Mac*Daddy*Beth

To know Shakespeare’s words – to truly live them, you must drink them in, swirl them around like intellectual mouthwash and allow the greatness to run down your throat, filling every cell of your being with the heartburn of his genius.  Some spit out the heady liquid into a spittoon of ignorance, followed by a swig of mind-numbing pablum to remove the lingering taste of the mysterious and, to them, the forever unknowable.

Shakespeare is no franchise, dear Reader; he is a singly owned, top of the line, trendy boutique that never closes.

To demonstrate Shakespeare’s luminosity, I present the Tome of Preeminence that is: Macbeth, the Naughty Scot. Stick with me, dear Reader,  and remember: what doesn’t give you a migraine makes you insufferably literary.

Flat Tired

“Hi!  Is Johnny there?  It’s Nicole.”

Nicole wasn’t a big fan of her name, something she was reminded of every time she said it aloud.  She didn’t hate it; it just lacked a sense of the exotic – much like her.  Her family called her Nic, which was okay, although she thought it sounded too masculine when outsiders said it.  She could have gone the Nicky route.  Nicky would have been peppy and maybe worn a side ponytail and made sad faces when she told other girls they didn’t make the cheerleading team.  At the very least Nicky would have dated a jock and worn his letterman jacket.  She could never pull Nicky off.  Nicky hesitated to give an opinion and that was something Nicole never did.

Nicky would still wear the same size as she did in high school though, that’s for sure.

Trigger

“Listen, Di, I know you’re busy but I’m in a real pinch here,”   Amy said through the phone.

“What’s up?”  Diana asked while holding her index finger in the air to indicate she would return to the clients in front of her shortly.

“I need you to pick up Therese. I’m in Northbrook and won’t get back in time.”

Diana and Amy started down a familiar path of excuses and pleading that both knew would end with Diana flying off to get Therese despite her protests.  Thirty minutes later, the Blumes were shaking Diana’s hand and thanking her for all her hard work.  Diana was effusive as she struggled with her coat.  She threw her purse on her car’s passenger seat where it tipped, spilling the contents onto the floor.  She groaned and pulled out of her parking space more quickly than she should have.

Amy was a blast but she had to get her shit together when it came to scheduling.

The Price of Fame

An editor of See You There magazine held two stories in his hand.  One was about an actress named Shelton Wade and the other was about a TV star, Krystal Adams.  The editor called in a columnist passing by.

“Hey, Jane – help me with this.  I need a filler piece to follow the Espinoza’s divorce drama article.  Here I have that Shelton chick’s new house.  I think it was once Orlando Bloom’s bachelor pad or something, okay?”  He put one set of sheets down and picked up the other.  “Over here I have Krystal Adams doing a vodka launch.  It’s not her line, she’s just there.  What’s His Name isn’t there but she is falling out of her dress and I have some shots of her dancing provocatively with another guest – which should I go with?”

“Shelton,”  Jane said.

“Okay, but the other guest Krystal is grinding against is a porn star,” the editor added.

Jane took the photos and pursed her lips as she looked at them.

“Yeah, I’m still going with Shelton.  She just got a part in the new Malick film – doesn’t deserve it, but got it.  Krystal can’t even get arrested,” she said, handing the photos back to him.

The editor put the Krystal piece in the drawer.  “Okay, Shelton it is.”

In Krystal Adams’ bathroom, Krystal herself let out a deafening scream as a deep line etched itself to the left of her mouth.

Perfect (series)

Three days ago, Christopher had pointed his truck towards the inside of the United States and driven it until it stopped, which was here. He had no idea how far he had gotten nor had he noted the state markers as he passed them. His location didn’t matter; his would be an unmarked grave wherever his body fell. He left the keys in the ignition and removed the shotgun from the back rack.

His ambling route had taken him through many of the towns that had been abandoned over the last few decades. Every year cities were being reclassified by the census bureau to “Uninhabited.” Living cities were being stretched to capacity with hoards of people fleeing their homes without giving much in the way of explanation.

Strangely, Christopher’s hometown was still a living city in which he could no longer live.

He refueled enough times to be truly lost – only purchasing gas if there was a working station nearby when the truck ran out. Coughing its last gasp of fuel here, the truck came to a standstill. There was no working anything, only carapaces of beautiful homes, some with their front doors standing wide open. In the middle of the eerily quiet residential street, Christopher reviewed the neighborhood and selected a house that vaguely resembled the county library from his hometown. He went in, leaving the doors open in the hope that his blood would attract a few of the animals.