Bad Brother

       He was terrible until the day he died. Every time we got together he would spend most of the day describing how great his new job at the marshmallow factory was or how many donuts he could do around the buoys at the lake before vomiting. Six. It was no mystery that some of it was going to come up free marshmallows. I'd often think that maybe I'm the jerk for not being happier for him. Maybe it was just because I was so miserable that his news would always come across as arrogance. Which ever it was, he had no idea how much I'd always wanted to be him. And he was painfully unaware that I'd been on unemployment since I was laid off from my entry-level position at the sanitation department. You'd think trash-picking would be one industry untouched by the recession.

The day he died I was especially depressed after my cat was found by my neighbor at the bottom of their pool. I sat there wondering how I was supposed to dispose of my soggy friend when a knock brought me to the front door. A man in a trench coat was there facing the other way. Who does that? He didn't turn around until after l said hello and I recognized him as my brother's friend Douglas. Douglas was a weirdo. He was a bad influence on my brother I thought, or maybe it was the other way around. Either way I was not excited to see him or welcome him in to my death odorous home.

"What died in here?" he said.

"My cat. Well, it died next door. In the pool." I replied.

He got all serious after that, asking about my criminal record and when was the last time I traveled abroad. I told him as little as possible but my life had been so boring for the last couple months I went along with his strange questions longer than I'd like to admit. At a certain point though I excused myself to use the toilet and from there called my brother to see why Douglas had paid me an unwanted visit. He answered by telling me a story about a witch that cursed a small village in Norway.

"That village was racist." I said.

He agreed and told me that the meaning of this story was all that kept him from certain death. I didn't understand but my brother only lies in person so I knew it was true. Six hours later we met in the woods behind an abandoned bank our mother used to pay "outrageous fees" to years ago.

"It's definitely mafia but I'm bad with accents so I don't know." he said.

We rented a car and I drove all day trying to understand their stupid riddle while he slept for the first time in days. We had some great conversations on that trip before they caught up with us. After all these years I thought, finally a fond memory.

Dante Defeats Truman

      It was a colder morning than usual in Los Angeles and Dante felt every shiver of it. His well worn jacket was worthless in the wind and all of the good spots were taken while he made his way back hours later than usual to the familiar neighborhood of stone and glass. He'd spent the last month in and out of the Korean church on the corner of 4th and New Hampshire and though he couldn't understand a word that was said he liked the music so much he knew the drinking had to stop. Dante would sit quietly in the back away from everyone else so as not to offend their sense of smell and from there saw time after time how Jack and Johnny would coax his friends to be a distraction to the congregation. More than once he aided the staff in ejecting the troublemakers when it was time and even Pastor Nam began to recognize Dante as part of their body.

A sharply dressed usher came up to him after and thanked him for his service.

"Please feel welcome here. We have a food share program you may benefit from." he said.

Dante could not understand his english and responded in Slovene.

"Ubil sem zlobenega moža." 

Months ago it wouldn't have mattered. He could've done the thing and forgotten it before morning. But months ago maybe he wouldn't have done it at all. He had the benefit of a clearer mind now and though the years of abuse had taken their toll on his once stalwart body his mind bounced back with stirring agility. He had regrets and fears that hadn't plagued him since Detroit and the summer his wife left him. The world he'd stacked up only to see it fall at his own hand was again visible through the glaze of addiction that banished him to the streets sixteen years ago. 

This was it! he thought. My villain. Satan my Satan. But there was a window of course, he could not hold out forever to find a replacement. The medication was so effective that he'd previously doubted anything else could take it's place, but Pastor Nam would know.

For the first time in his life Dante entered the church with a goal in mind. He must find a replacement for the alcohol. The police would find him someday. He would be punished and rightfully so. He'd done the deed in cold blood and left behind a footprint to prove it. Until they could catch him he would share the love he'd found in Christ and while he knew he could not stop the evil of this world he could participate in the redemption of it.

"Prayer." said Nam.

Dante knew this word. He didn't understand it but if he ever learned English he would understand it less. Nam prayed with him for forgiveness, not because he knew what Dante had done but because Nam was a killer too.

Kikero

Watergate was ruining my life. I was tired of writing about it, and more tired that I wasn’t the one who broke the story. I was a small fish stuck in smallish Omaha. I was desperate for any carrot attached to a stick. That’s when I got the call and met Kikero.

     A small town some distance outside of Omaha, I’d rather not say which, had recently forced their mayor to resign, mob elected a nobody, and allowed that nobody to run the town under martial law.

What was going on? This sounded like the story that would catapult me to prime time. Afterwards, Kikero told me that the less I was to speak of this, the easier my days would go. I’m at the end of my life now, and God made me to be a journalist… so at last I’m journaling. Damn the consequences.

     I drove into the town. It seemed nice enough. I pulled up to a gas station to ask the owner how I could get in touch with this new mayor. The owner was sobbing as he gave me directions.

     

I found Kikero at his desk, rather violently scribbling notes on some old scroll-like page. When I caught his eyes he stood and shook my hand like a gentleman. I noticed how short he was then; must’ve been five foot even. He tip his cowboy cap at me as he introduced himself. Kikero. I told him I was from the daily over in Omaha. He asked how I heard about him. I lied smiling.

     He told me, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you the whole truth, far more than you need or want. In return for that knowledge you won’t report this story.”

     I lied.  He replied, “Walk with me.”

     We walked. 

“A long time ago I made the worst decision someone like me could make. I chose the wrong side. I knew it as soon as I’d done it. Sometime later I heard a rumor that at the end of my time there was a chance, the smallest chance imaginable, but a chance nonetheless, that I would be forgiven.” Kikero smiled at me as he looked up into my eyes. “So, since then I’ve been taking odd jobs all over the world waiting for the end; for grace.”

     We entered a barn. Inside were thousands of glass vials filled with what looked like water. “There are only so many tears allowed in the world at one time. Problem is, as soon as they hit the ground they don’t count anymore. So I’ve been holding onto them, in this barn. Trying to limit the circulation.” He sighed, “Last week someone snuck in and broke many years worth of progress. I’ve been working hard to get things back to the way they were; scratching that number back down.” Tears began pouring down my face. Kikero snatched an empty glass from his pockets and held it under my cheek. 

     

“Thanks. This will help.”

Black

"You choose."

I am looking down at the two daggers displayed in front of me - one with an ornately carved handle and one black as onyx and my feeling of dread grows.

I can't remember how I have come to enter this old curio shop.  I had turned left down the Piazzale Roma, when I should have gone right and, at the end of a crooked alleyway, some glint of light had caused me to bow into a thatched doorway our of mere curiosity. A flailing misadventure through a tapestry showroom had led me here, amid dusty stacks of cracked parchment and antiquity, face to face with a scowling Italian dwarf offering me a gilded chest.

I am acutely aware that Julia has sent me on a fool's errand.  As the cruise ship docked in Venice, there was some twittering about a birthday gift needed for a great-nephew - one that she had neglected to purchase in Ravenna.  Only one of us had accumulated two passing semesters in Intermediate Italian, she reasoned, and, besides, she wasn't feeling well. So, of course, like a good fiancee, I went.

The musty room of mottled wood was set up more like a storeroom and less like a shop, but a little man with a waxy mustache accosted me as I bumbled forth into blackness.  His suspicious gaze told me that he had already pegged me as a gawdy American tourist.

I somehow felt the burden to speak first.  "I need to buy a gift."

As the dwarf bent down to rummage behind a desk, I had realized that we were not alone in the close quarters of the shop. Bulky forms stirred in the darkness and I could hear the clink of glasses and see the reflection of a gold tooth.  Strange that I hadn't noticed this before.

Now here I am, facing the miniature Italian, himself almost overshadowed by the ornate chest he has cradled in both arms.  Inside the chest are the two weapons, accompanied with those ominous words.  "You choose."

I hesitate.  It occurs to me that maybe Julia hadn't really been seasick - that maybe her haste to get me off the boat and into the bowels of Venice had more to do with the recent quarrels we have been having.

A larger man, burly and muscular, lurches forward from the black and snatches up the onyx dagger.  The second rapier is being urgently forced into my fingers.  Rustles of paper and the glint of a monocle pierce the surrounding gloom.

The dwarf grins and it is the most horrible grin I have ever seen.  "É un duello."

My Italian is failing me.  I realize that my phrasebook is back on the boat, and now I am being forced into the center of the room.

Are those coins jingling in the background?

The larger man aims the onyx dagger.  The dwarf cackles and he won't stop repeating those words, "É un duello."  "É un duello."

What is happening?

Traffic Is Getting Worse

      The smell of gasoline filled his lungs as he sat in traffic on the ten. There was a brief moment when he considered shifting into neutral and cutting the motor so he could climb down and step off the highway for a breath of fresh air. The honking behind was no match anymore for his throbbing left leg so he did throw it in neutral and relaxed long enough to let the 14 passenger van merge. When their racket finally compelled him to lean back on the clutch and fill the gap he'd brought the line forward by six feet.

The next thing he could remember was walking down a broken sidewalk in the quaint downtown Riverside in search of a record store. A beautiful woman walked a skinny rat dog in his direction and he asked her if he could buy the animal.

"Excuse me?" she said.

"How much do you want for the dog?"

She scooped the ragged mutt into her arms and he could see their hairs stand up unattractively backlit in the sun. It was important for him to recognize ugliness in something beautiful. This restrained his predatory desires.

"I don't have cash though."

"I can't sell Rascal." she cooed.

He reached forward slowly to take the dog and she responded by carefully placing it in his hands.

"Do you know a place that will take a card?" he said.

They walked toward the main strip and passed an old fountain that had long since dried up. He asked her about the town and if they were having an election any time soon. She seemed to be foolishly entertained by his non-sequitur line of questioning and what woman wouldn't be  intrigued by the mystery of a man who withheld any personal details?

"Do you live around here?" she asked as they passed a modern fountain full of water and stamped from a factory mold.

"I've been thinking about moving here." he said.

He sat down with the dog on the edge of the fountain and playfully held it over the water.

"He could use a bath." he said.

She reached for the bony animal and he brought it back from the edge as she laughed so naively it almost broke his heart.

Then it was morning and he could hear her in the shower. He could never relate to the characters in movies who had the discipline to wake before their partner and sneak out without them noticing so this was the alternative. He climbed down steps forgotten in the drunken daze of the previous night and found his way for the first time to the building's exit. Rascal didn't say a word the whole time and it wasn't until they climbed on the bus that he began to bark.

He didn't know where it was going but at this point was more curious how long it would take his actions to yield some consequence. He couldn't bear to do any real cruelty or truly criminal mischief but he had no intention of returning the fleabag or claiming his abandoned vehicle.

& then...

He'd crossed a line that he thought was impossible for him to cross. He wasn't sure there was any going back. He was so distraught that he'd forgotten. 

Discovering El Rostro

     Pedro was six when he first believed in the Christ. His salvation was permanent and secret. Sister Rosa was more abusive than ever this time of year. He imagined she may have lost her own little one and put her grief into the strap that he and his brother Paco were at fault for straying beneath. When Paco died of cholera he was told this was God's punishment for a mischievous and seldom silent youth. Pedro was fortunate to determine this false, for he had made Rosa's lies a point of study and indeed the character of God was not consistent with such precision wrathfulness. 

    Another twelve kilometers and he might have spent a simple life amidst the loving family of sheep herders found in Jimenez del Teul. However he was a young boy with more instinct than intellect and his nose led him along a path less travelled. There were no phones and telegraph was reserved for important news, so after a short sweep of the grounds and a mile ride by Father Manuel he would be pursued no longer by any organized efforts.

    It was the holy scriptures of course that brought him safely along and demanded a boy of six be equipped to live in wilderness for the same number of months. He would read nightly by flint inspired candlelight the stories so mature and so earnest that he could only grow by decades no longer years. His focus became wisdom not the unproved wishing of a society forgetting its intentional purpose and the marks borne from creator's brand. 

    These Hebrews and their clear misbehaving he understood better than any child his age. His prayers became a chance for those who'd harmed him to find relief for their daily woes and for Pedro a days bite too for he had no reason to believe manna from heaven was a singular phenomenon.

    Soon Pedro came upon a man of sixty caught in wire, his own heart forcing death upon him as he bled a pool that muddied prison rags. Pedro's small hands and wise young mind were unskilled to respond to the unnatural trouble he'd stumbled into. Knowing no greater remedy to this man's wretched state he prayed for the family left fatherless and the poor shopkeeper who was led to thieving after the state claimed his every possession. 

    He hurried to this action he knew was now and would forever be man's greatest access to power. A single fervent request by Pedro was of course the most effective and suitable response to the deplorable condition and inconceivable depravity of this man's fate. Juan Carlos past fifteen minutes later into the arms of Christ where he knew the love of an eternal father and the significance of a God who can employ the lowly and diminished. Pedro lived only twelve years more but his wisdom and kindness taught many what a great privilege and responsibility it was for us all to bear the likeness of God.  

By the Grace of Ba'al

-->

I work nights from my computer lab at home. I live alone with my dog Spudnik. We take a fifteen minute walk each work night at 3am. I find the deep night atmosphere peaceful. A week ago, I saw something that makes me fear the dark. Sputnik and I were rounding a corner on the far edge of the elementary school's field. Sput likes to do his business around there. I saw that night, in the deep distance, leaning between two buildings, something horrible. He wore a suit and tie, smoked a cigarette. But the form of his face was perverse to me. He looked to be a goat. Horns and all.

I told myself I had imagined it, that somehow the angle of shadows caused me to see something that couldn't have been there. Still, Sputnik and I avoided the school entirely.

I couldn't sleep. Never. Every time I closed my eyes I saw it. Him.

We modern men don't believe in fear. We've all watched enough movies to think it hype. So I told myself I would bury this sleeples nightmare.

We found him last night just where he was last week. I tell you no lie. We approached him. As I neared I braved a whisper, “Who are you?”

He spit his cigarette out, answered, “I was a soldier in the Roman legion. We were set to smash Hannibal’s army. They were weak, having lost half their men crossing the alps. This we told ourselves. We formed a vertical front, ten men wide. Our line was incredible,100,000 long. We thought we would ram our enemy’s lines with so much momentum that nothing would stop us. We would roll right over them with all their elephant madness.

“We were wrong. Somehow, they devastated us. They let us keep our formation, but slaughtered the lines in front, one by one. We crept forward to our deaths. You could hear the gnashing sounds of our comrades meeting their end. They all screamed. What was it that was so terrible that caused these men of valor to scream like innocents? Who was this Hannibal? What sort of monstrous god is this Baal that leads him? And to what torment was he leading us?

“A rumor spread through our ranks that they were eating those in front: killing us by ripping our jugulars out with their teeth. My friend who stood beside me, began digging into the earth desperately with his bare hands. He was trying to dig a whole deep enough to cover his head. He chose suffocation over dreaded destiny.

“You ask me who I am? I am fear. And I never die, child. I wait for you.”

I bore all my courage to summon forth one more question, “Soldier, why have you become a goat?”

“I eat the world. Everything in it.”

I ran. I ran, but I did glance back. I saw him biting my Sputnik into pieces.

Slight Left

     Downtown was the location but specifically where he had no idea. This wasn't his first trip to the Box but there was a bag over his head last time and the stress of death in mind. He couldn't go out at night since the abduction and became immediately suspicious of any vans as they passed him by on the street. When they dropped him off under a bridge near Acton he sat there four hours before taking off the bag. The thought of leaving home again and the guise of security was intolerable now but here he was two days later and determined to return. He knew what to do when he arrived but he would have to find it first. 

    Exiting the freeway he remembered them turning right and following the sound of traffic through a tunnel. He drove through every tunnel he saw but it was a blur from there so when he found it he was unaware and drove right by. He pulled over on Broadway and without regard for meters or red curbs would ask passers-by "where can I find the Box?". He heard them refer to the place this way many times though they never used anyone's names. Most of the locals ignored him or we're puzzled by the question. Some played along and gave false directions, perhaps to their place of business and others just begged for change. 

   Finally in a group, one young but formidable man stepped forward. He came right up to the passenger window and asked threateningly about his business there. Knowing little about the men who took him he was sure he couldn't pass for one of them. For all he knew, this was the gang that had taken him and held him in the dark for six days. He also had little confidence in his ability to smooth talk this gentleman. What he had now was nothing to lose and courage to tell the truth. He leaned over to speak to the young man in his window and told him this: "I am Jamal Sharif, I came here six months ago with my sister.  We came to be safe. Men took us and beat us. They brought us to the Box. I ran away but they still have her. I will find her. I will do whatever it takes. I will kill anyone who tries to stop me. I hope for your sake you will help me."

  The young man paused for a moment and looked around before responding. He pointed down the road and told Jamal to take a slight left beyond a red brick building and then he said, "I am Julio Jimenez. Find your sister and kill every one of those mother fuckers. Tell them I sent you." He stepped back from the car and joined his brood. 

    The directions brought Jamal to a place he'd past three times that day. The name brought him to his sister and the threat brought the peace he'd spent a decade to find. 

Yo Melvin

Yo Melvin,

Yeah that's right, dude, some people might call you a journal but I just named you Melvin. Please take a moment to dismiss all possibilities that I'll ever regard you as Dear, and you're on crack if you think the word diary will ever appear again on these pages. Fuck that, Melvin, you are Melvin, Yo Melvin.

I have to tell you, Melvin, I'm very new to this. And frankly, I think I've already screwed the whole thing up because I have never heard of anyone starting one of these things with a prologue. And before you start tweaking out, Melvin, that asterisk is not a typo, there are just some things in life that I'm not sure about and I've recently discovered the asterisk as a temporary fix. You know, something to throw down there to cover my ass while I continue looking for some answers. Not that you should be judging me, Melvin. Don't forget that you have no say. You could be something fruity like Jinky tomorrow if you don't play your cards right. So please, I am begging you, do not stray from the point of all this. I feel like I have humored you enough, and if you don't mind I will now be getting on with my life. You are more than welcome to stay, just try not to be a fucking distraction, okay Melvin?

Anyways, I just feel weird jumping right into a single day. I’ve already made the mistake of watching Pirates of the Caribbean 3 without seeing the second one, and I vowed never to let that sort of thing happen again on my watch to myself or anyone; this even includes questionable individuals like yourself. I can sense already that you’re a real nosy fuck, Melvin, so I’ll do my best to stick to the program set forth today, and you’ll know every little moment of this “whole life that I have ahead of myself.” You might even be exposed to a healthy chunk of my afterlife in the event that my ghost remains literary. But nonetheless, I have no choice but to catch you up to speed at least a little bit on the past twenty eight and a half years of my life. We’ll rush through the necessary details, and if you’re lucky I’ll fill you in on the minutiae as the pages turn. 

Alright that's enough. Get some sleep, Melvin.

Gold

Vibrating light cast through scintillating slats in the football-field-sized skylight decorated the ballroom with somersaulting explosions of color.  At the punch table, a mime broke his vows and laughed at a joke, told by a cowheaded man in a paisley tux.  Two penguins sipped non-alcoholic margaritas through a bendy straw.

It was exactly the type of party that Flat Eddie "Thatch" Burrello would throw - all absurdity and no substance.  This was the type of gala that only the richest of the rich could afford to throw, in order to impress the richer of the richest.

I sat there, in my calloused chair of golden leaf, shrunk to the size of a pea.  To say that Flat Eddie had invited me here would be a misrepresentation.  What had actually happened was that two plaid-suited juggernauts had showed up at my apartment door at half past three with a rented tuxedo, two sizes too small.

"They say you're one of the hottest artists in New York City," the heavier-set of the two bellowed.

"Who is they?"

He didn't respond, but his partner thrust the tuxedo into my hands.  "They do say that."

The first gorilla leered at me.  "Flat Eddie is having a party tonight" (no explanation about who Flat Eddie was).  "A couple of big art investors are coming.  You're to put this on and be there at 8:05 with three of your best works."

I told them the tuxedo was too small, that the pants would barely cover my skinny ankles.

The second man waved his hand dismissively as the muscular duo lumbered back out into the hall.  "Just don't sit down.  No one will be able to tell."

Well, I was sitting, now, in a glass ballroom of madness and debauchery, a famous failure.

A few months prior, I had spilled a can of acrylic paint across a poorly rendered landscape I had conjured up for my community college art class.  Being on a deadline, I had submitted the piece, which, I suppose, had caught my well-connected professor's eye.  The next thing I knew, my splattery neo-masterpiece was showing up in everything from the New York Post to the front page of Gawker.com.  At once, I was the creator of a metaphor for the disrespect technology had for tradition and for the eventual death of Judeo-Christian values.  I was quoted without being interviewed and my artwork analyzed without approaching the artist.

Now, here I was, at a bacchanalian banquet, shrinking into my gold chair, as suited investors admired two landscapes and a still life, all crudely drawn in improper perspective with some secondhand pastels.

They say lightning doesn't strike twice, but, then again, they had also apparently proclaimed me one of New York City's rising art stars.  My hand gripped the can of gooey green acrylic paint that I had brought with me.  The lid sat ajar.  I rose, hoisted the can over my head, and sprinted towards my paintings.  This is a masterpiece.

Adirondacks

Water gurgling along, the wind whispering through tall hemlock pines, swaying the giants back and forth as they creak and dance in the moonlit night. A low hanging fog huddles over the swift moving water entangling her frame like smoky fingers. She sits upon the granite rocks within the narrow mountain stream with her dark brown hair secured by a green bandana, it was one of her favorite accessories because it had belonged to her Papa. He had used it to wipe the sweat of his brow while working the land of his cow farm in upstate Vermont. Her eyes sparkled as the moon shone off her smooth tan face. She tilted her head upward and he could see her smile at him.

Then a bright flash of light…

The sun flaring into his eyesight. He looked back up, using his hands to shade his eyes, there was no one on the granite rocks.

He had come here 2 years ago with Kalen and they had camped out on this mountain stream, hiked the summit of several High Peaks and enjoyed the enchantment of the Adirondack wilderness. Life was joyous then, no concern about the next day, just enjoying each moment.

The stream bed was all dried up now, choked with dried leaves and strewn with the shattered skeletons of the giant hemlocks. The sun beat down on the granite stones now with no shade from its glaring stare. The man hadn’t seen water in over 5 days and he had drunk the last of his supply two evenings prior. The desire for thirst was heavy upon him but the sense of loss was even greater.

Kalen had been there for a moment; he could have walked across the water and reached out and touched her. Maybe hallucinations were setting in now. The man stumbled up the rocky trail until he found refuge behind a massive limestone speckled boulder. He found a comfortable spot on a bed shaped polished rock and lay upon its cool surface. He’d wait until the afternoon heat waned and then continue the search for water.

Fire hurtling across the night sky, smoke trailing its rapid trajectory, followed by an atomic explosion, knocking one back tens of yards with a sonic boom so large that all you heard was deafening silence. There was no time to react. There was no time to say goodbye. Time was gone…

Startled awake with his coughing, the ravine was filled with thick grey smoke. He could feel the heat blazing from behind, quickly moving up the stream bed feeding off the littered path of dead trees. The man began scrambling over the rocks hoping to out run the blaze but he wasn’t sure he’d be so fortunate this time.

To Be Continued…

I Have No Idea, but Helena Does!

      At that moment Helena realized she could do anything she wanted. Her only adversary was time. Time and all the rules of physics and whatnot. Even those might have some leeway, if looked into. The question was now, of all the things in the world to do, what would she choose.

     Her first thought was to name herself as ruler of a new township. New Thebes had a certain ring to it. Secondly, a darker thought emerged. She could do a take on the early stages of the film Fight Club, and go to therapist after therapist lying about her life. What jolly fun could be had making up devastating after devastating backstory?! Helena would never know. She ruled against it.

     Next up Helena pondered on priests. They're interesting folk, right? Choosing God over women, that's gotta put a man in a strange place. Maybe she'd comb the world over for an honest priest that could really tell her why he does what he does. What with all the hoopla these days over resigning popes and molestation scandals, that sordid ground seemed a bit fragile, so again Helena turned her thoughts elsewhere.

     Then I thought,' Helena thought, 'I could spark a war between alcoholics and chain smokers, but what fun is in that? Everybody dies one way or another. Why be judgmental for someone who picks their poison?'  Helena really did have these thoughts. Promise.

     Finally, Helena landed on snaping duck necks. She knew it wasn't the best idea she'd ever had, but she was getting tired of thinking. 'I was getting tired of thinking,' Helena recalled.

     This is where I intervened. I happened to be walking my dog that day, and I see this obese woman nearly drowning herself trying to get at some little ducklings. They were quite little fellas. Now, of course, Helena had no real chance of getting ahold of those mallards, because she was a slow, lumbering landlubber of a woman. These ducklings had already learned the ways of the world in their short lives, and staying alive was something each of those little critters was keen to do. And do well.

     I asked Helena if she needed any help. Helena thought no, then said, “No.” Then I invited her over for some tea (I’m a writer, you see, so we like to drink tea or brandy – I’m the tea type, so that tells you the type of writer I am… aka, not the any good at it type). I’m starting to think that Helena might be a good subject to write about, so I ask her why she was out trying to string little avian necks. She says, “Of all the thoughts I had today…” She pauses to take a swig of tea, “That one seemed like the best.” I asked her why she thought she had to think to do something today at all.
     She answered, “Well, I suddenly realized I could do anything I wanted.”

Reprise

~ fading into the ash of sunset, left with dull memories of what may or may not have been... always knew how this was going to end, hand on my heart and you nowhere to be found.

Pink

There was a lot on the mind of Garrison Knight as he stood at the Lexington Market platform, waiting for the next train.

Always on the move, Garrison didn't often get any time to himself to think.  But today, the 9:06 Light Rail was five minutes late, so Garrison Knight thought about his entire life.

The pink hue of the hair ribbon was what caught Garrison's eye first.  Its floppy ends bobbed in time with the assent of the six-year-old girl, nodding her head in mirth at some funny joke that had slipped out of the puckered mouth of her teddy bear.  Her left hand held her mother's hand tightly.

Garrison had once had a daughter.  Well, he still had a daughter, for all he knew, though she hadn't wanted to see him for many years.  He had used to buy her hair ribbons for her birthday - a gift that became a father-daughter tradition.

That was before his job at the steel plant had forced a solo move to Sparrows Point.  "You're a shoo-in for promotion to line boss," Mr. Bellows had said.  Mr. Bellows had lied, as usual, but Garrison had found other sins to occupy his time.

Garrison's stomach muttered.  He had overslept and missed his morning meal.  Garrison ran a tight schedule, and making the morning train had meant listening to his stomach's running commentary.

The pink ribbon continued its airy dance.  Garrison had planned to keep up the annual tradition of hair-ribbon-buying well past the age at which hair ribbons stopped being cool.  A gesture of affection between father and daughter could not be defined by the laws of fashion.  But, last he had heard, his daughter was going to school in Oregon and Garrison didn't remember her address.  He didn't remember a lot of things these days, save for the mundane details pertaining to schedule.

A childish cry broke his concentration.  The ribbon had escaped from its nesting place and was spiraling towards the train tracks.  A single tear escaped the little girl's eye, but her mother held her back.

The ribbon alit, perilously, in the very center of the tracks.  Garrison looked at his watch, but it seemed to have stopped a long time ago, frozen at 7:48 a.m.  And then he broke his schedule.

On the train tracks, enveloped in a concrete canyon, Garrison could barely hear the shocked murmur of the confused crowd.  He bent down and grasped the ribbon.

The canyon shook.  People screamed.  A bright light shone directly into his eyes.  He couldn't see the ribbon any more.  Black.

Later on, a blurb in the next day paper would remark on the death of a homeless man at one of the stations of the Baltimore Light Rail.  The man had no identification and investigators couldn't understand what had prompted him to suddenly leap into the path of the oncoming train, instead choosing to classify the death a suicide.

The Birthday Party

“Hey, Catie. Happy 13th Birthday!”

“Your parents are getting divorced!”

What? That’s a weird way to say thank you, he thought to himself. His parents just dropped him off at the party. Everything was fine. Kids these days are so misinformed.

“Uh, no they are not.”

“Not what I heard.”

He was getting tired of his small town and its smaller problems that make room for big boredom and bigger rumors.

“Whatever. Can I put my coat somewhere?”

“Sure. Oh and you gotta try the cake!”

One nice thing about kids, they can change a difficult subject on a dime. Adults should take a page from this playbook more often.

“Yum, this cake is delicious. I love chocolate raspberry.”

“Me too! Hey maybe you’ll get two cakes now on your birthday.”

Damnit, why’d she have to come back to this. His parents were not getting divorced. Only yellers and fighters split up! The closest they’d ever come to fighting was when his father closed the soda bottles too tightly so they were hard to open. That doesn’t dissolve a marriage. It’s typical effect is a preservation of carbonation.

“I’ll have one cake, for my one house, and my one life.”

At that moment his fork slipped and knocked his slice of cake onto the floor.

The Human Experience

I attempt here to tell a story of lovely Jude. I will try to tell the facts alone.

Jude’s Mother and Father are the nicest people. So nice. They raise their only boy to be a sensation. His instructors are Brahms, Bach, and Galileo. Jude is the beloved, and he knows it.

When he is twelve he asks why God made the animals. Mother says he created the animals to show his creativity and his love. Jude asks how love was embodied in the centipede. Mother says that we know God is loving because he cares even for creepy critters like centipedes. Jude asks how God could love the animals, but make them kill each other. (Jude, Mother and Father are all vegans.) Mother says that in the beginning all the animals were calm and friendly to one another. She adds, “God made all the animals equal. They all had their special skills, and they could all talk. That’s why Eve wasn’t surprised when the serpent spoke to her.”

“You see,” she continues, “It was man’s sin that did it. That’s what made the animals go mute.” Jude never forgots this.

On Jude’s twentieth birthday he asks his first girlfriend to marry him. She blushes, then declines. Jude is sad. He walks the streets wondering how this world could be so simultaneously alive and dead.

Jude is a beautiful creature. His long black locks highlight his sky blue eyes. He takes care of his body and his resume. Mother and Father teach him to never underestimate the power of a manicured smile.

At age twenty-nine Jude falls in love again. He loves everything about the girl: her puffy cheeks, her rainbow colored socks, her affection for dolphins. The quirks all add up to the very definition of love. She left him.

Jude takes a walk.

He walks by a pond. School is out for some happy ducklings. Jude stands there. They’re so cute. They come up to him. They do not fear him at all. An old, mean memory returns to him. His first girlfriend loved meat and hated Jude’s resistance to omnivorism. She wanted him to suffer for his faith.

Pinkies, she explains, are what ugly baby rats are called. They are blind, naked pink things with four legs. Often they are fed to snakes. When a pinky is dropped into the cage of an already satiated snake, the pinky, alone and cold, cuddles up to the serpent. The snake lets pinky warm itself against her smooth skin. Pinky sleeps with its enemy. It bonds to her, as it should to its mother. A day or two or three later, when the snake decides she’s ready to engorge herself once more, she consumes pinky whole.

The littlest duckling quacks. Jude weeps badly. He moans aloud. He breaks its little neck. He breaks all their little necks.

That’s the story. That’s all of it. I was Jude’s second girlfriend.

There is too much pain in the world.

Strange Climate

     Lowell was very tired. He had eight hours left and that meant another five or six trips. For years the blue collar workforce had been divided evenly. Those with excess credits could buy ships equipped to shrink eight hours into four. Lowell and the rest were lucky to fit their eight in a twenty hour day. Administration's greatest achievement had been dividing the middle class in order to weaken it. Lower had been successfully eliminated they said, successfully redefined to be a part of the middle. 

     Another desirable and expensive invention would steer his ship for him. Though the weakening hands in front of him were all he had at this pay grade. It wasn't his fault or even the mechanic responsible for his ship when the strut retainer failed. Shit happens. Lowell's spent claws slipped and the yoke shook violently as his ship plunged helplessly into the pull of a foreign mass. He should've quit then and strapped in for the ride but a swift strike from the wheel saw to it he would go quietly all the way to the surface. 

     The administration discontinued the term planet decades ago when definitions ranged from the traditional natural mass orbiting a star to a space station with at least 65 zip codes. This caused frequent problems for shippers like Lowell who were often given instructions vague enough to strand them a thousand miles from their actual destination. Lowell was an old pro though so he was sure this was not the correct target. 

     He awoke of thirst eleven hours after being knocked unconscious before tumbling to the dark golden body. It's belt was so thick the stars were no longer visible and he too was undoubtably obscured from sight of the shipping lanes. Angry to find out how long he'd been out he wondered why he couldn't have stayed asleep just one hour more. In fifty minutes his oxygen would be spent and had he stayed asleep he would have passed peacefully. Now he felt compelled to attempt survival, a burden he knew all too well coming from the south wing of station eight. 

     He'd heard stories of shippers stranded for years on rocks with suitable atmosphere though none of them were catalogued. It was to the point where any civilized Naut could only trust an artificially produced climate. In forty minutes Lowell would have little choice but to try his luck in this untested atmosphere. Another helpful gadget could identify atmospheric makeup outside the ship but who could afford the monthly payments? 

     Lowell recorded a transmission to be repeated over the radio waves as long as his battery could sustain it: "My name is Lowell Dillon, a human aboard Gen5. I've run aground some mass at approximately 4.1256.0008. You're listening to the words of a dead man so listen carefully. The administration is 95 percent alien. They cannot charge you for knowing but you must discover a plan to reclaim control of our race as I have failed to do so myself. Please remember me as part of the resistance."

     

Crimson

The night Jimmy "The Stag" Silver played the last jazz concert of his career, there were twenty-five in the room.

Tipping his favorite crimson fedora, Jimmy blinked into the spotlight's dusty gaze and raised his tarnished trumpet to his lips.  Then he played.

Forty years ago, to the casual jazz music hepcat, Jimmy Silver was a trumpet genius, working his way into the heart of a corps of underground fans - the type of fans who championed Silver's '65 masterpiece, Sonnets After Seven, into a near Grammy nomination.

The nomination never came and Silver went from legendary jazz musician to legendary recluse, popping up in various neighborhood bars and back alley venues to croon his brassy lullabies, but never again enjoying the pinnacle seat in jazz lore.  He played a show on a street corner in Lyons to an elderly man in a pinstriped suit, then politely refused the man's tip.  Someone said they saw him join the throng of a high school marching band in St. Paul, Minnesota on New Year's Day.  Tonight, he was balanced on a rusty bar stool in a watering hole in Havana Cuba, in front of twenty-five bar customers who probably didn't know his name or his music.

The first notes of Jimmy's opening piece broke into a hushed angry argument between a middle-aged wife and husband.  The husband stuttered, his concentration broken, and he never found the time to return to his previous biting remark.  Something about the way his wife's hair got brighter in the reflection of Jimmy's trumpet bell shut him up for good.

Two Cuban businessmen paused from a frank discussion on ethics in global fiscal policy to listen to a specific tremolo.

Near the bar, a young man in a cotton dress shirt that sorely needed ironing found the courage to ask the girl next to him to dance and the two clasped arms in a melancholy slow dance.

An old man in the corner just closed his eyes and laughed for the first time in nineteen years, hee hee hee.  The bartender smiled and poured him another whisky, on the house.

In between songs, a disheveled loafer with matted hair and a matted suit asked the busboy in English if he could use the phone and the busboy, a native Spanish speaker, understood.

A group of five American tourists in the back of the room suddenly found new energy in their conversation.  The one with the rosiest cheeks slapped his friend's back and made a generic comment about that good New York music and no one disagreed.

And a single, sad-eyed young girl with an unfinished glass of wine in front of her simply sat and listened, as if she were the only person in the room.

all over again - Part 2

As I walked south on Michigan Avenue, the warm breeze of late summer crossed my path. I entered her building and rode up to the 33^rd floor. I wandered the hallway trying to find her door. Eventually I stood there and paused, unsure of my place in time. I knocked, hoping for everything. A dog barked… I'd forgotten she had a new friend. We’d driven sixteen hours with her beloved feline Chloe, who had chosen to piss in my friend Billy's truck en route to Chicago. I still felt bad that had happened but somehow months later Billy was still able to sell the pickup, despite the lingering odor. It turns out Chloe had recently moved to Florida to live with Rebecca's mother and now Maxine was her new companion. Maxine scratched at the door, while I waited.

This was actually my last night in Chicago. It was work that had brought me back to this city and an email had led to this moment at her doorstep. It opened and there she was smiling and radiant as always. Golden blonde hair and tan face with those dark eyes that always sparkled. Rebecca was jealous of my blue eyes. She told me when she was little, she’d always prayed for blue eyes like her friends but alas she was cursed for life with her cute brown ones. I gave her a hug and I missed her at that moment more than I ever had before.

Rebecca showed me the startling view of Chicago and Lake Michigan from her new apartment balcony. We opened the bottle of Shiraz and began to talk about the past four years of our lives. She hadn’t changed much at all. Rebecca was still the same lovely and beautiful woman that I’d remembered. We also discussed what had happened between us. She saw it as having been a chance for me to fight for a woman, as I’d tried to convince her months after I left Chicago that maybe we should consider a future. She had spent time thinking about my proposal but ultimately said no. That was the last time I spoke to her as I’d responded that I wasn’t able to be friends anymore.

As we sat together on her couch; Time was stopped. That’s how it always felt when I spent time with Rebecca. But eventually we realized it was 2:30am and she had to get up at 6am for work. I wanted to stay. I lingered a bit and took a moment to encourage her and thank her for being who she was. I eventually embraced Rebecca and said goodbye.

As I rode back on the subway toward my hotel, I realized that I was still in love with Rebecca. And I'd lost her all over again.