Contributor: Stephen V. Ramey

- -
It was on the anniversary of my son's death that I set out to right the wrongs in this world. I freed prisoners wrongly convicted like my son, for justice is the heat that burns my arteries. I shot the payday loan shark who collected interest on his interest, for fairness is the blue that floods my veins. I tore out the tongue of the liar who turned on him at trial, for truth is the beating heart that fuels a man.

And now I lay myself upon Your mercy, Lord. Is it truly wrong, what I have done, what I mean to do? One bullet in the chamber, one wrongdoer left unresolved. Please, Lord, tell me that this is not a sin. Did You not see Your only son unjustly crucified? Did he not weep and beg you to intervene?

Here, I'll spin the cylinder. Now it's truly up to You.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Please, God, show me a sign. Anyth--


- - -
I live in beautiful New Castle, Pennsylvania and my work has appeared in various places, including Apocrypha and Abstractions, Prick of the Spindle, Gone Lawn, and others.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

2 Comments

Author: Stephen V. Ramey

Contributor: Stephen V. Ramey

- -
February 17, 2007 began the Year of the Pig according to the Lunar New Year calendar. It was on that date that I started my quest to become Earth's fattest man. A side of bacon for breakfast, three Big Macs and triple fries for early lunch, then a plate of ribs at Zibo's an hour after that. Dinner was the immobile meal. I would routinely stuff myself so full of potatoes and pasta, with occasional salad (heavily dressed, of course) that I could not move from the sofa for hours. I began relieving myself into buckets. My wife complained, but kept cooking. I loved her more than life itself, but not more than a good steak rubbed with pepper and cooked over a low, blue flame.

February 7, 2008 brought in the Year of the Rat. I was at 390 pounds, and growing fast. I had been given permission to telecommute, and routinely did my job as a traffic analyst while chomping down bags of Doritos, Cheetos, and pork rinds. Coke was my morning drink. At noon I switched to sweetened tea, with so much sugar you could watch it precipitate out when you put the pitcher in the fridge. This was the year I began my affair with Meghan Chives. Almost every night after my wife was sleeping, blindfolded and tooth-guarded in her bed, I would squeeze through the doorway and make the laborious trek three row houses down to Meghan's. We would eat greasy chicken or meat skewered on metal. I think it was the adrenalin fear of discovery that drove me that year, though it could also have been that Meghan's cupboards were well stocked.

2009 initiated the Year of the Ox. I was over 500 pounds now, and every movement became a labor. I was dragging the world around. No surprise when the company laid me off. Times were tough, and my work had degraded. It's difficult to click when your finger is larger than the mouse button. I stopped my affair with Meghan. Lugging my heart monitor and O2 tank was not worth the reward.

2010, the Year of the Tiger. I took charge of my weight gain with a vengeance. My wife, with Meghan's encouragement, it turns out, had been working toward staging an intervention. They even arranged for a famous weight clinic to hoist me out of the apartment and put me under house arrest. There were whispers of stomach staples and liposuction. I put a stop to it. I was not about to waste three years.

2011 was the Year of the Rabbit. And it's true that I now had to forage for myself, nibbling through our pantry one shelf at a time. A difficult year, best left unrecalled. My wife was gone, and so was Meghan. I lost nearly a hundred pounds.

2012, the Year of the Dragon. I have refocused on weight gain, even as it consumes my hoard. I will soon be forced to return to my women for nurture, and I will do so without regret. It may take a week to make it down into the basement where the freezer is, but I will make it one way or another. And they will be there.

Next year begins the year of the Snake.


- - -
Stephen V. Ramey lives in beautiful New Castle, Pennsylvania, with his novelist wife and three obstructionist cats. His work has appeared in various places, including Linguistic Erosion, Smashed Cat, A Capella Zoo, and is upcoming at Weird Tales. He edits the annual Triangulation anthology from Parsec Ink, and the speculative twitterzine, trapeze.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

4 Comments

Author: Stephen V. Ramey

Contributor: Stephen V. Ramey

- -
A boy stood in dappled sunlight, blocking my way. He was bone thin, all arms and legs. His expression reminded me of a clown's face. Not the garish white makeup and oversized nose, but the way his lips curled into a goofy smile even as his gaze violated me.
"What do you want?" I said. I had some change in my purse, but he should at least have to ask before I offered it up.
He laughed a child's laugh, unpracticed, full of noise. He raised one hand. In his fist was clutched a hand grenade, oblong and dimpled, grayish green in color.
"Where is your mother?" I said.
"Here," he said.
"Where?"
"Dead," he admitted.
"Your father, then." What a crass woman I must seem, not to offer sympathy for a dead mother.
"Hell," the boy said. He lowered the first hand and raised the other. It, too, held a grenade. The pin dangled like an earring.
"Is that a toy?" I said. "Who's watching you?"
That laugh again. Burst after burst of caustic sound. It set my nerves on edge, stirred something dark in my gut. Nauseated, I clutched my stomach and crouched down. Beyond the boy, a couple held hands on a park bench. Were they his parents? They seemed too young.
"So?" he said. He stood over me now, a scarecrow silhouette. I swallowed the sourness from my mouth.
"So?" I managed. I felt an impulse to cradle him, to feel that mouth pulling at my nipple. I leaned onto my knees.
A grenade fell past my face.
The explosion threw me back, light and sound and emotion all at once. Hair pulled from my scalp, skin from bone. I felt the structure of my skeleton cave in.
Pain radiated from my uterus, shot to my ankles and elbows, my tender breasts. Another contraction. Contraction, convulsion, burst after burst.
The bastard who raped me flashed bright, that pocked face, the pug nose and squinting eyes. Drunk, disoriented, I felt him thrust into me, once, twice, again, again. Where was the pleasure it was supposed to bring? Where was the connection I craved?
Another digging cramp. Sobs stretched my throat. A dented oval gushed out of me, red tissue, a spreading clot. Was that a face?
The boy was gone. Shifting patterns of light lapped at my shadow. A wave broke over my upturned face, coated my tongue with honey. I breathed in and out.
The dark thing inside me was gone.
Smoothing my dress, I stood. As I walked past the couple, I felt my halo emerge.


- - -
Stephen V. Ramey lives in beautiful New Castle, Pennsylvania where it is always sunny and warm and kittens do not suffer. His work has appeared in various places, and he edits the annual Triangulation anthology from Parsec Ink.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

5 Comments

Author: Stephen V. Ramey