Yareah Magazine

by Francis W. Alexander
 
    

by Dorda

 
                                                     Alexander – Richard – 2
                           
monitor like a Slinky, then plopped to the desk before scurrying off.  He hated it, remembered his grandmother’s stories of them getting into people’s ears.  Yet, centipedes or not, at least he had a place to stay.  That had been in doubt a couple of weeks ago when he heard rumors that his last employer, Red Sands Amusement Park, was contesting every Unemployment case. The future had looked bleak and he wondered if he’d join the millions of homeless people with their belongings in supermarket carts, shambling through the streets like zombies.  For him the horror started just after Thanksgiving.
     “Richard.  Red Sands lied,” Lynn, his former supervisor and friend had told him by email that Monday morning, the day of his processing out of the job.  “They said I quit.”  With the economy in horrible shape, consternation stroked his body, shivers crawling down his back.  He knew if they’d stop his supervisor from getting unemployment benefits, he of darker hue had a future that looked bleak.   There was no doubt the company would stiff its employees so it could stretch its dollar to pay for a new roller coaster opening next summer and still keep the executives rolling in dough.  Red Sands Amusement Park, the mirage of angels in an oasis.  Roses on poisonous mushroom stalks.   
     Sitting at his desk , he stared at the computer screen.  Fuming, he thought about how the CEO’s made their millions, walking around the park grinning like hyenas.    Rising from his desk, he retrieved the small box on the bookcase, opened it, and took out the strands of hair he’d picked up while cleaning the bathrooms in the Executive Building.  He stretched his long legs in
 
 
                                                     Alexander – Richard – 3
 
 
the direction of the bathroom where he kept the voodoo queen’s brew, knew what he must do. 
     “Watch what you wish for,” Madam Shola had said when she gave him the brew, “you never know how a curse can come back upon you.”
     Staring at the concoction, he battled the temptation to use it on the good folks at Red Sands Amusement Park.   Unlike the lure of the married women who used their charms to unsuccessfully tempt him in the past, this time he was weakening regardless of future repercussions.  
     As the winds of November tapped on his bedroom window Richard shivered.   He sprinkled the strands of hair into Madam Shola’s zombeef stew, lifted his head, mixed, and sang.  
     Round and round and round you go
    Where they’ll wander, I won’t know.  
     But one thing I’ll know when I mix this stew. 
     Loads of Unemployment payments will be due.
 
     He performed the necessary chants and smiled, pleased at his results.  Richard’s excitement was short lived. He noticed something in the green goo.  He walked to the kitchen,   returned with a spoon, and dug the object out of the substance.
     “A dead centipede.”  As if awakening, it started to move.  He placed the bug on the sink and poked it with the spoon with intent to cut it in two.  Thinking the better of it, he scooped the
 
                                                     Alexander – Richard – 4
 
 
critter and started to pour it down the toilet.  It attempted to right itself.    
     “What the?” Indeed, the bug was right side up and shambling over the spoon.   He had created a zombie centipede.  That’s when another idea hit him, spurred him to run to the kitchen and grab a plastic bag.
     As he prepped himself, he recited a poem similar to “The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe”.
 
 
 
There was a corporation surrounded by slime;
Its employees constantly  worked overtime.
It gave them penny raises and made them work hard.
When they were hungry, it tossed them some lard.
 
     “We’ve been mindless things to you,” he said, “Now let’s see how you like it.”  Richard placed the bag containing the zombie centipede in his backpack and headed to the amusement park to process out.
***
     As he stood in the well lit office, the secretary sat in her brown swivel chair and  filled out his 
 
 
                                                       Alexander – Richard – 5
 
Sign Out paper. 
     “Check the laid off box,” he said.  She erased the check mark on the box that said “quit to go to school” and marked the ”company layoff”  box. 
     He picked up the paper.  Seeing that everything was fine, he smiled, signed the paper, and handed it back to the woman.  She signed it and gave him a copy.  Then she watched as he brought the bag out of his backpack. 
     Richard opened the bag and knocked it over, watched as the centipede shambled in the woman’s direction.  In spite of its injuries, the bug moved exceedingly well, ambled onto her arm and started feeding as she sat motionless in her chair. 
     “It’s been nice knowing you,“ he said as more people stepped  into the room.  The biggest prize was Barker, the company CEO. 
     “Have a seat,” Richard said, pointed to the table. 
     Barker walked over and sat on top of the desk.  The secretary’s head plopped on the desk as the centipede left a pool of blood on her right arm and shuffling over her left arm headed in Barker’s direction.  Richard turned and stepped to the door.  He’d seen enough.  Plus, he didn’t want to be around for the fireworks.     
 
A company there was that had lived in denial: 
With all of its money, it had won every trial.
But surprisingly it gave its employees plenty of bread
And presented a problem: epidemics of walking dead.  
 
 
Francis W. Alexander

912 Sycamore Line  1B
Sandusky, OH 44870
Phone: (419) 626-0690
Email: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

*Yareah magazine es una revista cultural fundada y dirigida por el escritor Martín Cid: http://www.martincid.com
**Created and edited by the writer Martin Cid: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

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