Blindfold

The citizens of the great city were gathered at the wall every day at precisely the same time. One small man with plump, stubby fingers tied the white blindfolds over the eyes of the other residents on his street. He offered them a cigarette, but one by one they flatly refused. He forcefully pushed them back against the cold, chipped cinderblock.

“Today, we’re changing the rules,” he snarled and spat on the floor. “Only one of you has to die.” He paced back and forth. “Any volunteers?”

One painfully anorexic woman timidly raised her hand. She had been separated from her own family several hours earlier. “Will my sacrifice allow my husband to live?”

“Madam,” the man laughed. “Has no one told you? Your husband has already been sent to his death.”

The woman brought her hands up to her mouth and smothered her screams.

“It’s always the same with you pathetic peasants.” He removed his cap and scratched the scalp beneath his short blond hair. “Why do I bother offering any of you mercy?” He spun away from them, and, prior to signaling the firing squad, suffered an uncharacteristic moment of uncertainty.

Without warning, his left eye bulged outward and erupted into violent spasms. The restless demon inhabiting his body stabbed its splintered teeth into the festering meat of his bowels and regained control.

“Ready!” It shrieked and sadistically peeled the man’s face from the skull.

The war-ravaged community at the wall wailed and gnashed their teeth.

“Aim!”

The legion of devils beside him raised their weapons.

Another demon tore free of the man’s spine and sluggishly chewed through the seeping bedsores on the back of his legs.

“Fire!”

And this is how the days perpetuate themselves in hell.

***

Renovation

It was sticking out of my neighbor’s chest, up and through the ground. I had originally bought the rake for the abundance of rotted leaves in my backyard, but as I evaluated its placement between Henry’s ribs, it seemed strangely fitting for the season and curiously creative to impale him as a scarecrow.

The following morning, after working through the night to hide the body of his wife, I purchased a slew of garden tools from the local nursery. Among the items was a plastic-handled spade the color of wintergreen; a three-foot hoe with a red, rubber grip; and a short garden tiller crafted into the shape of a lion’s paw.

The mailman arrived promptly at one, and I quickly dispatched a series of succinct blows to his skull with a steel shovel. I planted him beside the pink azaleas on the north side of our home. My wife was terribly upset with me.

“I was hoping for a more innovative approach to contemporary landscaping.” She threw up her arms and huffed. “This won’t work.” She lifted the mailman’s cap off of his submerged head and fanned herself. “And the only thing this afternoon sun inspires is the odor of decay.”

“I’m doing my best.” I dropped the garden shears and dabbed sweat from the nape of my neck with a bloody work rag. “I’ve been up for two straight days.”

“Let’s switch gears.” She smiled and fingered my belt buckle. “I’m thinking the house may need a fresh coat of paint before winter. Something cozy and warm.”

“I live to please my queen.” I was graciously placating. “Have you chosen a color?”

“Yes.” She kissed my lips and showed me the sample palette.

“A very bold direction,” I confirmed. “I like it.”

That afternoon I ordered a wood chipper and used the delivery men to help me mix the perfect shade of red.

***

Nursing Home

“Please don’t put me in that wheelchair!” The elderly Mrs. Colon threw her dirty bedpan in the general direction of both nurse attendants. She’d been crippled in a car accident some thirty years earlier.

The young Haitian girls avoided her assault and cast bewildered stares. “What’s wrong, Mrs. Colon?”**

“It wants to eat me!”

Too often, senility and dementia transformed relatively stable residents into emotionally disturbed persons. There was an awkward silence, followed by a long sigh.

“Trust us,” the one named Lottie said. “We won’t let anything bad happen to you.” She smiled and raised her eyebrows at her coworker. “Isn’t that right, Kina?”

Kina emphatically agreed.

They stood at either side of Mrs. Colon and lifted her gently from the bed. Although simultaneously stifling her screams with their sweaty palms and defending themselves from the onslaught of her fingernails, they managed to position her on the foam-cushioned seat.

Seconds later, the aluminum frame of the wheelchair unhinged its carnivorous jaws, clamped down on Mrs. Colon’s frail body, and chewed her to bits.

The nursing home grew ominously quiet.

Lottie squatted and scrubbed the blood-caked gore from the padded handles and nylon seat. She stood up and nodded at Kina with a face covered in scratches.

Kina rolled the wheelchair into the next resident’s room.

—
©2009 Angel Zapata

Angel Zapata was born in NYC, but currently resides just outside of Augusta, Georgia. Some of his flash fiction and poetry has appeared or is forthcoming on Powder Burn Flash, Doorknobs & Bodypaint, Every Day Fiction, Every Day Poets, Membra Disjecta, The Absent Willow Review, and Flashes in the Dark. He is husband to his blond goddess and father of four boys obsessed with all things ninja. He occasionally blogs at: http://www.myspace.com/angeldzapata

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