“How did my underwear wind up on pillow?” she mumbled. She blinked hard in an effort to recall just what happened, then it came to her hard and ugly like a bull before he's about to finish off a matador.
He could feel her eyes on him before he even woke up and he knew as soon as he opened his eyes that she would be the farthest thing from happy as possible. He tried a smile to diffuse her anger, but he wound up looking like a nervous gazelle that accidentally stumbled onto a lioness. She looked at her panties that lay between them, then at him.
Heavy weight boxers that went the distance in a fight, with their blood and teeth on the canvas, have gone out on better terms than this couple did. Still, like alcoholics and addicts, they had a bad tendency to lapse into convenience and the safety of familiarity. This was the second time that they’ve both somehow managed to take the same ravaged, pothole-filled road instead of the one less-traveled.
Why does this keep happening to me?
Why doesn’t this happen more often?
I swear he’s going to blame this on me, he’s got the worst Eve complex this side of the medieval Catholic Church.
She’s going to blame this on me, even though she’s the one that called me up because she needed a shoulder to cry on.
Did I call him yesterday afternoon?
Midori daiquiris never fail…I think.
I don’t remember drinking that much…certainly not enough to ever wind up in bed with him again.
I mean, I’m not hung over or anything...except for the intermittent tympani symphony between my ears.
We were okay together, but not to the point that I would wind up doing even considering going down this road again.
I don’t get it, she couldn’t stand me half the time…yet here we are.
Here I am…with this pretentious prick.
Look at her glaring at me, did somebody drop a house on her sister and take the slippers?
I feel good, almost like I’m liquid.
That’s funny, I don’t feel good like I usually do, after we…did we? If we did…
Is he just going to stare at me all day?
Is she just going to glare at me all day?
“Well?”
“Hey.”
“Is that all that you have to say?”
“I, uh, no, I guess, no. Last night was nice…wasn’t it?”
She finally allowed herself a smile, “…A little too, you know? It‘s kind of like you outdid yourself.”
“Yeah, guess I did.”
A torrent of laughter came from behind the bathroom door near his side of the bed and the door opened. They both covered themselves with the sheet and blankets as the door opened. The laughter flowed from a gorgeous woman wearing nothing but the towel she that she was using to dry her hair.
“Oh, you pick now to be modest?” she said to the surprised woman on the bed as she flipped her wet hair down and back up. She worked her fingers through her glistening locks like a brush and shook her head at him. “As far as you go, you don’t know the definition of ‘modesty.’ Unless passing out as soon as any part of you touches the bed, counts as ‘outdoing’ yourself.”
Note: JJ had the choice of four starter sentences...
It all started with a ham sandwich...
How did my underwear wind up...
That can't be my mother...
He woke up, wondering where his...
Saturday, February 24, 2007
"A Cry Went Up"
A cry went up in the middle of the crowd, then the crowd of concertgoers dispersed like the lower tier of an atomic bomb explosion. At the center of the human explosion stood Amar Flay over the body of Roddrick Leaf, brandishing a gun and a smile. I say "body" because Roddrick took one to the head and his eyes were empty.
For whatever reason, I'm always the last one to hear a gunshot. Though I always recognize what happened a split second later because of the screams and the look of panic in every other person's face. There wasn't anyone within ten feet of Amar except for a woman that was on one knee and glaring at Amare. I recognized her from around the way as someone who was always on the periphery because of the red that she used to dye her hair never occurred in nature.
From high school on, we'd run across each other everywhere the video store, to restaurants, to the movies, and even parties around my neighborhood. We never said as much as "hello," much less one word to each other. But Amar? I knew that little pendejo better than I knew half of my family. I kicked his ass way back in the fourth grade when he tried to steal my lunch, and he's had in for me ever since.
Every time we crossed paths, he'd make it a point to raise his voice or knock something over to let me know he was there. He reminded me of this little mutt that my step-mother had that used to come running down her driveway, barking and snarling. You'd clap once and stomp your feet to send the mutt scampering away. Then for the rest of the night, the mutt would be under the couch or under the table, wishing he was a pit bull or Saint Bernard so he could take a chunk out of your throat.
So here was this chickenshit who made it a point to come to a concert where everybody from every neighborhood was represented and kill one the toughest men around in cold blood. Because a dude like Roddrick wouldn't bother to feign a backhand, much less spit on a low level rat like Amar.
Amar brought the gun around to her until he noticed something out of the corner of his eye, me...the idiot who wasn't smart enough to run and was now sticking out like a tree in this receding flood of people. Who could pass up an opportunity like this? Kill a guy that you've had a grudge against for thirteen years and is now served up to you on a platter. I could see that greater than a decade of hate in his eyes as he tilted his head and aimed for me.
I closed my eyes and it wasn't my life that was flashing in front of me, but whether to charge him or run.
"You motherfu-"
There's the gunshot again and this time I heard it loud and clear. I opened my eyes and saw red spurting out of Amar's neck and he slid down like something that wasn't properly placed against a wall. "Ms. Too Redhead" was holding a gun that I guessed belonged to Roddrick and she was ready to shoot him again. Amar was as gone as Roddrick and if he did get as far as Saint Peter, I don't think those last two choked off words were going to help Amar get past the pearly gates.
Ms. Too Redhead looked back at me and I finally said "hi" to her...and no more. I turned without waiting for a reply or saying so much as a "thank you." I didn't want to give her the impression that I recognized her or that I was going to testify. As a matter of fact, my only concern was getting out of there so I wouldn't be put in the position of saying anything.
On my way through the crowd and to home, I didn't contemplate how they got the guns past the metal detectors and what passed for security, nor did I wonder if Amar had a legitimate beef with Roddrick. I was just happy to be in one piece and alive, and I was wondering just what did Ms. Too Redhead's voice sound like.
Note: Where the fact crossed over from the fiction, was a shooting at a rap concert I was at, but I was yards away from the event. For better or worse, I've been around three shootings and it has taken me more than a few seconds to realize just what had transpired. JJ's starter sentence was, "a cry went up..."
For whatever reason, I'm always the last one to hear a gunshot. Though I always recognize what happened a split second later because of the screams and the look of panic in every other person's face. There wasn't anyone within ten feet of Amar except for a woman that was on one knee and glaring at Amare. I recognized her from around the way as someone who was always on the periphery because of the red that she used to dye her hair never occurred in nature.
From high school on, we'd run across each other everywhere the video store, to restaurants, to the movies, and even parties around my neighborhood. We never said as much as "hello," much less one word to each other. But Amar? I knew that little pendejo better than I knew half of my family. I kicked his ass way back in the fourth grade when he tried to steal my lunch, and he's had in for me ever since.
Every time we crossed paths, he'd make it a point to raise his voice or knock something over to let me know he was there. He reminded me of this little mutt that my step-mother had that used to come running down her driveway, barking and snarling. You'd clap once and stomp your feet to send the mutt scampering away. Then for the rest of the night, the mutt would be under the couch or under the table, wishing he was a pit bull or Saint Bernard so he could take a chunk out of your throat.
So here was this chickenshit who made it a point to come to a concert where everybody from every neighborhood was represented and kill one the toughest men around in cold blood. Because a dude like Roddrick wouldn't bother to feign a backhand, much less spit on a low level rat like Amar.
Amar brought the gun around to her until he noticed something out of the corner of his eye, me...the idiot who wasn't smart enough to run and was now sticking out like a tree in this receding flood of people. Who could pass up an opportunity like this? Kill a guy that you've had a grudge against for thirteen years and is now served up to you on a platter. I could see that greater than a decade of hate in his eyes as he tilted his head and aimed for me.
I closed my eyes and it wasn't my life that was flashing in front of me, but whether to charge him or run.
"You motherfu-"
There's the gunshot again and this time I heard it loud and clear. I opened my eyes and saw red spurting out of Amar's neck and he slid down like something that wasn't properly placed against a wall. "Ms. Too Redhead" was holding a gun that I guessed belonged to Roddrick and she was ready to shoot him again. Amar was as gone as Roddrick and if he did get as far as Saint Peter, I don't think those last two choked off words were going to help Amar get past the pearly gates.
Ms. Too Redhead looked back at me and I finally said "hi" to her...and no more. I turned without waiting for a reply or saying so much as a "thank you." I didn't want to give her the impression that I recognized her or that I was going to testify. As a matter of fact, my only concern was getting out of there so I wouldn't be put in the position of saying anything.
On my way through the crowd and to home, I didn't contemplate how they got the guns past the metal detectors and what passed for security, nor did I wonder if Amar had a legitimate beef with Roddrick. I was just happy to be in one piece and alive, and I was wondering just what did Ms. Too Redhead's voice sound like.
Note: Where the fact crossed over from the fiction, was a shooting at a rap concert I was at, but I was yards away from the event. For better or worse, I've been around three shootings and it has taken me more than a few seconds to realize just what had transpired. JJ's starter sentence was, "a cry went up..."
Thursday, February 22, 2007
"La Venezia Appasionata"
He said little as they paddled their way along the sunken streets, only the top floors and roofs of the taller buildings were still above water. What centuries of rising tides could not accomplish, an earthquake did in one day as the foundations of Venice, Italy gave way and the entire city collapsed like an elephant standing on a pallet of eggs.
Archaeologists owned the city by day, looters and pirates by night. His hired-on partner and he wouldn't risk any kind of motor, gas or electric, because that meant that they would surely be discovered. Their night vision goggles seem to pick up the signature of the pirates more often than the houses, their paddling slow and methodical to match the gentle lapping waves against the buildings.
Not many knew of her whereabouts, yet their window was shrinking and it was only a matter of time before she was found.
The levees, sea walls and breaks yielded to the Adriatic, and the sea helped the lagoon reclaim all. The once magnificent buildings and homes when they weren't doing their impression of a certain tower in Pisa, collapsed onto each other like a house of cards to a sudden gust of wind. He lived there off and on for about five years, and he believed that he knew the city by heart. But that was from a street level that no longer existed and once he left what was once the Grand Canal, all bets were off just like his favorite reference points.
Sure, he'd recognize a church steeple here, or balcony where he held a woman there, like a Romeo and Juliet that had finally consummated their passion. But now? It was one huge green slime-covered crap shoot. He had tried to triangulate using satellite photos from the Internet in comparison with known archaeological digs, but all that went out the window in the darkness.
GPS did absolutely no good here, the pirates had figured out ways to manipulate or jam the signals so that everyone who relied on it would become disoriented, and thus become, the easiest of prey. So they rowed onward, silently and for the most part, aimlessly.
His partner's head whipped around at him in askance as he stopped them in the water by grabbing onto an eave, despite the algae effecting his grip. A boat of looters glided some fifty yards away and the looters had on night-vision goggles too. One of the looters deliberately took his time in aiming a rifle at them when the spotlight of a pirate speedboat blinded the looter.
The looter screamed at the intensity of the light and at being discovered. He blindly fired at the pirates. The pirates returned fire and cut the looters down in a hail of red tracers. He and his partner slowly rowed backward as the pirates descended on the looter's boat like nocturnal vultures.
It's said that "it is always darkest before the dawn" and in this case, no truer words were spoken. He had to give up on her, someone else would find her, though they wouldn’t appreciate half as much as he did and they wouldn't take care of her as tenderly as he had.
She was the truest of loves, she gave all and asked nothing in return. And all he wanted to do was bask in her warm beauty just for another moment, but it seemed that only memories would do from here on out. Or would it? Because in the pitch black of the four A.M. darkness with only a quarter moon to light the way, he saw a white fin on a nearby roof.
The fin was actually a rudder from a radio-controlled P-51 Mustang replica airplane that one of the neighborhood kids used to buzz everybody in the piazza (plaza) with. He and the next-to-last girlfriend that he had went for a romantic walk when the kid pushed things too far and the plane nearly hit them. The girlfriend waited until the kid turned his back to them and she jostled the punk, sending his remote to the ground and the plane up on a roof.
Here was the perfect reference point, faintly glowing in the night. He rowed over to the building that the plane was perched on and brought it back to the boat, after an incredible amount of effort. If he couldn't find her, the plane would be the consolation prize and proof to himself that he at least came close. They then rowed due west across what he subconsciously knew to be the piazza boundaries.
He now recognized his grandfather's mansion, though without the aid of the plane, he wouldn't have known it at all. Someone had repainted the building and changed the tiles on the roof from terracotta to blue. Though the house looked like no one had lived there for centuries, something greater than hope told him that she was still waiting there for his return.
The window of his grandfather's office was still intact, somehow. He used a glass cutter and suction cup to open it as quietly as possible, then he climbed in.
As the sun rose over Verona, some one-hundred and twenty miles east of Venice, his partner gave him a warm tap on the back.
"She's-eh-prettier than you deescribed," his partner sung in that strange British English accent that always sounds odd coming from Italians. He nodded and beamed. Taking that beauty in again and reveling in the role of both lover and savior.
"My grandfather would broker deals and ransoms between art thieves and the authorities. But that doesn't mean that he always gave the authentic artifact or art work back to them. Whatever sits in the Mauritshuis, in the Hague, is not the real Vermeer. This is the real 'Girl With A Pearl Earring."
Note: JJ's inspiration was obviously, Hurricane Katarina and the flood of New Orleans. His starter sentence was “he said little as they paddled their way along the sunken streets...”
I had lived in Venice, Italy, here and there, between 1984 and 1986. The Adriatic will reclaim her eventually, despite the best efforts of the world's engineers (as well as all the king's horses and all the king's men). Beyond carbon-dating, it's next to impossible to tell whether a painting was done by the original artist.
Also, some artists would let their students and assistants do a painting for them, here and there. Not to mention, experts can be bribed and museums would lose both financial patronage and attendence, if they were to reveal that they've been showing fakes for several years.
Archaeologists owned the city by day, looters and pirates by night. His hired-on partner and he wouldn't risk any kind of motor, gas or electric, because that meant that they would surely be discovered. Their night vision goggles seem to pick up the signature of the pirates more often than the houses, their paddling slow and methodical to match the gentle lapping waves against the buildings.
Not many knew of her whereabouts, yet their window was shrinking and it was only a matter of time before she was found.
The levees, sea walls and breaks yielded to the Adriatic, and the sea helped the lagoon reclaim all. The once magnificent buildings and homes when they weren't doing their impression of a certain tower in Pisa, collapsed onto each other like a house of cards to a sudden gust of wind. He lived there off and on for about five years, and he believed that he knew the city by heart. But that was from a street level that no longer existed and once he left what was once the Grand Canal, all bets were off just like his favorite reference points.
Sure, he'd recognize a church steeple here, or balcony where he held a woman there, like a Romeo and Juliet that had finally consummated their passion. But now? It was one huge green slime-covered crap shoot. He had tried to triangulate using satellite photos from the Internet in comparison with known archaeological digs, but all that went out the window in the darkness.
GPS did absolutely no good here, the pirates had figured out ways to manipulate or jam the signals so that everyone who relied on it would become disoriented, and thus become, the easiest of prey. So they rowed onward, silently and for the most part, aimlessly.
His partner's head whipped around at him in askance as he stopped them in the water by grabbing onto an eave, despite the algae effecting his grip. A boat of looters glided some fifty yards away and the looters had on night-vision goggles too. One of the looters deliberately took his time in aiming a rifle at them when the spotlight of a pirate speedboat blinded the looter.
The looter screamed at the intensity of the light and at being discovered. He blindly fired at the pirates. The pirates returned fire and cut the looters down in a hail of red tracers. He and his partner slowly rowed backward as the pirates descended on the looter's boat like nocturnal vultures.
It's said that "it is always darkest before the dawn" and in this case, no truer words were spoken. He had to give up on her, someone else would find her, though they wouldn’t appreciate half as much as he did and they wouldn't take care of her as tenderly as he had.
She was the truest of loves, she gave all and asked nothing in return. And all he wanted to do was bask in her warm beauty just for another moment, but it seemed that only memories would do from here on out. Or would it? Because in the pitch black of the four A.M. darkness with only a quarter moon to light the way, he saw a white fin on a nearby roof.
The fin was actually a rudder from a radio-controlled P-51 Mustang replica airplane that one of the neighborhood kids used to buzz everybody in the piazza (plaza) with. He and the next-to-last girlfriend that he had went for a romantic walk when the kid pushed things too far and the plane nearly hit them. The girlfriend waited until the kid turned his back to them and she jostled the punk, sending his remote to the ground and the plane up on a roof.
Here was the perfect reference point, faintly glowing in the night. He rowed over to the building that the plane was perched on and brought it back to the boat, after an incredible amount of effort. If he couldn't find her, the plane would be the consolation prize and proof to himself that he at least came close. They then rowed due west across what he subconsciously knew to be the piazza boundaries.
He now recognized his grandfather's mansion, though without the aid of the plane, he wouldn't have known it at all. Someone had repainted the building and changed the tiles on the roof from terracotta to blue. Though the house looked like no one had lived there for centuries, something greater than hope told him that she was still waiting there for his return.
The window of his grandfather's office was still intact, somehow. He used a glass cutter and suction cup to open it as quietly as possible, then he climbed in.
As the sun rose over Verona, some one-hundred and twenty miles east of Venice, his partner gave him a warm tap on the back.
"She's-eh-prettier than you deescribed," his partner sung in that strange British English accent that always sounds odd coming from Italians. He nodded and beamed. Taking that beauty in again and reveling in the role of both lover and savior.
"My grandfather would broker deals and ransoms between art thieves and the authorities. But that doesn't mean that he always gave the authentic artifact or art work back to them. Whatever sits in the Mauritshuis, in the Hague, is not the real Vermeer. This is the real 'Girl With A Pearl Earring."
Note: JJ's inspiration was obviously, Hurricane Katarina and the flood of New Orleans. His starter sentence was “he said little as they paddled their way along the sunken streets...”
I had lived in Venice, Italy, here and there, between 1984 and 1986. The Adriatic will reclaim her eventually, despite the best efforts of the world's engineers (as well as all the king's horses and all the king's men). Beyond carbon-dating, it's next to impossible to tell whether a painting was done by the original artist.
Also, some artists would let their students and assistants do a painting for them, here and there. Not to mention, experts can be bribed and museums would lose both financial patronage and attendence, if they were to reveal that they've been showing fakes for several years.
"They Should Make People Take A Test"
They should make people take a test before they fly. If you want to be a pilot, you have to spend several hours flying with an instructor and there are tests that you have to pass to prove that you can fly solo. Same with driving, you need a course in driver’s education and some time behind the wheel with an instructor, or at least prove your competency to a test giver at the DMV.
I know bungee jumping and a drinking buddy of mine, Giuseppe knows base jumping. He got these base jumpers from Sacramento loaded to the point to the point that they passed out, then he swiped their parachutes. It took the Sheriff three weeks to lay off of the most prime spot in the county, like he was going to catch whoever he thought took the ‘chutes when he couldn’t catch a cold, buck-naked in Alaska.
Giuseppe demonstrated how check the ‘chute, how to roll it up, and how to do the same with the backup ‘chute. I followed as best as I could, but he talks pretty damn fast when he’s cranked up. He said “safety first,” but we didn’t have real helmets like I’ve seen the real base jumpers use. We had to make do with some old ill-fitting skateboard helmets instead, Giuseppe said it wouldn’t make a difference because when you hit the ground wrong, no brain bucket in the world will save you.
The first time we jumped off the bridge…it was better than everything including sex because let’s face it, there isn’t an orgasm in the world that will last that long. The second time was a different sensation altogether, because that’s when I learned how to fly. My first chute failed and the precious seconds I had to open the second are as good as gone, for the backup is all fucked up.
It’s amazing how the speed of thought compares to terminal veloc-
Note: JJ's starter sentence was, “they should make people take a test before they...”
I know bungee jumping and a drinking buddy of mine, Giuseppe knows base jumping. He got these base jumpers from Sacramento loaded to the point to the point that they passed out, then he swiped their parachutes. It took the Sheriff three weeks to lay off of the most prime spot in the county, like he was going to catch whoever he thought took the ‘chutes when he couldn’t catch a cold, buck-naked in Alaska.
Giuseppe demonstrated how check the ‘chute, how to roll it up, and how to do the same with the backup ‘chute. I followed as best as I could, but he talks pretty damn fast when he’s cranked up. He said “safety first,” but we didn’t have real helmets like I’ve seen the real base jumpers use. We had to make do with some old ill-fitting skateboard helmets instead, Giuseppe said it wouldn’t make a difference because when you hit the ground wrong, no brain bucket in the world will save you.
The first time we jumped off the bridge…it was better than everything including sex because let’s face it, there isn’t an orgasm in the world that will last that long. The second time was a different sensation altogether, because that’s when I learned how to fly. My first chute failed and the precious seconds I had to open the second are as good as gone, for the backup is all fucked up.
It’s amazing how the speed of thought compares to terminal veloc-
Note: JJ's starter sentence was, “they should make people take a test before they...”
"3...2...1..."
Three...two...one...
Three blind mice would’ve seen it before I did.
Two eyes that cannot see the forest, or the trees.
One mind that is complete denial. With the eyes, you have a matching set.
They say that the proof is in the pudding, who the hell are they anyway? Have you ever seen any pudding submitted as evidence in civil or criminal court? I doubt that it ever has and if it ever was, it would stink like my ledger. The ledger is the proof, my accountant’s faxes are the proof and my suppliers cutting me off, are my proof.
My former investors sending unusually gorgeous women to come on to me before serving me with papers, are my proof. Which is the second most humiliating part of all because in the last two weeks, I haven’t been able to tell if a woman is genuinely interested in me, or in serving me with a summons. Having over one-hundred and ten patrons a day for two years straight and not having a dime to my name, is the ultimate and only proof that I need.
My accountant tried to tell me over and over again. They came up with convenient excuses not to show their version of the books to her over the last five months, then they told her that simply couldn’t find the books. I have no idea where my ex-partners are, but from what my accountant said, they are probably in a country that doesn’t have extradition and ironically, where they can live there the rest of their lives if they spend wisely.
What can I say? I understand the people side of the business, the logistical side, the laundry side, the fresh ingredients side, and the keeping the employees happy side. Everything about the business but the business itself. Because I never had a head for figures, so I trusted my gut instincts and went in with two embezzlers that could’ve shown even the Enron executives a new thing or two.
So the sturdy fixtures, they're versatile. The ones that I specifically asked for...they will serve another purpose, they will hold this rope...and my weight. The mahogany bar that is not long in length, but sturdy enough to have stood up to the over five-thousand customers that have leaned upon it or used it for support, it will hold fast one last time. I’ve spent almost half the day trying to count to three, no avail, and just now it has occurred to me rather that I should count backwards like a rocket launch.
After that? Me, a once proud, but now ruined man? I will haunt this property for two years and five days. That's roughly the same amount of time that my dream existed because all that is left to it. Then, I will roam the earth like a cross between Tom Joad and a Flying Dutch Restaurateur.
Where ever establishments charge sixty dollars a person and then have the temerity to serve French fries unworthy of even McDonald’s, I will be there. Where ever eateries serve five courses and the sum of those courses amount to less than one apple’s worth of food, I will be there. Where ever partners conspire to swindle and drive a restaurant into the ground, I will be there and they will never know another night’s sleep until they drive their ostentatious and ill-gotten cars off of a cliff.
Well, three...two...one...blastoff!
Note: It wasn't hard to find inspiration for this, it seems that two restaurants fold every day in San Francisco. The start sentence was simple, "3...2...1..."
Three blind mice would’ve seen it before I did.
Two eyes that cannot see the forest, or the trees.
One mind that is complete denial. With the eyes, you have a matching set.
They say that the proof is in the pudding, who the hell are they anyway? Have you ever seen any pudding submitted as evidence in civil or criminal court? I doubt that it ever has and if it ever was, it would stink like my ledger. The ledger is the proof, my accountant’s faxes are the proof and my suppliers cutting me off, are my proof.
My former investors sending unusually gorgeous women to come on to me before serving me with papers, are my proof. Which is the second most humiliating part of all because in the last two weeks, I haven’t been able to tell if a woman is genuinely interested in me, or in serving me with a summons. Having over one-hundred and ten patrons a day for two years straight and not having a dime to my name, is the ultimate and only proof that I need.
My accountant tried to tell me over and over again. They came up with convenient excuses not to show their version of the books to her over the last five months, then they told her that simply couldn’t find the books. I have no idea where my ex-partners are, but from what my accountant said, they are probably in a country that doesn’t have extradition and ironically, where they can live there the rest of their lives if they spend wisely.
What can I say? I understand the people side of the business, the logistical side, the laundry side, the fresh ingredients side, and the keeping the employees happy side. Everything about the business but the business itself. Because I never had a head for figures, so I trusted my gut instincts and went in with two embezzlers that could’ve shown even the Enron executives a new thing or two.
So the sturdy fixtures, they're versatile. The ones that I specifically asked for...they will serve another purpose, they will hold this rope...and my weight. The mahogany bar that is not long in length, but sturdy enough to have stood up to the over five-thousand customers that have leaned upon it or used it for support, it will hold fast one last time. I’ve spent almost half the day trying to count to three, no avail, and just now it has occurred to me rather that I should count backwards like a rocket launch.
After that? Me, a once proud, but now ruined man? I will haunt this property for two years and five days. That's roughly the same amount of time that my dream existed because all that is left to it. Then, I will roam the earth like a cross between Tom Joad and a Flying Dutch Restaurateur.
Where ever establishments charge sixty dollars a person and then have the temerity to serve French fries unworthy of even McDonald’s, I will be there. Where ever eateries serve five courses and the sum of those courses amount to less than one apple’s worth of food, I will be there. Where ever partners conspire to swindle and drive a restaurant into the ground, I will be there and they will never know another night’s sleep until they drive their ostentatious and ill-gotten cars off of a cliff.
Well, three...two...one...blastoff!
Note: It wasn't hard to find inspiration for this, it seems that two restaurants fold every day in San Francisco. The start sentence was simple, "3...2...1..."
"A Cool Breeze Licked The Back Of Her Neck"
A cool breeze licked the back of her neck. Or at least that is what it would seem like to the rest of us. To her, it was the hot, fetid and fiery breath of a monster. Where to run? Where to hide? No manner of weaponry at her disposal even fazed the "Beast."
None raised a hand to help her, they even watched in bemusement or amusement at her tribulations. Everything as far as she could see was ruined or on the verge of. Her whole world was near asunder from this indomitable juggernaut. The sun was departing like her spirit and the Beast's essence grew even stronger with the coming of darkness.
A plate fell in the kitchen, the Beast knew no fear, so it knew no reason to hide its presence. Yet it circled her, toyed with her, revealing just brief glimpses and flashes of itself to increase her fear. She knew that all of her life was building up to this, her final stand and that there could be a certain nobility in death.
The beast dipped its head, extended its claws. A shiver went through her as a growl rumbled from the very bowels of the Beast and the monster surged forward with the strength of a dozen tidal waves. She tensed and stood fast at the charging Beast, determined to live her last moments with valor.
"Honey, no! Don't you dare squirt the cat with your Super Soaker! You put that thing away and get ready for bed!"
Note: JJ's starter sentence was, “a cool breeze licked the back of her neck...” The story was based on two posts, from two different blogs that I had read just a few days before.
None raised a hand to help her, they even watched in bemusement or amusement at her tribulations. Everything as far as she could see was ruined or on the verge of. Her whole world was near asunder from this indomitable juggernaut. The sun was departing like her spirit and the Beast's essence grew even stronger with the coming of darkness.
A plate fell in the kitchen, the Beast knew no fear, so it knew no reason to hide its presence. Yet it circled her, toyed with her, revealing just brief glimpses and flashes of itself to increase her fear. She knew that all of her life was building up to this, her final stand and that there could be a certain nobility in death.
The beast dipped its head, extended its claws. A shiver went through her as a growl rumbled from the very bowels of the Beast and the monster surged forward with the strength of a dozen tidal waves. She tensed and stood fast at the charging Beast, determined to live her last moments with valor.
"Honey, no! Don't you dare squirt the cat with your Super Soaker! You put that thing away and get ready for bed!"
Note: JJ's starter sentence was, “a cool breeze licked the back of her neck...” The story was based on two posts, from two different blogs that I had read just a few days before.
"It Was Either A Pill Or A Piece Of Candy"
It was a pill or a piece of candy. I get lethargic from time to time, to which my cousin invariably says, "did someone mix Prozac up with your M & M's?" Only this time, I really did feel off and I wondered if someone accidentally, or intentionally dropped something into the candy batter at the Mars candy factory.
It wasn't a lighter than air feeling nor was it a sensation of being heavy. More like I could just slowly melt away or dissolve into the leather couch that I had just made the first of twenty-five payments on, and straight down. Down through the apartment that it takes two jobs to pay for and through the decrepit building that the landlord is too cheap to repair, even though he more than has the means.
Even further past the neighborhood that is no better than the sewer below it and even further still, until I would reach the Earth's core. Where the heat would consume whatever was left of me and the hell below would reflect my personal hell above.
I felt myself rush upward, twice as fast as the speed of light as she came out of the bathroom.
"Well?" was what I wanted to say, but the only parts of my body or sensations that I could control were my eyes and my ears, though both seemed like they could fail me at any moment.
"It's a minus," she spat out. In my mind I shrugged, but the expression on her face told me that I did nothing of the kind. Her irritation was all too evident as she gathered up her coat and purse.
"A plus would mean that I was pregnant," she managed before she slammed the door and left my life.
I realized that for better or for worse, the only thing "off" was me.
Note: JJ's starter sentence that Friday was, "it was either a pill or a piece of candy…"
It wasn't a lighter than air feeling nor was it a sensation of being heavy. More like I could just slowly melt away or dissolve into the leather couch that I had just made the first of twenty-five payments on, and straight down. Down through the apartment that it takes two jobs to pay for and through the decrepit building that the landlord is too cheap to repair, even though he more than has the means.
Even further past the neighborhood that is no better than the sewer below it and even further still, until I would reach the Earth's core. Where the heat would consume whatever was left of me and the hell below would reflect my personal hell above.
I felt myself rush upward, twice as fast as the speed of light as she came out of the bathroom.
"Well?" was what I wanted to say, but the only parts of my body or sensations that I could control were my eyes and my ears, though both seemed like they could fail me at any moment.
"It's a minus," she spat out. In my mind I shrugged, but the expression on her face told me that I did nothing of the kind. Her irritation was all too evident as she gathered up her coat and purse.
"A plus would mean that I was pregnant," she managed before she slammed the door and left my life.
I realized that for better or for worse, the only thing "off" was me.
Note: JJ's starter sentence that Friday was, "it was either a pill or a piece of candy…"
"The Sound It Made When It Broke"
The sound it made when it broke was kvetch...clomp! No, that's the sound that mayn Tanta (my Aunt) Beth makes coming down the stairs. She complains, then her prosthetic leg thumps the stairs.
Complaint, thump, crappy weather, thump, told you not to date her, thump.
I swear she takes the thirty-odd stairs we have and drags her descent out like she's coming down the Empire State Building.
You asked for it, thump, you're shiksa-outta-luck, thump. I wasn't alone when I thought Kiki was the one. All of my friends felt the same way, complete strangers thought we were a perfect couple and all of my family (save one) thought she would be an ideal wife. It's not like we go to temple but twice-a-year outside of the Holy Days, but my mom was so enamored of Kiki, that she was even willing to look past the fact that she was a gentile.
Yes, everyone thought she was perfect for me, save for my Aunt Beth. My parents and sister believe that Aunt Beth is either in the early stages of Alzheimer's or that she's going senile, but I know that she forgets the minutiae to in order to remember the important things. I also know that her intuition is sharper than a dozen butcher's knives and I was hoping that she would be wrong for a change.
I mean, I gave up school for Kiki and in my family, education is life. Yet, after I put aside the most important aspect of my life for our so-called "love," she runs off with a guy named "Horst." What the f*ck kind of name is that, anyway? Horst! Is that rancid chicken soup taking the "up" express elevator out of your stomach? Or is that a contraction of "horse" and "sh*t?"
So the sound my heart made when it broke, sounds just like mayn Tanta Beth when she comes down the stairs and I can still feel it sink, with each echoing step.
Are you okay, Boytchik?
Yes, I'll be fine.
Good, it's over, it's done. You've got it out of your system. Now, are you going back to school?
No, Tanta Beth, I still need to give school a rest. I thought it over and I would like to take up painting again...maybe a little sculpting too, and pick up my writing where I left off. Maybe even play the piano, again. You know...I want to be a Renaissance man.
What, "Renaissance?" Butter women up with poetry, then keep them locked up all day? Eat undercooked meat and wear tights? Your cousin Herschel already does all that.
Note: I'm a goy, but the desire of higher education for each generation is equally stressed on one side of my family and the child that doesn't follow that path, winds up a disappointment to the family, no matter what. The last line of the story was the only redeemable bit of dialogue from my first stillborn screenplay.
JJ had the starter sentence, "the sound it made when it broke."
Complaint, thump, crappy weather, thump, told you not to date her, thump.
I swear she takes the thirty-odd stairs we have and drags her descent out like she's coming down the Empire State Building.
You asked for it, thump, you're shiksa-outta-luck, thump. I wasn't alone when I thought Kiki was the one. All of my friends felt the same way, complete strangers thought we were a perfect couple and all of my family (save one) thought she would be an ideal wife. It's not like we go to temple but twice-a-year outside of the Holy Days, but my mom was so enamored of Kiki, that she was even willing to look past the fact that she was a gentile.
Yes, everyone thought she was perfect for me, save for my Aunt Beth. My parents and sister believe that Aunt Beth is either in the early stages of Alzheimer's or that she's going senile, but I know that she forgets the minutiae to in order to remember the important things. I also know that her intuition is sharper than a dozen butcher's knives and I was hoping that she would be wrong for a change.
I mean, I gave up school for Kiki and in my family, education is life. Yet, after I put aside the most important aspect of my life for our so-called "love," she runs off with a guy named "Horst." What the f*ck kind of name is that, anyway? Horst! Is that rancid chicken soup taking the "up" express elevator out of your stomach? Or is that a contraction of "horse" and "sh*t?"
So the sound my heart made when it broke, sounds just like mayn Tanta Beth when she comes down the stairs and I can still feel it sink, with each echoing step.
Are you okay, Boytchik?
Yes, I'll be fine.
Good, it's over, it's done. You've got it out of your system. Now, are you going back to school?
No, Tanta Beth, I still need to give school a rest. I thought it over and I would like to take up painting again...maybe a little sculpting too, and pick up my writing where I left off. Maybe even play the piano, again. You know...I want to be a Renaissance man.
What, "Renaissance?" Butter women up with poetry, then keep them locked up all day? Eat undercooked meat and wear tights? Your cousin Herschel already does all that.
Note: I'm a goy, but the desire of higher education for each generation is equally stressed on one side of my family and the child that doesn't follow that path, winds up a disappointment to the family, no matter what. The last line of the story was the only redeemable bit of dialogue from my first stillborn screenplay.
JJ had the starter sentence, "the sound it made when it broke."
"Beef Wellington, It's What's For Dinner"
They say that a man who defends himself in court has a fool for a client. So one of these fools told me that the law says that you have the right to be tried by a jury of your peers. Of course, the same fool had pizza for his last meal so that shows you where his head was at.
“Peers.” Ha, that’s a good one. If they’re my peers, then I’m an innocent man. Hold on, maybe I misspoke. I’m not claiming to be innocent…I’m just saying that I wasn’t guilty of this crime. Each of the two times that I’ve had to face the twelve people sitting to the right of the judge, I’ve never seen a familiar face.
By familiar, I mean someone who has even remotely looked like they’ve experienced even a fraction of the things I’ve experienced. They are not my peers. My peers know what I’ve gone through. My peers would’ve known right away that everything I’ve done, I did to someone else before they could do it to me.
By familiar, I mean someone who has had to risk their life to just to go to the store. Someone who has been shot at just because some joke of a man was high and thought that I looked at him funny. Someone who has given his best friend a roof over his head and food, only to have that friend try and kill him over fifty dollars that wasn’t his to begin with.
So like I said, I’m not innocent, I just didn’t commit this crime. But the things I’ve done in life, who would believe me? I’m not even sure that I’d believe me if I sat in that jury box. I know I thought my real peers would understand, but let me contradict myself again. Who were my fake peers to judge me? Walk a mile in my shoes and you’d cut off your own feet.
Still, I’m not bitter…though I’m not exactly resigned to my fate either. I just know that it is my time…they’re going to get me one way or the other. My appeals are as exhausted as my spirit. I’m out of options, but I guess the one thing that I can do is to fuck them up for my last meal.
I want some of that beef Wellington that I’ve always heard about and some lobster, fuck that pizza crap.
Note: This relates to my fascination with the last meals of death row inmates. Invariably, they tend to choose comfort food or the food that they miss the most from outside of the prison walls. So I always have wondered why haven't I read about someone who wanted something just a little more eloborate.
“Peers.” Ha, that’s a good one. If they’re my peers, then I’m an innocent man. Hold on, maybe I misspoke. I’m not claiming to be innocent…I’m just saying that I wasn’t guilty of this crime. Each of the two times that I’ve had to face the twelve people sitting to the right of the judge, I’ve never seen a familiar face.
By familiar, I mean someone who has even remotely looked like they’ve experienced even a fraction of the things I’ve experienced. They are not my peers. My peers know what I’ve gone through. My peers would’ve known right away that everything I’ve done, I did to someone else before they could do it to me.
By familiar, I mean someone who has had to risk their life to just to go to the store. Someone who has been shot at just because some joke of a man was high and thought that I looked at him funny. Someone who has given his best friend a roof over his head and food, only to have that friend try and kill him over fifty dollars that wasn’t his to begin with.
So like I said, I’m not innocent, I just didn’t commit this crime. But the things I’ve done in life, who would believe me? I’m not even sure that I’d believe me if I sat in that jury box. I know I thought my real peers would understand, but let me contradict myself again. Who were my fake peers to judge me? Walk a mile in my shoes and you’d cut off your own feet.
Still, I’m not bitter…though I’m not exactly resigned to my fate either. I just know that it is my time…they’re going to get me one way or the other. My appeals are as exhausted as my spirit. I’m out of options, but I guess the one thing that I can do is to fuck them up for my last meal.
I want some of that beef Wellington that I’ve always heard about and some lobster, fuck that pizza crap.
Note: This relates to my fascination with the last meals of death row inmates. Invariably, they tend to choose comfort food or the food that they miss the most from outside of the prison walls. So I always have wondered why haven't I read about someone who wanted something just a little more eloborate.
"In The Purple And Gray Morning"
In the purple and gray morning...I type.
In the purple and gray morning...I see the colors of a writer's manic depression.
The purple reflects the warmth that I feel when the words are just right. In the warm lavender I see the rare elation of self-satisfaction that has been visiting me less and less, with each passing day.
In the gray, I see the fog that has been clouding my mind and that has kept me from finding my voice. In the gray, I see the all too familiar color of a mind burning out and feeding upon itself. In the gray, my conscious mind becomes the worst enemy of all and self-doubt does more damage than all of my antagonists and enemies put together.
Yet, hopefully today, the sun will rise with an even greater warmth and with it, maybe the dark gray will fade.
Note: It's all there and it's all depressing as hell. This is a close as you will see me come to poetry. JJ's starter sentence was "in the purple and gray morning..."
In the purple and gray morning...I see the colors of a writer's manic depression.
The purple reflects the warmth that I feel when the words are just right. In the warm lavender I see the rare elation of self-satisfaction that has been visiting me less and less, with each passing day.
In the gray, I see the fog that has been clouding my mind and that has kept me from finding my voice. In the gray, I see the all too familiar color of a mind burning out and feeding upon itself. In the gray, my conscious mind becomes the worst enemy of all and self-doubt does more damage than all of my antagonists and enemies put together.
Yet, hopefully today, the sun will rise with an even greater warmth and with it, maybe the dark gray will fade.
Note: It's all there and it's all depressing as hell. This is a close as you will see me come to poetry. JJ's starter sentence was "in the purple and gray morning..."
"Same Circus, Different Town"
I cannot and will not eat with him at a restaurant, so I go over to his house every Saturday for lunch.
“How are you?” he asks me through the newspaper. Even if he wasn’t reading it, he wouldn’t pay any attention to me. I’m a huge disappointment to him, I didn’t go into the family business nor did I show a predilection for settling matters with violence the way he and the three generations of our family did before me.
“Same shit, different day…Papa.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Same circus, different town.”
“Nnn-yeah.”
“Papa? How much goat, would a Croat boat, if a Croat could float some goats?”
“Yeah, you’re right champ. I would’ve done the same thing.”
I’d feign something about his mistress giving me a yet-to-be-discovered STD, but then he would actually have to pay attention to me and neither one of us want that. I’ll talk and he won’t listen, then he’ll babble on about his dealings and I won’t listen because I never, ever, want to know where the bodies are buried.
If the Feds ever did subpoena me I would just tell them the truth: I’ve always ignored him in the same way that a man that’s been married for fifty years, tunes his wife out.
“What are we having?”
“Pork in red gravy on top of penne. I‘ve just got to boil the water.”
I hate it when he snaps the paper like that. It’s not “gravy,” but “sauce.” It’s “sugo” in Italian but that word can translate as either “sauce” or as “gravy.” When I was ten and had dinner at the Irish kid’s next door, he said I was retarded because I called it “gravy.” “Gravy is brown, white or tan, you moron!”
I don’t know why he puts me through this every week, yet here we are. We are cat and dog, lion and hyena, Israel and Palestine, Giuliani and Gotti.
Vincent “The Chin” Gigante faked his loss of sanity, Papa never had any sanity to lose. I’ve always known this and I suspect that his associates have finally have figured this out, too. So that’s why I won’t eat with him in a restaurant, or sit with him in a barbershop or in traffic.
If he ever did listen to me, he would have found out that I’ve made twice the money that he ever has in one-tenth of the time, without having to hurt, maim or kill anyone. As the pen is mightier than the sword, a computer and a ledger will always get you more money than any gun ever will.
Maybe that’s something for him to consider, when all the red gravy has poured out of him on his way to being another obituary.
Note: Yes it's true, sugo can translate into either "sauce" or "gravy." Vice-versa? Sauce can be "sugo" or "salsa" in Italian.
“How are you?” he asks me through the newspaper. Even if he wasn’t reading it, he wouldn’t pay any attention to me. I’m a huge disappointment to him, I didn’t go into the family business nor did I show a predilection for settling matters with violence the way he and the three generations of our family did before me.
“Same shit, different day…Papa.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Same circus, different town.”
“Nnn-yeah.”
“Papa? How much goat, would a Croat boat, if a Croat could float some goats?”
“Yeah, you’re right champ. I would’ve done the same thing.”
I’d feign something about his mistress giving me a yet-to-be-discovered STD, but then he would actually have to pay attention to me and neither one of us want that. I’ll talk and he won’t listen, then he’ll babble on about his dealings and I won’t listen because I never, ever, want to know where the bodies are buried.
If the Feds ever did subpoena me I would just tell them the truth: I’ve always ignored him in the same way that a man that’s been married for fifty years, tunes his wife out.
“What are we having?”
“Pork in red gravy on top of penne. I‘ve just got to boil the water.”
I hate it when he snaps the paper like that. It’s not “gravy,” but “sauce.” It’s “sugo” in Italian but that word can translate as either “sauce” or as “gravy.” When I was ten and had dinner at the Irish kid’s next door, he said I was retarded because I called it “gravy.” “Gravy is brown, white or tan, you moron!”
I don’t know why he puts me through this every week, yet here we are. We are cat and dog, lion and hyena, Israel and Palestine, Giuliani and Gotti.
Vincent “The Chin” Gigante faked his loss of sanity, Papa never had any sanity to lose. I’ve always known this and I suspect that his associates have finally have figured this out, too. So that’s why I won’t eat with him in a restaurant, or sit with him in a barbershop or in traffic.
If he ever did listen to me, he would have found out that I’ve made twice the money that he ever has in one-tenth of the time, without having to hurt, maim or kill anyone. As the pen is mightier than the sword, a computer and a ledger will always get you more money than any gun ever will.
Maybe that’s something for him to consider, when all the red gravy has poured out of him on his way to being another obituary.
Note: Yes it's true, sugo can translate into either "sauce" or "gravy." Vice-versa? Sauce can be "sugo" or "salsa" in Italian.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
"I Never Said You Were Her"
“I never said you were her.”
Good, I have her attention. That’s right, blink at the me with those pretty eyes.
“What I mean is, you could be her, but they are three things missing. You weren’t driven here by the wind gods, there is no gigantic scallop shell underneath your feet and you’re nowhere near nude. Still I could be wrong, you could be Venus, coming down from Mount Olympus to revisit us mortals.”
“Us mortals?” What the hell did that last part come from? You're laying it on thick like concrete on pancakes. See, look how confused she looks?
“I love your eyes, they’re so pretty. The way you gaze at me with them, such intensity. You’re an intense person and I love that, I can appreciate that. It shows that you are as strong as you are beautiful.”
This is it, she’s measuring you with her eyes. Damn. After they get a load of her at work, they'll call me "Action Man."
“Your eyes...they inspire me. They’re so exquisite, yet so inquisitive. I’ll bet that you’re wondering if I could match your intensity and if we could make a connection.”
Oh, God, I sound like my grandfather. Maybe I could break out his Member’s Only jacket and gold chains from storage, yeah. And then I’ll open my shirt down to my waist, that will levitate her libido...idiot!Oh, wait. All’s not lost, she’s still maintaining eye-contact.
“What I mean is, I want to get to know what is behind those eyes before I’m lost in them for forever.”
Jesus, “for forever?” Smooth move Ex-lax. Hey, look at that smile!
“Jeg ikke taler Engelsk.”*
“Wha? Pardon?”
What did she just say? What the hell language was that? Oh great, you probably called her a skank in whatever she's speaking and you didn’t even know it. Wait, wait, she’s going into her purse. She’s writing down her phone number, but what the the hell are we going to talk about?
Wait a minute, this is perfect! There's no small talk to get in the way and I won't bore her! We’ll have to do all of our talking between the sheets. No, she crossed out what she was going to say!
“I from Norway, I don’t speak English. De synes hyggelig, men De slår det ned.** Um, sorry bye-bye.”
Great, now I’m not Action Man but the Internationaly Shot Down Man. Wave back to her and pretend to smile like you actually have some dignity left.I wonder if there's anything good on TV tonight?
*I don’t speak English.
** You seem nice, but you need to dial it down.
Note: This was the first time I had experienced flash fiction with a deadline. Whenever I tried to write in high school, it would take me the entire period to come up with the opening paragraph and it would be time to turn in the paper by the time I started the second paragraph.
The starter sentence that JJ came up with was "I never said you were..."
Good, I have her attention. That’s right, blink at the me with those pretty eyes.
“What I mean is, you could be her, but they are three things missing. You weren’t driven here by the wind gods, there is no gigantic scallop shell underneath your feet and you’re nowhere near nude. Still I could be wrong, you could be Venus, coming down from Mount Olympus to revisit us mortals.”
“Us mortals?” What the hell did that last part come from? You're laying it on thick like concrete on pancakes. See, look how confused she looks?
“I love your eyes, they’re so pretty. The way you gaze at me with them, such intensity. You’re an intense person and I love that, I can appreciate that. It shows that you are as strong as you are beautiful.”
This is it, she’s measuring you with her eyes. Damn. After they get a load of her at work, they'll call me "Action Man."
“Your eyes...they inspire me. They’re so exquisite, yet so inquisitive. I’ll bet that you’re wondering if I could match your intensity and if we could make a connection.”
Oh, God, I sound like my grandfather. Maybe I could break out his Member’s Only jacket and gold chains from storage, yeah. And then I’ll open my shirt down to my waist, that will levitate her libido...idiot!Oh, wait. All’s not lost, she’s still maintaining eye-contact.
“What I mean is, I want to get to know what is behind those eyes before I’m lost in them for forever.”
Jesus, “for forever?” Smooth move Ex-lax. Hey, look at that smile!
“Jeg ikke taler Engelsk.”*
“Wha? Pardon?”
What did she just say? What the hell language was that? Oh great, you probably called her a skank in whatever she's speaking and you didn’t even know it. Wait, wait, she’s going into her purse. She’s writing down her phone number, but what the the hell are we going to talk about?
Wait a minute, this is perfect! There's no small talk to get in the way and I won't bore her! We’ll have to do all of our talking between the sheets. No, she crossed out what she was going to say!
“I from Norway, I don’t speak English. De synes hyggelig, men De slår det ned.** Um, sorry bye-bye.”
Great, now I’m not Action Man but the Internationaly Shot Down Man. Wave back to her and pretend to smile like you actually have some dignity left.I wonder if there's anything good on TV tonight?
*I don’t speak English.
** You seem nice, but you need to dial it down.
Note: This was the first time I had experienced flash fiction with a deadline. Whenever I tried to write in high school, it would take me the entire period to come up with the opening paragraph and it would be time to turn in the paper by the time I started the second paragraph.
The starter sentence that JJ came up with was "I never said you were..."
"Forty Winks With Luci"
Insomnia? Not only did I write the book on it, but the sequel, the prequel and all related essays. I’ve gone as many as fifty hours between sleep and functioned as good or better than most. Or at worst, just like someone that has a coupla stiff drinks in him.
Or let me put it this way, sleep to me is like food to a shark. I have something in me that helps me do without and when I do come across it? I devour it until I get my fill. But like an over-fished, polluted ocean, it hasn’t come to me and I can’t remember the last time I’ve fed.
You see, as many people as I’ve had to put to sleep in my profession, you learn to deal without guilt or sleep…or it eats you alive.
It’s kind of strange though. I don’t remember moving into this apartment or exactly how I got here. It seems like it’s 8:30 PM in the summer all the time and like the sun just can’t quite figure out which way is down. Whether I’m in bed, on the couch or even on the floor, the light in the place always keeps me up.
When I somehow manage to shake off the light, some kid drives by with one of those car stereos that make your windows rattle and he parks right in front of the building. I have a brick with his name on it, but he always manages to drive off just as I open the front door or a window.
When he’s not at it, the neighbors will get into a screaming match or play their stereo too damn loud and it’s always a song that I couldn’t stand the first hundred times I heard it. Then there’s these idiot construction workers…they’re always digging up my sidewalk for a project that they’re in no hurry to finish.
I confronted one of them today and asked him, when are they going to get done? He replied, “ask Luci.” Then I went to the foreman of the crew, to try and make peace and alls he said was “talk to Luci.” What the hell? Who do I have to kill to get just one hour of sleep? The whole work crew?
So as I just came back down my hallway, I caught one of the neighbor’s kids bouncing a baseball off my door. I grabbed the little snot by the arm and asked him what the devil he was doing. He gave a smirk to rival Rick the Rat and said “chat it up with Luci.”
“Luci who?”
“Down in the basement, you‘ll know.”
So I drop him like a bad habit and it’s down the stairs to settle this because I‘m not paying tribute. Funny, the basement seems further down than I figured it should be, like someone’s added six more flights of stairs.
When I get down there, I don’t like what I see it all. I have to chalk it up to my insomnia or I’m going to lose it. Everyone that I’ve wasted, put to sleep and a few that I was never sure that I was successful with, they’re all playing cards.
The room’s painted bright red and it’s cold as a witch’s down here. There‘s twenty people at six tables, they’re looking slightly pale, but too damn good to be fish food and skeletons.
And can you believe this shit? They’re all ignoring me. I guess it’s just as well because my sanity is about to burst right out of my skull. Way at the back table, my very first hit, Dante Fieri nods at me. I nod back and walk toward him.
I know, I’ve finally got some sleep and I’m having a nightmare, that‘s it. As I walk, I look down and instead of playing cards, everyone’s using them damn Tarot cards.
“You wanted to see me?”
“No, why would I, Dante?”
“No, you’ve got it wrong…I’m not Dante.”
“The hell you’re not! I put you down myself!”
“Huh, wrong. I got tired of that fire and brimstone shit. Please to meet you, the name’s Lucifer.”
Note: This was my first submission to "Flashing In The Gutters" and it was originally titled, "Twenty Winks With Luci." Why? Hell, I can't remember what I had for lunch two days ago.
I do remember that the local gas company had been tearing up the streets and sidewalks around my house for almost twenty-three months in a row. This in itself is not bad, until you consider that I am a night owl and I have worked the graveyard shift for almost half of my life.
So to get through my insomnia, I tried to deal with it through humor, then I dealt with it through this story.
Or let me put it this way, sleep to me is like food to a shark. I have something in me that helps me do without and when I do come across it? I devour it until I get my fill. But like an over-fished, polluted ocean, it hasn’t come to me and I can’t remember the last time I’ve fed.
You see, as many people as I’ve had to put to sleep in my profession, you learn to deal without guilt or sleep…or it eats you alive.
It’s kind of strange though. I don’t remember moving into this apartment or exactly how I got here. It seems like it’s 8:30 PM in the summer all the time and like the sun just can’t quite figure out which way is down. Whether I’m in bed, on the couch or even on the floor, the light in the place always keeps me up.
When I somehow manage to shake off the light, some kid drives by with one of those car stereos that make your windows rattle and he parks right in front of the building. I have a brick with his name on it, but he always manages to drive off just as I open the front door or a window.
When he’s not at it, the neighbors will get into a screaming match or play their stereo too damn loud and it’s always a song that I couldn’t stand the first hundred times I heard it. Then there’s these idiot construction workers…they’re always digging up my sidewalk for a project that they’re in no hurry to finish.
I confronted one of them today and asked him, when are they going to get done? He replied, “ask Luci.” Then I went to the foreman of the crew, to try and make peace and alls he said was “talk to Luci.” What the hell? Who do I have to kill to get just one hour of sleep? The whole work crew?
So as I just came back down my hallway, I caught one of the neighbor’s kids bouncing a baseball off my door. I grabbed the little snot by the arm and asked him what the devil he was doing. He gave a smirk to rival Rick the Rat and said “chat it up with Luci.”
“Luci who?”
“Down in the basement, you‘ll know.”
So I drop him like a bad habit and it’s down the stairs to settle this because I‘m not paying tribute. Funny, the basement seems further down than I figured it should be, like someone’s added six more flights of stairs.
When I get down there, I don’t like what I see it all. I have to chalk it up to my insomnia or I’m going to lose it. Everyone that I’ve wasted, put to sleep and a few that I was never sure that I was successful with, they’re all playing cards.
The room’s painted bright red and it’s cold as a witch’s down here. There‘s twenty people at six tables, they’re looking slightly pale, but too damn good to be fish food and skeletons.
And can you believe this shit? They’re all ignoring me. I guess it’s just as well because my sanity is about to burst right out of my skull. Way at the back table, my very first hit, Dante Fieri nods at me. I nod back and walk toward him.
I know, I’ve finally got some sleep and I’m having a nightmare, that‘s it. As I walk, I look down and instead of playing cards, everyone’s using them damn Tarot cards.
“You wanted to see me?”
“No, why would I, Dante?”
“No, you’ve got it wrong…I’m not Dante.”
“The hell you’re not! I put you down myself!”
“Huh, wrong. I got tired of that fire and brimstone shit. Please to meet you, the name’s Lucifer.”
Note: This was my first submission to "Flashing In The Gutters" and it was originally titled, "Twenty Winks With Luci." Why? Hell, I can't remember what I had for lunch two days ago.
I do remember that the local gas company had been tearing up the streets and sidewalks around my house for almost twenty-three months in a row. This in itself is not bad, until you consider that I am a night owl and I have worked the graveyard shift for almost half of my life.
So to get through my insomnia, I tried to deal with it through humor, then I dealt with it through this story.
"Place Your Hands On..."
“Place your hands on the gun.”
“What?”
“I said, put your hands on the gun.”
“Are you serious? What, and let you shoot me?”
“I know this a foreign concept to you, giving someone an even chance.”
“You can’t say that, you don’t even know me, man! If anybody has had a conflict with me in the past, they brought it upon themselves and they knew the consequences. You deal with me wrong, you get the short deck."
“I’ve seen pictures and the chalk outlines of the people that you’ve dealt with. I’m going to explain it to you like this; you don’t know if it's loaded or whatever. All you do know is that if you don’t shoot me first, I’m sure as hell going to shoot you. You see, at least this way, you’ll get what those two poor kids that you killed last year didn’t get, a fair chance. All that was unnecessary, you shot everyone standing on that corner, but your intended target. You are unnecessary.”
“If you’re going to arrest me, go ahead. I’ll be free by tomorrow, if not tonight. You don’t have anything on me or you would’ve brought me in already.”
“Ah, see, can't take your eyes off it, can you? That gun’s just a little too damn familiar, isn’t it? You're guessing that it’s the very same gun that you did Jason with. Hell, if I were a betting man, which I’m not, I’d guarantee it.”
“I’m not touching it.”
“Fine, your choice. We’ll do this old West-style. I’m going to put my gun down here, about the same distance away from me, as yours is from you, and then we’ll reach for them.”
“You can’t make me-"
“Draw!”
*click*click*click*
“Oh, look at that, you couldn’t even wait,” Detective Pablo says with a voice just above a whisper.”
The Detective picks up his gun and points it at Lee McKee. “C’mon Lee, you know the drill, get down on the ground with your hands and feet apart. Put your hands slowly behind your back.”
After Detective Pablo handcuffs Lee, he holds up something in front of his face.“Oh, you were missing the firing pin, but I’ll make sure that it makes it back into the gun that you used to kill Jason Jacobs by the time we get to the station house. You know the one with your fingerprints all over it.”
Note: There's a Flashing In The Gutters submission that may or may not make it over here, logistics and mediocrity will probably keep it away. Soooo, JJ wanted a story that had the sentence, "place your hands on the..."
JJ folded up his blog not too long after this and such is life. If you read this blog from the oldest posts until this story, you can see how much I owe the man in terms of helping my find my voice and I appreciate that very much. Tribe folded up Flashing In The Gutters a couple of weeks after that and I gave up on submitting my on the Internet, until?...
“What?”
“I said, put your hands on the gun.”
“Are you serious? What, and let you shoot me?”
“I know this a foreign concept to you, giving someone an even chance.”
“You can’t say that, you don’t even know me, man! If anybody has had a conflict with me in the past, they brought it upon themselves and they knew the consequences. You deal with me wrong, you get the short deck."
“I’ve seen pictures and the chalk outlines of the people that you’ve dealt with. I’m going to explain it to you like this; you don’t know if it's loaded or whatever. All you do know is that if you don’t shoot me first, I’m sure as hell going to shoot you. You see, at least this way, you’ll get what those two poor kids that you killed last year didn’t get, a fair chance. All that was unnecessary, you shot everyone standing on that corner, but your intended target. You are unnecessary.”
“If you’re going to arrest me, go ahead. I’ll be free by tomorrow, if not tonight. You don’t have anything on me or you would’ve brought me in already.”
“Ah, see, can't take your eyes off it, can you? That gun’s just a little too damn familiar, isn’t it? You're guessing that it’s the very same gun that you did Jason with. Hell, if I were a betting man, which I’m not, I’d guarantee it.”
“I’m not touching it.”
“Fine, your choice. We’ll do this old West-style. I’m going to put my gun down here, about the same distance away from me, as yours is from you, and then we’ll reach for them.”
“You can’t make me-"
“Draw!”
*click*click*click*
“Oh, look at that, you couldn’t even wait,” Detective Pablo says with a voice just above a whisper.”
The Detective picks up his gun and points it at Lee McKee. “C’mon Lee, you know the drill, get down on the ground with your hands and feet apart. Put your hands slowly behind your back.”
After Detective Pablo handcuffs Lee, he holds up something in front of his face.“Oh, you were missing the firing pin, but I’ll make sure that it makes it back into the gun that you used to kill Jason Jacobs by the time we get to the station house. You know the one with your fingerprints all over it.”
Note: There's a Flashing In The Gutters submission that may or may not make it over here, logistics and mediocrity will probably keep it away. Soooo, JJ wanted a story that had the sentence, "place your hands on the..."
JJ folded up his blog not too long after this and such is life. If you read this blog from the oldest posts until this story, you can see how much I owe the man in terms of helping my find my voice and I appreciate that very much. Tribe folded up Flashing In The Gutters a couple of weeks after that and I gave up on submitting my on the Internet, until?...
The Opening Salvo...
...Of The Reluctant Short Story Writer.
This is kind of odd. I am as vain as the next writer, but I didn't want to have to put up a blog that was devoted to my short stories. Hell, I stumbled on to short stories, virtually by accident. I ran out of Walter Mosley material to read, one day. So I went online and looked for any of his non sci-fi work that I could find. Before anybody takes offense, I love science fiction and it was my refuge at one time, but I've drifted away from it, as the reality of our world becomes worse.
Besides, if some people are pointed out as having a sweet-tooth, my predilection as far as reading, is crime fiction. Noir and neo-noir in specific. I found this nugget, "The Best American Short Stories 2003," which was edited by Walter Mosley and Katarina Kenison. Mind you, I've read short stories by Hammett, Chandler and some crime fiction anthologies, but this was something else. Good stories, diverse stories, things that got me thinking that maybe life isn't always about bullets and broads...though one could argue that those two things are essential to a good story.
As a result, I tried to write short stories here and there. Some of them are decent, some of them are good and that's not in my opinion. I love certain lines or paragraphs of my works, but I rarely love any of my works in their entirety.
The "tags" or labels that follow the story, will tell you just where these stories originally appeared. One place was JJ's, who inspired those of us who were fortunate enough to read his blog, every Friday. You would go to JJ's every Friday afternoon and he would give you a starter sentence. You, the writer, had to have it done and posted to your blog by the following Monday, at noon. He kept thing challenging and his starter sentences could make you doubt your own sanity.
The other place was Tribe's "Flashing In The Gutters," which is no more. You'll have to find out on your own as to why...though I will say that no good deed goes unpunished and that Tribe is as good-hearted a person as you are going to find.
So part of the reason I created this blog was for me to try my hand at writing short stories again and the other part? So that the stories that used to have a home on "Flashing In The Gutters," could be seen again by others. By the way, all editor and wannabe editors, foaming at the mouth is unbecoming. All of the stories will be posted as they were, warts, grammatical errors, clipped syntaxes, and all. Sorry.
This is kind of odd. I am as vain as the next writer, but I didn't want to have to put up a blog that was devoted to my short stories. Hell, I stumbled on to short stories, virtually by accident. I ran out of Walter Mosley material to read, one day. So I went online and looked for any of his non sci-fi work that I could find. Before anybody takes offense, I love science fiction and it was my refuge at one time, but I've drifted away from it, as the reality of our world becomes worse.
Besides, if some people are pointed out as having a sweet-tooth, my predilection as far as reading, is crime fiction. Noir and neo-noir in specific. I found this nugget, "The Best American Short Stories 2003," which was edited by Walter Mosley and Katarina Kenison. Mind you, I've read short stories by Hammett, Chandler and some crime fiction anthologies, but this was something else. Good stories, diverse stories, things that got me thinking that maybe life isn't always about bullets and broads...though one could argue that those two things are essential to a good story.
As a result, I tried to write short stories here and there. Some of them are decent, some of them are good and that's not in my opinion. I love certain lines or paragraphs of my works, but I rarely love any of my works in their entirety.
The "tags" or labels that follow the story, will tell you just where these stories originally appeared. One place was JJ's, who inspired those of us who were fortunate enough to read his blog, every Friday. You would go to JJ's every Friday afternoon and he would give you a starter sentence. You, the writer, had to have it done and posted to your blog by the following Monday, at noon. He kept thing challenging and his starter sentences could make you doubt your own sanity.
The other place was Tribe's "Flashing In The Gutters," which is no more. You'll have to find out on your own as to why...though I will say that no good deed goes unpunished and that Tribe is as good-hearted a person as you are going to find.
So part of the reason I created this blog was for me to try my hand at writing short stories again and the other part? So that the stories that used to have a home on "Flashing In The Gutters," could be seen again by others. By the way, all editor and wannabe editors, foaming at the mouth is unbecoming. All of the stories will be posted as they were, warts, grammatical errors, clipped syntaxes, and all. Sorry.
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