I have a new story up on Powder Burn Flash, take a gander.
A big thanks to Aldo, who keeps the crime flash fiction flowing.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
A "Novel Idea"
In the New York Times book review section, they have a little blog in there called Paper Cuts. Lately, I've looked forward to the blog more than the reviews, as it tends to be more entertaining, though the fault of that lies with the material that they have been reviewing.
The most recent entry posted features a literary vending machine in Barcelona. Apparently commuting Spaniards really, really have a thing for Nora Roberts or the person that stocks this machine does.
If you read further down in the comment section, someone posted that the machine is called "A Novel Idea" and it was created by two gentlemen from Limerick.
The most recent entry posted features a literary vending machine in Barcelona. Apparently commuting Spaniards really, really have a thing for Nora Roberts or the person that stocks this machine does.
If you read further down in the comment section, someone posted that the machine is called "A Novel Idea" and it was created by two gentlemen from Limerick.
They say that they are in talks to ship this Stateside soon and I am sure one of these machines would pull in a fortune at one of my worksites, though the only bestseller I read is Michael Connelly, so I'd be out of luck.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Elmore Leonard's 10 Rules Is Worth A Read
The Missus gave me "Elmore Leonard's Ten Rules of Writing" for Christmas. It is a compact, well written book. It is terse and not only because it lacks "hooptedoodle," but also because it is just a well-written article (it was originally an article in the New York Times) that was formatted (though it seems, not expanded) into a book.
While Leonard explains why writers should do away with extraneous sentences, he quotes a character in John Steinbeck's "Sweet Thursday"-
While Leonard explains why writers should do away with extraneous sentences, he quotes a character in John Steinbeck's "Sweet Thursday"-
"Sometimes I want a book to break loose with a bunch of hooptedoodle.... Spin up some pretty words mabe or sing a little song with language. That's nice. But I wish it was set aside so I don't have to read it. I don't want hooptedoodle to get mixed up with the story."
What really binds this almost sparse book together, are the illustrations of Joe Ciardello, whose stylings you might have seen in the New Yorker or Rolling Stone. They are the broth and rice that makes a complete meal of the stew that Elmore cooked up.
Though this book has probably cured me of using "suddenly" and "all hell broke loose," I will most likely be unable to kick my regional dialect/patois habit. This writer here is currently suffering the same affliction as Elmore paraphrase-
Joesph Conrad said something about words getting in the way of what you want to say.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
I Plead The Fifth On This One
A writer is someone who writes. Planning to write is not writing. Outlining is not writing. Researching is not writing. Talking to people about what you are doing is not writing. Writing is writing.
-E.L. Doctorow
From Karl Iglesias's article on "The Screenwriter's 7 Deadly Sins" in Creative Screenwriting Volume 14, Number 6
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
The Fat Lady Has Sung
The fat lady has sung, but just don't take my word for it. No, don't ask Alice, ask Crime Zine Report or Powder Burn Flash, because that's where "Aria" is at.
Don't forget also to check out the site, "Darkness Before The Dawn." All these years of the Internet and Aldo is the first to come up with a crime flash fiction site for stories greater than 2,500 words, but less than 10,000. This is the crime flash fiction equivalent of sliced bread. Yes, it seems all too obvious now, but Mr. Calagano is the one that came through!
Don't forget also to check out the site, "Darkness Before The Dawn." All these years of the Internet and Aldo is the first to come up with a crime flash fiction site for stories greater than 2,500 words, but less than 10,000. This is the crime flash fiction equivalent of sliced bread. Yes, it seems all too obvious now, but Mr. Calagano is the one that came through!
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Mistletoe
If you don't play the game, you will always lose, but if you do play? You can have it all.
Linda bet the house. The apartment, actually. She had dated and dumped Seth a couple of years ago and in the interim, her roommate Faith, developed a little bit of a crush on him. Faith acted upon that crush with Linda's reluctant blessing and then she went to work on getting Seth's attention.
Remembering her former relationship to be something better than it actually was, Linda changed her mind and decided that if Seth was going out with someone, it should be her and not Faith. Their previous hellish relationship and lack of compatibility be damned. She used everything in her repertoire, from physically putting herself between the would-be couple every time they grew close, to lacing Faith's food with an herb that has a laxative effect. She even feigned illness.
She even flung herself outright at Seth and he rejected her. So love triumphs all...or at least over Linda's efforts. Seth chose Faith over her and Linda moved out, losing her roommate, the apartment that Faith and Linda shared, and even Seth. She couldn't decide which hurt worse: losing two of her closest friends, losing Seth to Faith or losing out on that apartment with its ridiculously below market rent.
Linda called in sick at work and cried herself to sleep the rest of the day. She woke up the next day and figured that shopping was the best therapy, and called in sick again. She came home with four bags full of things that she really didn't want in the first place, which forced her to be civil to her mother (because she knew there was no way in the world that she would be able to pay that credit card bill all by herself) and Linda still felt empty.
The third day, Linda called in sick yet again because she had decided that going on the rebound would be the cure all to all of this misery. Though Linda was petite and not exactly what one would call "curvy," she had other weapons in her arsenal of attraction. She made sure her hair was perfectly coiffed, that her clothes and makeup were tasteful, but accentuating the right things in just the right way to get attention. Linda even chose a subtle pink toenail polish to go with her open-toed high heels.
What she didn't count on was that the kind of heels that attract men, aren't the kind of heels that you can walk around in for more that five blocks. With just about everything below the middle of her spine, sore, she retreated into the type of bar and grill that she wouldn't have frequented in a million years.
She wanted to ask the bartender for a glass of water, but he was too busy watching some cheerleader competition on TV and polishing glasses in a way that would've made even Larry Flynt uneasy. As she went towards the tables in the hope that she could at least get a waiter's attention, she saw him.
He was the male version of her.
She could tell that he spent as much effort and dedication on his hair as she did. His nails were manicured, just like hers. His clothing was just like hers, in the vein of "tastefully easy." His watch was understated, yet expensive, just like hers. He was the male version of her and that meant in Linda's mind, he was perfect.
He hadn't noticed her yet, because he seemed to be too engrossed in a magazine, while he lazily cut his food and ate it. Linda walked up to his table, picked up a sprig of parsley and held it over his head. He put his fork and knife down, and then he took a long sip of water.
When he put his glass back down, he finally noticed Linda.
Then his eyes followed her arm and he saw the parsley, and then they returned back to her.
"Hi."
"Hello."
"What's that?"
"It's mistletoe."
"It kind of looks like parsley."
"It's mistletoe."
"But it's July" he countered.
Linda smirked and gave a slight shrug.
"Works for me," he said as he stood up and gave her a long and languid kiss.
A sweet kiss.
A strong kiss.
Hell, she didn't even care about the garlic and amazingly just like that, they lived happily ever after...
...until she found that he was a Socialist. Then they lived happily ever after, except for when they argued about politics or when he left his socks on the floor.
Linda bet the house. The apartment, actually. She had dated and dumped Seth a couple of years ago and in the interim, her roommate Faith, developed a little bit of a crush on him. Faith acted upon that crush with Linda's reluctant blessing and then she went to work on getting Seth's attention.
Remembering her former relationship to be something better than it actually was, Linda changed her mind and decided that if Seth was going out with someone, it should be her and not Faith. Their previous hellish relationship and lack of compatibility be damned. She used everything in her repertoire, from physically putting herself between the would-be couple every time they grew close, to lacing Faith's food with an herb that has a laxative effect. She even feigned illness.
She even flung herself outright at Seth and he rejected her. So love triumphs all...or at least over Linda's efforts. Seth chose Faith over her and Linda moved out, losing her roommate, the apartment that Faith and Linda shared, and even Seth. She couldn't decide which hurt worse: losing two of her closest friends, losing Seth to Faith or losing out on that apartment with its ridiculously below market rent.
Linda called in sick at work and cried herself to sleep the rest of the day. She woke up the next day and figured that shopping was the best therapy, and called in sick again. She came home with four bags full of things that she really didn't want in the first place, which forced her to be civil to her mother (because she knew there was no way in the world that she would be able to pay that credit card bill all by herself) and Linda still felt empty.
The third day, Linda called in sick yet again because she had decided that going on the rebound would be the cure all to all of this misery. Though Linda was petite and not exactly what one would call "curvy," she had other weapons in her arsenal of attraction. She made sure her hair was perfectly coiffed, that her clothes and makeup were tasteful, but accentuating the right things in just the right way to get attention. Linda even chose a subtle pink toenail polish to go with her open-toed high heels.
What she didn't count on was that the kind of heels that attract men, aren't the kind of heels that you can walk around in for more that five blocks. With just about everything below the middle of her spine, sore, she retreated into the type of bar and grill that she wouldn't have frequented in a million years.
She wanted to ask the bartender for a glass of water, but he was too busy watching some cheerleader competition on TV and polishing glasses in a way that would've made even Larry Flynt uneasy. As she went towards the tables in the hope that she could at least get a waiter's attention, she saw him.
He was the male version of her.
She could tell that he spent as much effort and dedication on his hair as she did. His nails were manicured, just like hers. His clothing was just like hers, in the vein of "tastefully easy." His watch was understated, yet expensive, just like hers. He was the male version of her and that meant in Linda's mind, he was perfect.
He hadn't noticed her yet, because he seemed to be too engrossed in a magazine, while he lazily cut his food and ate it. Linda walked up to his table, picked up a sprig of parsley and held it over his head. He put his fork and knife down, and then he took a long sip of water.
When he put his glass back down, he finally noticed Linda.
Then his eyes followed her arm and he saw the parsley, and then they returned back to her.
"Hi."
"Hello."
"What's that?"
"It's mistletoe."
"It kind of looks like parsley."
"It's mistletoe."
"But it's July" he countered.
Linda smirked and gave a slight shrug.
"Works for me," he said as he stood up and gave her a long and languid kiss.
A sweet kiss.
A strong kiss.
Hell, she didn't even care about the garlic and amazingly just like that, they lived happily ever after...
...until she found that he was a Socialist. Then they lived happily ever after, except for when they argued about politics or when he left his socks on the floor.
Friday, December 21, 2007
From Raymond Chandler, Another Writing Quote
"The faster I write the better my output. If I'm going slow I'm in trouble. It means I'm pushing the words instead of being pulled by them."
– Raymond Chandler
Certainly from a short story standpoint, I agree.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
The Astonishing Adventures Magazine Saga Continues
The Editor JDC is no longer the "editor," but now he is publisher as the Astonishing Adventures Magazine family will soon be expanding. Tim "Yeti" Gallagher will become "Editor In Chief" and not only will the Issue #2 of AAM be coming out shortly, but also horror, in Enchanting Tales From Hell Magazine. Not to mention that there are books on the horizon, with Astonishing Adventures Books.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
The Maestro
"The Maestro"
Heinrich De Meester was one of the most notorious bank robbers in Holland , though he was more famous as “The Maestro,” by those in America who ran in all the wrong circles.
I am a musician, a conductor and composer, all in one.
Most would suggest that my music has a staccato tempo, but in my mind? It’s allegro fortissimo.
Even though he was almost cut off from the world in his little shack just north of Mazatlan , Heinrich knew that the American dollar was weakening against all the world’s currencies, but this was ridiculous. A bribe was a bribe and it should be honored no matter what, because even criminals should have some code of ethics, or everything would degenerate into anarchy.
He did the math as they came down his road, right into the sights of his HK fully automatic battle rifle. Two four-door trucks, eighteen men and they made absolutely no effort to conceal themselves or outflank him? This meant that there was a changing of the guard and the local drug lord was deposed. This war party also meant that the fifteen grand in protection money that was to protect him from the F.B.I. and the Federales was not going to be refunded.
He sighed; he was going to miss his little Sinaloan sanctuary. The fact that the new drug lord had sent so many men, meant that he knew Heinrich was no mere gringo. As far as he was concerned, though, the new drug lord really didn’t do his homework.
He waited until they came into the one area of his property where there wasn’t any cover to be had, then he opened fire. His first left-to-right sweep took out the drivers, as well as most of the men. The trucks veered left and right, respectively, leaving the riders in the back exposed.
As I go into my solo, everything seems to be in perfect rhythm: their danse macabre...their bodies and the shell casings hitting the gravel.
“Maestro” or not, of course the one major drawback to a bullet symphony is that even a hack can get lucky. One conscripted man that was of little or not threat because he was near-sighted, squeezed off four rounds during his death spasms. Two of them missed Heinrich entirely one struck his body armor, and the last one ricocheted off the top of the armor and into his neck.
Two objects fell towards the ground. The last shell that Heinrich’s battle rifle ejected and himself...he won their unofficial race. He was in immense pain as the three surviving men, dripping with sweat and blood, stood above him. As they sent The Maestro to his final curtain call, one thing went through his mind...
Everyone is a critic.
Heinrich De Meester was one of the most notorious bank robbers in Holland , though he was more famous as “The Maestro,” by those in America who ran in all the wrong circles.
I am a musician, a conductor and composer, all in one.
Most would suggest that my music has a staccato tempo, but in my mind? It’s allegro fortissimo.
Even though he was almost cut off from the world in his little shack just north of Mazatlan , Heinrich knew that the American dollar was weakening against all the world’s currencies, but this was ridiculous. A bribe was a bribe and it should be honored no matter what, because even criminals should have some code of ethics, or everything would degenerate into anarchy.
He did the math as they came down his road, right into the sights of his HK fully automatic battle rifle. Two four-door trucks, eighteen men and they made absolutely no effort to conceal themselves or outflank him? This meant that there was a changing of the guard and the local drug lord was deposed. This war party also meant that the fifteen grand in protection money that was to protect him from the F.B.I. and the Federales was not going to be refunded.
He sighed; he was going to miss his little Sinaloan sanctuary. The fact that the new drug lord had sent so many men, meant that he knew Heinrich was no mere gringo. As far as he was concerned, though, the new drug lord really didn’t do his homework.
He waited until they came into the one area of his property where there wasn’t any cover to be had, then he opened fire. His first left-to-right sweep took out the drivers, as well as most of the men. The trucks veered left and right, respectively, leaving the riders in the back exposed.
As I go into my solo, everything seems to be in perfect rhythm: their danse macabre...their bodies and the shell casings hitting the gravel.
“Maestro” or not, of course the one major drawback to a bullet symphony is that even a hack can get lucky. One conscripted man that was of little or not threat because he was near-sighted, squeezed off four rounds during his death spasms. Two of them missed Heinrich entirely one struck his body armor, and the last one ricocheted off the top of the armor and into his neck.
Two objects fell towards the ground. The last shell that Heinrich’s battle rifle ejected and himself...he won their unofficial race. He was in immense pain as the three surviving men, dripping with sweat and blood, stood above him. As they sent The Maestro to his final curtain call, one thing went through his mind...
Everyone is a critic.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Seven More Stories For Six Sentence Readers
For those that have wandered over here from 6S, please check out the following stories below-
"Eggplant Parmigiana." from Powder Burn Flash
"Snow And Sacrifice." Just say "no," or something else will say it for you.
"Succuba." If something in the basement sounds too good to be true...
"They Call Her The Breeze." There's a new gal in town, but is her house empty?
"Think Inside The Box." The "Heist Man," cometh.
"A Cool Breeze Licked The Back Of Her Neck." Horror comes in all sizes.
"When Gunpowder Gets In Your Eyes." Sometimes the perfect poker hand comes at the wrong time.
Then you might want to check out these seven stories. It's up to you, no pressure.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
"Strawberry Quick"
This is who they send to watch me?
Even over the hyper-fluttering sound of the money counter tallying bills like an amplified flock of vultures, I could hear the snort. I looked over by the door and there he was, the true Lizard King, forget Jim Morrison. This character was a reptile, from his mannerisms, to his clothes and shoes made from snakes and alligators. To his bulging eyes that suggested his brain was all reptilian, with not a dash of ape or mammal to dilute it.
He had an Altoids tin open and there was a light pink powder inside. He was using one of those tablespoon-teaspoon spoons on a ring that your mom used to use in the kitchen when baking pies and the second smallest spoon seemed to be in heavy rotation, today.
I shuffled and stacked some more money like a blackjack dealer in Vegas and fed the pile into the money counter.
I nodded at him and said slowly "what's that, Pixie-stick dust?"
Even though I said it slowly, I figured it wouldn't register and it didn't.
"I said, 'what is that, Pixie-stick dust?"
He blinked for what had to be the first time since he had been in the room, some thirty minutes, and he blinked again as he glared at me with those cold, reptilian eyes.
He rasped "what are you talking about? Are you high?"
Talk about the kettle...
"The stuff, what is it?"
"Strawberry Quick, yo."
I banded the counted pile and shuffled up another deck of five dollar bills.
"Don't you want some milk to go with that?"
"Really, are you high?"
I repeat, this is who they send to watch me?
In between sorting singles, "no, I haven't been high since the elder Bush was in office." Fives, "what is that supposed to be..." Twenties, "some new kind of designer drug?"
"No, it's meth. Strawberry-flavored meth."
"And?"
"And it's not as strong as strong as regular meth, so you don't become addicted. Shit, you are so retarded."
Yeah, how dumb can I be? I must be a raging idiot to not want have my eyes bugging out of my head and my brain bouncing against my ears.
"Interesting."
A light pink plume shot up as he closed the tin. He slipped it into a Ziploc and sealed the bag. He walked over to the water cooler and doused his fingers with water. Then he snorted the wet off of his fingers.
"What, you don't have no vices?" he sneered and nodded towards my ample frame.
"I like a sifter of Jack Daniels every now and then. But, see, unlike you, I like my death to taste like death."
"What?"
"I said, I don't need my death sugar-coated with a parasol, I take mine straight-up."
"Who asked you, any-"
There was a gentle knock on the door that silenced us and got our attention like the rattle of a sidewinder. Anyone who was connected to the money, would've called on one of the four of the cell phones that were stationed around this beat-up studio apartment.
The neighbors wouldn't bother us because it was the kind of building where everyone kept to themselves, that's why it was chosen. It was either cop or criminal on the side of that five-inch, reinforced door.
The Lizard King had his guns out before the second knock hit the door. Now I could see why he was stationed here; his reflexes matched his reptile brain. Me? For some odd reason, I slowly reached for my Street Sweeper from its shelf under the table and brought it up.
The DAO-12 Street Sweeper was a revolver gone wrong. It was a shotgun that had its way with a Roaring Twenties machine gun and this was the end result. A twelve-inch barrel with twelve-gauge cartridges and twelve cartridges in the rotating drum. Fuck thirteen, twelve was their unlucky number.
Though we were three stories up, it occurred simultaneously to the Lizard King and me that someone might be coming through the windows. As we both looked over, sparks flew from the hinges on the door. Whatever they were using, the door was going to come down in seconds, and I was wondering if this was all worth their hassle. I mean, really.
As the Lizard King shifted to the right side of the room to be out of both their line and my line of fire, I realized that people hit liquor stores all the time, often for less than a hundred dollars. So I guess certain death was worth it for them. As a man of peace, it certainly wasn't worth it for me, though I'd send all of them to hell before I'd kill myself.
Before the door hit the ground, the Lizard King must have let loose over six rounds, and two of those idiots fell like leaves in the wind on top of the door. Another idiot jumped into the threshold like he was a kid playing cops and robbers, and an instant, his brains were all over the door of the apartment across the hall.
This all took place within eight seconds, tops. I got the feeling that the Lizard King was screwing around with them and he could've taken care of things even faster. Then the drugs he was on must have overrode his common sense. He walked over the bodies and stuck his head out of the door. He flew from the right side of the door jamb to the left and hit the ground even faster than any of the three he killed.
Who's the "retard" now, Lizzy? Then the lights in the hallway went out...great. The apartment light switch is right by the front door and I wasn't about to walk over there to turn it off, and expose myself. On the other hand, they could see me and all I would be able to see would be the muzzle flash of their guns just before their bullets hit me.
Then the silliest lyrics from a song from a record that my grandmother used to play, hit me.
If I knew you were comin' I'd've baked a cake
Baked a cake, baked a cake
If I knew you were comin' I'd've baked a cake
But instead of "Howd-ya do, howd-ya do, howd-ya do," I was thinking, "what to do, what to do, what to do?" I bit my lip, then decided that they were coming in...
five...
four...
three...
two...
...then I let loose with the Street Sweeper, hitting the wall just to the right of the door, because that's the side where the bullets that finished the Lizard King came from. A squeal and the perpetrator dropped down on all fours, just right above the Lizard King and the idiot's comrade, said that my aim was true. But how accurate do you have to be with a shotgun, anyway?
I pumped another cartridge, squeezed and finished him off. The apartment door across the way was embedded with black buckshot...plus a nasty, visceral, gray, pink, and crimson. I counted again and let loose one just to the right of my first shot...nothing. As I chambered another cartridge, I heard what sounded like a chair sliding across a wooden floor.
One of the windows was slowly sliding open. What ladder from hell could reach this high? Just before the hand could push the window as high as it could go, I pulled the trigger.
The apartment had a new hole in the wall and outside the hole's diameter, was even more crimson and matter. The scream of whoever it was that used to have two hands, descended down, fast and away like a baseball pitch. Then there was the crash of ladder and perpetrator on the pavement.
Judging from the screams, it was a man, though the pain was driving him to falsetto. The very same gene that causes idiots to stare at auto accidents was compelling me to look out the window, but I had more pressing issues.
I didn't hear any sirens, but you know that crap is for TV, anyway. The cops wouldn't want to tip me off that they were well on their way and that in minutes, if not seconds, I'd be ass-deep in blue. The excuse of "self-defense" loses its weight when you have a gun that was banned in America, years ago, thousands, and thousands in illegal money, five bodies on the floor, and one outside that is about to expire.
Not to mention that there still could be more robbers lurking out in the hallway. So I had to work as quickly and best as I could with just one hand. I slid open the large sports bag that I originally brought the money in with, and then I shoveled, scooped, and crammed the banded and loose money. I flinched as I thought I heard a door open somewhere. Fuck it, the cops are coming, get rid of the evidence.
I took out the small gas cans and flare that were under the sink for just this occasion. I doused everything I could with the cans within thirty seconds, then I tucked the flare in my right rear pants pocket. I quickly pointed the Street Sweeper down the hallway and pulled the trigger. I wasn't going out like the Lizard King.
Blowback or something from the shotgun ignited the gas. I had to run back in and get the money before it burned up, or my life would be worth less than these bodies at beneath my feet, and my death would be a lot more painful. I got it out just before the flare-up and I walked out into the hallway. I didn't see any more robbers, so I started knocking on doors and telling people that the building was on fire.
They still didn't open their doors. See? I told you it was the kind of building where everyone kept to themselves.
By the time I got to my car, there he was. He was still shrieking and clutching the stump that was his right arm. I was lucky that both he and the ladder landed just inches from my rear fender, or I'd be wide open for arrest, on foot.
I pulled the trigger one more time. Not so much as to put him out of his misery, as to keep him from identifying me, and adding to mine.
Even over the hyper-fluttering sound of the money counter tallying bills like an amplified flock of vultures, I could hear the snort. I looked over by the door and there he was, the true Lizard King, forget Jim Morrison. This character was a reptile, from his mannerisms, to his clothes and shoes made from snakes and alligators. To his bulging eyes that suggested his brain was all reptilian, with not a dash of ape or mammal to dilute it.
He had an Altoids tin open and there was a light pink powder inside. He was using one of those tablespoon-teaspoon spoons on a ring that your mom used to use in the kitchen when baking pies and the second smallest spoon seemed to be in heavy rotation, today.
I shuffled and stacked some more money like a blackjack dealer in Vegas and fed the pile into the money counter.
I nodded at him and said slowly "what's that, Pixie-stick dust?"
Even though I said it slowly, I figured it wouldn't register and it didn't.
"I said, 'what is that, Pixie-stick dust?"
He blinked for what had to be the first time since he had been in the room, some thirty minutes, and he blinked again as he glared at me with those cold, reptilian eyes.
He rasped "what are you talking about? Are you high?"
Talk about the kettle...
"The stuff, what is it?"
"Strawberry Quick, yo."
I banded the counted pile and shuffled up another deck of five dollar bills.
"Don't you want some milk to go with that?"
"Really, are you high?"
I repeat, this is who they send to watch me?
In between sorting singles, "no, I haven't been high since the elder Bush was in office." Fives, "what is that supposed to be..." Twenties, "some new kind of designer drug?"
"No, it's meth. Strawberry-flavored meth."
"And?"
"And it's not as strong as strong as regular meth, so you don't become addicted. Shit, you are so retarded."
Yeah, how dumb can I be? I must be a raging idiot to not want have my eyes bugging out of my head and my brain bouncing against my ears.
"Interesting."
A light pink plume shot up as he closed the tin. He slipped it into a Ziploc and sealed the bag. He walked over to the water cooler and doused his fingers with water. Then he snorted the wet off of his fingers.
"What, you don't have no vices?" he sneered and nodded towards my ample frame.
"I like a sifter of Jack Daniels every now and then. But, see, unlike you, I like my death to taste like death."
"What?"
"I said, I don't need my death sugar-coated with a parasol, I take mine straight-up."
"Who asked you, any-"
There was a gentle knock on the door that silenced us and got our attention like the rattle of a sidewinder. Anyone who was connected to the money, would've called on one of the four of the cell phones that were stationed around this beat-up studio apartment.
The neighbors wouldn't bother us because it was the kind of building where everyone kept to themselves, that's why it was chosen. It was either cop or criminal on the side of that five-inch, reinforced door.
The Lizard King had his guns out before the second knock hit the door. Now I could see why he was stationed here; his reflexes matched his reptile brain. Me? For some odd reason, I slowly reached for my Street Sweeper from its shelf under the table and brought it up.
The DAO-12 Street Sweeper was a revolver gone wrong. It was a shotgun that had its way with a Roaring Twenties machine gun and this was the end result. A twelve-inch barrel with twelve-gauge cartridges and twelve cartridges in the rotating drum. Fuck thirteen, twelve was their unlucky number.
Though we were three stories up, it occurred simultaneously to the Lizard King and me that someone might be coming through the windows. As we both looked over, sparks flew from the hinges on the door. Whatever they were using, the door was going to come down in seconds, and I was wondering if this was all worth their hassle. I mean, really.
As the Lizard King shifted to the right side of the room to be out of both their line and my line of fire, I realized that people hit liquor stores all the time, often for less than a hundred dollars. So I guess certain death was worth it for them. As a man of peace, it certainly wasn't worth it for me, though I'd send all of them to hell before I'd kill myself.
Before the door hit the ground, the Lizard King must have let loose over six rounds, and two of those idiots fell like leaves in the wind on top of the door. Another idiot jumped into the threshold like he was a kid playing cops and robbers, and an instant, his brains were all over the door of the apartment across the hall.
This all took place within eight seconds, tops. I got the feeling that the Lizard King was screwing around with them and he could've taken care of things even faster. Then the drugs he was on must have overrode his common sense. He walked over the bodies and stuck his head out of the door. He flew from the right side of the door jamb to the left and hit the ground even faster than any of the three he killed.
Who's the "retard" now, Lizzy? Then the lights in the hallway went out...great. The apartment light switch is right by the front door and I wasn't about to walk over there to turn it off, and expose myself. On the other hand, they could see me and all I would be able to see would be the muzzle flash of their guns just before their bullets hit me.
Then the silliest lyrics from a song from a record that my grandmother used to play, hit me.
If I knew you were comin' I'd've baked a cake
Baked a cake, baked a cake
If I knew you were comin' I'd've baked a cake
But instead of "Howd-ya do, howd-ya do, howd-ya do," I was thinking, "what to do, what to do, what to do?" I bit my lip, then decided that they were coming in...
five...
four...
three...
two...
...then I let loose with the Street Sweeper, hitting the wall just to the right of the door, because that's the side where the bullets that finished the Lizard King came from. A squeal and the perpetrator dropped down on all fours, just right above the Lizard King and the idiot's comrade, said that my aim was true. But how accurate do you have to be with a shotgun, anyway?
I pumped another cartridge, squeezed and finished him off. The apartment door across the way was embedded with black buckshot...plus a nasty, visceral, gray, pink, and crimson. I counted again and let loose one just to the right of my first shot...nothing. As I chambered another cartridge, I heard what sounded like a chair sliding across a wooden floor.
One of the windows was slowly sliding open. What ladder from hell could reach this high? Just before the hand could push the window as high as it could go, I pulled the trigger.
The apartment had a new hole in the wall and outside the hole's diameter, was even more crimson and matter. The scream of whoever it was that used to have two hands, descended down, fast and away like a baseball pitch. Then there was the crash of ladder and perpetrator on the pavement.
Judging from the screams, it was a man, though the pain was driving him to falsetto. The very same gene that causes idiots to stare at auto accidents was compelling me to look out the window, but I had more pressing issues.
I didn't hear any sirens, but you know that crap is for TV, anyway. The cops wouldn't want to tip me off that they were well on their way and that in minutes, if not seconds, I'd be ass-deep in blue. The excuse of "self-defense" loses its weight when you have a gun that was banned in America, years ago, thousands, and thousands in illegal money, five bodies on the floor, and one outside that is about to expire.
Not to mention that there still could be more robbers lurking out in the hallway. So I had to work as quickly and best as I could with just one hand. I slid open the large sports bag that I originally brought the money in with, and then I shoveled, scooped, and crammed the banded and loose money. I flinched as I thought I heard a door open somewhere. Fuck it, the cops are coming, get rid of the evidence.
I took out the small gas cans and flare that were under the sink for just this occasion. I doused everything I could with the cans within thirty seconds, then I tucked the flare in my right rear pants pocket. I quickly pointed the Street Sweeper down the hallway and pulled the trigger. I wasn't going out like the Lizard King.
Blowback or something from the shotgun ignited the gas. I had to run back in and get the money before it burned up, or my life would be worth less than these bodies at beneath my feet, and my death would be a lot more painful. I got it out just before the flare-up and I walked out into the hallway. I didn't see any more robbers, so I started knocking on doors and telling people that the building was on fire.
They still didn't open their doors. See? I told you it was the kind of building where everyone kept to themselves.
By the time I got to my car, there he was. He was still shrieking and clutching the stump that was his right arm. I was lucky that both he and the ladder landed just inches from my rear fender, or I'd be wide open for arrest, on foot.
I pulled the trigger one more time. Not so much as to put him out of his misery, as to keep him from identifying me, and adding to mine.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
T.C. Boyle On Writing
Writing is an obsessive-compulsive disorder. A kind of miracle. Something out of nothing. Out of you. Only you can write it, whether it's good or bad.
-T.C. Boyle
Monday, October 1, 2007
Seven Stories For Six Sentences Readers
For those who came over here from the flash fiction site, Six Sentences? Seven stories:
"The Sound It Made When It Broke"
"Hot Ice And Cold Blood" from Powder Burn Flash
"The Post-Nuptial" from Powder Burn Flash
"Right Between The Sound Machine"
Enjoy.
"24 Fps"
A Six Sentence story for all my screenwriting friends and for those that live their lives at forty-eight frames-per-second.
A warm thanks to Robert McEvily for providing the venue and to Katie Schwartz for bullying me into it.
A warm thanks to Robert McEvily for providing the venue and to Katie Schwartz for bullying me into it.
Monday, September 24, 2007
A Moment Of Silence, Please
From one of the editors of Astonishing Adventures Magazine-
I don't want to intrude on Katherine, but I just wanted to say a little something.
We lost one of our pulpsters recently and we at AAM want to say we're sorry. Katherine's sister Mary contributed the illustration for Tit For Tat in the first issue and she passed away on Saturday.
Please keep Katherine and her family in your thoughts.
Editor JDC
I don't want to intrude on Katherine, but I just wanted to say a little something.
We lost one of our pulpsters recently and we at AAM want to say we're sorry. Katherine's sister Mary contributed the illustration for Tit For Tat in the first issue and she passed away on Saturday.
Please keep Katherine and her family in your thoughts.
Editor JDC
Friday, September 14, 2007
The New Submission Guidelines for Astonishing Adventures Magazine Issue #2
From Editor Tim Gallagher
NEW SUBMISSION GUIDELINES FOR AAM
Okay, kids, we got the first issue out of the way. It darn near killed some of us, but we did it.
In the process of putting the magazine together, we learned what worked and what didn’t; what we need help with and what we have down pat; and what changes will have to be made in order to ensure things go smoother the second time.
The submission guidelines for the time being are going to remain essentially the same:
1) We’re looking for all-new, all-original stories covering all pulp genres. That includes adventure, mystery, science fiction, Western, aviation, fantasy, sword and sorcery - you name it (except romance! Romance is verboten! If I don’t have to deal with it in real life, I don’t want to deal with it in my magazine!). And please don’t make the mistake that many do and equate pulp with noir; most noir is pulp, but not all pulp is noir.
The stories can take place in any time period, and in any location. We’re looking for stories that evoke the spirit of the ‘30s and ‘40s - pulp’s golden age - but that doesn’t mean your stories have to take place then.
Most of all, we’re looking for stories that are FUN and ENTERTAINING! This ain’t some long haired, highbrow literary magazine, it’s a pulp!
If you’re still not sure what we’re looking for, please check out the plethora of pulp reprint magazines available: THE SHADOW, THE SPIDER, DOC SAVAGE, PLANET STORIES, G8 AND HIS BATTLE ACES, SECRET AGENT X, etc. Those are the sort of stories we want to showcase.
2) We said it above, and we’ll say it again: we want all-new, all-original pulp stories. Stories you’ve written featuring characters you’ve created. We will accept absolutely no fan fiction (stories featuring someone else’s characters).
3) We are aiming for the broadest possible audience, from tweens to twilighters, so your submission should be appropriate for all. We will not accept submissions with excessive, gratuitous violence; offensive language (cursing); gratuitous hanky panky (the hero can kiss the girl, but everything else should occur off the page); or content that is deemed disparaging, offensive, or hateful by the editors. Basically, if you couldn’t get away with it in a PG-rated film, you won’t get away with it here.
4) The word count for stories is still 3,500 or less, but as you saw in the first issue, we are open to longer stories. Please query us first before sending anything longer than 3,500 words.
5) We can only accept single, stand-alone stories. We do not accept serial stories at this time. Our quarterly publication schedule makes serialization impractical. We will accept stories that are excerpts of longer works, as long as the excerpt can stand alone: it must have a beginning, middle, and end, like any other story.
6) Here’s the new wrinkle, so please pay attention: ALL SUBMISSIONS MUST BE IN THE FORM OF A WORD DOCUMENT (.doc), with the option of an additional .html doc. We can no longer accept submissions that are in the body of an e-mail. Sorry if this inconveniences anyone, but it makes too much work for us when we put the magazine together.
7) Yes, we accept art submissions. We need spot illustrations for stories as well as cover art. If you can provide art for your submission, by all means do so. For more specific requirements and specifications, contact JDC directly at editorjdc@gmail.com.
8) We are also looking for non-fiction material about the world of pulp: articles, reviews, interviews. Just read a great pulp novel you want to share with everyone else? Write a review and send it to us. You met a man who claims to be the real, live Doc Savage? Well, by jingo, we want to read about it. You just happen to be the neighbor of a man who made his living pounding out pulp stories for a penny a word? Get a tape recorder and get him talking.
The variety of non-fiction material we’re looking for is wide open, as long as it’s pulp related. Please query us first with what you have in mind.
9) Finally, and I can’t say this enough, don’t be afraid to use the LESTER DENT PLOT FORMULA posted elsewhere on this site. I know it’s set up for a 6,000 word story, but it can easily be modified for a story of any length. It’s a great tool, so use it. That’s why we posted it in the first place.
Questions? Concerns? Did I miss something? Well, that’s what the e-mail addresses are for. Shoot us a line, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.Now get cracking. The deadline for issue #2 - NOVEMBER 1 - is fast approaching. And yes, we would love holiday-themed pulp stories.
NEW SUBMISSION GUIDELINES FOR AAM
Okay, kids, we got the first issue out of the way. It darn near killed some of us, but we did it.
In the process of putting the magazine together, we learned what worked and what didn’t; what we need help with and what we have down pat; and what changes will have to be made in order to ensure things go smoother the second time.
The submission guidelines for the time being are going to remain essentially the same:
1) We’re looking for all-new, all-original stories covering all pulp genres. That includes adventure, mystery, science fiction, Western, aviation, fantasy, sword and sorcery - you name it (except romance! Romance is verboten! If I don’t have to deal with it in real life, I don’t want to deal with it in my magazine!). And please don’t make the mistake that many do and equate pulp with noir; most noir is pulp, but not all pulp is noir.
The stories can take place in any time period, and in any location. We’re looking for stories that evoke the spirit of the ‘30s and ‘40s - pulp’s golden age - but that doesn’t mean your stories have to take place then.
Most of all, we’re looking for stories that are FUN and ENTERTAINING! This ain’t some long haired, highbrow literary magazine, it’s a pulp!
If you’re still not sure what we’re looking for, please check out the plethora of pulp reprint magazines available: THE SHADOW, THE SPIDER, DOC SAVAGE, PLANET STORIES, G8 AND HIS BATTLE ACES, SECRET AGENT X, etc. Those are the sort of stories we want to showcase.
2) We said it above, and we’ll say it again: we want all-new, all-original pulp stories. Stories you’ve written featuring characters you’ve created. We will accept absolutely no fan fiction (stories featuring someone else’s characters).
3) We are aiming for the broadest possible audience, from tweens to twilighters, so your submission should be appropriate for all. We will not accept submissions with excessive, gratuitous violence; offensive language (cursing); gratuitous hanky panky (the hero can kiss the girl, but everything else should occur off the page); or content that is deemed disparaging, offensive, or hateful by the editors. Basically, if you couldn’t get away with it in a PG-rated film, you won’t get away with it here.
4) The word count for stories is still 3,500 or less, but as you saw in the first issue, we are open to longer stories. Please query us first before sending anything longer than 3,500 words.
5) We can only accept single, stand-alone stories. We do not accept serial stories at this time. Our quarterly publication schedule makes serialization impractical. We will accept stories that are excerpts of longer works, as long as the excerpt can stand alone: it must have a beginning, middle, and end, like any other story.
6) Here’s the new wrinkle, so please pay attention: ALL SUBMISSIONS MUST BE IN THE FORM OF A WORD DOCUMENT (.doc), with the option of an additional .html doc. We can no longer accept submissions that are in the body of an e-mail. Sorry if this inconveniences anyone, but it makes too much work for us when we put the magazine together.
7) Yes, we accept art submissions. We need spot illustrations for stories as well as cover art. If you can provide art for your submission, by all means do so. For more specific requirements and specifications, contact JDC directly at editorjdc@gmail.com.
8) We are also looking for non-fiction material about the world of pulp: articles, reviews, interviews. Just read a great pulp novel you want to share with everyone else? Write a review and send it to us. You met a man who claims to be the real, live Doc Savage? Well, by jingo, we want to read about it. You just happen to be the neighbor of a man who made his living pounding out pulp stories for a penny a word? Get a tape recorder and get him talking.
The variety of non-fiction material we’re looking for is wide open, as long as it’s pulp related. Please query us first with what you have in mind.
9) Finally, and I can’t say this enough, don’t be afraid to use the LESTER DENT PLOT FORMULA posted elsewhere on this site. I know it’s set up for a 6,000 word story, but it can easily be modified for a story of any length. It’s a great tool, so use it. That’s why we posted it in the first place.
Questions? Concerns? Did I miss something? Well, that’s what the e-mail addresses are for. Shoot us a line, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.Now get cracking. The deadline for issue #2 - NOVEMBER 1 - is fast approaching. And yes, we would love holiday-themed pulp stories.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Astonishing Adventures Magazine Is Finally Here!
I have seen the future and it is a fine revival of the past, "Astonishing Adventures Magazine" is finally here. Katherine Tomlinson, Tim Gallagher and John Don Carlucci have created an online pulp magazine.
Click on the words of John Don Carlucci and the text will take you to the site...
It’s amazing! It’s stupendous! It’s ASTONISHING!
ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE, the greatest place for new tales in the old pulp fashion, has finally arrived!
Marvel at the tale of the man who married a Yeti! Thrill to the exploits of the mysterious Red Panda! Gasp in amazement as dinosaurs attack Manhattan! Be astounded as Tokyo is reduced to rubble (yet again)!
All this and more, including interviews with award-winning writer Joe Lansdale, legendary comics artist Michael Wm. Kaluta, and painter extraordinaire Doug Klauba!
Did we mention the monkeys? Yes, there are monkeys! More monkeys than you can shake a banana at!
Brace yourself for tales that are ASTONISHING! Prepare yourself for ADVENTURES! All conveniently located in one pulp MAGAZINE!
That’s ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE!
And best of all, the first issue is free!
Thank you John! Psst, not to mention there is a story in there written by yours truly.
Click on the words of John Don Carlucci and the text will take you to the site...
It’s amazing! It’s stupendous! It’s ASTONISHING!
ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE, the greatest place for new tales in the old pulp fashion, has finally arrived!
Marvel at the tale of the man who married a Yeti! Thrill to the exploits of the mysterious Red Panda! Gasp in amazement as dinosaurs attack Manhattan! Be astounded as Tokyo is reduced to rubble (yet again)!
All this and more, including interviews with award-winning writer Joe Lansdale, legendary comics artist Michael Wm. Kaluta, and painter extraordinaire Doug Klauba!
Did we mention the monkeys? Yes, there are monkeys! More monkeys than you can shake a banana at!
Brace yourself for tales that are ASTONISHING! Prepare yourself for ADVENTURES! All conveniently located in one pulp MAGAZINE!
That’s ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE!
And best of all, the first issue is free!
Thank you John! Psst, not to mention there is a story in there written by yours truly.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
"The Post-Nuptial"
This story originally appeared at Powder Burn Flash Blog.
"The “City of Angels ?” They have all the letters right, but their order all wrong. It’s the “City of Angles.” As in everyone there has an angle, is hiding behind one or they will come at you from a funny angle. Because people down there just don’t deal with anyone straight on.
I don’t like coming down here; it’s way too bright and that’s just the light coming off of all of the bleached smiles. Don’t get me started on the sun. But I am here on business, on behalf of a fine piece of pleasure.
She’s battier than a cave full of guano, which is good for the bedroom and bad for everywhere else. Even when she comes up for the occasional recreational tryst, this gets to be too much. So I know all too well as to just why her husband wants to divorce her, since he has to deal with her every single day.
The problem, as far as she is concerned, is that she is a movie star who has amassed millions over the life of her career, and before they were married he was a boom-mike operator with bad shoulders. When she finally cuts him loose, he won’t be able to work for long and though I don’t know all of the details, the only thing that both of their lawyers can agree on is that he has a fairly good chance of overturning their prenuptial agreement.
My plan is pretty simple: I’ve already driven down here and stolen a car. I’ll kick it off with a squat-and-stop right in front of her husband’s car.
It’s six P.M. on an overcast December 15th and it’s nice and dark. He turns off of Franklin Boulevard and I follow. I pull ahead of him and I look for witnesses...that’s right, I look for witnesses.
If you ask them what happened next, they would tell you that he rear-ended me, even though I was the one that stopped short in front of him. They would tell you that a Mexican gang-banger got out and cursed at him in Spanish for being crazy and for hitting his car.
Then they would tell you that the Mexican shot the husband point-blank in the head...even though I am about as Mexican as Charlton Heston in “A Touch of Evil,” and that my clothes and car are authentic, only in the borrowed sense.
I drive off of Whitley Avenue, where I torch the car and the disguise. I get the rental car I drove down here out of the garage and I’m home free, because L.A.’s finest won’t be looking for “Joe Tourist” as the world’s best “accidental” post-nuptial agreement.
Just south of Lompoc , I have to get gas for the car and caffeine for myself, as we are both running on fumes...twenty hours on the road will do that to you. I nod at the cashier, a nice East Indian who that will go far, judging by all the books he studies in between transactions. Then, in my sleep-deprived stupor, I make a mistake...I pay for the sale with my credit card. If a detective gets lucky and makes it up to Pacifica, this will put a huge hole in my “all alone at my cabin up in Tahoe” alibi.
I space out until the cashier and a Highway Patrol officer waiting behind me, bring me back. I sign the receipt and thank the kid.
Three miles later and I hear the distinct horn of a police car. I mull pulling over for about thirty seconds, then the car flashes the red and blue lights, and I panic. I get the first shot off, but I should’ve just shot myself instead, as it’s real hard to hit anything with a patrol car spotlight in your face.
I slip in and out...
...I see the Highway Patrol officer who was at the gas station.
...I hear him tell another officer that the station cashier said I forgot my credit card, and that he just wanted to give it back to me. I take it back...that cashier won’t go far; he’ll make a bad American, because he’s too damn honest.
...I just hope they can’t connect me to her.
...Yes, I contradicted myself by what I’ve done, but I’ll still talk shit about “The City of Angles.” I never said I wasn’t a hypocrite and the most comforting fact to me as I depart this world, is that at least I won’t die in L.A.
"The “City of Angels ?” They have all the letters right, but their order all wrong. It’s the “City of Angles.” As in everyone there has an angle, is hiding behind one or they will come at you from a funny angle. Because people down there just don’t deal with anyone straight on.
I don’t like coming down here; it’s way too bright and that’s just the light coming off of all of the bleached smiles. Don’t get me started on the sun. But I am here on business, on behalf of a fine piece of pleasure.
She’s battier than a cave full of guano, which is good for the bedroom and bad for everywhere else. Even when she comes up for the occasional recreational tryst, this gets to be too much. So I know all too well as to just why her husband wants to divorce her, since he has to deal with her every single day.
The problem, as far as she is concerned, is that she is a movie star who has amassed millions over the life of her career, and before they were married he was a boom-mike operator with bad shoulders. When she finally cuts him loose, he won’t be able to work for long and though I don’t know all of the details, the only thing that both of their lawyers can agree on is that he has a fairly good chance of overturning their prenuptial agreement.
My plan is pretty simple: I’ve already driven down here and stolen a car. I’ll kick it off with a squat-and-stop right in front of her husband’s car.
It’s six P.M. on an overcast December 15th and it’s nice and dark. He turns off of Franklin Boulevard and I follow. I pull ahead of him and I look for witnesses...that’s right, I look for witnesses.
If you ask them what happened next, they would tell you that he rear-ended me, even though I was the one that stopped short in front of him. They would tell you that a Mexican gang-banger got out and cursed at him in Spanish for being crazy and for hitting his car.
Then they would tell you that the Mexican shot the husband point-blank in the head...even though I am about as Mexican as Charlton Heston in “A Touch of Evil,” and that my clothes and car are authentic, only in the borrowed sense.
I drive off of Whitley Avenue, where I torch the car and the disguise. I get the rental car I drove down here out of the garage and I’m home free, because L.A.’s finest won’t be looking for “Joe Tourist” as the world’s best “accidental” post-nuptial agreement.
Just south of Lompoc , I have to get gas for the car and caffeine for myself, as we are both running on fumes...twenty hours on the road will do that to you. I nod at the cashier, a nice East Indian who that will go far, judging by all the books he studies in between transactions. Then, in my sleep-deprived stupor, I make a mistake...I pay for the sale with my credit card. If a detective gets lucky and makes it up to Pacifica, this will put a huge hole in my “all alone at my cabin up in Tahoe” alibi.
I space out until the cashier and a Highway Patrol officer waiting behind me, bring me back. I sign the receipt and thank the kid.
Three miles later and I hear the distinct horn of a police car. I mull pulling over for about thirty seconds, then the car flashes the red and blue lights, and I panic. I get the first shot off, but I should’ve just shot myself instead, as it’s real hard to hit anything with a patrol car spotlight in your face.
I slip in and out...
...I see the Highway Patrol officer who was at the gas station.
...I hear him tell another officer that the station cashier said I forgot my credit card, and that he just wanted to give it back to me. I take it back...that cashier won’t go far; he’ll make a bad American, because he’s too damn honest.
...I just hope they can’t connect me to her.
...Yes, I contradicted myself by what I’ve done, but I’ll still talk shit about “The City of Angles.” I never said I wasn’t a hypocrite and the most comforting fact to me as I depart this world, is that at least I won’t die in L.A.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Someone's Million Dollar Ending
"Okay" mumbled Lars.
A short blur did a lap around him...or that is to say, he couldn't have recognized what it was because he was engrossed in a book. There it went again.
"Right" said Lars, a little louder this time.
The blur wasn't really that fast, but it was frantic. It was short man with his curly hair in a quasi-ponytail. Lars wasn't so interested in the man, as in why the man had an over-sized footprint on the back of his velour shirt.
The man slowed down this time around and situated himself in an alcove just to the left of Lars. Lars was sitting at the streetcar stop and was now regretting that he had not made more of an effort to catch the streetcar that he had just missed. The man's feet were perfectly still, it was the rest of him that was going in about ten different directions.
Lars's first impression was that the man either had Tourette's syndrome or that he was one of those schizophrenics that wig out towards the end of the week, because they sell their medications down at Sixth and Market Streets. The man seemed to be on the verge of a panic and he was looking at everything and everyone but Lars.
During his visual sweep of everything to the left of them, Lars got a chance to get a good look at the footprint on the man's back. It was that of a boot, bigger than a size twelve and as the man turned around, Lars noticed that the man had dirt on all over the front of his shirt and a bloody nose. The man's eyes widened and then gunfire erupted.
The flying debris from the bullets shattering the safety glass of the streetcar stop behind him, forced Lars to close his eyes.
As the last piece of the glass settled, Lars opened his eyes and saw the frantic man would never be agitated again. He was completely still now, except for the blood that was slowly pouring from him and the vacant glass that was now the man's eyes. Lars looked down the street and saw a man with identical hair and clothes as his victim, running away with a small pistol.
Lars took out his cell phone and called 911. He felt bad for the victim that lay before and felt even worse for feeling relieved. Because for the last five months and up until a few minutes ago, Lars would've paid a million dollars to get rid of this bout of writer's block. Now he finally had something to write about.
A short blur did a lap around him...or that is to say, he couldn't have recognized what it was because he was engrossed in a book. There it went again.
"Right" said Lars, a little louder this time.
The blur wasn't really that fast, but it was frantic. It was short man with his curly hair in a quasi-ponytail. Lars wasn't so interested in the man, as in why the man had an over-sized footprint on the back of his velour shirt.
The man slowed down this time around and situated himself in an alcove just to the left of Lars. Lars was sitting at the streetcar stop and was now regretting that he had not made more of an effort to catch the streetcar that he had just missed. The man's feet were perfectly still, it was the rest of him that was going in about ten different directions.
Lars's first impression was that the man either had Tourette's syndrome or that he was one of those schizophrenics that wig out towards the end of the week, because they sell their medications down at Sixth and Market Streets. The man seemed to be on the verge of a panic and he was looking at everything and everyone but Lars.
During his visual sweep of everything to the left of them, Lars got a chance to get a good look at the footprint on the man's back. It was that of a boot, bigger than a size twelve and as the man turned around, Lars noticed that the man had dirt on all over the front of his shirt and a bloody nose. The man's eyes widened and then gunfire erupted.
The flying debris from the bullets shattering the safety glass of the streetcar stop behind him, forced Lars to close his eyes.
As the last piece of the glass settled, Lars opened his eyes and saw the frantic man would never be agitated again. He was completely still now, except for the blood that was slowly pouring from him and the vacant glass that was now the man's eyes. Lars looked down the street and saw a man with identical hair and clothes as his victim, running away with a small pistol.
Lars took out his cell phone and called 911. He felt bad for the victim that lay before and felt even worse for feeling relieved. Because for the last five months and up until a few minutes ago, Lars would've paid a million dollars to get rid of this bout of writer's block. Now he finally had something to write about.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Powder Burn Flash Has "Hot Ice And Cold Blood" Up
What are you doing here? Powder Burn Flash has "Hot Ice And Cold Blood" posted.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Wrong Number
She has called twice so far and voice sounds completely familiar, only because my mind deceives me into believing so. She sounds just like this cashier I know of. Her voice was probably sweet as honey long ago, but too many cigarettes and other things that are not good for the body beyond moderation have effected her vocal chords.
The cashier I know is probably in her early sixties, though henna and the amazing advancements in makeup would make you guess that she was at least three or more years younger than that. She is pleasant to the eye in a way and if I were a single septuagenarian instead of a married man in my twenties, I would probably find her ideal.
The cashier always remembers me because our grocery discount card is in my wife's name and that name happens to be that of a movie starlet from days gone by. The cashier would bring this up from time to time and it would always lead to a discussion that would end in a quasi-argument, about when another starlet co-starred with her, got her big break. That is, which movie was the exact one that put the other starlet on the map.
I would try to be polite and point out that a particular movie was not the latter starlet's big break as it were, then she would emphatically say differently. I would've brought a book or printed proof off of the Internet to prove my point, yet I doubt somehow that she would be convinced. Furthermore, what would be that prove? Because in our own minds, we believe we are both correct.
So now when I see her and it comes up, I change the subject. As a matter of fact, for the last few months, we pretend this point of contention never existed.
As I said, this woman has called twice so far. She is not the checker, though their similarity in timbre, inflections and intonations do give me pause. They both call me "hon," though many women of that age do.
The woman who sounds similar to the checker, calls and I can tell right away that she seems two sandwiches short of a picnic.
Our first conversation was:
"Hello?"
"Bellow?"
"Hello?"
"Shallow?"
I tried to keep my temper in check, though it didn't sound like it when I said through clenched lips "yeah, uh, what?"
"Henry? I'd like to speak to Henry."
"There's no Henry, here."
"Is this 2xx-xxxx?
"Yes, there is nobody here by the name of Henry."
"Henry Shanks isn't there?"
"No, I'm sorry, no one living here has that name."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
"Oh...okay. Thank you."
"Take care."
"Bye." Hmmm, listen to that name. Was that a put-on? If most surnames were derived from the craft or appearance of the people of a particular country or era, how did the last name "Shanks" come about? Was it someone who was particularly marginal butcher, or was it a butcher that specialized in just leg work? Maybe it was someone who specialized in prison stabbings.
And why would they name their kid "Henry," when all the kids in school were bound to call him "Hank Shanks?"
Three days later, she called again. Before she got through the "H-e-n" in "Henry," I told her that she had already called before a few days before and that she had the wrong number.
"Are you sure Henry isn't there, Hon?"
"Yes. I'm sorry, you have the wrong number."
"Oh, okay. Thank you."
She sounded a little more lucid the second time. Of course, that is like comparing her to ten watt bulb deep in a coal mine, because while she shines...she'll never be able to cut all the way through the darkness. I felt bad for her and I still do.
Hopefully somewhere, Hank Shanks actually exists and his love will help her shine through the approaching gloom.
The cashier I know is probably in her early sixties, though henna and the amazing advancements in makeup would make you guess that she was at least three or more years younger than that. She is pleasant to the eye in a way and if I were a single septuagenarian instead of a married man in my twenties, I would probably find her ideal.
The cashier always remembers me because our grocery discount card is in my wife's name and that name happens to be that of a movie starlet from days gone by. The cashier would bring this up from time to time and it would always lead to a discussion that would end in a quasi-argument, about when another starlet co-starred with her, got her big break. That is, which movie was the exact one that put the other starlet on the map.
I would try to be polite and point out that a particular movie was not the latter starlet's big break as it were, then she would emphatically say differently. I would've brought a book or printed proof off of the Internet to prove my point, yet I doubt somehow that she would be convinced. Furthermore, what would be that prove? Because in our own minds, we believe we are both correct.
So now when I see her and it comes up, I change the subject. As a matter of fact, for the last few months, we pretend this point of contention never existed.
As I said, this woman has called twice so far. She is not the checker, though their similarity in timbre, inflections and intonations do give me pause. They both call me "hon," though many women of that age do.
The woman who sounds similar to the checker, calls and I can tell right away that she seems two sandwiches short of a picnic.
Our first conversation was:
"Hello?"
"Bellow?"
"Hello?"
"Shallow?"
I tried to keep my temper in check, though it didn't sound like it when I said through clenched lips "yeah, uh, what?"
"Henry? I'd like to speak to Henry."
"There's no Henry, here."
"Is this 2xx-xxxx?
"Yes, there is nobody here by the name of Henry."
"Henry Shanks isn't there?"
"No, I'm sorry, no one living here has that name."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
"Oh...okay. Thank you."
"Take care."
"Bye." Hmmm, listen to that name. Was that a put-on? If most surnames were derived from the craft or appearance of the people of a particular country or era, how did the last name "Shanks" come about? Was it someone who was particularly marginal butcher, or was it a butcher that specialized in just leg work? Maybe it was someone who specialized in prison stabbings.
And why would they name their kid "Henry," when all the kids in school were bound to call him "Hank Shanks?"
Three days later, she called again. Before she got through the "H-e-n" in "Henry," I told her that she had already called before a few days before and that she had the wrong number.
"Are you sure Henry isn't there, Hon?"
"Yes. I'm sorry, you have the wrong number."
"Oh, okay. Thank you."
She sounded a little more lucid the second time. Of course, that is like comparing her to ten watt bulb deep in a coal mine, because while she shines...she'll never be able to cut all the way through the darkness. I felt bad for her and I still do.
Hopefully somewhere, Hank Shanks actually exists and his love will help her shine through the approaching gloom.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Penultimate
Some people get overly ambitious. Me? I like to keep my goals within the realm of the realistic. I don’t want fame, or to rule the world, or even one-hundred thousand dollars. All those things would be nice, but I just want two things out of life.
I don’t want you to admit what you’ve done...not to me and not to anyone one of the dozens of other people whose lives that you have ruined. I don’t want you to pay any of your ill-gotten gains back or donate them to the hospital and therapy bills of your victims. Why, you can even give the rape-survivor fund a rest.
I don’t want you incriminate yourself by putting flowers on the graves of those that you put six feet under nor would I want you to go to the various other sites and apologize to those who are “missing.” Don’t waste your money on champagne for your defense attorney who found loophole, upon loophole. He’s done enough celebrating for a lifetime...quite possibly even enough for the duration of all the lives that you’ve ended.
Don’t treat your family to dinner, like they have any business getting you back, when so many other families have to go without their loved ones...just like the family of my late girlfriend.
Like I said, I don’t want fame, or to rule the world, or even one-hundred thousand dollars. All those things would be nice, but all I really want to say is “Mike? This is for Laura.” Then the very last thing I want you to hear is my gun shooting you three times.
I don’t want you to admit what you’ve done...not to me and not to anyone one of the dozens of other people whose lives that you have ruined. I don’t want you to pay any of your ill-gotten gains back or donate them to the hospital and therapy bills of your victims. Why, you can even give the rape-survivor fund a rest.
I don’t want you incriminate yourself by putting flowers on the graves of those that you put six feet under nor would I want you to go to the various other sites and apologize to those who are “missing.” Don’t waste your money on champagne for your defense attorney who found loophole, upon loophole. He’s done enough celebrating for a lifetime...quite possibly even enough for the duration of all the lives that you’ve ended.
Don’t treat your family to dinner, like they have any business getting you back, when so many other families have to go without their loved ones...just like the family of my late girlfriend.
Like I said, I don’t want fame, or to rule the world, or even one-hundred thousand dollars. All those things would be nice, but all I really want to say is “Mike? This is for Laura.” Then the very last thing I want you to hear is my gun shooting you three times.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
My Old Haunts
Oh, yeah, I love dancing. I've been dancing since I don’t know when, it seems like forever. I go to the clubs and some cats, they just leave. They know about my abilities and they split. I keep up on all the latest dances, though my clothes are falling a little behind the times, and I wish there was more I could do about that.
I like to hit my favorite old haunts and check things out. Women are a lot wilder than I remember, sometimes for the good and sometimes they bring out the prude in me. I love the hip-hugger and low rider jeans. The tight shirts, the thongs, all that, is all good.
I can’t appreciate, however, the piercings and the tattoos just right above their butts...I can’t handle that. Then the clubs? Everywhere I go, it seems like they’re playing music from another planet. I can hardly keep up and most of it doesn’t sound like anything I was listening to, just yesterday.
The ladies love me, though. I don’t come there to hit on them or to drink: it’s strictly dancing with me. They don’t have to listen to a bunch of lines or nonsense. We get down on the dance floor and it’s cool.
And when we dance? I can’t even describe it, but I’ll try anyway. It’s kin-etic, it’s elec-tric, it’s as close to sex as we can get. Sometimes it gets a little freaky, but we keep our clothes on...for the most part. And when I touch them? The ladies shiver...they always shiver. I got that effect on them.
So I always wind it up at the Beat Box, because all that has changed over the years with clubbing, a few people still know of me there. It’s almost closing time and I’m still going strong, the ladies dig that.
Like this one tonight? She’s been going on about how she like my “retro” threads, whatever that means. I don’t know, it’s like sometimes we’re talking another language altogether, but whatever keeps the party going, you know?
She feels good during the slow dances, almost too good, you dig? But when the music picks up? She complains that she was working hard today and she wants to rest. That ain’t cool. So I know that there’s just one more dance to go before last call and she just turns her back on me. Not cool, I’m not dancing with that chick again.
“I’ll have a Seven and Seven.”
“I’m sorry, Lady. The last call is in two minutes and quite frankly, I think you’ve had a few too many already.”
“I’ve had only one drink all night.”
“Right, whatever. I still can’t serve you alcohol.”
“Well, let me have some mineral water and give the dancing fool whatever he wants.”
“Who?”
“The guy.”
“Who? What guy?”
“The guy I’ve been dancing with for the past thirty minutes.”
“Lady, you’ve been dancing with yourself all night long.”
“No, I was with a guy. He had retro clothes and old school hair. He looked like one of those disco guys.”
“Oh...Pierre, I think we’ve got another one.”
“Are you sure? Who?”
“This lady, right here.”
“What do you mean, “we got another one?”
“Did you dance with a guy in a blue polyester outfit and platform shoes? Did he have big, permed hair out to there?”
“Yes.”
“That was-“
When things get odd, it's my cue to split.
I wait outside and she keeps me waiting thirty minutes...I guess, I’m not sure, because I don’t have a watch. Pierre is walking with her and I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m scared of him or that I have any problem just walking right up to her and touching her on the shoulder, right in front of...
“Ohhhh, shit!”
C’mon Pierre, be a man this time.
This is ridiculous.
Look at them running away, you’d thought that they had seen a ghost.
Pussies.
Well, like I said. Oh, yeah, I love dancing. And I lovvve to hit my favorite old haunts.
I like to hit my favorite old haunts and check things out. Women are a lot wilder than I remember, sometimes for the good and sometimes they bring out the prude in me. I love the hip-hugger and low rider jeans. The tight shirts, the thongs, all that, is all good.
I can’t appreciate, however, the piercings and the tattoos just right above their butts...I can’t handle that. Then the clubs? Everywhere I go, it seems like they’re playing music from another planet. I can hardly keep up and most of it doesn’t sound like anything I was listening to, just yesterday.
The ladies love me, though. I don’t come there to hit on them or to drink: it’s strictly dancing with me. They don’t have to listen to a bunch of lines or nonsense. We get down on the dance floor and it’s cool.
And when we dance? I can’t even describe it, but I’ll try anyway. It’s kin-etic, it’s elec-tric, it’s as close to sex as we can get. Sometimes it gets a little freaky, but we keep our clothes on...for the most part. And when I touch them? The ladies shiver...they always shiver. I got that effect on them.
So I always wind it up at the Beat Box, because all that has changed over the years with clubbing, a few people still know of me there. It’s almost closing time and I’m still going strong, the ladies dig that.
Like this one tonight? She’s been going on about how she like my “retro” threads, whatever that means. I don’t know, it’s like sometimes we’re talking another language altogether, but whatever keeps the party going, you know?
She feels good during the slow dances, almost too good, you dig? But when the music picks up? She complains that she was working hard today and she wants to rest. That ain’t cool. So I know that there’s just one more dance to go before last call and she just turns her back on me. Not cool, I’m not dancing with that chick again.
“I’ll have a Seven and Seven.”
“I’m sorry, Lady. The last call is in two minutes and quite frankly, I think you’ve had a few too many already.”
“I’ve had only one drink all night.”
“Right, whatever. I still can’t serve you alcohol.”
“Well, let me have some mineral water and give the dancing fool whatever he wants.”
“Who?”
“The guy.”
“Who? What guy?”
“The guy I’ve been dancing with for the past thirty minutes.”
“Lady, you’ve been dancing with yourself all night long.”
“No, I was with a guy. He had retro clothes and old school hair. He looked like one of those disco guys.”
“Oh...Pierre, I think we’ve got another one.”
“Are you sure? Who?”
“This lady, right here.”
“What do you mean, “we got another one?”
“Did you dance with a guy in a blue polyester outfit and platform shoes? Did he have big, permed hair out to there?”
“Yes.”
“That was-“
When things get odd, it's my cue to split.
I wait outside and she keeps me waiting thirty minutes...I guess, I’m not sure, because I don’t have a watch. Pierre is walking with her and I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m scared of him or that I have any problem just walking right up to her and touching her on the shoulder, right in front of...
“Ohhhh, shit!”
C’mon Pierre, be a man this time.
This is ridiculous.
Look at them running away, you’d thought that they had seen a ghost.
Pussies.
Well, like I said. Oh, yeah, I love dancing. And I lovvve to hit my favorite old haunts.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)