Spirituality Is A Bike Ride Away

"So, where do we go from here?" she asked as she lit two joints and passed one to him.

They were sitting on the edge of the mountain. Their feet hanging over, soles staring into the wide chasm beneath them.

He took a drag on the joint, held his breath, and said, "Anywhere you want to go."

"Will you let me drive?" She gave him that look which he could never say no to. Then she batted her eyelashes. It was the straw that broke the camel's back.

He took the keys from his pocket and dangled them in front of her face. Her fist snatched the keys in a flash.

She got up and dusted the bottom of her jeans. He sat there and watched her walk to the motorcycle. There was something ethereal about her ass, he almost felt spiritual looking at her walk. She got on the bike, keyed the ignition and kicked the engine to life. He still sat there, hypnotized by her.

She put on her helmet, pinched the joint between her thumb and forefinger and stuck it between her ear and the helmet.

"Well?" she asked, "do you need an invitation? Get on the bike, bitch!"

He grinned, got up and stumbled for the bike.

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Just.Felt.Like.Writing.

The Breaking News

A journalist died in the stampede. His brethren had killed him. Stomped and climbed over him till his bones broke and his lungs collapsed and his blood leaked into the pavement. There was a story to be covered. And the dead didn't need any by-lines.

The space ships were finally here.

The white-skinned beings climbed down from the ships. Actually, they floated down in their bubbles of pure energy. Some said they looked like angels. Maybe they were angels. But the journalists would have none of that angelic bullshit. One brave reporter on the city beat, made her way through the throng, swatting away heads with her microphone, her cameraman trailing her through the crowd.

The military men stationed there for the security of the visitors made to grab the feisty journo, but somehow she slithered through their grasp like an oiled eel. She was close, oh so close to breaking the story. One of the visitors moved his head and pointed a tendril like appendage towards the advancing journo. The others took notice. The color of their white energy clouds changed to a glowing red.

The journo didn't care, the story would win her a Pulitzer at least. She jumped the barrier that separated the pathway of the visitors from the crowd that had gathered to watch them. She flicked her microphone on.

"How does it feel to be on our planet?" she yelled at the smallest of the visitors, thrusting the microphone in its face like a baton.

The creature looked at her for one long second as the security officers behind the journo rushed to grab her and take her away.

Then it spoke. "Manner-less freaks." And slapped the journo a with a red hot tendril of smoke, leaving an instant scar on her face.

When the security men dragged her away, she was drooling slightly from her mouth.