gave detailed reasons for ending her life. It took hours to write them, personal and painful. Cursive looped letter "l"'s that looked like needle eyes. "I love you." Over and over again. She licked each stamp and feed the envelops into the mail box.

Alice choose a bridge that was 30 kilometers out of town. It smelled like mould. Wooden, moaning like harpies when cars walked on it's back. She parked her car off to the side, far from traffic. She had to hike up her dress to tie the bricks to her feet, double knotting them for luck. She looked at the sky one last time, before she dropped off the bridge, her body making her look like a badmonton birdie. Alice was surprised how long it took to drop to the bottom. Her dress slowed her down, no doubt. Her eyes were closed until she felt the bricks hit the bottom. The last bits of life squeezed out of her body slowly. Before her vision turned hazy and dark she appreciated the bottom of the lake. the beautiful asortment of tires and pop cans. She knew then that she'd be a wonderful addition to the lake. The world's most beautiful corpse.