Michael Z. Atrata
Storyteller of bizarre outsiders doing questionable things.
The Cursed Film Part 4
I had an uncle, kind of a scumbag, but he always said to deny deny deny! It usually pertained to cheating on his wives or the petty criminal shit he got himself into all the time and the fact my mother had to help him every time. So that’s what I did; deny.
The Cursed Film Part 3
The world literally turned on its side. Nausea brewed in my gut. I ran over to the kitchen sink and stuck my face under the tap and slurped. After a few draughts I cupped my hands and buried my face in cold water. It helped; the wrenching in my stomach subsided.
The Cursed Film Part 2
Cursed? For some, maybe, like Lorne, Steph, Wade and his family: An old alcoholic who treated his body like shit and had a heart attack; not unusual. Young jealous boyfriend kills girlfriend and self; sadly not unusual. Unstable teenager runs car into parents and killing them; not unusual but at the same time not an exotic happening. Depressed man, and Wade was always a depressive, getting a divorce and has a breakdown; that shit happens hundreds of times a day.
“Mason. Cleanup. Aisle ten. Mayonnaise.” Mason worked at the market since he was old enough to get a job, since he was sixteen. Last year, the autumn after he graduated high school, he requested the night shift. He’s worked it for about eighteen months, refusing any requests to work any other shift, and refused to work past five A.M., especially in the summer.
The Cursed Film
The distributor asked me how I wanted the funds to be forwarded. I wanted a check. Not only did I want a check I wanted to walk into their offices in New York, meet with someone, anyone, the janitor, and be handed a live check and have my hand shaken. Then I’d walk down to the nearest bank branch and deposit that thing. I wanted to watch the teller’s eyes try not to bug as he or she punched in the numbers; three, two, four, four, three, zero, nine, point, eight six.
A Thousand Years
I was on the phone with her when it happened. Christ! I heard it happen. I finally finished a huge project and sent the proofs to the Art Director and settled in with a cocktail in front of the tube when my cell ringed. “Hey,” I answered.
God Of Thunder
He found an empty corner of the bar; surely he had help not of this world to find such isolation that Friday evening. It was happy hour and all the white-collar slaves toasted to the worth of their empty lives. Slaves they were only they were too weak, too insensitive, too modern, yes that was the word Malcolm should use. They were too modern to know it. Society today is too modern.
Whether I believed in it or not was irrelevant, at that time in my life nothing could have been further from my mind. I awoke every morning with my girlfriend; young and in love, poor, in the big bad world, together. I would make her breakfast and coffee while she showered and dressed for work.
World of Sh*t
They wheeled her in, screaming, swelling with life. A large woman and her still growing foetus, the latter being slowly and all too soon ejected from his motherly chamber, that origin of the world. As I mopped the white floors, nauseous from the sharp smell of the cleaning agents, the nurses and a doctor rushed the woman down the corridor where I’m sure there were devices for both mother and child. Curious, I feigned to clean outside that room to see if the mother would keep her life, if the child would begin a new one. I heard the doctor spouting orders to the nurses; the doctor, that clean blue-eyed and manicured gentleman who would never say good morning to me, the lowly janitor. He, to whom I say, “Excuse me, please” when needing to walk by as he blocks my way, never responds with even a derogatory remark. I don’t exist in his high plain, and he can’t see me way down here in the valley of the sallow.