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

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

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

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

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

Project 157

It's official.
http://www.facebook.com/157stories

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.

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

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.”

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.

Not the Last Supper, for Aunt Pam, ‘Project 157’

His breath smells like fish and wine; which is not a good combination. He is practically covered in sand, and his hair is wet with sweat. But when he throws back his head and laughs, I forget about how bad he smells, and become lost in his eyes.

His eyes are entrancing. Joy and sorrow, mixed with ferocity and determination.

There are times when I've wondered if he’s crazy. First there’s his homelessness, and the fact that we are constantly finding ourselves in mortal danger. Some of his claims seem so blasphemous.

After dinner, we recline back from the table. I lay my head on his strong shoulder and listen to his voice. Laughter echoes throughout the room, followed by singing, and more wine. A cool evening breeze stirs the curtains, mixing the smells in the air. Fresh bread, honey, alcohol, and sweat.

On these nights, everything is perfect. I wish it could stay like this forever.

The End

Happy V-Day, Ravyn!

I love my wife. She knows me better than I know myself, yet loves me anyway. I love the way she smells, better than fresh cut grass or baking cookies. I love how her hair feels against my face. Her smile is heartbreaking, and her eyes are mesmerizing. Sometimes, I love her so much that I have to pray asking God not to be jealous. She truly is my soul-mate. A light to my grumpy and scatterbrained existence. No matter what, I will love her forever.

At Half-past Four in the Afternoon

Half under the bed, arm askew
The ceiling fan wobbles aimlessly

A brain full of fragmented thoughts
A heart full of nothing but numbness

Laying on the floor, staring up
The ceiling fan wobbles aimlessly

Dust glitters in the sunlight
Dead skin cells swirling bright

Half under the bed, arm askew
A brain full of fragmented thoughts

Books unread, and cluttered trash
A heart full of nothing but numbness

The ceiling fan wobbles unbalanced
And a disembodied anxiety sinks in

End

A Little House on the Prairie

It was a startling change of pace; from the rapacious, always-awake city of taxicabs and three-story billboards, to the absolute silence and openness of the new small town. Brick buildings and empty storefronts replaced the token homeless people, and the endless subway which made everyone feel like sardines. Here was an endless sea of corn, blowing in the wind. Here, the nights were infinitely dark; and the brilliance of the milky way wheeled in the night sky, displayed in its full majesty.

He traded in his Lexus for a red Ford truck, with rust and a bench seat. He first saw her walking home from the general store, groceries under her arm, long blond hair blowing in the wind. She wore a green plaid buttondown that day.

Time passed, and as their relationship grew, he met her family. Her dad was robust, and showed him the guns hung prominently on the  wall next to the bodies and heads of a myriad of different animals. Later, they would become good friends, and share manly, grunted conversations about politics.

He got a good job teaching, and they would spend long, breezy spring afternoons holding hands and looking at the Charlie Brown style clouds blowing by overhead. Nineteen months later, they were married, and their first baby soon followed.

The next few years were filled with happiness. Then, slowly, like a terminal illness, silence crept subtly in. His darkness lashed out every now and then, and she grew distant. They stopped holding hands at sunday socials. A steady spiral downward seemed inescapable. Their son and their daughter became the center of their lives. Separation and sadness became their nightly routine.

Several years washed over them. The small town became suffocating for him. The big problems which had caused him to flee the city somehow seemed less terrifying than a life spent in the daily grind. By now, his red truck had been replaced with a mid-sized sedan, and his teaching job became intolerably tedious.

One night, he stood holding her hands on the porch, and looking into her blue eyes which streaked with tears. The wind blew across the prairie and tousled her hair and tugged at the hem of her dress. A suitcase sat next to his feet. Someday, he assured her, she would understand. This was better for everyone. And please don’t call your dad or your brother until I am out of town. They’ll kill me, he said.

The greyhound swayed back and forth, squeaking and snorting down the highway. He laid his head against the window, and tiny drops of rain streaked the view.

End

The Heist, for Jules, 'Project 157'

Three hundredish grand in a dufflebag. A cheap hotel room with rattling air conditioner.

The bank had been chaos. Smoke and shredded paper filled the air. That one lady never stopped screaming the whole time, whether he pointed a gun at her or not.

He had floored his little hatchback all the way to Oklahoma. Now, he lay on the ratty carpet staring at the nicotine-stained ceiling. He waited for the call, nervously checking his cell every few seconds.

He replayed that fateful conversation over in his mind. “We have your daughter.” Said the raspy voice. “A quarter million and she’s yours.” No amount of screaming, pleading, or threatening could change anything. And no police, of course.

The phone rang, and he jumped out of his skin. “Yes, hel-hello?” He stuttered.

“Shit, man.. we uh, just saw the news.” Said the burly voice. “This is Dave, from shipping?” A long, breathy pause, “April fools, you poor bastard.”

End

Some Minds Hold Penguins

In the back of my mind,
there is a dark wasteland,
a metaphysical purgatory for all of the stories I've lost or forgotten.
There, malformed plot lines wander endlessly,
haunted by the disembodied ghosts of aborted protagonists.

A Moment of Contentment

Cafe' Seattle in the Veldte lounge, inkWELL, "creation" at the press, a few copies on hand. I like this place, it's delicious and dark and just pricey enough to make me feel like James Bond.