Into the Hour of the Red Minutes by Darrin Naill (Random Title #15)

He believed he could stuff his soul into the left front pocket of the green flannel shirt he'd stolen from the Goodwill just over a week ago. He would place the business end of the metal tweezers into his left ear, easing them in until his right ear could hear him screaming, and then quickly remove what must be his soul, and drop it, tweezers and all, into the pocket. His soul would then creep back into his ear at night while he slept, causing him such great anguish that his dreams turned to dying.

He made an attempt to keep his soul from leaving his shirt by placing a broken Pez dispenser in the pocket, hoping the soul would bond with the object and remain dormant. It did not work. More drastic steps were taken. One evening, he pricked his finger and proceeded to stain a white handkerchief red with his blood. After an hour of droplets, the cloth was nearly all red. He let it dry for a bit and then folded it neatly and placed it carefully into his soul pocket. That night there was no anguish and no dying. That morning, the handkerchief was white again.

Ten nights and ten sore fingers went by. He had stopped eating. He drank tap water from a sponge in the dark on his bean bag chair. His fingers were dry. His soul grew to the point where he could almost see it darting around in his shirt pocket. He knew it was a matter of time. He took the shirt to the Goodwill and hung it on the rack, leaving a spotty red and white handkerchief in the pocket. He left the store; his soul; his blood; his dreams. He was sure he would not live another minute.


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42!...April!...Baltimore!...6!...Westminster!...hunting!..fishing!..hike!..hike!...ugh!

Rat by Darrin Naill

He spent his morning trying in vain to keep the bread from copulating with the toaster. Each time he would leave the room, he would hear the click of the toaster going down. Each time he returned, a new set of twins lay on the counter covered in butter or jam or, on one occasion, honey.

The radio in the basement was supposed to be off, but would come on of its own volition each time he passed by the closed door to the basement steps. He would hear the white noise tune itself to an all-Spanish station and then fade to pops and buzzes only to go quiet as soon as he would open the door.

The window unit air conditioner in the upstairs bedroom played country music in faint bursts as he walked by the landing.

It had been weeks since he had heard from his cousin, who had, months before, been abducted and transplanted into the television. He always told him what to do to keep the appliances in order, but now, he was increasingly lost. So he did what any sane person would do: he sat in his cat-eating recliner and stared at the blank screen to wait for the next episode of his cousin.

He called for a glass of sweet tea, and it came (though he should have requested "iced" sweet tea, as what he got was lukewarm).

After his tea, it was time to hunt. The rats, at times, rolled across the floor like giant dust bunnies. If he could manage to stand in the right spot, then the corner chair, which always tried to kill him, would slide across the floor and run over the little buggers.

Just as the chair was zeroing in on him, the TV rang. That had never happened before, so he was a little put off. He kicked the television, which made it slide across the floor, crushing the corner chair, and ending his hunting trip.

"in a moment" the television shouted "will be the end".

He looked at the television. No picture. The floor began to tremble.

"there's a hole in the bottom of the sea" a passing rat sang.

The floor gave way, folded, and swallowed. All stop.

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 Darrin Naill. 70s born, father of 3, husband of 1. Eater of meats and cheeses. Hunter and Fisher; general killer. College degreed, yet employed at a bargain. Acquainted severally, friended fewly. Bourbon.

Copyright Darrin Naill
Artwork Juan Gris

The Seaman by Darrin Naill

When the only thing one has to fend off a swarm of moths is an arm broken off a lawn jockey (sans hanging lamp), it is best to swing fast and wide and round. Up and down motions usually end making a knot on the forehead (which is precisely what happened). The glancing blow causes staggering, which in turn allows the moths entrance into the small closet where, over time, a few of the items hanging in said closet will be damaged. Living in the closet, hunting down the dozen or so moths is the task of a mad-man. So, with water bottles and Chex mix in hand, the hunkering down began.

Not knowing what attracts moths (aside from the clothes already hanging in the closet), it is best to sit still and breathe little, match and candles in hand, and wait for the fluttering. And then it's simply a matter of match/candle/moth...poof!

If the telephone rings, it is not a good idea to panic, strike a match to see how to get out of the closet, inadvertently igniting a spilled oil lamp that was clumsily knocked over by the homeowner. It is also not a good idea to climb into the window of a dark brick rancher, chasing the moths that were to blame for ruining the old wool coat of the sailor admired by many (or perhaps just one) who died just a week before when a yard jockey fell upon his head while the sailor was bathing.

Also, do not try to fight fire with clothing. Naked, charred remains will be all that will be left.

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Darrin Naill. 70s born, father of 3, husband of 1. Eater of meats and cheeses. Hunter and Fisher; general killer. College degreed, yet employed at a bargain. Acquainted severally, friended fewly. Bourbon.

Copyright Darrin Naill
Artwork Leonora Carrington