Author - Chris Weagel

I awaken today to find the house surrounded by thousands of cats. Each sitting, silently looking at me, without the ability to properly blink. Each one waiting on me. It’s my move.
I have no choice. I begin naming them.
It takes time. I learn their personalities. Their hopes, their fears. I spend at least 15 minutes with each cat before giving it a proper name. First AND Last names. Sometimes a middle initial, where appropriate.
For those expressing literary aspirations I take special care to imagine the name across a dust jacket. Those inclined to be race car drivers, I name after soft drinks.
Soon each cat has a name, each cat has dignity.
Satisfied, and after a short group bath, they leave my yard.

Early October, a gentle crisp in the air, it’s that magic time of year when the washing machines grow restless. Clothes washing machines. Big, white, inefficient metal boxes that live in your basement or out behind the garage. You may enjoy kicking them. Their white enamel coats starting to brown with rust, the washing machines gather in yards and alleys. With no outward sign or signal, the washing machines rise as one and begin their long journey back to the dry, dusty fields near the Maytag and Whirlpool plants just over the Mexican border. Flying in formation, the washing machines cut a striking figure against the twilight sky. Hunters are no threat as many have learned terrible lessons about what effect falling appliances have on trusted hunting dogs. So we stand in silent...

Why does everyone like parsley? I don’t like parsley. It just lays there getting in the way. They say it makes your plate pretty. I don’t need a pretty plate. I need a plate with little sections that doesn’t let the food mix and mingle. A plate that maybe has little tin covers over the sections so that your neighbor can’t see what you’re eating. People see what you’re eating and they start to resent you. Resent your taste. Little tin covers also protect your food from birds of prey that might be circling. They circle me, all the time. They circle a lot of people. A body can’t enjoy himself surrounded by birds. What kind of person enjoys giving a stool sample while being watched by birds from other countries. Countries where the food is all gray...

In the back yard sits a solid, 1.5′ cube of cement. It was here when I moved in and will be there when I move out. (I don’t like to touch cement, the texture reminds me of dry chicken salad.)
At the end of the week, sitting next to the cube of cement is a delicious, freshly-baked fruit pie. Sometimes a biscuit tray. Never any sauces, nor or any desired.
Neighbors suspected an elf family lived inside the cube. But county workmen and their steroscopes concluded that it’s solid all the way through.
Between you and me, though, I don’t like to eat the pies anymore. They all taste like purple ink.

“I’m calling about the Halloween Magic Show,” the voice in the phone said. “It sounds like a great time.” It was our Mayor, Mayor Williamson, waking me up at 4:30 this morning with his grating excitement. “Are there gonna be spiders? I like spiders.” “Mayor, I’m not having a Halloween Magic Show.” “When we’re done will I be magic? I want to cast magic spells on people, but only if I know how.” “I don’t believe in magic, Mayor.” “Will this year’s Magic Show be better than last year’s? Last year’s had a Mummy!” “Mayor. I was convicted of computer hacking in 1997. As part of my probation, I’m not allowed to be in the same room as Mummies or Werewolves or...

V sleeps out on the driveway, under the car, all the way through December 23. His body heat keeps the car warm. Makes it easier to start and his breathing scares off rodents looking to eat tire rubber.
It’s not clear, though, why V chooses to lay face down when under the car. His skin is sensitive and the cement is unforgiving.
“Leave me alone,” explains V.

Decorative pillows, stuffed animals, custom photo-printed quilts and tapestries, couches with second cushion layers. TV top doilies stacked like pancakes, themselves pancaked with dust. Extra socks inside slipper socks inside slippers inside house boots all wrapped with clear packing tape and plastic sheeting. Little strings around each finger tied to strings wrapped around fingers on the other hand tied around the neck. Cotton balls under the tongue. Life-sized Raggedy Andy doll velcro-ed to your back. Piles and piles of paper towel – two ply! – unraveled from the tube and carefully stacked around the house and stuffed into your sweater. Unopened cases of work socks from the warehouse store. And the Beanie Babies. We stuffed them into four hundred garbage bags and used them...