Welcome to another issue of Defenestration, and the last issue until next year. And what a year it’s been. Defenestration has been around for 12 years now, and I can honestly say that this year saw a major shift in the number and the quality of the work we’ve received. Our slush pile has never before been filled with so many experienced writers, comedians, magazine editors, actors… the list was really staggering, and on more than one occasion I felt overwhelmed by it all. Eileen and I have had the opportunity to read a lot of really good fiction, nonfiction, and poetry this year, and while not everyone made it onto the site this year, I really hope everyone comes back and tries us again. We do this because we enjoy it, and you make our self-imposed tasks a lot easier by sending us such great material.
Posts Tagged ‘ XII.II ’
Welcome, welcome, one and all, to (arguably one of) the happiest places on Earth (or at least the electronic version of Earth). It’s time to unleash the August 2015 issue of Defenestration into the cyber realm, so sit back, ready your reading digits, and prepare to be amused.
Lincoln—that cocky bastard, he thought. Look at him. Sitting there. So sure of himself. Long legs crossed confidently, black stovepipe hat in his lap. Lean angular head slightly bent, tilted to one side. As if pondering some great thought when really he’s just trying to catch the conversation going on behind the door.
It was so convenient being Lincoln, thought William. So… unoriginal. Like a still life of a fruit basket.
“I’m so proud to stand before you after yet another year of increased profits. At this rate there is not a single competitor who can claim any more than 6% of the market share. The team that sits before me is the sole reason for this. It is your hard work, your extreme dedication, your attention to detail and inability to let anything, regardless of how small it may be, slide that allows us to grow while the rest of the market slows. With this team in place, their is no way we can fail. Now, do we have any… ah yes I can see a hand raised already, that’s what I like to see. You have a question?”
On a day there was a man. And on that day that man had an idea…a rotten idea. It involved taking a goldfish—a live one, not the snack—and placing it in his bottom. And not just one. As many as he could muster.
“What religion is this again?”
“Lutheran, I think.”
We sat there, Claudia and me, watching the activity on the altar. I could tell the guy doing the talking was cool because he wore a short-sleeved black shirt with his clerical collar. He was animated and funny. He held up a gold coin like the ones I got at Circus Circus in Vegas when I was 10; either that or he had the waxy chocolate ones with Menorahs on them we got in our Christmas stockings.
If I were a cow, which I am, moo, sup? From now on I’d think twice about oncoming cars, especially the ones with their lights on full moo, blindin’ my eyes, makin’ my tail go all wonky and clenched sphincters.
When Peg walked into the Recreation Center, Leila McCoy was standing by the old upright, eyes squeezed shut, warbling “Holy God We Praise Thy Name” like some hip hopper on American Idol. Peg waited until Leila finished and James Hickey, the choirmaster, spotted her.
“Hello, Peg,” he said. “Are you here to audition?”
“I am.” Peg felt the heat come to her face. James was bald now, and his belly hung over his belt, but he’d once been the sharpest boy at Our Lady of the Blessed Sorrows.
It finally happened. Somehow he knew it was only a matter of time before he said something so utterly offensive to his teacher that it ripped a hole in the space-time continuum.
Timmy knew his mouth was impressive. As a 4th grader, his peers had told him that he knew how to swear at at least a 7th-grade level (if not higher!).
“You know what would be great?” Spector spread a smile over his face. “If we took this here,” he held up the severed foot. “And put it here,” he pointed at where the man’s hand used to be. “I think that would be great.”
Clark frowned. “You want to put his foot where his hand was?”
Spector rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to just put it there. I want to sew it there. Like, with surgery.”
“You want to put a foot where a hand’s supposed to go?”
“Sew. I want to sew it there.”
“Where a hand’s supposed to go.”
“Yeah. With surgery.”