They seemed like perfectly ordinary storm clouds at first, rolling across the sky that morning like plumes of ink in water. It was when they covered the sky and blotted out the sun that we realized they were something different.

By midday, it was dark as midnight. People sat out on their porches looking up at the clouds and wondering what they were. That was when we could still see each other by artificial light, though.

The clouds were closing in from above, great sleeping beasts that sucked the light from the air and made the atmosphere thick and sludgy. People in tall buildings could reach out their windows and touch the clouds. It was like touching a fleshy sponge, they said, wet and clammy and soft.

Like touching the dead, one woman said.

The clouds interfered with satellite and radio signals. Cell phones, radios and televisions were all useless. Even cable signals were deadened by the clouds, once they reached the tops of the telephone poles. Electricity went out soon after. We were enveloped in quiet, empty darkness. The clouds were obliterating everything that ever had been, and all that would ever be.

That was when the fires broke out.

I remember seeing a man, stripped naked to the waist, carrying a torch and screaming as he ran down the street. Sweat glistened on his body, making his hair sticky. His eyes looked crazed, desperate.

Not long after that, perhaps five in the afternoon, the clouds reached street level.

Don’t breathe, they said. Government trucks showed up with gas masks and respirators so no one would have to breathe the contaminated air, but there weren’t enough to go around. Or maybe they didn’t get to us in time, I don’t remember—all I can remember from that point was getting my first gasp of the clouds and realizing it was soft and light and sweet-smelling, and laughing and laughing at how silly we had ever been to fear the clouds in the first place…

And then we all woke up.

Everyone awoke in their own beds, starting the day just as they would any other. I know I did. They looked and acted the same as they had when they awoke the previous morning, in perfect condition, except…

Nobody remembered the clouds. No one but me.

And when the clouds arrived again that morning, I was the only one who was unafraid.

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Mrs. Adams stopped at the top of the hill to catch her breath. The grocery bags were heavy in her arms. Only a few houses to go, now.

She caught her breath at the sight of the familiar truck in front of her apartment. A tall, sturdy man leaned against the truck, hands in the pockets of his bulky coat. He smiled at the sight of the frail widow. “Hello, Mrs. Adams. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Her shoulders sagged. She couldn’t turn away now. “Hello,” she replied glumly.

“Apples. My favorite.” The man took a piece of fruit from the top of one of her sacks and crunched thoughtfully. “You know, Mrs. Adams, I don’t like doing this.”

“You shouldn’t. It’s a terrible thing.” She set the bags down on the low retaining wall and faced him. “I don’t have it. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“Oh, but you do, Mrs. Adams, you do. I saw you use the bank machine at the grocery store.”

She looked older than her fifty years. “You’ve been spying on me?”

He shrugged. “I buy groceries, too, Mrs. Adams.”

“But it’s my rent money!”

He stood so close she could smell him. “Landlords don’t worry about rent when their building’s burning down. Think about it, Mrs. Adams.”

“I can’t afford it. It’s the end of the week and I don’t have any extra money. I get my check on Wednesday. I’ll pay you then.”

The man looked up at the front window. A birdcage hung between the curtains. A parakeet hopped around inside the cage. “Do you clip his wings, Mrs. Adams?”

“He’s got nothing to do with this,” she said, angrily.

“If his wings are clipped, Mrs. Adams, he can’t fly away.”

She gasped.

“Do you know what it smells like, Mrs. Adams? Burning feathers?”

A tear rolled down her cheek. “Please stop,” she whispered.

He smiled grimly. “Takes weeks to get rid of that smell. Even if you open all the windows, that smell permeates everything in the house, Mrs. Adams, the smell of acrid feathers and something else, something pleasant and meaty…but parakeets aren’t very meaty birds, Mrs. Adams, are they?”

“All right, all right.” Her nose ran as she reached into the lining of her pocketbook and pulled out two twenties and a ten. “I won’t be able to pay all my rent, but I don’t suppose that matters to a person like you, does it?”

“Remember, Mrs. Adams, landlords don’t worry about rent when their building’s burning down. I’ll see you next month, Mrs. Adams. You and little Tweety.”

She pressed her lips together tightly as he trotted down the steps to his truck. What an evil, evil man.

He waved from the driver’s seat when he pulled away. “Thank you for supporting your local fire-fighters!”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

SPASMS is on hiatus until Monday, November 14. Please enjoy this classic SPASM! xo, Amy

Hello! I’d like to welcome you to the neighborhood and introduce you to the church just up the road a ways. The Church of Saint Lucifer.

Yes, sir, Saint Lucifer. Did I mention our church softball team? You look like the athletic type. We sure could use a throwing arm like yours.

No, ma’am, we’re not a traditional church, but we do believe in God. Absolutely. And we also believe in babysitting. If you should choose to participate in some of our weekly events, there is free babysitting in our nursery, which is staffed by two certified child-care workers.

Why, you’re absolutely right, ma’am, we worship Satan. We also have a ladies’ altar guild, which you may be interested in joining, as well as a knitting circle. Do you crochet?

Yes, sir, we do perform ritual human sacrifice, usually on Sunday mornings. And come hungry – afterwards, we have a festive pancake breakfast. My wife brings cinnamon rolls!

Well, ma’am, yes, we do drink blood and urine in our sacraments, but they’re mixed with sacramental wine, and frankly, you can’t tell the difference. Did I mention the ladies’ altar guild, by the way?

Well, it’s been nice meeting you. Thanks for your time. I’ll just leave these brochures and a free copy of the Book of Satan. I think you’ll find it very informative. It’s certainly changed my life! Ha ha. Hope to see you in church on Sunday!

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

SPASMS is on hiatus until Monday, November 14. Please enjoy this classic SPASM! xo, Amy

Frank Lloyd Wright. Architect of the Guggenheim. Fallingwater. Taliesin East and West.

Cocksucker. You heard me. Cock. Suck. Er.

“Oh, he’s so brilliant,” my wife babbles. Can’t stop gibbering about abundance of light, butterfly motifs, grace of proportion, grand volumes of space, blah blah blah. Fucking idiots. Guy’s such a genius, he puts a waterfall in my living room! Hello? Living room is indoors. Waterfalls go outdoors. My carpets are mildewing. Give the guy a Mensa membership!

And he’s a con artist, too: not only does he create the floor plans, explicitly directs which building materials are to be used, et cetera, he insists on designing all the furniture! What a scam! There’s no room left for a single piece of our own belongings, except books, personal effects, and what have you. Not even a nook for my favorite chair—it would “corrupt the balance of design.” My wife thinks this is swell. I think she’s got rocks in her head. Maybe she should go soak it in the waterfall—thanks to Frank Lloyd Supergenius, she won’t have far to walk.

Oh, and here’s a suggestion for Mr. Wright: a window you can see through! Every frigging pane has a cubist nightmare on it. My wife tells me these are “light screens.” Supposedly if you get drunk and squint real hard, you’ll see a “tree of life.” Apparently a waterfall in the living room isn’t enough, now I gotta have fucking colored-glass abstract trees blocking my view of the real trees. This is genius? Would Einstein design a house like this? Hell, no!

On top of this, I have to put up with architectural magazines and tour guides and whatnot clamoring to come in, take photos, and ooh and ahh over how wonderful this fucking house is. Morons! All of you! Go home already!

The only thing this house has gotten me—apart from an ulcer—is a renewed interest on the part of my wife in fulfilling her marital duties. And that, my friends, is the only practical result of spending millions of dollars on this concrete monstrosity. For the first time in years, my wife gave me a blowjob.

And for that, I thank you, Frank Lloyd Wright.

Fucking idiot.

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

SPASMS is on hiatus until Monday, November 14. Please enjoy this classic SPASM! xo, Amy

Lily paused and lit a cigarette. Squinting into the sunlight, she flicked the used match into the street and stepped down from the stoop onto the pavement.

She’d drunk too much again last night. Sunglasses did nothing to alleviate the pounding in her head caused by the sun’s glare; nor did it disguise the results of her excesses.

Walking unsteadily, Lily made her painful way to the corner store and went inside.

The man behind the counter recognized her and nodded, not in greeting, but to himself, confirming his suspicions that Lily was once again in need of A Drink.

Sighing inwardly, the counterman went to the tap and drew a long draught into a tall paper cup and handed it to poor bedraggled Lily. She took the cup in both hands and gulped greedily.

Like any addict, she was renewed almost immediately by the frothy liquid. Sense tingled back into her being. Order was restored from chaos. Whole once more, Lily smiled at the counterman in gratitude.

Such is the effect of Dr. Pepper.

Drink a glass today.

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

SPASMS is on hiatus until Monday, November 14. Please enjoy this classic SPASM! xo, Amy

She saw him leaning over under the hood of her car, shirtless, muscles gleaming in the afternoon haze, and briefly wondered if there was a graceful way to suggest she fuck his brains out. Instead, she came around the side and politely asked whether it was ready yet.

He gave her a strange look; inwardly, she withered. “Yeah, it’s fixed.” His face suddenly creased into a smile. “Come back in the office, hon, I’ll get you a coke.”

She followed him into the little office at the back of the garage. He took two sodas from a small refrigerator and gave her one, motioning her onto the old couch next to the desk. He lowered himself into the swivel chair. They drank in silence for a moment. “You were long overdue for a tune-up. I replaced the spark plugs,” he recounted, “new air filter, changed the oil.” He looked at her sharply. “When’s the last time you got an oil change?”

Her shoulders drooped. “I can’t remember.”

He shrugged. “Well, I better see you again in three thousand miles, lady.”

She bit her lip and stared down into her coke. She’d only brought the car in to get a chance to talk to the guy. Not to get scolded for her lack of auto maintenance.

He sat up suddenly. “That came out wrong. You okay?”

She smiled. “Absolutely. How much do I owe you?”

“I’ll get to the bill in a minute,” he responded, “but I got a question.”

“What?”

“You’re a schoolteacher, right?”

She nodded.

“I notice you around town,” he said. “At church, the arts festival. You’re a nice girl. I like that.”

“You do?”

“Listen, I’m not a classy guy. So don’t be offended, all right?” He took a deep breath and leaned forward. “Every time I see you, I want to fuck your brains out. Will you come home with me?”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

SPASMS is on hiatus until Monday, November 14. Please enjoy this classic SPASM! xo, Amy

Other night, Harry, Maxine and Stan are sitting around the card table, gassing it up as usual, and playing a few friendly hands of bridge with their old pal Ethel from down the street, when wouldn’t you know it, they run out of peanuts. Maxine gets up and goes to the closet and hauls out a king-size can of salted cashews and tosses the can to Harry, who reaches for it, but you know Harry, he don’t see so good since the war, and he reaches out for the can as I said just a minute ago, but he fumbles, and the can hits Ethel right in the bean. The head, I’m saying. Harry apologizes right away, but Ethel isn’t having any—fact, she falls over on the linoleum, like she’s dead, only she isn’t. You can see her breathing, and every once in a while she opens an eye and squints around the room to see if everybody’s payin’ attention. Well, hell, you know how Ethel is, she pulls a stunt like that practically every week, so after a while, Maxine says, “I can’t abide a mess, especially in my own damn living room! Pick her up and move her out!” And she winks, like. So Stan says to Harry, “Now, come on, Harry, let’s pick her up before she bleeds all over Maxine’s nice new linoleum!” Then Stan and Harry pick up Ethel and put her on the couch, which has a plastic slip-cover even though Maxine had it Scotch-guarded just last spring, because as she says, you never know what might happen, and Maxine calls up Ethel’s no-good brother Frank to come pick up her dead body in his station wagon, which he does, but he’s running late as usual, and by the time Frank gets there, it’s half-past ten already, so the evening’s shot to hell and Stan says since Ethel’s dead again, they might as well pack it in for the night, which they all do, but unless Ethel recovers from being dead in the next couple a days, that still leaves them without a fourth for bridge next Tuesday. Do you play?

Copyright 2004 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

SPASMS is on hiatus until Monday, November 14. Please enjoy this classic SPASM! xo, Amy

Ron looked up and gestured angrily toward Pete. “Another silent-but-deadly? Phew! Change your diet, for god’s sake!”

Pete said nothing. Sharon looked over the cubicle wall at her co-workers. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “It smells like potpourri in here.”

Dave, the IT guy, chimed in, “Yeah, you guys always smell really good.”

“Very funny,” Ron snorted. “It reeks. The guy farts all day, and I can’t take it anymore!”

“But it smells good,” Dave replied. “It’s like, fragrant.”

“He farts! Every goddamn day!”

Sharon nodded enthusiastically. “Isn’t Pete amazing? When I walk in here, at first I think flowers. But then gradually you notice it’s more like, oh, an exotic aromatherapy oil.”

Dave agreed. “It’s musky. Got that masculine undertone going there. You’re lucky, Ron, I wish my cubicle smelled like this.”

“It smells like he took a shit in his pants!”

“You should be grateful to have Pete,” Sharon reached over and patted Pete’s shoulder. “People pay good money for aromatherapy, and you have it for free right here.” Pete remained silent.

“You’re all out of your fucking minds. I’m going upstairs to Lewis, get transferred out of this stinkhole.” Ron slammed his fist on the desk and stormed out.

They waited until Ron reached the stairs before saying anything.
Dave looked at Sharon. “Think he’ll get the transfer?”

“God, I hope so. How about you, Pete?”

“Hey, I’m just sick of eating beans every day.”

Sharon pinched her nose and fanned the air.

Copyright 2004 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Most people thought she was just some crazy old lady. Her children certainly did.

But her grandson remembered her as the one person who was always ready to mix a glass of Tang, who listened when you told a story, and a genius who could drive anywhere making only left turns.

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Mr. Nims licked his pencil. Receipts had been deducted in error—it was up to him to figure out where. He scanned the spreadsheet, pencil poised, ever ready to ferret out the errant digits.

He sighed testily at the sound of someone entering of the Accounting office. “Yes, yes, what is it? I’m busy!” he cried.

“Nnnngh,” moaned the lone figure standing on the threshold, carrying a briefcase.

Nims shook his head. “From the agency, are you? Well, have a seat at the spare desk,” he said, gesturing toward the empty chair. “But I shall have you know that the last temporary the agency sent got an entire column of deductions wrong and sent everything awry. So you must understand, I have no choice but to insist that you use an adding machine. There’s one on the desk there—aren’t you going to sit down?”

“Nnnngh,” replied the temporary.

“Oh! You prefer the drafting table? Well, I suppose you might as well.” Nims stood up and courteously offered his stool. “I was going to spread out my papers here on the desk, anyway. I’m Mr. Nims, the Chief Accountant, incidentally. And you are…?”

“Braaaains,” moaned the temporary.

“Ah. Pleased to met you, Mr. Brains—”

“Braaaains!”

“Oh! Beg pardon, Mr. Braaaains. What an interesting name. Is it Dutch? Now, your assignment today will be to call out entries from this record of disbursements.”

The temporary rocked back and forth on his stool. “Burse…ments…”

“Correct, disbursements,” agreed the little accountant. “What we’re looking for is any disbursement that doesn’t match these receipts. Just circle any record that doesn’t match, and check off the ones that do.”

The temporary smacked his hand on the drafting table with a wet sound. “Burse…ments…”

Mr. Nims beamed. “By gum, I believe you’ve done this before. Isn’t that right, Mr. Braaaains?”

“Nnnngh,” the temporary replied.

“Well!” Mr. Nims stood with his hands on his hips. “A temporary with accounting experience! What a nice surprise.”

“Nims, look out!”

The little accountant whirled to find Gloria the secretary standing in the doorway, holding her typewriter over her head. She charged forth and smashed the typewriter into the temporary’s head.

Mr. Nims clucked disapprovingly. “Really, Gloria! That’s no way to treat a co-worker!”

Disbelieving, Gloria kicked the temporary. “Nims, you fathead, that was a zombie!”

“He’s not a Zombie, he’s a Dutchman!”

Gloria pressed her fingers to her temples. “I’m sorry, Nims, but do you know what a zombie is?”

The little accountant sighed testily. “I don’t care! He could be from Boola Boola, for all I care! Honestly, Gloria, do you know how hard it is to find a good temporary these days?”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.