I can remember when I could see my whole back in the mirror at once
Now, it's like four backs, with rolls and valleys
There's more acne on my shoulders than on the face of a 14-year-old mathlete
I can remember when only 50% of my body was covered with stretch marks
Now, they cover every saggy inch, some deep and purple and fresh
Others old, shiny and scar-white, branching down my arms and legs
I can remember when climbing a flight of stairs never gave me pause
Now, when I reach the top, I wheeze, bending over to catch my breath
I can feel my pulse racing, thundering in my ears, ragged and irregular
My eyes are the same steely blue, like an ocean after a storm
But now, they are set in deep baggy sacks; familiar eyes
Staring out from a swollen, drooping face with several waggling chins
Some day, I tell myself, I'll become strong and fit, energetic
Running through the spring slush, or a stiff autumn breeze
And I'll be nimble and sexy on the dance floor, a picture of fitness and health
It will happen like magic; one day, I'll wake up and climb on the scale
And it won't bottom out, I will be able to see the numbers around
My elephantine waistline, the pounds having disappeared like smoke in the night
I will look in the mirror and turn, able to see my entire back at once
My abdomen will ripple with statuesque muscles
Then, having sex with my wife won’t feel like a cross-country marathon
But somehow, in this fantasy, I can still eat four strips of bacon with every meal
End
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Full Disclosure
Then, my eyeball squeezed out of its socket with a squishy pop and landed on the floor, where it scurried off on what looked like tiny human legs or baby fingers. Before I could grab it, the thing dove into a mouse hole in the wall, where it lives to this day.
And that's why I wear an eye patch and also I'm selling this house for such a bargain.
End
And that's why I wear an eye patch and also I'm selling this house for such a bargain.
End
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Cassette Tape Blues
We drifted toward eachother in that metaphysical space
The seventh sub-basement beneath the building of our minds
That dark nothing under our conscious reality
And you pulled me in like a supermagnet
Our attraction wasn't merely physical or emotionalmental
It wasn't fate or will's design
We swam through crawl spaces between the places outside space
And holding hands fell through the schisms in reality
Then winked out like a distant lighthouse
The seventh sub-basement beneath the building of our minds
That dark nothing under our conscious reality
And you pulled me in like a supermagnet
Our attraction wasn't merely physical or emotionalmental
It wasn't fate or will's design
We swam through crawl spaces between the places outside space
And holding hands fell through the schisms in reality
Then winked out like a distant lighthouse
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Friday, September 13, 2013
Confessions of a Fat Foodie
My workplace has free donuts every Friday. Within a year of working here, I will be the fattest person you know.
One of the hardest things about being an adult is making good nutritional choices. But I have no self control. I probably eat just like my 8 year old self would have if given the opportunity. I love food. Especially the unhealthy kind.
Once a week, I will eat a salad, covered with grilled chicken, cheese, croutons, and fatty dressing. Then I will go on a short walk, maybe a block or two, and pat myself on the back. "You're so health conscious." I will say, and that night I will reward myself by eating a whole box of organic peanut butter sandwich cookies.
One of the hardest things about being an adult is making good nutritional choices. But I have no self control. I probably eat just like my 8 year old self would have if given the opportunity. I love food. Especially the unhealthy kind.
Once a week, I will eat a salad, covered with grilled chicken, cheese, croutons, and fatty dressing. Then I will go on a short walk, maybe a block or two, and pat myself on the back. "You're so health conscious." I will say, and that night I will reward myself by eating a whole box of organic peanut butter sandwich cookies.
Monday, September 2, 2013
When I Grow Up
When I grow up I want to be a blues man, a firefighter, and an astronaut. I want to be a reclusive writer and an infamous swordsman. I want to be a race car driver and I want to fight crime. I want to throw the most extravagant soirees on the planet and host the most intimate dinner parties. I want to travel with a lost carnival and see all of the world's wonders.
I want to be famously transparent to the point of exhibitionism, and I want to be an enigma, ever shrouded in mystery. I want to be a million years old and never age a day.
I want to have muscles that cut your eyes when you look at them and I want to be on magazine covers. I want to eat anything and everything I desire.
I want to be a devout husband, a loving father, and a pious saint. I want to run around with all of the prettiest girls and be the most worldly-wise man for miles.
I never want to die. I want to own a hovercraft and move objects with my mind. I want to stand on the edge of the planet and watch the sun burn out.
Then I want to sit in the darkness and listen to the stars until I lose my mind and drift off into outer space.
I want to be famously transparent to the point of exhibitionism, and I want to be an enigma, ever shrouded in mystery. I want to be a million years old and never age a day.
I want to have muscles that cut your eyes when you look at them and I want to be on magazine covers. I want to eat anything and everything I desire.
I want to be a devout husband, a loving father, and a pious saint. I want to run around with all of the prettiest girls and be the most worldly-wise man for miles.
I never want to die. I want to own a hovercraft and move objects with my mind. I want to stand on the edge of the planet and watch the sun burn out.
Then I want to sit in the darkness and listen to the stars until I lose my mind and drift off into outer space.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Update: Project 157
I have undertaken a deadly task.
I have committed to writing all 157 within a year of the project's inception.
Which means writing about 5 stories a week!
I think I'm going to die.
G
End.
I have committed to writing all 157 within a year of the project's inception.
Which means writing about 5 stories a week!
I think I'm going to die.
G
End.
WIP: Technically Virgins
They were breathing so heavily. He hadn’t expected all of the shaking, he felt like his hormones would tear right through him. His jaw chattered like he was freezing to death.
The sheets were scratchy and moist, the room was cold. Half-light fluttered in through the half open windows, street lights and headlights. The curtains whipped.
Her skin was the softest thing he had ever touched. He ached when he stroked her with his index finger. Dogs barked in the distance, an ambulance wailed far away. Her lips were the softest pinks and reds as they tenderly teased him.
Slowly, they undressed. A sock here, then a button followed by a zipper. Everything was faded and muted, heartbreaking yellows and cold, dark blues.
Neither one of them really knew what to do with their bodies, and nothing and everything felt right.
They smelled like sweat and body spray, the sheets had been freshly cleaned, and reeked of dryer-sheet perfume. He spoke then she spoke, roughly, unsure of what to say. “I love you” was what seemed appropriate, even though neither of them were sure it was true.
A flurry of aggressive kisses. Their mouths were dry and wet. He bit her lip and she bit his neck. They wanted to eat each other up. What they wanted the most they wouldn’t do. Too many promises and prayers for purity.
Abstinence was their cherished value, and no matter how flushing things ever got, they were still technically virgins.
The sheets were scratchy and moist, the room was cold. Half-light fluttered in through the half open windows, street lights and headlights. The curtains whipped.
Her skin was the softest thing he had ever touched. He ached when he stroked her with his index finger. Dogs barked in the distance, an ambulance wailed far away. Her lips were the softest pinks and reds as they tenderly teased him.
Slowly, they undressed. A sock here, then a button followed by a zipper. Everything was faded and muted, heartbreaking yellows and cold, dark blues.
Neither one of them really knew what to do with their bodies, and nothing and everything felt right.
They smelled like sweat and body spray, the sheets had been freshly cleaned, and reeked of dryer-sheet perfume. He spoke then she spoke, roughly, unsure of what to say. “I love you” was what seemed appropriate, even though neither of them were sure it was true.
A flurry of aggressive kisses. Their mouths were dry and wet. He bit her lip and she bit his neck. They wanted to eat each other up. What they wanted the most they wouldn’t do. Too many promises and prayers for purity.
Abstinence was their cherished value, and no matter how flushing things ever got, they were still technically virgins.
A Story Seed
Stretching beyond his headlights, the highway flew under the midnight blue Jaguar. He had the interior lights turned down to an ambient glow. He wore sunglasses to hide his burning eyes. His face was beyond pale, stretched thin over his skull.
In the darkness of the back seat, a youngish girl in a short red dress. Unconscious. She was tied so tightly that the rope was cutting into her wrists.
His foot had never stopped mashing the pedal to the floor, and the engine roared like a lion, revving and revving. He tore over each hill and power-steered through the turns.
Then...
In the darkness of the back seat, a youngish girl in a short red dress. Unconscious. She was tied so tightly that the rope was cutting into her wrists.
His foot had never stopped mashing the pedal to the floor, and the engine roared like a lion, revving and revving. He tore over each hill and power-steered through the turns.
Then...
Saturday, June 8, 2013
What I've Written Today, Part 2 (Three Stories Smashed Together)
The grainy waves waft in under the open blue sky. A boy plays in the yard while his mother hangs clothes, and a man crests the hill on their land. He carries his space helmet under his arm, but is wearing blue jeans and a button down.
The tall black trees reach into the dingy gray sky. A boy stands at the edge of the wood, parents nowhere in sight. He wears suspenders but no shoes, and waits at the edge of the winding trail that leads into the twilight and parallel lines.
The bare bulb hangs from a nicotine stained ceiling. A boy hides under his bed, while his mother feels her husband's fist across her tear-streamed face. Her cries and her husband’s shouts echo up the wooden stairs and into the dark.
She drops her laundry as she sees his face. Hiking up her skirts, she sprints down the front porch steps shouting, "Danny boy, look over the field, your daddy's come home!" he lifts his eyes and squints, barely making out his shape in the distance.
His courage comes as he takes the first steps into the tall, dark wood. The twigs and the stones don't hurt his feet so much, because he's never worn shoes so his soles are tough like leather. The sounds of woodland animals scurry all around.
She raises her arm against his next blow, but his strength is too much to fend off, and his hand catches her in the side of her head. She knows he’s going to kill her this time. As their filthy house spins around her, she shouts, "Baby, I’ve always loved you"
Like a cliché scene from a movie, the astronaut smiles and begins running to meet her. The warm, bulbous sun grins down with oppressive heat, but a swift, cool wind sweeps across their farm. The little boy is trying to keep up, peddling his little legs as fast as he can.
The woods were even darker than he could imagine. The shadows fell like a theater curtain, and swallowed up the little boy whole. He couldn’t see the trail, and he could feel his small heart trying to escape from its cage. Strange noises fill the air, and he can't place any of them.
Her husband stops mid swing. "You what?" his yells down at her. "You love me? I can't believe you would say that after all the things you’ve done." he hits her again. And again, and again. Upstairs, the little boy knows who she meant that for, and his tears burn his eyes and throat.
***
The tall black trees reach into the dingy gray sky. A boy stands at the edge of the wood, parents nowhere in sight. He wears suspenders but no shoes, and waits at the edge of the winding trail that leads into the twilight and parallel lines.
The bare bulb hangs from a nicotine stained ceiling. A boy hides under his bed, while his mother feels her husband's fist across her tear-streamed face. Her cries and her husband’s shouts echo up the wooden stairs and into the dark.
She drops her laundry as she sees his face. Hiking up her skirts, she sprints down the front porch steps shouting, "Danny boy, look over the field, your daddy's come home!" he lifts his eyes and squints, barely making out his shape in the distance.
His courage comes as he takes the first steps into the tall, dark wood. The twigs and the stones don't hurt his feet so much, because he's never worn shoes so his soles are tough like leather. The sounds of woodland animals scurry all around.
She raises her arm against his next blow, but his strength is too much to fend off, and his hand catches her in the side of her head. She knows he’s going to kill her this time. As their filthy house spins around her, she shouts, "Baby, I’ve always loved you"
Like a cliché scene from a movie, the astronaut smiles and begins running to meet her. The warm, bulbous sun grins down with oppressive heat, but a swift, cool wind sweeps across their farm. The little boy is trying to keep up, peddling his little legs as fast as he can.
The woods were even darker than he could imagine. The shadows fell like a theater curtain, and swallowed up the little boy whole. He couldn’t see the trail, and he could feel his small heart trying to escape from its cage. Strange noises fill the air, and he can't place any of them.
Her husband stops mid swing. "You what?" his yells down at her. "You love me? I can't believe you would say that after all the things you’ve done." he hits her again. And again, and again. Upstairs, the little boy knows who she meant that for, and his tears burn his eyes and throat.
***
What I've Written Today, Part 1 (Ophelia, Greg, and the Angel)
***
Chapter 1
Ophelia knew she wasn't an ordinary child. She certainly looked ordinary enough, with her round, fat wrists and long, curly black hair. But she didn't feel ordinary. Her mother said it was because her daddy was a unicorn, which Ophelia knew was nonsense because all of the unicorns had died out thousands of years ago, also because horse penises tended to be far too large for human women.
She did have a silver birth mark right in the center of her forehead though, and she loved oatmeal more than anything. They lived in an ordinary, boring townhouse in New York City, and she attended a droll, boring school. But she knew that her teachers were full of crap, and her classmates, for the most part were sheep. Not literal sheep, but sheep in the Machiavellian sense.
Except for Gregory. He was a skinny, shy boy with buck teeth and too many freckles for his own good. But he could see through the fog of misconception in their ordinary, boring, droll lives, and the truth terrified him. Also, Ophelia sometimes terrified him because of her assertiveness and the fact that she read far too many books for a person her age.
despite their gnostic outlook on life, and their disproportionately large brains both Ophelia and Gregory were struggling to make it through their classes, mostly because their answers were to creative, or insufficiently vague.
Also, Ophelia tended to be condescending to the teachers and because no one believed children, her teachers would mark her tests and papers down out of spite.
It didn’t really matter to them, though, because neither Greg nor Ophelia believed that primary school grades were a very accurate measure of someone intelligence. Obviously. Additionally, they hated the classrooms with their bright, terrible art and posters of people with milk mustaches looking down at them, smiling, and advertising their consumerist agenda.
What the children loved was their local library. After school, they would walk a mile and a half down the road to the giant, concrete and glass obelisk and walk in through the sliding doors. Ophelia would haul massive, cross-referenced tomes through the stacks and down the stairs to the hidden garden at the center of the building. There, Gregory would be waiting with a stack of comic books and together, with the massive grey wall towering above them, Ophelia and Greg could read unmolested for hours, inhaling the freshly produced oxygen put out by the flowers and trees.
Almost nobody would join them, for most people hate the outdoors because the light hurts their eyes and because they might get dirty.
Ophelia and Greg would sit in the garden until dusk, then return the books to their shelves and walk back to their respective apartments, hardly exchanging anything other than, "goodbye Ophelia, I'll see you in the morning." and "goodbye Greg, tell your mother hello for me" they rarely talked at length because they both knew a simple truth. The best friends can sit and share each other’s company in perfect harmony, without entertainment or manufactured conversation and simply enjoy their time spent together.
***
Chapter 2
"You pretentious little as swipe." growled mister Blaggerson, putting Ophelia’s latest test on her desk. At the top, in red ink, it bore a deep red C. "If I've told you once, I’ve told you 600 times, I'm not interested in your pet theories. You will answer your tests with the material I have presented in class, or you will fail. I am not interested in the opinion of an 8-year-old." he moved to the next desk, smiling again, "very good Lashaqua, B plus plus. Very good Ryan, a 92 today." and so on.
Gregory buried his face in his scrawny hands. Another 45. This time, he had been marked down 15% simply for pointing out several grammatical errors on the test sheet. Teachers hated that.
During lunch, Gregory would eat three hot dogs with lots of ketchup, and Ophelia would eat fries, as the lunch lady eyed her suspiciously. They never served oatmeal for lunch.
"Mother says hello" offered Greg, between sips of apple juice. "She’s making no-bake cookies tonight, and I know those are your favorite. She said I could bring some in a zip-lock baggy for our reading time tomorrow."
"Oh, that sounds lovely, Greg." Ophelia replied, smiling "your mother is such a dear. How is her new job going?"
Greg wiped his mouth with a napkin, and then returned it to his lap. Proper manners, he believed, were the only thing holding our society together. "Well, she's about to close a deal on her first apartment, and the commission will be something like 60 thousand dollars. She’s very excited." a flash of distress crossed his face.
Ophelia turned. Headed their way across the lunch room, were three particularly thick-headed and mustachioed fifth graders. In unison, Ophelia and Greg rose from their chairs, calmly bringing their trays to the wash bin. Being largely nonviolent, neither of them wanted anything to do with a lunchroom conflict. It seemed, however, that they didn’t have much choice.
A sweaty fist smashed into Greg’s face, sending his already duck taped glasses to the floor. "Morning twerps" belched the bigger boy "gay any good faggots lately?" he snorted
Greg reached for his glasses, his nose dripping blood and already swollen
Ophelia stood up for him "don't you Neanderthals have anything better to do? Like learning to read or something?"
The boy turned on her, spitting on her chuck Taylors. "We know how to read" he said, and the other two boys nodded and sneered "plus, you're a fat fatty" and he turned back to Greg.
"I'm not sure how my physical stature or Greg’s sexuality factor into this conflict, unless you're simply projecting your own insecurities about your reproductive ignorance and surplus of testosterone on us in a vain attempt to mask your own self-loathing and lack of accomplishments"
The fifth grader punched Greg again. "I know a lot about sex," he retorted "I watch porn on the internet in the computer lab every day"
Ophelia could tell this was going nowhere. She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a wad of dollar bills, totaling almost $15. "Okay," she said "there's a hundred bucks in it for you proletarians if you will just leave us alone." she waved the money in front of them. She knew they couldn't tell how much it was. The bigger boy snatched at it.
Ophelia tossed the cash in the air and grabbed Greg’s wrist all in one motion, "come on!" she said, and together they ran out of the lunch room while their tormentors crawled around on the floor picking up the dollar bills.
They hid in a stall in the girls bathroom until their next period started, then walked briskly to their classes hoping that the eighth graders were still trying to figure out where the other $85 had gone.
***
Meanwhile:
Avery Redgrove was not a man to be trifled with.
Firstly there was his intimidating appearance. He was in his late fifties, with fearsome grey eyes which glint in the darkness like a hungry predator. He has a small black goatee, and receding dark brown hair with streaks of silver which he keeps pulled back into a tight pony tail. His teeth are perfectly white and exceedingly sharp.
Secondly, he was a wizard.
Wizard Redgrove sat in his study; a tall room filled with old books from floor to ceiling. There are two leather high-back chairs, and a fire is crackling hotly in the hearth. Everything is still. Slowly, Redgrove turned the pages of an ancient book, carefully scanning each page with his reflective eyes.
The fire in the hearth stirred, and there was a sound like a loud clap. He turned toward the sound, but saw nothing.
The angel was very tall, almost ten feet. Very humanoid in form, yet anything put human. Far from the Aryan stereotype so often associated with angelic beings. If anything, this angel looked Arabic, with dark skin and brown eyes. He had wings like a golden eagle, brown and gold feathers gleaming in the firelight. He stood near the window, observing everything Redgrove did with watchful eyes.
The angel knew that Ophelia and Gregory were a threat, and he needed them dead. According to his sources, Redgrove was the perfect tool for the job.
***
Chapter 1
Ophelia knew she wasn't an ordinary child. She certainly looked ordinary enough, with her round, fat wrists and long, curly black hair. But she didn't feel ordinary. Her mother said it was because her daddy was a unicorn, which Ophelia knew was nonsense because all of the unicorns had died out thousands of years ago, also because horse penises tended to be far too large for human women.
She did have a silver birth mark right in the center of her forehead though, and she loved oatmeal more than anything. They lived in an ordinary, boring townhouse in New York City, and she attended a droll, boring school. But she knew that her teachers were full of crap, and her classmates, for the most part were sheep. Not literal sheep, but sheep in the Machiavellian sense.
Except for Gregory. He was a skinny, shy boy with buck teeth and too many freckles for his own good. But he could see through the fog of misconception in their ordinary, boring, droll lives, and the truth terrified him. Also, Ophelia sometimes terrified him because of her assertiveness and the fact that she read far too many books for a person her age.
despite their gnostic outlook on life, and their disproportionately large brains both Ophelia and Gregory were struggling to make it through their classes, mostly because their answers were to creative, or insufficiently vague.
Also, Ophelia tended to be condescending to the teachers and because no one believed children, her teachers would mark her tests and papers down out of spite.
It didn’t really matter to them, though, because neither Greg nor Ophelia believed that primary school grades were a very accurate measure of someone intelligence. Obviously. Additionally, they hated the classrooms with their bright, terrible art and posters of people with milk mustaches looking down at them, smiling, and advertising their consumerist agenda.
What the children loved was their local library. After school, they would walk a mile and a half down the road to the giant, concrete and glass obelisk and walk in through the sliding doors. Ophelia would haul massive, cross-referenced tomes through the stacks and down the stairs to the hidden garden at the center of the building. There, Gregory would be waiting with a stack of comic books and together, with the massive grey wall towering above them, Ophelia and Greg could read unmolested for hours, inhaling the freshly produced oxygen put out by the flowers and trees.
Almost nobody would join them, for most people hate the outdoors because the light hurts their eyes and because they might get dirty.
Ophelia and Greg would sit in the garden until dusk, then return the books to their shelves and walk back to their respective apartments, hardly exchanging anything other than, "goodbye Ophelia, I'll see you in the morning." and "goodbye Greg, tell your mother hello for me" they rarely talked at length because they both knew a simple truth. The best friends can sit and share each other’s company in perfect harmony, without entertainment or manufactured conversation and simply enjoy their time spent together.
***
Chapter 2
"You pretentious little as swipe." growled mister Blaggerson, putting Ophelia’s latest test on her desk. At the top, in red ink, it bore a deep red C. "If I've told you once, I’ve told you 600 times, I'm not interested in your pet theories. You will answer your tests with the material I have presented in class, or you will fail. I am not interested in the opinion of an 8-year-old." he moved to the next desk, smiling again, "very good Lashaqua, B plus plus. Very good Ryan, a 92 today." and so on.
Gregory buried his face in his scrawny hands. Another 45. This time, he had been marked down 15% simply for pointing out several grammatical errors on the test sheet. Teachers hated that.
During lunch, Gregory would eat three hot dogs with lots of ketchup, and Ophelia would eat fries, as the lunch lady eyed her suspiciously. They never served oatmeal for lunch.
"Mother says hello" offered Greg, between sips of apple juice. "She’s making no-bake cookies tonight, and I know those are your favorite. She said I could bring some in a zip-lock baggy for our reading time tomorrow."
"Oh, that sounds lovely, Greg." Ophelia replied, smiling "your mother is such a dear. How is her new job going?"
Greg wiped his mouth with a napkin, and then returned it to his lap. Proper manners, he believed, were the only thing holding our society together. "Well, she's about to close a deal on her first apartment, and the commission will be something like 60 thousand dollars. She’s very excited." a flash of distress crossed his face.
Ophelia turned. Headed their way across the lunch room, were three particularly thick-headed and mustachioed fifth graders. In unison, Ophelia and Greg rose from their chairs, calmly bringing their trays to the wash bin. Being largely nonviolent, neither of them wanted anything to do with a lunchroom conflict. It seemed, however, that they didn’t have much choice.
A sweaty fist smashed into Greg’s face, sending his already duck taped glasses to the floor. "Morning twerps" belched the bigger boy "gay any good faggots lately?" he snorted
Greg reached for his glasses, his nose dripping blood and already swollen
Ophelia stood up for him "don't you Neanderthals have anything better to do? Like learning to read or something?"
The boy turned on her, spitting on her chuck Taylors. "We know how to read" he said, and the other two boys nodded and sneered "plus, you're a fat fatty" and he turned back to Greg.
"I'm not sure how my physical stature or Greg’s sexuality factor into this conflict, unless you're simply projecting your own insecurities about your reproductive ignorance and surplus of testosterone on us in a vain attempt to mask your own self-loathing and lack of accomplishments"
The fifth grader punched Greg again. "I know a lot about sex," he retorted "I watch porn on the internet in the computer lab every day"
Ophelia could tell this was going nowhere. She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a wad of dollar bills, totaling almost $15. "Okay," she said "there's a hundred bucks in it for you proletarians if you will just leave us alone." she waved the money in front of them. She knew they couldn't tell how much it was. The bigger boy snatched at it.
Ophelia tossed the cash in the air and grabbed Greg’s wrist all in one motion, "come on!" she said, and together they ran out of the lunch room while their tormentors crawled around on the floor picking up the dollar bills.
They hid in a stall in the girls bathroom until their next period started, then walked briskly to their classes hoping that the eighth graders were still trying to figure out where the other $85 had gone.
***
Meanwhile:
Avery Redgrove was not a man to be trifled with.
Firstly there was his intimidating appearance. He was in his late fifties, with fearsome grey eyes which glint in the darkness like a hungry predator. He has a small black goatee, and receding dark brown hair with streaks of silver which he keeps pulled back into a tight pony tail. His teeth are perfectly white and exceedingly sharp.
Secondly, he was a wizard.
Wizard Redgrove sat in his study; a tall room filled with old books from floor to ceiling. There are two leather high-back chairs, and a fire is crackling hotly in the hearth. Everything is still. Slowly, Redgrove turned the pages of an ancient book, carefully scanning each page with his reflective eyes.
The fire in the hearth stirred, and there was a sound like a loud clap. He turned toward the sound, but saw nothing.
The angel was very tall, almost ten feet. Very humanoid in form, yet anything put human. Far from the Aryan stereotype so often associated with angelic beings. If anything, this angel looked Arabic, with dark skin and brown eyes. He had wings like a golden eagle, brown and gold feathers gleaming in the firelight. He stood near the window, observing everything Redgrove did with watchful eyes.
The angel knew that Ophelia and Gregory were a threat, and he needed them dead. According to his sources, Redgrove was the perfect tool for the job.
***
Complete Transparency, A Journal
YOU'VE BEEN WARNED this post contains cussing and general grumpiness in an effort to be completely transparent about my writing experiment for the day. Also, I'm naked for part of it, so read at your own risk.
***
My day started with sleepy, awkward sex and moved into procrastination. Lying in bed, taking pictures of my wife with my iPod. Then just dreading going out for the day.
I fear failure like a poodle fears thunder. I compensate by dressing fancy and dragging my feet. I spend 30 minutes browsing pretentious art online. I'm fat in the mirror, a bag of water lopsided and covered in hair.
I had promised my 30+ twitter followers and all 89 of my Facebook friends that I would spend at least 8 hours writing today. A kind of self-experimentation of how things might go if I were to make writing a full-time job.
How many hours do professional novelists actually spend typing away at a story?
I have no idea. I head over to the Chef and order an Irish coffee. (Whiskey and Baileys). The sounds are a mixture of pleasant conversation and clinking silverware. Journaling counts as writing, right?
My omelet is amazing. Everybody is happy here. Food makes people happy.
I'm going to have to walk to the Library, because I'm not sure how much booze is in this coffee.
My wife told me ten pages would be success. I very much doubt she would be impressed by this stream of consciousness crap.
***
I hop in my sad-faced Miata and drive to the library. I shouldn’t, but I do. And what’s more is I don’t wear a seat belt. It’s very warm here, but I can’t tell if that’s the atmosphere or the whiskey talking. I sweat profusely when I drink.
I’m not welcome at the library anyway, I owe them too much money for borrowing books like they should be; taking them home, forgetting you have them, and only taking them back when the person who loaned them asks very nicely. Then rifling all your books until you find it (them) and hastily dropping them off without making eye contact. A year or two later.
I think a nice change of pace, or a change in scenery can shake loose some mental cob-webs and reunite you with artistic creativity. Plus, I'm hoping that by simply spending time in a place like this, I can absorb some of the past genius from long-dead authors by osmosis.
I guess we'll see how it goes...
***
Now at bluestem. More coffee. Not feeling particularly inspired or motivated. Whoever decided that hazelnut and coffee should be a thing deserves 40 virgins of the gender of their choice. Have written some. About five pages. 23 if I make the font really huge. I like what I've written, but I feel like I've spent too long with a habit of only writing when the planets along just so, that now it feels impossible to just sit down and make good art.
So while not a complete failure, definitely a learning experience. I think I should have done some research about the writing habits of full-time novelists to find out when, how, where, and for how long they spend writing. I suspect this was never meant to be a 9-5 thing. Maybe I'll have more luck late tonight... But I sincerely doubt it.
Creativity is a demanding bitch, and if you don't service her on a regular basis, she doesn't do your bidding when you want her to.
***
***
My day started with sleepy, awkward sex and moved into procrastination. Lying in bed, taking pictures of my wife with my iPod. Then just dreading going out for the day.
I fear failure like a poodle fears thunder. I compensate by dressing fancy and dragging my feet. I spend 30 minutes browsing pretentious art online. I'm fat in the mirror, a bag of water lopsided and covered in hair.
I had promised my 30+ twitter followers and all 89 of my Facebook friends that I would spend at least 8 hours writing today. A kind of self-experimentation of how things might go if I were to make writing a full-time job.
How many hours do professional novelists actually spend typing away at a story?
I have no idea. I head over to the Chef and order an Irish coffee. (Whiskey and Baileys). The sounds are a mixture of pleasant conversation and clinking silverware. Journaling counts as writing, right?
My omelet is amazing. Everybody is happy here. Food makes people happy.
I'm going to have to walk to the Library, because I'm not sure how much booze is in this coffee.
My wife told me ten pages would be success. I very much doubt she would be impressed by this stream of consciousness crap.
***
I hop in my sad-faced Miata and drive to the library. I shouldn’t, but I do. And what’s more is I don’t wear a seat belt. It’s very warm here, but I can’t tell if that’s the atmosphere or the whiskey talking. I sweat profusely when I drink.
I’m not welcome at the library anyway, I owe them too much money for borrowing books like they should be; taking them home, forgetting you have them, and only taking them back when the person who loaned them asks very nicely. Then rifling all your books until you find it (them) and hastily dropping them off without making eye contact. A year or two later.
I think a nice change of pace, or a change in scenery can shake loose some mental cob-webs and reunite you with artistic creativity. Plus, I'm hoping that by simply spending time in a place like this, I can absorb some of the past genius from long-dead authors by osmosis.
I guess we'll see how it goes...
***
Now at bluestem. More coffee. Not feeling particularly inspired or motivated. Whoever decided that hazelnut and coffee should be a thing deserves 40 virgins of the gender of their choice. Have written some. About five pages. 23 if I make the font really huge. I like what I've written, but I feel like I've spent too long with a habit of only writing when the planets along just so, that now it feels impossible to just sit down and make good art.
So while not a complete failure, definitely a learning experience. I think I should have done some research about the writing habits of full-time novelists to find out when, how, where, and for how long they spend writing. I suspect this was never meant to be a 9-5 thing. Maybe I'll have more luck late tonight... But I sincerely doubt it.
Creativity is a demanding bitch, and if you don't service her on a regular basis, she doesn't do your bidding when you want her to.
***
Friday, June 7, 2013
"A Rude Awakening" or "Vallery, the Volcano, and the Withered Hags" Cont.
She held a wine glass in her spidery hand, swirling the black liquid it contained nonchalantly. She was completely naked, however, it wasn't a pretty sight. She was all bones, with pale white skin stretched like a latex glove over her skeleton. Her breasts sagged unattractively.
Ted remembered being hit over the head at the gas station, and a foggy semiconscious ride in the backseat of an Oldsmobile. The smell of cracking leather upholstery.
He resurfaced to the bright beam of a flashlight in his eyes; but wasn't really awake enough to fight back as they half dragged him down the long corridor with the marble floors. As the fog over his mind slowly lifted, he became more aware of how strange this evening was turning out to be. A dull, throbbing pain was beginning to grow from the lump on the back of his head.
Everything was too bright.
When she spoke, her voice was like a creaking door, covered in cobwebs. Her lips were dry, and cracked with each syllable they formed. The sounds reached his ears like they were underwater, all muted and distorted. Her nipples rose to the occasion like tiny withered prunes.
Ted wished he were at home in bed, tucked warmly beneath his down comforter. He really had no idea what the fuck was going on... but for that matter, neither did the naked hag sipping mystery goo from a wine glass and looking smug.
The words reached his ears like feather pillows dipped in mud, and squished their way into his brain.
“Do. You. Know. Why. You. Are. Here.”
“Not in the foggiest.” He heard his voice reply like a faraway memory.
The pupil-smashingly bright lighting stung his rods and cones. Slowly, things became more coherent.
“You have been brought before the sisterhood of the black wine in order to be tried for your crimes against our order.”
“I, uh.” Is all he could manage.
“Are you or are you not Theodore Vallary Stonehouse?”
“No, actually. I’m Theodore Felicity Stonehouse, Vallary is my twin brother. My parents wanted girls.”
Her oily, black eyes narrowed in anger and surprise. The cup of wine crashed to the floor, spilling its contents on the stone. “You unfortunate bastards.” She rose from her throne, pointing a long, gnarled finger at her henchmen. Everything sagged. He puckered vagina was mercifully hidden from sight by a thick, curly, pubic beard. “The Mistress will have your gonads crushed into wine.” Further narrowing her eyes, she focused them on Ted. “Are you aware of the current location of your brother Vallary?”
There was no room in that question for thoughts about whether or not betraying your blood brother was the right thing to do. For better or for worse, however, Theodore had no idea.
“Er, actually, no.”
“WHAT?” She howled.
“Last I heard, he was studying for his graduate program near a volcano in the Indian Ocean somewhere...”
The brilliant lighting began to darken as her rage continued to build. His head welcomed the relief.
Ted remembered being hit over the head at the gas station, and a foggy semiconscious ride in the backseat of an Oldsmobile. The smell of cracking leather upholstery.
He resurfaced to the bright beam of a flashlight in his eyes; but wasn't really awake enough to fight back as they half dragged him down the long corridor with the marble floors. As the fog over his mind slowly lifted, he became more aware of how strange this evening was turning out to be. A dull, throbbing pain was beginning to grow from the lump on the back of his head.
Everything was too bright.
When she spoke, her voice was like a creaking door, covered in cobwebs. Her lips were dry, and cracked with each syllable they formed. The sounds reached his ears like they were underwater, all muted and distorted. Her nipples rose to the occasion like tiny withered prunes.
Ted wished he were at home in bed, tucked warmly beneath his down comforter. He really had no idea what the fuck was going on... but for that matter, neither did the naked hag sipping mystery goo from a wine glass and looking smug.
The words reached his ears like feather pillows dipped in mud, and squished their way into his brain.
“Do. You. Know. Why. You. Are. Here.”
“Not in the foggiest.” He heard his voice reply like a faraway memory.
The pupil-smashingly bright lighting stung his rods and cones. Slowly, things became more coherent.
“You have been brought before the sisterhood of the black wine in order to be tried for your crimes against our order.”
“I, uh.” Is all he could manage.
“Are you or are you not Theodore Vallary Stonehouse?”
“No, actually. I’m Theodore Felicity Stonehouse, Vallary is my twin brother. My parents wanted girls.”
Her oily, black eyes narrowed in anger and surprise. The cup of wine crashed to the floor, spilling its contents on the stone. “You unfortunate bastards.” She rose from her throne, pointing a long, gnarled finger at her henchmen. Everything sagged. He puckered vagina was mercifully hidden from sight by a thick, curly, pubic beard. “The Mistress will have your gonads crushed into wine.” Further narrowing her eyes, she focused them on Ted. “Are you aware of the current location of your brother Vallary?”
There was no room in that question for thoughts about whether or not betraying your blood brother was the right thing to do. For better or for worse, however, Theodore had no idea.
“Er, actually, no.”
“WHAT?” She howled.
“Last I heard, he was studying for his graduate program near a volcano in the Indian Ocean somewhere...”
The brilliant lighting began to darken as her rage continued to build. His head welcomed the relief.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
For Deb, What's Three Months?, 'Project 157'
Jen sighed. “Yeah, I mean, Melissa had one after her last pregnancy, and they seem really happy.”
Terry frowned. “I don’t know, Tim and I have three kids of our own, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Besides, it’s a little far fetched to say that they’re still a part of the mother’s body after birth...”
Jen fired back, “Ha ha, that’s because you didn’t breastfeed. I mean, they just suck up so much of who you are, and they can’t really survive without you. And the sleepless nights?”
Terry thought for a little bit.
The baby monitor next to the porch swing began emitting muffled cries. Jen got up and walked toward the front door. “Anyway, Brad and I have talked, and we just don’t think we be parents right now, despite what we thought before.”
Terry looked up at her, smiling again, “Yeah, and I guess there’s a lot less risk involved after birth.”
For Vickie, Container, 'Project 157'
It smelled of rust, urine, and mold.
Thirteen girls were trapped inside... in the dark, in the cold.
Sometimes voices would call to each other outside.
For the first three days, they screamed and banged on the walls trying to get someone’s attention.
They screamed until their throats burned. They screamed until they slid to the floor and drifted into fitful slumber. The grime on the floor and the walls, the rags, and the half-eaten mattresses offered no comfort.
The youngest was nine years old. She’d been in the container for a week, watching the other girls come and go, but she had no way of knowing this. It seemed like forever.
Choking down bits of moldy food. Hiding in the shadowy corners whenever the big metal doors were pulled open and the blinding sunlight flooded in.
The authorities never came, even though a thousand cars passed by every day.
Even though she was my little sister.
End
Thirteen girls were trapped inside... in the dark, in the cold.
Sometimes voices would call to each other outside.
For the first three days, they screamed and banged on the walls trying to get someone’s attention.
They screamed until their throats burned. They screamed until they slid to the floor and drifted into fitful slumber. The grime on the floor and the walls, the rags, and the half-eaten mattresses offered no comfort.
The youngest was nine years old. She’d been in the container for a week, watching the other girls come and go, but she had no way of knowing this. It seemed like forever.
Choking down bits of moldy food. Hiding in the shadowy corners whenever the big metal doors were pulled open and the blinding sunlight flooded in.
The authorities never came, even though a thousand cars passed by every day.
Even though she was my little sister.
End
Monday, May 6, 2013
The Reality of Miracles in a Modern World
My disbelief was evident
’Cause I was cocky in my conviction that
Miracles
If they had ever really happened, were a thing of the past
I was convinced that their application today was allegorical at best
And it's easy to dismiss
The evidence of your own eyes
And rationalize that maybe it was a lie or maybe
You just got
Caught up in the energy of the moment
But after I saw that man’s legs straighten
And the wide eyes of a little girl opened
For the first time after a life of blindness
I was floored, and I couldn't sleep for a week
See I'm a soldier
And I've probably done more harm than good in my life
And I'd grown cynical and tired of bullshit because I thought I'd seen everything
But that scraggly Nazarene and his band of misfits
Just stuck in my mind
As I wrestled with my faith
And my understanding of reality
Maybe it was the way he knelt down and touched their faces
Or maybe it was his expression
Of torment and compassion
Turned to joy and satisfaction
With every healing
So maybe you can understand my heartbreak
When my own little girl fell sick
As I ran to meet the rabbi with my tiny shred of newfound belief
I knew somehow he would heal her
He didn't even need to stretch out his hand
If he just spoke the words
I knew the elements would follow his command
That look on his face as he saw me running up
I can never forget
He parted the crowds of followers and approached me
Waiting with baited breath for my request
He acted like I was the
Single
Most
Important
Person in his life
Even though I am pretty sure we had never met
And that smile that spread across his face
As he pointed me out to the crowd and raised his voice
He spoke of faith, and held mine up to the light
Said mine was pure
Then spoke the words that brought my daughter back to life
I’ve never been the same, and
Those words haunt me even today
His expression and reaction
At my vulnerable heart
His affirmation and conviction
As he spoke the words
That reconfirmed what I’d already learned to be true
That miracles are more than just the healing of a malformation
They’re an expression of deepest love and
Consideration for a people
Hopelessly lost and broken
A reaction of compassion from the heart of the divine
End.
’Cause I was cocky in my conviction that
Miracles
If they had ever really happened, were a thing of the past
I was convinced that their application today was allegorical at best
And it's easy to dismiss
The evidence of your own eyes
And rationalize that maybe it was a lie or maybe
You just got
Caught up in the energy of the moment
But after I saw that man’s legs straighten
And the wide eyes of a little girl opened
For the first time after a life of blindness
I was floored, and I couldn't sleep for a week
See I'm a soldier
And I've probably done more harm than good in my life
And I'd grown cynical and tired of bullshit because I thought I'd seen everything
But that scraggly Nazarene and his band of misfits
Just stuck in my mind
As I wrestled with my faith
And my understanding of reality
Maybe it was the way he knelt down and touched their faces
Or maybe it was his expression
Of torment and compassion
Turned to joy and satisfaction
With every healing
So maybe you can understand my heartbreak
When my own little girl fell sick
As I ran to meet the rabbi with my tiny shred of newfound belief
I knew somehow he would heal her
He didn't even need to stretch out his hand
If he just spoke the words
I knew the elements would follow his command
That look on his face as he saw me running up
I can never forget
He parted the crowds of followers and approached me
Waiting with baited breath for my request
He acted like I was the
Single
Most
Important
Person in his life
Even though I am pretty sure we had never met
And that smile that spread across his face
As he pointed me out to the crowd and raised his voice
He spoke of faith, and held mine up to the light
Said mine was pure
Then spoke the words that brought my daughter back to life
I’ve never been the same, and
Those words haunt me even today
His expression and reaction
At my vulnerable heart
His affirmation and conviction
As he spoke the words
That reconfirmed what I’d already learned to be true
That miracles are more than just the healing of a malformation
They’re an expression of deepest love and
Consideration for a people
Hopelessly lost and broken
A reaction of compassion from the heart of the divine
End.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
For Sarah, An Introduction, 'Project 157'
She said to write a story about overcoming fear and loving extravagantly.
My thoughts had been muddy for days, jumbled story ideas and tangled plot lines. I knew something would come, it always did.
A few days later, church was getting out. There was an small, older man with funny clothes and a cain. He was sitting in a crowd of people, but they didn’t see him.
He had tears in his eyes.
I was going to let myself off the hook. Somebody more spiritual than me would talk to him. I wouldn’t have to leave my comfort zone. He looked weird anyway. He probably didn’t want to be bugged. And, I was afraid.
That’s when it hit me.
Fear.
The chance to demonstrate love.
The story was happening to me, right here in real life. It was so simple.
I walked directly up to him and extended my hand. “Hello.” I said, “my name is Gabriel.”
End
Saturday, April 20, 2013
For Klementine, Roger and the Red-Haired Girl, 'Project 157'
Stumblingly, he chased her into the street -as the yellow car drove his heart into the swirling mists.
Nothing much had gone Roger’s way. He’d always been a little asymmetrical. He wasn't good at any subjects, but he wasn't good at sports either. He graduated average from his primaries, and become a grocer.
That's where he first saw her; copper hair falling in curls around her freckled face. He knew right then. He switched off his lane light and insisted on carrying out her groceries. She smiled at his clumsiness and blushing. A few weeks later, they were having coffee. Soon, they were sharing an apartment and curling up on the couch to watch TV. She was his whole world, and he would do anything for her.
A year and a handful of fights later, and she was packing to leave. He had begged her to stay. Through bloodshot eyes, he watched her climb into a taxicab.
End
Sunday, March 17, 2013
For Laura, Mondays, 'Project 157'
He inserted the glittering knife at his wrist, and began slicing up the length of his arm. It was a ghastly affair, what with the blood spurting all over his bathroom.
When the deed was done, he set down the knife and lifted the glass of whisky. Calmly, he drew at the cold drink. Danforth had really thought this one through. He had purchased strike-anywhere matches, so he could light a final cigarette with his one good hand. Rather depressingly, he had left both the cigarettes and matches on his nightstand.
Several hours later, the sunlight streamed in through the frosted bathroom window. His shadow fell across the scene. They complimented each other: the red and black, contrasting the utter white of his skin.
His guardian angel rose from where he had been sitting next to him, and shook his head, all four faces frowning. He had a lot of paperwork to complete back at the office.
End
When the deed was done, he set down the knife and lifted the glass of whisky. Calmly, he drew at the cold drink. Danforth had really thought this one through. He had purchased strike-anywhere matches, so he could light a final cigarette with his one good hand. Rather depressingly, he had left both the cigarettes and matches on his nightstand.
Several hours later, the sunlight streamed in through the frosted bathroom window. His shadow fell across the scene. They complimented each other: the red and black, contrasting the utter white of his skin.
His guardian angel rose from where he had been sitting next to him, and shook his head, all four faces frowning. He had a lot of paperwork to complete back at the office.
End
Thursday, March 14, 2013
For Amanda, Escaping Manhattan, 'Project 157'
I took her breath away by the light of the full moon, in a boxcar on our way out west. The cattails swayed by the side of the lake, and we fell asleep behind some wooden crates, on a bed of raggedy blankets and straw.
At first, the noise of the train seemed deafening, but when we met, my fears and failures melted away, and the clanking and rushing soon faded. We shared a smile, but not our stories. Then we shared our selves...
Before I wanted it to, dawn broke over the flint hills; all amber, blood, and fire. The train began to slow. I buried my face in her hair, and inhaled. Sweet sweat, dust, mixed with something floral. My heart skipped a beat. From that day on, it didn’t matter who we had been, only that we were together. The train pulled into the station, and we rose from our slumber new persons.
End
At first, the noise of the train seemed deafening, but when we met, my fears and failures melted away, and the clanking and rushing soon faded. We shared a smile, but not our stories. Then we shared our selves...
Before I wanted it to, dawn broke over the flint hills; all amber, blood, and fire. The train began to slow. I buried my face in her hair, and inhaled. Sweet sweat, dust, mixed with something floral. My heart skipped a beat. From that day on, it didn’t matter who we had been, only that we were together. The train pulled into the station, and we rose from our slumber new persons.
End
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
For Camille, The Coal Miner's Daughter, 'Project 157'
I can scarcely describe his fury, for a father’s wrath in unparalleled by either gods or men. The combined weight of heaven and hell bore down on me through the barrel of that Colt 45.
“DADDY NO!” She screamed - as the shots ripped through me - and into the wall of the ramshackle house. She leapt for his arm, and he turned, smashing her to the floor with his gun.
The past several months replayed in my mind... her velvet-soft skin... the warmth between her thighs... sunlight on the wildflowers, as she danced through the blossoming fields.
The room wheeled around me, and grew dark. His voice echoed like and ancient god. “You no-good bastard son of a crooked whore! I’ll bury you!” His boot was on my chest now, now kicking my ribs. I was losing touch fast.
I turned and smiled at her, “I love you Annalise.”
The stars were coming out just then.
End
“DADDY NO!” She screamed - as the shots ripped through me - and into the wall of the ramshackle house. She leapt for his arm, and he turned, smashing her to the floor with his gun.
The past several months replayed in my mind... her velvet-soft skin... the warmth between her thighs... sunlight on the wildflowers, as she danced through the blossoming fields.
The room wheeled around me, and grew dark. His voice echoed like and ancient god. “You no-good bastard son of a crooked whore! I’ll bury you!” His boot was on my chest now, now kicking my ribs. I was losing touch fast.
I turned and smiled at her, “I love you Annalise.”
The stars were coming out just then.
End
For Ayesha, Wedding, 'Project 157'
Fresh - a soft and gentle breeze. Her hair tugged by the wind, her long white train trailing through the leaves.
White silk, so soft and bright. A brilliant twinkle in her green, green eyes.
For a moment I forgot my sweatiness, and my awkwardness melted away. My racing heart stilled, and our eyes locked.
I will never forget how it felt to see her walking towards me, her arm in her father’s arm, her bouquet held close.
Everything in my life became more important. Everything in that moment meant more.
The vows a meaningful, nervous blur; meant in heart if not remembered by mind. The rings cold on fingers, circles of silver gold.
That first kiss. Rushed, blushing, important. So very filled with love.
Wine and dancing, flowers, hugs from family and friends.
Then driving home in the rain so fresh, carrying her over the threshold. - Crap! I just banged her elbow on the door jam!
End
White silk, so soft and bright. A brilliant twinkle in her green, green eyes.
For a moment I forgot my sweatiness, and my awkwardness melted away. My racing heart stilled, and our eyes locked.
I will never forget how it felt to see her walking towards me, her arm in her father’s arm, her bouquet held close.
Everything in my life became more important. Everything in that moment meant more.
The vows a meaningful, nervous blur; meant in heart if not remembered by mind. The rings cold on fingers, circles of silver gold.
That first kiss. Rushed, blushing, important. So very filled with love.
Wine and dancing, flowers, hugs from family and friends.
Then driving home in the rain so fresh, carrying her over the threshold. - Crap! I just banged her elbow on the door jam!
End
For Sharon, This is Gonna be Harder for Me, 'Project 157'
“I never would have turned out like this if it wasn’t for you.” I spoke around the nails in my mouth, shaking my head.
Her sunken eyes looked up at me from her pinewood coffin. She had been pretty once, a real looker; but now her skin was beyond pale, a gross, veined grey. This was difficult for me. I hefted the lid on.
Lining up the first nail, I raised the hammer and brought it down swiftly.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Ten in all.
It took a rope and pulley system to heft the coffin into my truck bed. Throwing a tarp over it, I hopped in and drove out into the country. I shifted into reverse and gunned it, aiming for the deep hole I had pre-dug days earlier. I mashed my foot down on the break, and the box went flying into the grave.
It took six hundred shovels of dirt to make her disappear.
End
Her sunken eyes looked up at me from her pinewood coffin. She had been pretty once, a real looker; but now her skin was beyond pale, a gross, veined grey. This was difficult for me. I hefted the lid on.
Lining up the first nail, I raised the hammer and brought it down swiftly.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Ten in all.
It took a rope and pulley system to heft the coffin into my truck bed. Throwing a tarp over it, I hopped in and drove out into the country. I shifted into reverse and gunned it, aiming for the deep hole I had pre-dug days earlier. I mashed my foot down on the break, and the box went flying into the grave.
It took six hundred shovels of dirt to make her disappear.
End
Friday, March 8, 2013
For Columbina, Adrianné, 'Project 157'
Nobody could play like her.
Her fingers raced over the ivory keys with enough precision and delicacy to make a brain surgeon jealous. The raw emotion - and the romance she shared with that baby grand - washed over us few onlookers like a wave of ethereal ecstasy.
The music she shared with us in that dingy little venue painted the fading walls with new life. The washed out curtains burned vermillion once again, the flickering lights shone bright and warm on the old wooden stage.
There was almost something provocative about the way she played. Her hair and shoulders swayed to the rhythm of the music, as her fingertips danced on the keys... black and white / a flurry of intricate movements.
We stood with mouths agape, our hearts beating in our throats, wine glasses forgotten in our hands.
For years, those rushing melodies haunted me. Sleep, when it came, was filled with dreams of that night.
End
Her fingers raced over the ivory keys with enough precision and delicacy to make a brain surgeon jealous. The raw emotion - and the romance she shared with that baby grand - washed over us few onlookers like a wave of ethereal ecstasy.
The music she shared with us in that dingy little venue painted the fading walls with new life. The washed out curtains burned vermillion once again, the flickering lights shone bright and warm on the old wooden stage.
There was almost something provocative about the way she played. Her hair and shoulders swayed to the rhythm of the music, as her fingertips danced on the keys... black and white / a flurry of intricate movements.
We stood with mouths agape, our hearts beating in our throats, wine glasses forgotten in our hands.
For years, those rushing melodies haunted me. Sleep, when it came, was filled with dreams of that night.
End
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
For Donner's Girlfriend, Rainy Day Blues, 'Project 157'
It was one of those retro diners, complete with a jukebox and cliche’ fluorescent lighting.
The apple pie balance on my fork only made it halfway to my mouth as he walked into the diner. He was naked from head to toe.
Nonchalantly, but a looking a little haggard, he plopped down on a barstool and sighed. Sherry, the 67-year old ginger who ran the place, thought she had seen everything. But even she was shocked at this turn of events.
“Excuse me ma'am, can I borrow your phone? I’ve just been mugged.”
“Of course honey,” she replied, looking concerned, “And let me get you some coffee.”
I finally remembered the fork in my hand, and set it down. Grabbing my jacket, I walked over to the exposed stanger. “Here you are, you obviously need it more than I do.”
“Thanks very much.” He smiled. We sat together until the cops arrived, and he told his story.
End
The apple pie balance on my fork only made it halfway to my mouth as he walked into the diner. He was naked from head to toe.
Nonchalantly, but a looking a little haggard, he plopped down on a barstool and sighed. Sherry, the 67-year old ginger who ran the place, thought she had seen everything. But even she was shocked at this turn of events.
“Excuse me ma'am, can I borrow your phone? I’ve just been mugged.”
“Of course honey,” she replied, looking concerned, “And let me get you some coffee.”
I finally remembered the fork in my hand, and set it down. Grabbing my jacket, I walked over to the exposed stanger. “Here you are, you obviously need it more than I do.”
“Thanks very much.” He smiled. We sat together until the cops arrived, and he told his story.
End
For Salman, Waves and Night and Sharks, 'Project 157'
My skin sloughs off in chunks. Waterlogged, I believe that’s the CSI-style term. Up and over one wave, then down into the valley. An infinite rhythm.
Drowning sucked. The pain was more excruciating than anything I have ever experienced: the burning throughout my entire being, then the fireworks as my oxygen-starved brain clung to life.
Nothing surprised me as much as death though. I guess it never occurred to me that I would still be conscious, trapped in an unresponsive body, existing in this endless dream-like state.
Always dead but never sleeping.
Who could have known that the afterlife would be this way? No reincarnation, no heaven, no hell. Not even oblivion.
Waves and night and sharks.
Soon they’ll find my body. They’ll bag and tag me, and slice me open. I’ll be forced to watch my family and friends mourn, just to be lowered into that eternal night, wrapped in velvet flowers and an ill-fitting suit.
End
Drowning sucked. The pain was more excruciating than anything I have ever experienced: the burning throughout my entire being, then the fireworks as my oxygen-starved brain clung to life.
Nothing surprised me as much as death though. I guess it never occurred to me that I would still be conscious, trapped in an unresponsive body, existing in this endless dream-like state.
Always dead but never sleeping.
Who could have known that the afterlife would be this way? No reincarnation, no heaven, no hell. Not even oblivion.
Waves and night and sharks.
Soon they’ll find my body. They’ll bag and tag me, and slice me open. I’ll be forced to watch my family and friends mourn, just to be lowered into that eternal night, wrapped in velvet flowers and an ill-fitting suit.
End
Thursday, February 28, 2013
For Marc, The Hidden Gate, 'Project 157'
Oft’, whether by softest silver moonlight, or warm summer sun, I went to meet my lady in the hall between the trees. ’Twas an ancient hidden place, with subtle gate, through which two worlds could meet.
She would smile, and I would kiss her velvet lips.
Then, I would steal out into the garden whence the hall was hid, and, nonchalantly, join the pedestrian passers-by on the roadway headed home. A warmth burning in my heart unmatched by all but Prometheus’ fire.
At night, while apart, I’d lie staring at the ceiling, Her green eyes would haunt me, until, like a warm duvet, sleep would cover o'er me and dreaming, I would pass into a dreamless slumber.
After the day’s duties, I’d again stroll down to the old rose garden at the center of town. When not a soul could see, the thorny bushes I’d pull aside, stepping through the shadowy door to meet my other-worldly love.
End
She would smile, and I would kiss her velvet lips.
Then, I would steal out into the garden whence the hall was hid, and, nonchalantly, join the pedestrian passers-by on the roadway headed home. A warmth burning in my heart unmatched by all but Prometheus’ fire.
At night, while apart, I’d lie staring at the ceiling, Her green eyes would haunt me, until, like a warm duvet, sleep would cover o'er me and dreaming, I would pass into a dreamless slumber.
After the day’s duties, I’d again stroll down to the old rose garden at the center of town. When not a soul could see, the thorny bushes I’d pull aside, stepping through the shadowy door to meet my other-worldly love.
End
Monday, February 25, 2013
For Jon, Wild Man, 'Project 157'
They say he died in Texas, a ball of hot lead putting a stop to all his nonsense. Yet, nothing could end his story.
They say Davy Crockett could wrestle a bear into submission with one arm tied behind his back.
He wasn’t any taller than a normal man, or any stronger, but he could ride on the back of a thunderbird as it sailed through the anvil-shaped clouds. He wasn’t any smarter than a normal guy, but he remembered every tree and creek in the whole country, and knew half of them on a first name basis.
He wore a coonskin cap which he made from a mountain lion’s pelt, and ran faster than a wild horse.
Most people go their whole lives not even going outside. But Davy, he couldn’t sit still to save his life. The blue sky called him like she was his mother, and the wolves howled his name to the moon.
End
They say Davy Crockett could wrestle a bear into submission with one arm tied behind his back.
He wasn’t any taller than a normal man, or any stronger, but he could ride on the back of a thunderbird as it sailed through the anvil-shaped clouds. He wasn’t any smarter than a normal guy, but he remembered every tree and creek in the whole country, and knew half of them on a first name basis.
He wore a coonskin cap which he made from a mountain lion’s pelt, and ran faster than a wild horse.
Most people go their whole lives not even going outside. But Davy, he couldn’t sit still to save his life. The blue sky called him like she was his mother, and the wolves howled his name to the moon.
End
For Andrea, Dragon & Phoenix, 'Project 157'
Only a handful of other patrons were actually there to eat so late at night. One particularly drunken vagabond was sleeping on a booth, and two skinny hoodlums fidgeted suspiciously in a dark corner.
My waitress was a nice college girl; asian, but not chinese. She smiled and set down my steaming entree whilst simultaneously refilling my soda. She curtsied, and vanished into the darkness and elevator music.
Awkwardly picking up my chopsticks, I lifted a sizzling nugget of fried, sugar-coated chicken to my mouth. I could imagine the food looking up at me, feeling guilty for the havoc it knew it would wreak on my system for the next 48 hours. My head echoed with haunting memories of tortured nights spent moaning in my bathroom.
I popped the chewy greaseball into my mouth and smiled. I didn’t really care what went on in that kitchen. The Cat’s Meow had the best fucking chinese food in town.
End
My waitress was a nice college girl; asian, but not chinese. She smiled and set down my steaming entree whilst simultaneously refilling my soda. She curtsied, and vanished into the darkness and elevator music.
Awkwardly picking up my chopsticks, I lifted a sizzling nugget of fried, sugar-coated chicken to my mouth. I could imagine the food looking up at me, feeling guilty for the havoc it knew it would wreak on my system for the next 48 hours. My head echoed with haunting memories of tortured nights spent moaning in my bathroom.
I popped the chewy greaseball into my mouth and smiled. I didn’t really care what went on in that kitchen. The Cat’s Meow had the best fucking chinese food in town.
End
Thursday, February 21, 2013
For Jacquelyn, The Long Icy Road Home, 'Project 157'
Sitting on a cold, wet bench, my head lies in my left hand, and my right hand holds a heavy bouquet. A dripping, misty drizzle gently cries over the cemetery. Somehow, all the colors are brighter, and the air smells so fresh.
The headstone reads: 'Jane Ashbury, Beloved Daughter', and indicates seventeen years with a solemn dash.
It says nothing about my undying love for her. It says nothing about her boyfriend.
I miss her more than her parents: her boozing, workaholic dad, and her neglectful, derisive mother.
Her smile haunts my flickering memory, a memory which stabs in my mind like a thorn. I remember the moonlight on her skin, and the freckles on her shoulders.
I remember the oncoming headlights, and the screaming breaks. I remember the broken glass, the twisted metal, the smoke and fire.
Gently laying the dripping bouquet on her headstone, I pick up my crutches and limp slowly into the rain.
End
The headstone reads: 'Jane Ashbury, Beloved Daughter', and indicates seventeen years with a solemn dash.
It says nothing about my undying love for her. It says nothing about her boyfriend.
I miss her more than her parents: her boozing, workaholic dad, and her neglectful, derisive mother.
Her smile haunts my flickering memory, a memory which stabs in my mind like a thorn. I remember the moonlight on her skin, and the freckles on her shoulders.
I remember the oncoming headlights, and the screaming breaks. I remember the broken glass, the twisted metal, the smoke and fire.
Gently laying the dripping bouquet on her headstone, I pick up my crutches and limp slowly into the rain.
End
For BVSED, Blitz, 'Project 157'
Escaping the mafia is no easy task, especially on a broken leg.
Galloping through the rusty warehouse, I slammed against the nearest door and made a break for the old chevy parked out back. Keys still in the ignition.
Gunshots rang out behind me, just as the engine roared to life.
Swerving through traffic, I raced that old boat all the way to the next town before pulling into a gravel lot.
Panting heavily, and dripping with sweat and blood, I sat there for a few moments, trying to pull myself together.
At that precise moment, I heard a banging, and a muffled yell from the trunk of the car.
There it was again.
Gathering my remaining courage, I climbed out of the car, limping around to the back. Carefully, I opened the trunk.
Inside was a beautiful girl, pretty banged up herself, with raven black hair. The last thing I saw was a tire iron, then
End
Galloping through the rusty warehouse, I slammed against the nearest door and made a break for the old chevy parked out back. Keys still in the ignition.
Gunshots rang out behind me, just as the engine roared to life.
Swerving through traffic, I raced that old boat all the way to the next town before pulling into a gravel lot.
Panting heavily, and dripping with sweat and blood, I sat there for a few moments, trying to pull myself together.
At that precise moment, I heard a banging, and a muffled yell from the trunk of the car.
There it was again.
Gathering my remaining courage, I climbed out of the car, limping around to the back. Carefully, I opened the trunk.
Inside was a beautiful girl, pretty banged up herself, with raven black hair. The last thing I saw was a tire iron, then
End
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
For Ravyn, A Covenant, 'Project 157'
After fifty three years of marriage, I wouldn't have it any other way.
We have an old house on the cliff overlooking the sea. It took us practically our entire lives to save for it. Often, we sit on the porch and watch the splendor of the sunset cascade over the horizon - turning the sea a myriad of deep purples and fiery reds.
At night, the sea breeze washes in through or window, and I lay with my eyes open thinking of our children and grandchildren. Eventually, we fall asleep, cuddling like two spoons in a drawer. Just like we did when we were newlyweds.
I wake to the same sea breeze. I nuzzle her soft brown hair and kiss her ear. It is unexpectedly cold. I whisper her name, and gently nudge her, with my hand.
Slowly, she wakes, and my seventy five year old heart started beating again. Today would not be our last.
We have an old house on the cliff overlooking the sea. It took us practically our entire lives to save for it. Often, we sit on the porch and watch the splendor of the sunset cascade over the horizon - turning the sea a myriad of deep purples and fiery reds.
At night, the sea breeze washes in through or window, and I lay with my eyes open thinking of our children and grandchildren. Eventually, we fall asleep, cuddling like two spoons in a drawer. Just like we did when we were newlyweds.
I wake to the same sea breeze. I nuzzle her soft brown hair and kiss her ear. It is unexpectedly cold. I whisper her name, and gently nudge her, with my hand.
Slowly, she wakes, and my seventy five year old heart started beating again. Today would not be our last.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
A Late Night Snack, for Aunt Tess, 'Project 157'
Even as an adult, I can’t sleep with my back to an open closet door. The shapes inside take on strange forms, and murmurings of doubt nibble at my brainstem.
Tonight, however, was another matter. Mostly, because my latest girlfriend was spending the night, and not much sleeping was going on.
Well after midnight, we passed out exhausted, and I didn’t give my closet a second thought. In fact, I had drifted off with it yawning open, something I would otherwise never do.
Several hours later, in that surreal time between night and early morning, a cool breeze blew through the house.
I woke up the next morning thinking she had left me for work. It wasn’t until three days, thirty-six texts, and several desperate voice mails later that I found her bright pink shoe on my closet floor.
Also, her left arm.
I guess I can be glad there’s not a closet in my jail cell.
End
Tonight, however, was another matter. Mostly, because my latest girlfriend was spending the night, and not much sleeping was going on.
Well after midnight, we passed out exhausted, and I didn’t give my closet a second thought. In fact, I had drifted off with it yawning open, something I would otherwise never do.
Several hours later, in that surreal time between night and early morning, a cool breeze blew through the house.
I woke up the next morning thinking she had left me for work. It wasn’t until three days, thirty-six texts, and several desperate voice mails later that I found her bright pink shoe on my closet floor.
Also, her left arm.
I guess I can be glad there’s not a closet in my jail cell.
End
Monday, February 18, 2013
Two Dudes in White, for Michael, 'Project 157'
Two men in white apparel stood frowning on my doorstep. I peered through my peephole and cleared my throat. "Who is it?"
The tall one replied, calmly as you like. "Do you like salt?"
"Sorry?" I asked through the door.
"Salt, you know, the mineral."
"I guess." I answered, "Can I help you?"
"Actually," said the other one, "we're here to help you."
I carefully opened the door, leaving the chain on. It wasn't a good idea to let strangers in, especially in this town. "Well?"
"You should pack your bags." Said the first one.
"It's gonna get kind of toasty around here." Finished the second one. "Mind if we come in? Some of those smelly fellows down the way seem to be following us, and we'd rather not be sodomized."
"Okay, but only for the night." I unhooked the chain.
"That will do nicely." They answered in unison. “By the way, the Big Guy says hello.”
The tall one replied, calmly as you like. "Do you like salt?"
"Sorry?" I asked through the door.
"Salt, you know, the mineral."
"I guess." I answered, "Can I help you?"
"Actually," said the other one, "we're here to help you."
I carefully opened the door, leaving the chain on. It wasn't a good idea to let strangers in, especially in this town. "Well?"
"You should pack your bags." Said the first one.
"It's gonna get kind of toasty around here." Finished the second one. "Mind if we come in? Some of those smelly fellows down the way seem to be following us, and we'd rather not be sodomized."
"Okay, but only for the night." I unhooked the chain.
"That will do nicely." They answered in unison. “By the way, the Big Guy says hello.”
A Tea Time Encounter, for Scott, 'Project 157'
There were thirty or so in our company, loitering under the desert sun at the edge of our finished work. We had excavated a giant crater in the rock and sand, with our discovery wedged at an odd angle in the earth. A massive metal disk, silver in color, looking like a giant shining tea plate almost thirty yards across.
But that’s not why our mouths were hanging open. “They’re never going to believe us, Will.” I said.
“Not sure I bloody well do!” He replied, mopping the sweat from his brow.
For at the center of the saucer, a door was opening, throwing out arms of bright light and tendrils of smoke. A rushing sound filled the air like a pressurized vessel being opened.
Will replaced his hat. “Well, Greg, in any case, this should be an interesting day.”
And with that, a humanoid silhouette emerged from the opening; tall and thin, with an enormous head.
But that’s not why our mouths were hanging open. “They’re never going to believe us, Will.” I said.
“Not sure I bloody well do!” He replied, mopping the sweat from his brow.
For at the center of the saucer, a door was opening, throwing out arms of bright light and tendrils of smoke. A rushing sound filled the air like a pressurized vessel being opened.
Will replaced his hat. “Well, Greg, in any case, this should be an interesting day.”
And with that, a humanoid silhouette emerged from the opening; tall and thin, with an enormous head.
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