“Uggh I wish it would stop raining,” Peter let out as he turned away from the large store windows. Yenneh continued to stare at the silver sheets underneath the street lights.
“I like the rain,” He said as softly as a fresh bran muffin, rough and guttural yet fluffy and full. His face was symmetrical and young. At first glance he looked like Carl Banks from Fresh Prince.
“Yeah it’s nice, but I’ve got to drive home to Plymouth.” Peter said exasperated. “Did you want a ride tonight?”
“No that’s ok.” There was a tired look on Peter’s face that woke up when he looked back out at the rain. Yenneh turned and raised his palm to face Peter. “Really, it’s ok. I do not mind the walk.”
“Do you have an umbrella?”
“No.”
“And you want to walk?”
“I’m saying that it is ok.” Yenneh said calmly.
“Okay suit yourself.” Peter said as he walked back towards the cash registers. There were four in the front of the store lined up parallel, lane to lane, candy rack to candy rack, in anticipation for business; but, the packs of XyliChew Gum looked dim in the vacancy Peter saw across the whole store. Peter looked back at Yenneh,
“Hey I’m gonna go downstairs to the bathroom if you want to count down that drawer.”
“Okay,” Yenneh said as he turned back towards the windows. They were truly large, Yenneh had never seen any so big. Between the store signs, the rain danced on uninterrupted by the buses and cars that sped down Penn Ave, and he got the feeling that it would continue for a long time. His mind began to wander with the cows down dirt roads. Ethiopia seemed like a long time ago and yet it rained.
The rain began to pool in the center of the roof, but it still stood better than the roof-turned-water hammock above the bus stop across the road. The sticks that held the roof above Yenneh would barely last through the next year, but at least they had corrugated metal gutters to let the rain funnel off, and at the ends of the gutters clothed and naked children would line up to wash themselves.
The road looked like you could skin your knee on a slip-n-slide down it, the rough jagged dirt had a texture mix between a softball infield and instant-coffee crystals.
And he got the comfortable feeling that the rain would continue for a long time.
“Why do you wait and then walk? It makes no sense,” A young woman asked who stood by him.
“I wait because if the bus does not come, then we can walk home together,” Yenneh replied in that same earthy way.
“I would not walk with you. The bus will come,” the woman said resolutely without looking at him.
Yenneh turned and lifted his head towards the clouds.
“I understand,” he said as the rain dripped down his noes. It stalagmited (the one that hangs?) at the end of his nose but he didn’t wipe it away and it fell as he walked toward the road. The woman watched his back as he started to walk down the road head lowered toward the ground. He looked like someone you would feel bad for.
‘But what I don’t understand, is why anyone would not try something before they cast you away,” Yenneh thought as he walked with his eyes fixed on the rocks that his feet embraced. He could feel the best part of his walk start, the rain was falling from the tender black curls that fuzzed down his neck. It rolled across the stress of his neck and the heat built up from walking cattle all day. He could feel the wind convect his discomforts off his skin and slowly he fell into a wave of warmth that prick ed tickles into his skin, it ran from his elbows to his shoulders, his middle back to his neck, in waves that ran with each thought out of his head. He wished they could see why he did this, he wished they could all see why. They couldn’t feel what he felt and for that he almost cried every walk home. He wasn’t sad like she thought, not for himself at least, but for her and the beauty she couldn’t see.
“Weren’t you gonna count those drawers?” Peter asked as he looked back at the rain and the clock
“Sorry I was just distracted.”
“It’s okay I just want to get out of here. I hope this rain doesn’t go until the morning. I have school.”
“I’m sure it will be okay,” Yenneh said from outside of Peter’s peripherals.
“Are you sure you don’t want a ride home,” Peter asked again.
“Yes I’m sure. My wife’s bus will be here soon and we will walk.”
“You’re going to walk? I can give you and your wife a ride, there’s plenty of room in the Taurus,” Peter said with a motion toward the green car in the lot.
“It’s okay, really, my wife likes the rain,” Yenneh said with a smile.
Friday, December 11, 2009
An onion that I wrote in a Cafetto's
The waitress stood at the end of the booth where two men sat, one older and one younger. The younger sat with his eyes straight ahead at the older man, but the older man's eyes were playing musical chairs across the tables. Their eyes were remarkingly similar, both a bright ocean blue, although the older man had glasses. Must be father and son, she thought, as her gaze landed against the Doberman painting on the wall.
"Are you guys ready to order?" She asked at her restaurant pitch. The tone of her voice shut the menus on the table and the two men looked up at each other like clockwork. The older gentlemen's eyes turned to her and traveled up her body. She could feel them rest contently on her V-neck.
"Ya I think so, Laura," the dad said as his eyes squinted the two feet to her name tag. Okay, you can stop staring, Laura thought as the man's gaze took the long way, down her black pants, to get to her eyes. The son shifted his water closer to him.
"Actually I'll take a minute, please," the son said as he looked at his dad.
The waitress stood at the end of the booth where two women sat, one older and one younger. The younger sat with her hands under her butt and the older had her elbows on the table with her hands clasped in the air. They looked like they could be in a principles office. Must be mother and daughter, Laura thought, as her gaze landed on the Lilac painting on the wall.
"Are you guys ready to order?" She asked in her dining room tone. The pitch in her voice shut the menus and the two women looked up at each other. Like clockwork, Laura thought.
"Oh sure we are, are you ready Christina?" The mother asked as she looked above her daughter's eyes. The daughter wore a blue flannel shirt and a black stocking cap.
"It's Chris," the daughter said with a wink at Laura. "And ya, let me get the Chicken Fried Steak." Her menu was en route to Laura before the mother intercepted it with a deliberately calm grab.
"Pick something else," She said as she put the menu back in front of Chris.
"That's what I want," Chris said as she handed the menu back to Laura. Laura looked down at the mother who looked like she was sewing a button onto Chris's face, she just stared and stared as her fingers twitched.
"Okay then," the mother said as she handed her menu to Laura. "I don't think we'll be needing anything today. Thanks." Laura felt the menu fall into her hand as she looked down at Chris. She didn't look unhappy and she didn't look angry.
"Okay well thanks for stopping in," Laura's voice said until it trailed off.
"Are you guys ready to order?" She asked at her restaurant pitch. The tone of her voice shut the menus on the table and the two men looked up at each other like clockwork. The older gentlemen's eyes turned to her and traveled up her body. She could feel them rest contently on her V-neck.
"Ya I think so, Laura," the dad said as his eyes squinted the two feet to her name tag. Okay, you can stop staring, Laura thought as the man's gaze took the long way, down her black pants, to get to her eyes. The son shifted his water closer to him.
"Actually I'll take a minute, please," the son said as he looked at his dad.
The waitress stood at the end of the booth where two women sat, one older and one younger. The younger sat with her hands under her butt and the older had her elbows on the table with her hands clasped in the air. They looked like they could be in a principles office. Must be mother and daughter, Laura thought, as her gaze landed on the Lilac painting on the wall.
"Are you guys ready to order?" She asked in her dining room tone. The pitch in her voice shut the menus and the two women looked up at each other. Like clockwork, Laura thought.
"Oh sure we are, are you ready Christina?" The mother asked as she looked above her daughter's eyes. The daughter wore a blue flannel shirt and a black stocking cap.
"It's Chris," the daughter said with a wink at Laura. "And ya, let me get the Chicken Fried Steak." Her menu was en route to Laura before the mother intercepted it with a deliberately calm grab.
"Pick something else," She said as she put the menu back in front of Chris.
"That's what I want," Chris said as she handed the menu back to Laura. Laura looked down at the mother who looked like she was sewing a button onto Chris's face, she just stared and stared as her fingers twitched.
"Okay then," the mother said as she handed her menu to Laura. "I don't think we'll be needing anything today. Thanks." Laura felt the menu fall into her hand as she looked down at Chris. She didn't look unhappy and she didn't look angry.
"Okay well thanks for stopping in," Laura's voice said until it trailed off.
Blue Moon and a dream I had after eating too much spaghetti
The sun bent down over the rim of the colliseum, spreading out it's best light to halo the top most ring of seats. The rays walked down the aisles to find a dusty spot in front of Jack's bare leather feet. Jack looked down at the rays and around the vacant seats that were overshadowed by the lion-like monoliths that opened toward the shaking gates in front of him.
Jack brought his hand from his side and smoothed out a puff in his thin, purple pants. They were the kind that expanded out when you moved, like wind in sails. But there was no wind today but the gates shook like there was a tsunami at the gate, rocks and dust spat out of the clay and onto the ground. It kept shaking but Jack did not feel afraid.
The dust hit his nose and made him sneeze blood all over the ground. He looked up at the gate, shaking harder than ever, and he fingered the Arabian sword that was hooked to his vellum smooth belt. The gate's rattle created a groove beneath it, and it was sinking lower and lower into the ground.
The crack at the top began to drop lower as it sunk in the groove. In between the crack, hairy mouths were shouting out words Jack did not know. Jack walked up to the crack and smiled.
"So you think you can destroy me!" Jack yelled as he slammed a fist against his bare chest, but he almost knocked himself over as he made contact against his flat pectoral. Jack caught his breath before he walked up to the opening and swung his blade through it and it came out dripping red with one dangling blue eye on the end of the hook.
Jack paused to look at the eye, it looked just like his own, accept for the sinews of red vein that clung to the back of it, he had never seen that. He twisted the eye around to look at the sinews, they dripped off it like tree root, it reminded him of transplanting hostas in the spring. Jack bent down and took a scoop of sand out of the ground and dropped the eye into the hole before he covered it. As he covered it the gate broke down in front of him and a horde of hordes swelled out after him.
Jack waited the second for them to reach him before he lifted off one knee and swung at the chest of the first long beard. His chest opened like a cat food can hucked at the ground, but surprisingly there was no blood, the stuff looked like cat food.
Jack brought his hand from his side and smoothed out a puff in his thin, purple pants. They were the kind that expanded out when you moved, like wind in sails. But there was no wind today but the gates shook like there was a tsunami at the gate, rocks and dust spat out of the clay and onto the ground. It kept shaking but Jack did not feel afraid.
The dust hit his nose and made him sneeze blood all over the ground. He looked up at the gate, shaking harder than ever, and he fingered the Arabian sword that was hooked to his vellum smooth belt. The gate's rattle created a groove beneath it, and it was sinking lower and lower into the ground.
The crack at the top began to drop lower as it sunk in the groove. In between the crack, hairy mouths were shouting out words Jack did not know. Jack walked up to the crack and smiled.
"So you think you can destroy me!" Jack yelled as he slammed a fist against his bare chest, but he almost knocked himself over as he made contact against his flat pectoral. Jack caught his breath before he walked up to the opening and swung his blade through it and it came out dripping red with one dangling blue eye on the end of the hook.
Jack paused to look at the eye, it looked just like his own, accept for the sinews of red vein that clung to the back of it, he had never seen that. He twisted the eye around to look at the sinews, they dripped off it like tree root, it reminded him of transplanting hostas in the spring. Jack bent down and took a scoop of sand out of the ground and dropped the eye into the hole before he covered it. As he covered it the gate broke down in front of him and a horde of hordes swelled out after him.
Jack waited the second for them to reach him before he lifted off one knee and swung at the chest of the first long beard. His chest opened like a cat food can hucked at the ground, but surprisingly there was no blood, the stuff looked like cat food.
Cutting up a manuscript
So I cut up my stuff and THIS is what I get!?
So I tried this new exercise that had someone cut up one of my stories into slivers and then throw it on the ground, chant some incantation (added that mysticysm myself), and then put it back together in the wrong order. Well here's what I found out:
The order of a story is way more important than most people realize, not because there are forms that story should take and because there should be a general progression, but because you can surprise the crap out of people!
The way I learned this: I put together this story again and I thought in the beginning that it NEEDED to be told in that order because one detail built onto the next. But, when I re-built the story I noticed that when some details were excluded until later in the story, it made it surprising and unique.
However, sometimes this didn't add any effect except for confusion! For example, how would someone through a rock from inside a convenience store into the snow? Even though the minor details got hung up in the disorder, it showed me that maybe I could start things with a different scene (like one I used in the middle of the story) for dramatic affect.
The other thing I learned is that it's fun to destroy your own "masterpieces!" There was something satisfying, like "I don't need you!", in hacking my story to pieces, I almost wanted to keep going.
So I tried this new exercise that had someone cut up one of my stories into slivers and then throw it on the ground, chant some incantation (added that mysticysm myself), and then put it back together in the wrong order. Well here's what I found out:
The order of a story is way more important than most people realize, not because there are forms that story should take and because there should be a general progression, but because you can surprise the crap out of people!
The way I learned this: I put together this story again and I thought in the beginning that it NEEDED to be told in that order because one detail built onto the next. But, when I re-built the story I noticed that when some details were excluded until later in the story, it made it surprising and unique.
However, sometimes this didn't add any effect except for confusion! For example, how would someone through a rock from inside a convenience store into the snow? Even though the minor details got hung up in the disorder, it showed me that maybe I could start things with a different scene (like one I used in the middle of the story) for dramatic affect.
The other thing I learned is that it's fun to destroy your own "masterpieces!" There was something satisfying, like "I don't need you!", in hacking my story to pieces, I almost wanted to keep going.
Kids
...straight into a tall man, the only thing he could see as the man scooped him into a bear hug was matted blond hair like his. The man struggled to bring Harvey's flailing body to the police car. He had to waddle each step to the car while he kept Harvey face pressed close to his chest. He was just two feet from the car when he loosened his grip and Harvey kicked him square in the balls. The man bent over with a son of a bitch and one hand in a cup around his balls. Harvey started to run in the direction of Jason and away from the man with his hair. He was confused and scared. His dad died six years ago..
"Harvey, Harvey, wake up!" His dad said through the red itchy blankets wrapped around Harvey.
"Come on! Come on! Let's go out and throw the ball, it's almost eleven!" Harvey started to stir under the blanket, it felt warm and fuzzy like Hallmark commercials. His bed begged him to stay in it, but the strong warm hands that gripped his shoulders jerked him from his sleep. He wasn't in his bed, though, and it wasn't his dad's warm hands, they were Officer Brown's and he was in a dumpster behind Jet's Pizza.
Harvey Lee scraped his tongue against the chapped blood on his lips. The flecks of red fell to rest on the outskirts of his bottom lip as he bent over an ashtray outside the Super America. The Super America clerk bent over the counter to look through the large glass window at Harvey and his friend Jason before he picked up the phone to call the police.
"Ya there back again," he sighed through the receiver before he hung up and turned toward the next customer, a middle aged lady with a quilted jacket.
"You know there's minors digging through your ashtrays?" She said with a scrunched face like a principal reprimanding a student. The long pauses on the words minor and yours demanded accountability from the weary thirty year old.
"Yes mam, I just called the police," he replied like a good student.
"Good. For heaven's sake where are there mothers?" The woman asked.
"Knowing those boys, they're probably dead or in an insane asylum," he replied and the woman's face went quiet.
"Did you get my speedy rewards?"
"Yes mam."
"For the hot dog, too?" The clerk looked down and noticed the hot dog in her meaty palm.
Outside, Jason wiped off the lipstick stain from a Virginia Slim and started to fumble in his pocket for a lighter.
"Give me that!" Harvey yelled at Jason. Jason lit it up and took a drag before he held it out to Harvey. Harvey reached in for it but Jason pulled it back before Harvey could pinch it. He laughed and put the glowing cherry right in the open sore on Harvey's upper lip. The pain soared straight to his brain like a pop fly, but he caught it and threw it back with a punch to Jason's arm. Jason flared up and socked him back just above the cuff of his leather jacket. Harvey dropped to the cement holding the bare of his neck. He relished the rush of blood, it felt good against his steely skin. He let go of his neck and brushed the greasy blond hair out of his face before he got to his knees and leveled off with a hand out in front of him like the three-point stance his dad taught him.
"I'm gonna fucking kill you!" He screamed before he lunged at Jason. Harvey made contact and they flew to the ground. The rocks of cement ground into Jason's back and just as Harvey began to curl his fingers around Jason's natty brown hair, they heard sirens pull in the parking lot. They stood up and saw Officer Brown in the car. They didn't even look at each other before they picked up parts of the broken concrete from where they fell. The concrete felt familiar in Harvey's cold sweat. It reminded him of the baseballs thrown to his dad in the backyard, the concentration before the wind-up and the steely sweat that his nerves dripped against the laces. He let his fingers run over the clump of cement, the individual pebbles were ground into the black tar like memories, and he embraced it's oddness as his own.
"Fuck you!" Jason yelled before he hucked a chunk at the car's windshield. Officer Brown jumped out of his car and started toward the boys with his hand on his gun holster. Jason turned and started to run but Harvey just stood there with the rock in his hand. He stood like the pebbles in the tar. He felt stuck and tired of trying to free himself.
"STOP!" Officer Brown yelled with an out stretched hand. He was about twenty feet away from Harvey before he started to pick up speed. Jason stopped and turned back towards Harvey.
"Come on Harvey!" He yelled. Harvey turned around and looked at him, his eyes reflected the same lack of pain that Harvey showed during fights. Harvey turned back around toward the uniformed arm outstretched about ten feet away. Harvey looked at it's hand, it was pink and warm, and he looked at his own, sheer white against the black cement. He rolled the chunk in his hand before he dropped his arm and loosened his grip. The officer stopped and dropped his arm too.
"Come on Harvey, your mom wants you to come home," he said with raised eyebrows. "Come on, just put the rock down." Harvey looked down at the rock that cradled loosely in his fingers, he hadn't seen his mom since she dropped him off at the Juvenile Detention center. She had pushed his body out of the car and told him that he wouldn't need to come home, she knew he would end up there anyways. But he hadn't done anything that day. He hadn't done anything today.
"Fuck you!" He yelled back at Officer Brown. "Your not my father!"
"I just want to help, Harvey," Officer Brown stretched his hand out to show his palm. "Please just come with me. You must be hungry," he said taking a step closer.
"Get away from me," Harvey yelled as he re-tightened his grip on the cement. He was hungry. His stomach twisted without nicotine.
"Please Harvey," he said as he took one step closer.
"I said get away from me," Harvey yelled louder, the shrill of his voice rose like the pop-fly.
"Harvey you need to come with me," he commanded and took another step.
"Wrong move," Harvey said as he pulled the cement towards his face. He let his hand drop just like his dad taught him before he wound back and threw the chunk right at him. The chunk soared through the air and Harvey watched un-amused as it went straight into the officer's face. The officer dropped to the ground holding his face and Harvey ran...
"Harvey, Harvey, wake up!" His dad said through the red itchy blankets wrapped around Harvey.
"Come on! Come on! Let's go out and throw the ball, it's almost eleven!" Harvey started to stir under the blanket, it felt warm and fuzzy like Hallmark commercials. His bed begged him to stay in it, but the strong warm hands that gripped his shoulders jerked him from his sleep. He wasn't in his bed, though, and it wasn't his dad's warm hands, they were Officer Brown's and he was in a dumpster behind Jet's Pizza.
Harvey Lee scraped his tongue against the chapped blood on his lips. The flecks of red fell to rest on the outskirts of his bottom lip as he bent over an ashtray outside the Super America. The Super America clerk bent over the counter to look through the large glass window at Harvey and his friend Jason before he picked up the phone to call the police.
"Ya there back again," he sighed through the receiver before he hung up and turned toward the next customer, a middle aged lady with a quilted jacket.
"You know there's minors digging through your ashtrays?" She said with a scrunched face like a principal reprimanding a student. The long pauses on the words minor and yours demanded accountability from the weary thirty year old.
"Yes mam, I just called the police," he replied like a good student.
"Good. For heaven's sake where are there mothers?" The woman asked.
"Knowing those boys, they're probably dead or in an insane asylum," he replied and the woman's face went quiet.
"Did you get my speedy rewards?"
"Yes mam."
"For the hot dog, too?" The clerk looked down and noticed the hot dog in her meaty palm.
Outside, Jason wiped off the lipstick stain from a Virginia Slim and started to fumble in his pocket for a lighter.
"Give me that!" Harvey yelled at Jason. Jason lit it up and took a drag before he held it out to Harvey. Harvey reached in for it but Jason pulled it back before Harvey could pinch it. He laughed and put the glowing cherry right in the open sore on Harvey's upper lip. The pain soared straight to his brain like a pop fly, but he caught it and threw it back with a punch to Jason's arm. Jason flared up and socked him back just above the cuff of his leather jacket. Harvey dropped to the cement holding the bare of his neck. He relished the rush of blood, it felt good against his steely skin. He let go of his neck and brushed the greasy blond hair out of his face before he got to his knees and leveled off with a hand out in front of him like the three-point stance his dad taught him.
"I'm gonna fucking kill you!" He screamed before he lunged at Jason. Harvey made contact and they flew to the ground. The rocks of cement ground into Jason's back and just as Harvey began to curl his fingers around Jason's natty brown hair, they heard sirens pull in the parking lot. They stood up and saw Officer Brown in the car. They didn't even look at each other before they picked up parts of the broken concrete from where they fell. The concrete felt familiar in Harvey's cold sweat. It reminded him of the baseballs thrown to his dad in the backyard, the concentration before the wind-up and the steely sweat that his nerves dripped against the laces. He let his fingers run over the clump of cement, the individual pebbles were ground into the black tar like memories, and he embraced it's oddness as his own.
"Fuck you!" Jason yelled before he hucked a chunk at the car's windshield. Officer Brown jumped out of his car and started toward the boys with his hand on his gun holster. Jason turned and started to run but Harvey just stood there with the rock in his hand. He stood like the pebbles in the tar. He felt stuck and tired of trying to free himself.
"STOP!" Officer Brown yelled with an out stretched hand. He was about twenty feet away from Harvey before he started to pick up speed. Jason stopped and turned back towards Harvey.
"Come on Harvey!" He yelled. Harvey turned around and looked at him, his eyes reflected the same lack of pain that Harvey showed during fights. Harvey turned back around toward the uniformed arm outstretched about ten feet away. Harvey looked at it's hand, it was pink and warm, and he looked at his own, sheer white against the black cement. He rolled the chunk in his hand before he dropped his arm and loosened his grip. The officer stopped and dropped his arm too.
"Come on Harvey, your mom wants you to come home," he said with raised eyebrows. "Come on, just put the rock down." Harvey looked down at the rock that cradled loosely in his fingers, he hadn't seen his mom since she dropped him off at the Juvenile Detention center. She had pushed his body out of the car and told him that he wouldn't need to come home, she knew he would end up there anyways. But he hadn't done anything that day. He hadn't done anything today.
"Fuck you!" He yelled back at Officer Brown. "Your not my father!"
"I just want to help, Harvey," Officer Brown stretched his hand out to show his palm. "Please just come with me. You must be hungry," he said taking a step closer.
"Get away from me," Harvey yelled as he re-tightened his grip on the cement. He was hungry. His stomach twisted without nicotine.
"Please Harvey," he said as he took one step closer.
"I said get away from me," Harvey yelled louder, the shrill of his voice rose like the pop-fly.
"Harvey you need to come with me," he commanded and took another step.
"Wrong move," Harvey said as he pulled the cement towards his face. He let his hand drop just like his dad taught him before he wound back and threw the chunk right at him. The chunk soared through the air and Harvey watched un-amused as it went straight into the officer's face. The officer dropped to the ground holding his face and Harvey ran...
Tommy can you hear me?!
The U-Haul boxes littered the garage floor like shanties in an African aparthaide. Tommy took off-kilter steps to avoid the corners of the brown boxes as he made his way towards the middle.
"I don't know why she spent all this money on boxes. I could have just got them for her," Tommy thought as he noticed the two dollar price tag on each box. There must have been fifty, at least sixty of these boxes, to go along with the four moving Pods she had rented. The Pods had stickers preaching the value of $129/a month.
Tommy tripped his way to the center of the garage and sat down on a box. It bent under his weight and he could hear a toy dinosaur roar come out of the box. It barely reached his ear before he reached into his pocket to pull out his dugout. Out of habit, he perked an ear up for any sign of his parents, but he knew he didn't need to, they weren't there. His dad was on a business trip in Cincinatti, but probably just screwing more internet whores. His mom was was at Gonzaga for parent weekend.
And Tommy was here, smoking pot in his garage, once again. He took a hit of his pinner and with a deep breath buried it in the catacombs of his lungs. He exhaled long and slow, waiting for the THC molecules to settle. The smoke burned as it came out, and his lungs pushed hard against the carbon filled air.
He looked around at the boxes again. They looked out of place, and Tommy felt awkward sitting in the middle of it all. He stood up confused and pulled open the box he was sitting on. Another squawk came out of the beastly Star Wars figurine that was sitting on top of an etch-a-sketch. He pulled out the Ton-Ton and brought it to his stomach. His head craned down searching for the click that jerked the invisible rider of it's back. He found it and clicked it, the figurine jerked like a chicken going for ground seed.
Tommy brought the figurine to his face and smelled the plastic. The ribs of the Ton-Ton felt surreal and he started to cry. He cried for himself. His parents were really getting divorced and there was nothing he could do about it. He had to leave all this behind.
"I don't know why she spent all this money on boxes. I could have just got them for her," Tommy thought as he noticed the two dollar price tag on each box. There must have been fifty, at least sixty of these boxes, to go along with the four moving Pods she had rented. The Pods had stickers preaching the value of $129/a month.
Tommy tripped his way to the center of the garage and sat down on a box. It bent under his weight and he could hear a toy dinosaur roar come out of the box. It barely reached his ear before he reached into his pocket to pull out his dugout. Out of habit, he perked an ear up for any sign of his parents, but he knew he didn't need to, they weren't there. His dad was on a business trip in Cincinatti, but probably just screwing more internet whores. His mom was was at Gonzaga for parent weekend.
And Tommy was here, smoking pot in his garage, once again. He took a hit of his pinner and with a deep breath buried it in the catacombs of his lungs. He exhaled long and slow, waiting for the THC molecules to settle. The smoke burned as it came out, and his lungs pushed hard against the carbon filled air.
He looked around at the boxes again. They looked out of place, and Tommy felt awkward sitting in the middle of it all. He stood up confused and pulled open the box he was sitting on. Another squawk came out of the beastly Star Wars figurine that was sitting on top of an etch-a-sketch. He pulled out the Ton-Ton and brought it to his stomach. His head craned down searching for the click that jerked the invisible rider of it's back. He found it and clicked it, the figurine jerked like a chicken going for ground seed.
Tommy brought the figurine to his face and smelled the plastic. The ribs of the Ton-Ton felt surreal and he started to cry. He cried for himself. His parents were really getting divorced and there was nothing he could do about it. He had to leave all this behind.
Never thought I'd laugh this hard writing..
Playing with opposites and the idea that people say things they don't really mean.
"Ouch...oooh that hurts baby!" Cat hissed out of the fleshy tunnel of her lips. Bryan crammed his tongue down farther into the ribbed cavern of her other lips. "So very, very wet," Bryan thought. "I'll make her scream. I'll make it hurt. I'm the pussy monster!" He redoubled his efforts, scoping with his tongue like an anteater's nose in a ant hill.
"Ohhh damn your going to make me scream" She hissed a little louder as the top of her teeth sank into the fleshy peach of her bottom lip. She propped her left leg against the wooden post of the bed and looked into Bryan's busy brown eyes. Bryan looked up into her's for a moment, his face was wet and his chin dripped with gluttony. She put her hands on his face, curled her fingers around his ears, and pulled him up past her supersoaker.
"Oh baby don't stop! " Cat cried out. Bryan looked down and face planted against her gravel-hard teet. Cat ran her hand to the back of his wavy brown hair, pulled up, and with her free hand smacked him. "Quit fucking around and TEAR ME APART," she commanded. She grabbed his member and pushed it towards her gaping legs, the tip felt explosive like Mercury in a thermometer stuck into the ass of a volcano.
"Tear me up! Rip me! Rip me!" She shouted as spit flew into his face.
"Shut the fuck up!" Bryan yelled as he ripped his johnson out of her sweaty palm. He crawled up onto his knees so his ass was just an inch above her nipples. Bryan put his clobber-knocker in front of her nose and looked into her eyes and whispered "you're such a fucking slut," then front stroked his racquet across her right cheek. Cat freaked on.
"Ya you would like that you dirty little slut!!" And with a backhand he struck her other cheek. Both cheeks had started to turn red and Bryan felt he had recovered his masculinity.
"That's right I'm the fuckin' teacher. Welcome to my school you whore," he said as he moved back down toward mutual pleasure.
"Ouch...oooh that hurts baby!" Cat hissed out of the fleshy tunnel of her lips. Bryan crammed his tongue down farther into the ribbed cavern of her other lips. "So very, very wet," Bryan thought. "I'll make her scream. I'll make it hurt. I'm the pussy monster!" He redoubled his efforts, scoping with his tongue like an anteater's nose in a ant hill.
"Ohhh damn your going to make me scream" She hissed a little louder as the top of her teeth sank into the fleshy peach of her bottom lip. She propped her left leg against the wooden post of the bed and looked into Bryan's busy brown eyes. Bryan looked up into her's for a moment, his face was wet and his chin dripped with gluttony. She put her hands on his face, curled her fingers around his ears, and pulled him up past her supersoaker.
"Oh baby don't stop! " Cat cried out. Bryan looked down and face planted against her gravel-hard teet. Cat ran her hand to the back of his wavy brown hair, pulled up, and with her free hand smacked him. "Quit fucking around and TEAR ME APART," she commanded. She grabbed his member and pushed it towards her gaping legs, the tip felt explosive like Mercury in a thermometer stuck into the ass of a volcano.
"Tear me up! Rip me! Rip me!" She shouted as spit flew into his face.
"Shut the fuck up!" Bryan yelled as he ripped his johnson out of her sweaty palm. He crawled up onto his knees so his ass was just an inch above her nipples. Bryan put his clobber-knocker in front of her nose and looked into her eyes and whispered "you're such a fucking slut," then front stroked his racquet across her right cheek. Cat freaked on.
"Ya you would like that you dirty little slut!!" And with a backhand he struck her other cheek. Both cheeks had started to turn red and Bryan felt he had recovered his masculinity.
"That's right I'm the fuckin' teacher. Welcome to my school you whore," he said as he moved back down toward mutual pleasure.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Craigslist Netta and the fiction
This is the date one, but I thought I had a little better scene where two strangers try to get together over something else: sharing an apartment.
As Peter brought the fork to his mouth, a large drop of Strawberry Yogurt fell onto his lap. If someone saw it, it could look really bad and really gross. “Shit, he said as he looked down at it. As he stared at the white blob of cow juice, he could feel someone’s presence in front of his back.
“You Peter?” A large tangle of hair matted the words out in a growl. The rest of her stood straight and defiant like the stray hairs on her forehead. She could only see the curls on the back of his head, but she thought he looked like the Facebook picture she had studied.
“Umm ya? Who are you?” Peter said as turned around to look up at her. Netta felt put off and she began slowly like he was 5 years old.
“I’m Netta, the one in the craigslist ad. We were going to meet here today, ya know, at this time,” she said impatiently as she brushed away the off shoots of forehead hair.
“OH! My bad!” Peter said as he quickly moved his laptop away from the open end of the two person table. “Sorry I had no idea.”
Sure ya didn’t, Netta thought as she sat down. She looked straight up at Peter and began her schpeal for the third time this week.
“So here’s the deal, I got a one bedroom that you could have the living room separated for your own space. But here’s the thing, it’s MY space, so don’t think you can come in there and have your friends over all the time and trash my place,” she said with one long, angry breath. Peter fidgeted in his seat but didn’t say anything.
“So when do you want to move in?” Netta said as she looked at her watch. She was tired of beating around the bush.
“Well..” Peter started up hesitantly.
“Well what? You contacted me about this. I came all the way down here for you,” she said. The café was only a minute away from her apartment but she had already walked the three blocks to see Match.com’s Ryan earlier, who wasn’t at French Meadow anywhere near the table by the painting they texted on.
“Well it’s just that we haven’t talked about anything yet. I’m not trying to rush this decision,” he said looking down at his laptop screen.
“Well that’s just great. Why the hell did you show up then!” Her voice was calm but her throat was letting out an inaudible scream and it resonated in her voice.
“Woah I just thought it be like a good idea to meet first,” Peter said as he looked around the café at the people. They were in their coffee sandwich world, not paying attention to Netta.
“Alright well this is stupid. I’m leaving. E-mail me if you want to see the place,” she said with a little spit at the corners of her mouth.
“Okay see you later,” Peter said as he pulled the Macbook away from the spittle lipped face. Netta got up and accidentally kicked the metal beam that supported the table top. It rocked and swayed and Peter moved a hand to settle it.
“Screw craigslist,” he said as he closed his macbook with his freehand.
inspired from waking my roommate up to use her computer, knowing her wants yet ignoring them
My pillow.
My pillow on my bed.
My pillow on my bed inside my bedroom.
My pillow on my bed inside my bedroom that opens to French doors.
And someone is at the doors. Why are they at the doors? What could they want? I want them to go away.
“Go away!” Cassondra howled out from underneath the down comforter. The layered comforter sucked in like it had the wind knocked out of it. The stickers of men on the bedpost nearly dropped their jaws. Are you serious right now?
“Cassondra,” the voice let out slowly and smoothly, taking advantage of the second s. It wouldn’t work, not the second s trick. Who does this kid think he is?
“Shut up... go away!” The first two words stuck with resolve, the second set sounded unsure of itself, it crept out as a beg , where as the first were uncompassionate and cold, like a pompous Prince to a poor pauper, it was a battle of the classes alright. Cassondra’s fingers dug into the sheets in front of her face. The light snuck in like a cold-hearted bitch.
“God damnit Cassondra!” The voice said louder as Cassondra heard the jewelry bag bounce and chime against the door.
The comforter scrunched even tighter into a fast collapse as if the pleura snapped. Awake with pneumothorax , Cassondra drew one curtain from her face.
“I’m so tired,” Cassondra said with a smile. The smile was cute and shy, probably snatched from a sheep that wandered into Cassondra’s subconscious, tired and lost from a jump that went far across the fence. His name was 72, which was rather bland, but somewhere someone was not sleeping because 71 was followed by 73.
Cassondra wanted to take 72 and throw it at Peter’s face right now, but yet she just smiled and wondered why she wasn’t sleeping.
True story which is why we need to be heros even when we don't know ite
The man sat in the chair but he sat weird. Weird, at the least, is a man who wears a pair of stale jeans and a pale plaid jacket in the middle of winter. Poor, would be another good adjective, if it were not for the brand new white Reeboks on his feet, the kind that you’d get made fun for in high school. They were too big, too gaudy, and too white, just like his eyes which stared at a young girl two plastic seats to the front left of Mary and Ted.
The young girl looked uncomfortable, like someone was breathing on her. The breath inched closer. It soaked past the chairs, one plastic pollyp after the next, until it reached the back of the girl’s neck like cancer. The girl shuddered and Ted sat up a little straighter as his arm slipped away from Mary’s back. He made a cough to attract the man’s attention, but it went by unnoticed, at least to the jacketed man. The young girl twisted her neck 45 degrees with a furtive glance, her peripherals pointed toward the man. Her neck snapped back as she caught the stare head on. She projected it up to the Stop Display, 94th Street and France Ave., she was only two away from 98th Street, Home, so she reached underneath her seat for her purse.
Ted looked up to and saw the 94th twinkle like a red Christmas light, he was only one stop away. He turned to see the young girl reaching for her stuff. Her stuff was artsy, with decorative purples and greens patches outlined by sequins, but it didn’t feel gaudy. It actually felt right, mixed with her burnt India ensemble: a rusty orange sweater, a yellow curry scarf, and a tight pair of fine-ribbed maroon courdaroys that hugged her healthy thighs into compact packages.
Mary began to motion. Her eyes pointed toward the glowing sign and she slipped her fingers around the window handle to get up. Ted sat as Mary made a commotion to get up, but even with the motion, Ted sat and watched as the man’s gaze slowly suffocated the young girl. Mary scooped her hand into Ted’s armpit like he was six years old and it was time to go.
“Honey, let’s wait,” Ted said as he looked at the man, paying no attention to Mary.
“But it’s our stop, we’ll have to wait in the cold if we don’t get off,” she pointed out the cold weather by pulling her jacket tighter.
“We can call a cab. I’m not getting off,” He said resolutely. His eyes were still fixed on the man as Mary caught the mood. She sat down and pulled Ted closer, the young girl’s fear was now shared as the bus pulled past Ted and Mary’s stop. The 98th Street sign had just flicked on as the young girl made a move to get up. The older man got up to and moved toward the girl.
His arms moved so fast that Ted and Mary did not see it until he held her shoulders in place against the dimpled walls. The man’s gassy breath bled fuck fuel across her face planted cheek. Her cheek mashed against the metal like it needed the contact, scared of the distance between her and the man’s face, the two inches she gained was not enough and she continued to press her face against the steel. She could see someone in the background, a man and his wife stood up with their phones out.
“Get the fuck off her or I’m calling the police,” a voice boomed from two seats away. Her face was still stuck to the wall like it had licked a frozen door handle, and the man continued to breath on her while he held her shoulders in place. He didn’t turn around to the voice, he just stood and breathed, as her face played the helpless tune of an innocent animal being mistreated.
“I said, Get the FUCK off her,” Ted said again, stronger and louder with a hand in the air. The bell dinged and the door next to girl’s face opened. A sick wind whipped across her cheek and she felt the metal cool between her skin and the wall. She hadn’t noticed the tears until the wind whisped across them. The heat convected off her face and she started to shake. With the first shake the man dropped his hands and let her sink to the wall. He didn’t wait another moment before he slipped through the closing bus doors.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The map from Grand Theft Auto
"Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech."
The car's brakes howled to a stop at the center of the intersection. Ganash Street and Wirxley Avenue, 12:32 a.m, right on time. The noise of the car seemed to overpower the red brick apartment building to the right and the row of shops to the left quaked in fear, and the rumble of the '72 Charger. The car, the night: Black. Perfect, Jason thought. A black alley cat ran in front of the car and Jason floored the gas without hitting the clutch. The alley cat fled, just like the buildings seemed to. Power, Jason thought as the door of the cadillac flew open. A black booted Sears Tower of a man stepped out. His gorilla sized black leather jacket puffed with primate muscle. Black is good, black is quiet, Jason thought when he bought the jacket. His 9MM Browning was the loud one. His Charger wasn't too quiet, either.
But now everything was still. Jason looked at shops, the lights were off under the red and blue awnings. The curved half moons that decorated the bottoms fluttered in the wind, and so did the smell of dog shit.
Dog shit had brought him here, to this brothel of humanity, Hackenslash, the home of Liberty Cities most notorious gangsters. Jason looked down at the man hole two steps in front of him. He could hear the rumble of sewage flow through the veins of the city, soon some of that sewage would be in the belly of the homeless person behind the second shop on the street. He could hear him digging through the yesterday's in the dumpster, and he could hear the rat's shrieks to the invasion of privacy.
He walked towards the shops: the florist, the barber, the massage parlor. More like, the cocaine dealer, the small arms runner, and the whore house, and in that order: You couldn't make a penny in this neighborhood without death or addiction. Hell, you couldn't make anything in this world without them, he thought.
He walked past the massage parlor and got to the fourth shop, a chinese restaurant. In between the shops, there was a small cove that sheltered another homeless man. He walked towards him and was about to kick him square between the dirt on his teeth, when he realized it was a woman with a baby. He stood for a second before turning back towards the restaurant. The stillness was interrupted by lights that still glowed through the drawn curtains. A christmas bell dangled from it's wooden door, offsetting the metal guard rails against the window. Alarms, perfect, Jason thought, as he pulled a knife from his pocket and slipped it through the red ribbon loop. He slipped the knife out with a whisp and the bell fell to the ground. From inside, he could hear a man stand up and walk towards the door.
Jason turned back towards the cove. He ran his finger nails along the brick wall, feeling the gritty sand grind into his subunquis, before he rounded the corner and stood above the woman. The woman woke up startled and almost screamed before Jason pulled out his gun and put a finger to his lips. He looked back towards the street and motioned again to the lady with his finger towards his lips. The woman looked back toward her baby and started to cry.
The door of the chinese restaurant opened to the street and out poked the head of a Jon Gotti wannabe: a fat headed, white-tee'd, mustache of a man. There was no doubt he could hear the woman crying. He had already started walking towards the noise when Jason popped one in his head.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The start of a zombie story...
The tv was on from the night before and some anchor-de-jour was preaching h1n1 into the morning gloom. Ronnie pulled her old nighty over her new balloon belly, and walked down the stairs into the living room.
"Ya know, my boy ain't gonna want no pig baby," Annette said from her rocker. There was a quilt draped over her lap and underneath two spindly branches for legs tapped anxiously against the floor.
"Annette I've got to get the shot, it's for the baby," Ronnie let out with more energy than she thought she had.
"I heard that pigs don't need the shot," she said without hesitating. Ronnie knew Annette stayed in the chair all night just for Ronnie to wake up.
"That's okay. I'm leaving." She said and she turned back the upstairs to get ready.
"What da ya got en that red shirt, a basketball?" Nurse Pritchard asked as she slipped the needle into her arm.
"Feels like it," Ronnie said as she winced a slow breath.
"Ah don't worry hun. Frank came out like a lawnmower in the weeds. Damn near broke the mold with that one."
Mold. Ronnie stood up and heaved. Ronnie worked at the local supermarket/gas station. Earlier that week, she had to suck out the gelatinous mold that thrived in the cold-sweat of the coolers with a vacuum. It looked like chicken fat with gangrene. She threw up again.
"Oh bless your sweetheart, you sure got somethin in ya now!" she said as she picked up the waste basket from the corner of the room and set it in Ronnie's out-stretched hands. Nurse Pritchard put a firm hand on her upper back, just shy of where Ronnie's brown leathery hair stuck against the short of her neck. Ronnie bletched three more times.
"Sweetheart are you going to be okay? That shot ain't supposed you sick," Mrs. Pritchard said as she leaned into Ronnie's eyes. "My god what happened to your eyes! Their yellow!"
"I just hate the shots, that's all. I get all worked up seein that needle comin' at me like a sucker on a skeeter. I ain't got that much in me, ya know?"
"Oh sweetie you got a lot more in ya now than you might think." Nurse Pritchard smiled as she walked away with the needle pointed up.
Ronnie eased down into the chair, numbly holding the trash can in front of her. It took Peanut a whole week to scrape up the $31 to get her there. Twenty five for the shot. Six for the diesel. But Peanut hadn't came; he had to be at the soccer fields by six to start the mowers. They couldn't afford the shot for the whole family, not even Annette, but the doctors had urged her and Peanut to get one for the baby. She stood up reluctantly and fell. She had gotten to her feet before Nurse Pritchard came back and she made her way out the exit of the steel door.
On her way home, Ronnie caught a glance of her eyes in the rearview. They really were yellow. She stared at them, swirling in the reflection, until she ran off the road and into the ditch. When she woke up, she felt like she was floating.
For a while, things were cold. What those things were, she did not know, because she couldn't see anything. She thought may be she was blind. Her eyes had been such a strange yellow, like a cat's eye in the dark.
The needle in Melanie's vein stuck straight out of her limp arm. The long slack of the pink belt rested against her bottom jaw. Melanie knew as she slipped out of conciousness, out of sight, that it was best for her and her baby.
The Philedaplhia suburbs weren't as hard as the inner cities, but a girl still had to be careful. Melanie wasn't old, but she wasn't young either, so she caught awfully long glances from men she felt awfully bad for. Her mom told her not to pity the men, they were drug addicts and crooks, not men of God, but Melanie wasn't so sure.
Leo, the one blond among brunettes in front of DeFlora's Floral, was why she wasn't sure. Granted he was the same as the rest: he catcalled, he smoked, he even wore his pants down low...er than most, but he was very GQ, in a very G-Unit way. Most, his blue eyes, even in their reddest state, knew how to look at her to make her feel ashamed. And excited. He was the reason she went to confessional every week.
Leo knew this, of course, but never asked for a date, just playtime, which made Melanie insane and worse, in love. It wasn't a problem until Melanie became pregnant. The word got around fast and Leo dissapeared. She was four months along before he was back in front of the pale blue awnings in front of DeFloras.
"Where have you been?" Melanie let out softly.
"Working.. in my appartment. I have something to show you. Something I want to give you." He said with his eyes loosely afloat about Melanie's head.
"Really?" She asked, her bright eyes begged his to come back down. She knew this could work. She knew her mom was too hard on her high hopes. Leo left with her at once, feeling low for someone so high.
They were only walking for five minutes before the alleys grew dark, literally growing around her; fenced walls fortressed the streets, apartment buildings shot into the cloudy sky like rain fell to the ground, but it all seemed more unnatural than rain. Melanie felt her stomache for warmth, but her belly felt like cold-press, a collection of anxious energy in a murky, icy darkness. They walked until they were under a street lamp next to a man in sweatpants and a leather jacket. Leo stopped and spoke to the man, he gave him a large bill and recieved only a small package that he palmed. He put his arm around Melanie who shivered and stopped at this touch.
"What is that?" Melanie asked, looking back at the man. "What did he give you for all that money?"
"It's for the baby, to make sure it's healthy. Come on let's go." He said as he leaned into her eyes. He made a step onto the crosswalk and pulled Melanie with him.
They got to Leo's apartment. In the daylight, the lonely books on the floor held a minimalist scholarly appeal, blindly she had never paid enough attention to them, they were covered in ash and dust. Months ago, the light through the blinds had warmed her skin as she sat on an old mattress, the only furniture in the room, but now the blinds were closed and the darkness felt dank. He led her past the books and through a tunnel of a hallway and onto another bed. He pulled out a needle.
"Babe I want you to do something for me," he said looking her in the eye.
"Leo I don't want to," she said as she skirted to the middle of the bed. She knew what was next. She never asked questions about what he did because he always treated her well enough. She thought of how happy she was when she saw him at the Floral shop again, she thought he left for good.
"What is that, Leo?" She asked as she moved back closer to the edge of the bed.
"Well Babe, it's like vitamins, for your head," he said as he took her right arm at the wrist, "It will help you relax. It will help the baby relax. It's for girls pregnant young as you. I wouldn't lie," he said as he touched her belly with his other hand. She took a deep breath in, letting the balloon in her shirt inflate under his hand. He winced.
"Okay babe are you ready?" He asked as he took her belt off.
"Leo no. I'm already pregnant," she smiled as she put a palm over her crotch.
"Not that," he smiled sheepishly as he slipped her belt through the loops, gently removing her fingers off the belt buckle. He held his hands open palmed with the belt lying like a dead snake in between them. She put her arm over the belt and Leo wrapped it around her forearm like an anaconda in a knot.
"Lay down, relax," he said, and she laid down on the dirty mattress.
Things that make me stew..
Le Fache (Angry) Chef's Menu:
(Reservations for one are required)
Soup de Jour:
People who copycat and being pushed into originality
People who need to be the first
People who want to be last
Fake pregnancies
Entrees:
Bad drivers, people who don't pay attention to life minute by minute
When I drive badly
When people who don't know what's good/bad for them and why
(Blind people who still have their eyes)
Cool kids
Kids who are actually cool, but not "cool," who strive to become "cool"
Cheaters
Prostitutes
My parent's dissolution
Becoming my dad
Birthdays
Desserts:
Pornography
My mom's new place
Turkey day
Christmas
Fuck, any holidays
The smell of my old house
The chair my dad sits in, in the dark, while listening to classical music
My dad's Match.com emails
Trusting others
Grandamama
My grandma lived to be ninety three and happy. I can't say for sure that she lived to become ninety three, but she did live to be happy.
The last night that I saw her was around Thanksgiving time in 2008. It was a Thanksgiving to be thankful for: I met writers, I met editors, I met my dreams. I also met my grandma. But still, when January came, It was a hard year to feel good about the new, but I suppose all years can be like that. In February 2009 I attended her funeral.
Attendance makes me think of high school roll calls and mandatory attitudes. Maybe that's what scared me about the funeral, everyone acted like it was mandatory, with sincere smiles and apologetic eyes. Everywhere, there was nothing. Nothing that my grandma was at least. The faces in the service looked "who's next" rather than "god bless," and as the pastor spoke I wondered if he knew her at all. Achievements were listed as many. Her contributions to the community numerous. Her personality giving. Yep, they had her cut out like christmas cookies.
My younger brother, on cello, played a version of "On Eagle's Wings" during the service that almost brought me to tears. I hated the song, always have, but it was easier to get emotionally lost in the music than in my relative's memories.
When he was done playing, the service ended and my dad walked up and gave him a big hug. I had walked up behind them, figuring I would be next. My dad turned to me, mid-hug, and asked for me to help get my brother's stuff in the car. My diagphram burned as I picked up an amp way too big for me and started lugging it down the side stairs.
The reception was held in the basement of the church. When I made it downstairs, there was a food line that ran all the way down the hall. I always felt sick watching people eat at these kind of things. It reminded me of a line for hot dogs at the Metrodome.
I sat down as an unknown at a table where I assumed the other unknowns congregated. The table was covered in pastels, with little pastel almonds to match what was about to be my puke. My fellow unknowns were a floral shirt and a Dickie's outfit, a set of fish lips who should have left the mascara at home, and her (what I assumed to be) spawn who sat with a napkin held to her lip.
Fortunately though, it wasn't that awkward. The silence of our table was overshadowed by the one behind ours. I turned my head to see a couple of my uncles with their arms around my younger brother. Behind them, my older brother stood fixated on the wall. Nothing had set in before the pastor started to tap a microphone.
"I'd like to ask anyone to come up and share a few memories and stories they have about Florence." He asked with his biggest pastor smile, the kind Rabbinical school didn't teach.
My aunt Mary, who had married into the family, stood up with a flock of white printer paper in hand. Earlier I had seen her working on it like it was due by midnight. Truthfully, she had worked on it for months, since grandma passed. She had wanted to read at the service but was nixed out by my other aunt, Jean, who had only started her speech the day of the service. I saw the scattered notes on the table at breakfast that day and at the service she read her speech from a hand written copy.
My aunt Mary was long winded, but bless her, if only her, because she had a hell of a lot to say. Unfortunately, by the time she was done the crowd looked as anxiously bored as during the service. My dad's side weren't compassionate speakers, or compassionate, and since I was adopted and overshadowed, I figured maybe I should share my story. I raised my hand to volunteer next.
I wasn't picked first, but I didn't expect to be. I waited out an economics lesson and a vague character description before I was picked. I walked up to the center and looked around. God there were a lot more people than I thought. I looked around until I found a focus, a lady who I had never seen before, possibly from India, with real green eyes that shined through the pastel people. I dropped my head low.
"Hi my name is Peter Starkebaum and I'm a grandson," I paused with the umm of a dying motor boat, "I just wanted to share story about my grandma." And just then I realized where I was and I started crying, but I did not stop.
"I came down with my dad last Thanksgiving to visit my grandma. When we got there she wasn't doing so well.. but when she was there, I mean awake, I hadn't, I never," I broke off in hard coughs. Great, now I'm convulsing in front of a bunch of strangers, nice logic Pete. I felt an arm come around me and I turned my head and saw the plump bleach blond head of the pastor lean towards my ear.
"Now son," he said as my body retracted into it's smallest, "Go on, please. It's okay, God is with you. I'm with you." I was about to say something to him, something regrettable. But from somewhere, my guess is Heaven, my mom came and grabbed me by my side. My body slackened on the mom side and I found a new energy from my discomfort. The pastor retreated seeing that mom was in control now, and I went on.
"So, oh god," I couldn't talk because my voice was convulsing. It felt like my heart was in my voice box. It felt good and I went on.
"My grandma was asleep most of the time we were there. The last night we were there she wanted to go for a walk to see the christmas lights. My dad, my aunt, and I," I said as I looked for my aunt and dad in the crowd. I was looking for their faces as much as the encouragement on them, but I couldn't see them through the water in my eyes. I choked on a croak and started again.
"We took her for a walk around the neighborhood to see the Christmas lights, but there really wasn't any except for a few houses down the road. I pushed her along on the sidewalk, before we got to a final house.
"All she could say was how beautiful everything was. Everything. The whole time I was there I didn't hear one complaint for anything and I never realized how amazing of a woman she was until.. Until we got to the last house on the road. It was a friend of hers, but she couldn't remember their names. My dad knows them I guess, if anyone wants to know who it was. But we made it down there and she wouldn't, couldn't have been happier with anything else. But all it was was a set of lights, nothing great, not even special. But she thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world. I just don't get, we take so much for granted, she showed me that," I said with my head low. "Well thanks for letting me cry in front of you guys, I'm sorry I must look like a fool," I apologized. I looked up at the real green eyed lady for the first time since I started crying, what seemed like, days ago. She was looking right at me and crying too. I looked at her for a while, caught between the microphone and a connection. I looked away and saw most everyone was crying. I started crying harder and my my father came up and hugged me.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Billy Mayes
Billy sat anxiously in the Job Corp headquarters. The place looked like Phillipe Starck shat all over it: lemon colored butterfly chairs sat on top of a shag that looked like it was made from the clippings of a thousand jews hair. Maybe that's what Job Corp did with all the black sheep that crossed their paths, Billy thought. He looked up to see the sign change it's number and with a ding his name was called.
"Billy Mayes please come up to the front."
"Hey hey how's it going, okay here's what I was thinking..." Billy started out ready to pitch his way out of this unemployment office.
"Your job," the jobmaster said with a pause, "is to find the greatest song in the world."
Billy's face went slack like a broken guitar string. "Where am I supposed to even look?" He asked. "You've got to be joking."
"You have one year from today, January 31st, 2032, at 2:32 pm to complete this mission for the federation," the jobmaster said through droll lips. "There will be no more questions.
"Wait. You don't understand. I'm Billy Mayes. Sham-Wow! Oxi-clean! That's me! Now let's just talk about this song assignment."
"Sir, you have been given your assignment, you have one year from today, January 31st, 2032, at 2:32 pm, to complete your mission for the federation, now please step away from the window," and without a blink the windows closed.
In a wink Billy was back in his bathroom, where this all began. He floated above the toilet, just an inch farther than ten minutes ago. Wait, Billy thought as he realized he was floating. Thoughts of "this can't be good" moved through his brain as he tried to figure out just what was going on. The burning sensation in his nostrils had subsided, even though he had just taken a line off the vanity mirror that sat crookedly on the bathroom sink. From somewhere that was not there, or at least not in the physical sense, the air brought a song to him. It rang out O-Bla-Di, O-Bla-Da over and over again. A song, Billy thought, I must find the song.
The thought of his mission pushed his mind beyond his own addictions and for a split second he thought about where they had gone, but gave up in this new reality. Billy was still extremely confused, but settled. He didn't need to know who the federation was, it felt natural. He didn't need to dope on a fix, they had gone away. Even the holes in his nose felt more whole. "This song must be found, he thought, this song must be found."
"Billy Mayes please come up to the front."
"Hey hey how's it going, okay here's what I was thinking..." Billy started out ready to pitch his way out of this unemployment office.
"Your job," the jobmaster said with a pause, "is to find the greatest song in the world."
Billy's face went slack like a broken guitar string. "Where am I supposed to even look?" He asked. "You've got to be joking."
"You have one year from today, January 31st, 2032, at 2:32 pm to complete this mission for the federation," the jobmaster said through droll lips. "There will be no more questions.
"Wait. You don't understand. I'm Billy Mayes. Sham-Wow! Oxi-clean! That's me! Now let's just talk about this song assignment."
"Sir, you have been given your assignment, you have one year from today, January 31st, 2032, at 2:32 pm, to complete your mission for the federation, now please step away from the window," and without a blink the windows closed.
In a wink Billy was back in his bathroom, where this all began. He floated above the toilet, just an inch farther than ten minutes ago. Wait, Billy thought as he realized he was floating. Thoughts of "this can't be good" moved through his brain as he tried to figure out just what was going on. The burning sensation in his nostrils had subsided, even though he had just taken a line off the vanity mirror that sat crookedly on the bathroom sink. From somewhere that was not there, or at least not in the physical sense, the air brought a song to him. It rang out O-Bla-Di, O-Bla-Da over and over again. A song, Billy thought, I must find the song.
The thought of his mission pushed his mind beyond his own addictions and for a split second he thought about where they had gone, but gave up in this new reality. Billy was still extremely confused, but settled. He didn't need to know who the federation was, it felt natural. He didn't need to dope on a fix, they had gone away. Even the holes in his nose felt more whole. "This song must be found, he thought, this song must be found."
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Hocus Hoaxes
So I shot six for ten at the gullible line, lost one point hoping that Bush really did read a childrens book upside down, and that bear was ridiculous. It was easy to tell the fakes apart from the real ones: they just weren't realistic. Why would a shark attack a human who's riding out from a helicopter? Makes no sense. A writer's gotta make sense. No matter how far fetched a plot is, its gotta make sense to a reader. A picture says a thousand words and if the main part of the picture doesn't make sense (a cat who's being held but holds itself like its standing) then the words are gonna say Bullshit.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Computer complications and alliteration..
Firefox and Safari are forbidden to fornicate, and if they do, Googledocs will not comply. A guy's frustration fixes upon the tick-tock of a callous clock that timely tells him that he is running out. And so is Safari. She is tired of being told she is inferior; she itches to run free from the open Googledoc that Firefox cradles on the wide Mac screen. The friendly farmer of knowledge feels for her. He too cannot exist while the love triangle continues to tangle, so he closes the window and watches it warp away.
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