Guns Don't Kill People...My Uncle Does (A Varied Collection of Short-stories Geared For A Man)

by Carla René

  At that moment, the golden retriever nuzzled my hand and pointed upward with his nose. I looked up.

  There, shining above me, was Van Gogh's starry night — his illumined vision. The very sky I had lost myself in. The circular brushstrokes began fading into solid colours that washed effortlessly over one another, and oh the colours they were! Brazilian blacks, illicit indigos, purples dripping with passion, saturnine stars …

  "Welcome home."

  It was the voice.

  "Is this my home now? Will you never let me go?"

  "Do you wish to go?"

  The golden retriever licked my palm.

  "It is time to sleep. You must prepare," said the voice again.

  I wanted to ask for what, but suddenly I was so tired I couldn't stand. The golden retriever lay down at the same time I began to fall, and my head softly landed on his side.

  At sometime during the night the voice awakened me with a chorus of singing, and I got up and danced. The golden retriever morphed into a man — a handsome, rugged, dark long-haired man with gentle eyes and touch. He placed his arms around me and we tangoed. He never stopped staring into my eyes. We danced circles around trees, flower fields and rivers; each measure accompanied by doves that flew from my chest, then lit delicately on tree limbs as they watched our pas de deux.

  When the song ended many hours later, the man leaned in slowly, placed a hand to my hair and kissed me as softly as I'd ever imagined. He lingered for a moment, pulled away, smiled deeply, and I watched him turn slowly back into the golden retriever.

  I arose the next morning to green fields, a gleaming sun, and hunger. The food materialised as I wished it, and soon there was enough food for ten. I shared with the golden retriever who hadn't left my side all night. Above me, I was distracted by the sound of cooing doves…

  "It is time," said the voice.

  "For what?"

  "You have much to do before they arrive."

  The word "they" blood-boiled.

  "Don't be afraid. Here, the sky obeys your commands."

  A deep hum came from the forest behind me. As I turned, a soot-black swarm of wasps, one mile wide, targeted me and ice-water ran up my veins, certain it would drown my heart. I stood motionless as the swarm came closer, growing in size and din. I looked for a body of water, but remembered I couldn't swim. There were no caves, and no covering to protect myself. So I did the only thing I knew to do.

  "VOICE! HELP ME! What do I do?"

  Silence.

  Again, I pleaded as they swarmed closer.

  Silence.

  I begged once more.

  "You have the strength within you. Use it."

  "But I don't know ho … "

  The wasps were upon me and I let out a throat-ripping scream. They flew around me, above, between, chilling me to the bone. They dived bombed for a relentless two minutes, and as they did, I felt an anger well up from within. It felt foreign, as if I had red-hot goo in my belly, and it spread to my extremities.

  The wasps continued, but this time, I heard them laughing — taunt-teasing my fear, and as the queen drew up in front of me, now as large as an adult human, her eyes flashed green as she stared me down, her wings creating an intimidating tumult.

  For a moment, we both stared, neither moving. She advanced on me, her stinger raised high and wings outstretched, and I'd had enough.

  "STOP! NO MORE! You have no more power over me. Leave!"

  She stopped forward-moving, beckoned to the swarm to return, and with a final nod of her head to me in defeat, retreated to whence they came.

  "Well done. Now."

  I was getting tired of the voice's plastic bread crumb clues, but I waited. At that moment, Mr. Lewis's voice rang over the once serene flower-fields. I heard Mrs. Lewis crying. They rounded the corner of the church, and were now standing in front of me. For an instant, the golden retriever cowered behind my legs, but I swallowed hard and comforted him, then returned my steel gaze. I was on home turf now, and I refused to be afraid.

  "What are you doing here?" I said.

  "Where in hell are we? Did YOU do this?"

  "I did not, but don't think you didn't deserve it." My courage continued to rise.

  He became so indignant his fat face beeted up. "How DARE you speak to me in such a manner." With that he advanced on me and in one stride was in front of me, fists raised.

  I did not cower. My hand made contact with his face and the knot on his forehead sent him backwards. I braced for a second attempt, and he delivered. He kicked his leg into what should have been my groin, but I side-stepped him and laid my own boot into his crotch.

  He folded like origami.

  The doves, swallows and forest animals were laughing. So I laughed, too.

  "Have you had enough?" I said as he gasped.

  "Why? After all I've done for you."

  "Touché."

  Mrs. Lewis spoke up. "I … I … "

  "Can't stand to watch now, can ya?"

  Mr. Lewis only coughed and she just stared dumbly.

  The golden retriever began to circle me excitedly. The doves cooed even louder.

  "C'mon, you fat bastard! Bring it on!"

  He shot up like a missile and charged me once more, with a force as great as a hurricane. Again, I only braced, prepared to use his weight against him. But this time I misjudged and he landed with his arms locked around my windpipe, squeezing as hard as he could. He continued squeezing and I began choking and gagging. He was close enough so that I could smell the booze on his breath. I felt the air slip from me and as I looked over the fields once more I saw them begin to dim, certain my time had run out.

  I noticed the golden retriever out of my eye's corner, and he wasn't moving to help. As my eyesight drew darker, I pleaded with my eyes for help.

  He stood on his hind legs and into my ear, whispered, "Love yourself enough to fight. You are worth it."

  I looked back at the drink-ridden fat-bastard beet in front of me and got pissed one more time. Raising my arms above my head, I brought them down across his own and turned, loosening his grip on me. With a free foot I kicked straight up behind me and into his crotch once more, which sent him down a last time, passed out.

  I fell to the ground exhausted, and the golden retriever licked my face as the sky turned to night.

  "How long has she been like this?" the nurse said as she tightened the restraints.

  "Four years now. Just keeps staring at the picture. Won't talk."

  "She have any family?"

  "She did, but they came up missing about two years ago and were never found."

  "It's a nice painting. Van Gogh, isn't it?"

  "Starry Night."

  Both of the nurses left, and the girl in the bed began to chuckle at the painting and its two figures in the field who moved around like bugs in a jar.

  "You there?" she said.

  A wet tongue caressed her restrained hand, then the golden retriever lay down beside her bed — where he had been sleeping for the last two years.

  Sometimes, ya Gotta Go Down to Go Up

  by

  Carla René

  7:00 a.m., Monday morning. Social Security Administration. Hilo Business District. Island of Hawaii. Three men and two women escape the torrential downpour and board the elevator.

  Martin Jones. Extremely handsome man of little distinction.

  Job: Records' clerk Manager in the Social Security pool.

  Hobbies: The records in the Social Security pool and self-denial.

  Dull as a knife. Even I've lost interest, let's move on.

  "Martin! Don't touch it!" Ida Mae screamed as he was about to push the 'up' button.

  "Touch it," said Roger, winking at Gina. She rolled her eyes.

  Roger Jones. Bad toupee, bad sense of humour; in love with Gina.

  Job: Records' clerk in the same pool.

  Hobbies: Being horny and self-deluded.

  Gina Ravine. Big breasts, tiny waist; in love with
Keoni and Martin.

  Job: Executive Assistant to Martin.

  Hobbies: Making every man horny, and… .that's it.

  Martin stopped in mid-punch. "Why?"

  "Because it could be rigged!"

  Ida Mae. Early fifties, no sense of fashion.

  Job: Processes Social Security claims.

  Hobbies: Paranoia, and being jealous of Gina.

  Martin chuckled. "Too early for that."

  As everyone piled on, Keoni stood waiting.

  Keoni Lehua. Islander, gorgeous. In love with Gina.

  Job: SSI claims processor.

  Hobbies: Himself.

  Roger looked at him. "Oh for god's sake, what are you waiting for? A Palapala Kono?"

  "No, I don't need an invitation." Keoni made his grand entrance and took his place behind everyone.

  Gina looked at him. "How are ya today?"

  "You don't want to know," Keoni said in a sugary voice.

  "Ding, ding, ding!" said Roger. "We have a winner!"

  "Keep it down, folks," said Martin. "I've got some files to look over before we get upstairs. Video conference."

  Gina slithered over to him. "Anything I can help you with, sugar?" She moved her cleavage within his reach.

  "Thank you, Miss Ravine, I've got it." He didn't look up, so she sulked back over between Roger and Keoni.

  Ida Mae let out a snort of disgust.

  The crew rode in silence another ten floors. An alarm sounded between the fifteenth and sixteenth floors, the car lurched to a halt and the

  red flashing emergency lights kicked on. The car now looked like a bad rendition of Saturday Night Fever.

  Ida Mae screamed out. "OH GOD, I knew it, we're gonna die!"

  Roger said, "And me without any hair spray."

  Ida jumped into Martin's arms, strewing his papers to the floor.

  Martin, not being a young man, grunted an old man noise — for Ida was not a thin woman.

  "Unhand him, this instant, old lady!" Gina yelled.

  Ida Mae jumped down.

  "Who you calling old?" said Ida.

  "Who you callin a lady?" chimed Roger.

  "YOU!" Ida Mae pointed at Roger. "You planned this disaster, didn't you? I should have listened to my horoscope today."

  Martin attempted to console Ida Mae.

  "Hey, look at that. One of my toes is bigger than the other," said Gina, now sitting on the floor.

  Both Roger and Keoni scooted towards her.

  "Turn this whole thing around to be about you." said Ida Mae.

  Gina shrugged. "Calm down. It won't be long before the repairmen get to us. In the meantime, nothing wrong with making the best of it, is there?"

  "That's easy for you to say, Miss, 'Fifty cents on the dollar,'" said Ida Mae.

  Gina flinched. "You implying that I'm cheap?"

  Roger said, "I could afford you." He then turned to Keoni. "And while we're at it, you've not been able to peel your eyes off her ass since getting stuck on this hanging asylum."

  Keoni stood, but Gina intercepted. "Guys, please. Can we not fight? Save it for when we've been here for twelve hours and we're desperate for food."

  Twelve hours later everyone in the car was desperate for food.

  Another fight broke out. This one had to do with Roger's toupee, and somehow Keoni's racial heritage figured into the conversation.

  They fell silent. Martin studied reports. Ida Mae kept looking around her, as if expecting the S.W.A.T. team. Keoni and Roger kept Gina sandwiched between them, and each time she snuggled up to Keoni, Roger inched closer to her.

  Another hour passed.

  And another. They could hear the rain's relentless beating on the roof of the building.

  "How in hell can you read by the blinking whorehouse light?" asked Roger.

  Ida Mae snorted. "Must you reduce everything to sex?"

  "Hmmmn, could be you're just a bit jealous?" he asked.

  Ida Mae snorted again.

  Gina was tired of the rain-song, so she stretched, which garnered the attention of everyone in the car, save Martin, which made her frown.

  "Martin. How's the leg?"

  He looked up and suddenly noticed how beautiful her eyes were. Almond and exotic, like the eyes of a trusting cat.

  Martin had a wooden leg. Horrendous computer accident that he never talked about. He continued to stare.

  "Martin?"

  "Orgasms," was all he muttered.

  Everyone looked up. Gina giggled. Roger whistled. Keoni said an "atta boy." Ida Mae snorted.

  Martin blushed. "Er… ..I… … der… … ."

  Gina stopped the bleeding. "No need, sugar. It happens. But you have to buy me dinner first."

  The joke caused almost everyone in the car to chuckle. Ida Mae snorted again.

  Gina sat next to Martin and looked him in the eye. "How's the leg working out for you?"

  "Thank you for asking, Miss Ravine. Rather well, actually. Had a third fitting last month and those last adjustments did the trick."

  "Call me Gina."

  "All right."

  "My dad had a wooden leg."

  "You're kidding! You never told me that."

  "To be honest, you've never really gotten to know me on a personal level before. Just thought it out of bounds for office talk."

  "Guess I've always been wrapped up in my work."

  She nodded again. "Safer that way."

  This surprised him. "Hmmmn. Guess so. Very astute."

  She smiled. "I'm not all brawn."

  "How did it happen? Your dad, I mean?" said Martin.

  "Tractor accident. He was alone in the field when the brake disengaged and it backed over him before he could move. He nearly bled to death before we got him to the hospital."

  "When did he die?" asked Ida Mae.

  "Not long after. Developed an infection, and before we knew it, he was gone."

  The rain continued the morose soundtrack.

  Keoni broke the silence. "Lost my dad bout two years ago. Kilauea."

  Ida Mae gasped. "He didn't… ."

  "… .he did. Took a rock with him. Pele was angry. He didn't put it back before he died of cancer. He was working. Lava samples. He knew better. We were angry at him for the longest time."

  Roger said, "Lost my mother to breast cancer. Hardest thing in my life. We were really close."

  "You know, Roger, I think that's the first time I've ever heard you be serious about yourself. It becomes you," said Ida Mae.

  He blushed. "Thanks. I don't even buy what I sell half the time."

  "Then why do it?" asked Keoni.

  "Cause it's what I'm used to. It works on the shallow girls I date. I don't have to be responsible, ya know?"

  Gina looked impressed. "I think that shows real self-awareness, which like Ida said, becomes you."

  "Does that mean you'll go out with me?" his eyes twinkled.

  Everyone laughed.

  "Hey! Anyone there?" The voice came from floor sixteen. Everyone began yelling.

  "We'll get you out of there soon as we can."

  "We need a bathroom, and a bucket of chicken, stat!" said Roger.

  "If one of you can give us a hand, we'll get you out sooner. Need one of you to get on the car and reach up to the sixteenth floor. We've got to lessen the weight in the car."

  Roger and Keoni helped Martin through the ceiling. But his reach was just short of the paramedic.

  "I can't get to you," said the paramedic. "I can't drop anymore weight on the cable or it'll go. Got a way to hoist yourself up?"

  Without thinking, Martin took off his leg. It was just enough to reach the paramedic.

  Within the hour, the car's cable had been secured with a pulley. Each person was helped out, and everyone made a beeline for the bathrooms.

  They met back in the hallway.

  Martin looked at Gina. "I want to thank you for what you did for me."

  "What?"

  "Got me to open up; something I
just don't do. It was nice. Could we meet for coffee sometime?"

  "I'd love that."

  Roger said, "Gina, I'm sorry. For everything. You showed me that you're a real person. I have a whole new respect for you."

  "Thank-you, Roger. And I wouldn't mind having coffee with you, too."

  "Guys? Do you see what time it is?"

  It was 7:00 a.m. the next morning. They'd been there for twenty-four hours. Everyone nodded, but they knew that today would be different.

  "This time, let's take the stairs."

  THE END.

  About the author:

  A child-prodigy in both fine art and music, Carla knew creativity would be a large part of her life. After finishing college with a BS in Trumpet Performance, an illness limited her trumpet time, so she fell back on her acting minor and began acting with a local theatre who wrote all their own original comedies. It was here she got her first taste of improvisation, and fell in love. Soon, she was studying with Second City in Chicago, as well as stand-up comedy. She was filming TV sitcoms, performing comedy at The Kennedy Centre in DC, and eventually was the first-call comedic actress for video work. While continuing to act, she was learning how to write effective comedy; began performing stand-up, and soon branched out into comedic fiction. She still performs regularly on-stage in plays, for video and film, improvisational comedy groups, stand-up comedy, and this winter will be touring her original one-woman comedy show. And the rest, as they say, is gut-busting, lung-popping, hysterical-head-aching comedic history.

  Table of Contents

  Find her online:

  The Official Web-Site for Carla René —future book releases, a schedule of upcoming live shows, and a bunch of crap no one cares about.

  … And Another Thing! —Her official blog