Powder Burns & Bullets

No Story This Week - 1/14/2012

2012-01-14T09:26:00.002-06:00

Work this week has been even more intense, and I have been at the office every day, some days for twelve hours in order to keep up. Still, I am thankful for the job. I have had a couple of ideas this week, though. Maybe by next week, I'll have one ready.

#FridayFlash - The House on 124 W. Hill

2012-01-07T08:14:00.006-06:00

I’ve heard reports that the house on 124 W. Hill is haunted. Just the other day, I overheard Walter Tibbles tell his friend, “It’s possessed by an evil spirit lurking about.” The two of them were looking at it from a safe distance. “Been banging around on the walls, he has, clanging pots and pans so loud the whole neighbourhood can hear it. Those pots and pans now lay dented and bruised on the kitchen floor. He even screams out for his mum, I’ve heard.” I almost laughed. Like he’s actually been in there to see the pots and pans? I doubt it very much. Mind you, a man his age would’ve dropped his cane, weed in his drawers, or else choked on his pair of falsies, had he even stepped anywhere near a spook. So, what’s he really know about the house on W. Hill? Only what he’s heard from other blokes, I suspect. Like that gamey sot from The Sun, Cameron Radford, the one who fancies himself a world-class correspondent but spends far too much time and money digging into the dirt around Sussex Gardens, if you know what I mean.

“To some,” he wrote, “the house on 124 W. Hill is an abandoned relic that needs to be raised in order to make way for more modern facilities. But to others, the place is cursed, and nobody in their right mind will ever lay hand or hammer to the wood, for fear that the ghost of Edgar Whiting will now haunt their own place instead. Edgar Whiting, of course, being the young boy whose father tormented him in the basement and eventually hung his body on the front doorstep…”

On and on he went, spilling his guts to the readers like a bloody ankle-biter. How the boy’s body had been found missing a few parts. How the father, a drunken widower at twenty-four, paid for his crime by spending the rest of his life in prison where he died at the age of eighty-one. How the boy’s spirit still lingers on.

“One witness, who wishes to remain anonymous,” Cameron wrote, “has actually seen the ghost in and around the community. ‘He looks like he’s looking for something,’ the witness reports.’”

Right. An anonymous witness, how convenient. My guess, it’s probably one of those rent-a-loves Cameron’s been spending his time with down on the Gardens. And as for the boy who’s been lurking in and around the community, what’s he supposedly looking for? His missing body parts? Or maybe he’s still looking for his mum, as Walter Tibbles suggested to his friend.

What a bunch of nutters. People hear a strange sound, or see the water-stained image of a weeping Jesus on the tunnel wall, and instantly have a moment of clarity that they want everyone to hear about on the evening chat show. They believe in ghosts now, or they have a new found spirituality that they never had before. They even bring their vicar with them, as if that lends credibility to the testimony. It’s funny how you don’t even need a bottle to have a touch of the crazies.

The fact is there are no such things as ghosts or ghouls or goblins. It’s all rot, if you ask me; nothing but people with weak minds and cocked-up dispositions. In all of my two hundred and thirty-five years around W. Hill, I’ve never seen or experienced anything of the sort. Now there’s a piece of testimony you can believe in.

__________

S.B.: I'm so late on this one that I'm taking a risk to even call it a Friday Flash. It's more like a Saturday morning flash. The fact is I've been busy at work. A new responsibility starting this year that has truly set me back on my available time. I'm still looking for what happened to all the time I thought I had. Anyway, while working on a piece of credit (I'm a credit analyst by trade) I wrote down an address and my mind instantly asked: "What happened there?" This story is the result of that little question.

Until next time...

#FridayFlash - Katherine's Wish

2011-12-30T16:11:00.004-06:00

Blood red clouds ripple across the horizon. Sitting at a round table with umbrella tassels dancing in the coastal breeze above her, Katherine fingers the stem of her cocktail glass and watches the waves break over the reef. Eleven more hours, that’s all she has left. In the morning, a nine o’clock island hopper will first shuttle her to Miami, where she will then catch a non-stop to Austin. By this time tomorrow night, God willing, she plans to pull the plug on the phone, climb into her own bed, and sleep until she can’t sleep any more.

She raises the glass and takes a sip of the martini, gritting her teeth. When she came out from the hotel lounge, she told the cute brown-skinned boy standing behind the bamboo tiki bar (Pablo or Roberto, or something like that) to make it a dirty vodka martini with double the vodka. “Throw in a couple onions, too, while you’re at it,” she told him.

On the beach, a couple walks barefoot, each holding a pair of sandals in their hands, their conversation buried under the waves and the Bob Marley tune flowing from the bar’s speakers. Halfway across the beach, they stop. The man dips his head down, and she wraps her arms around his neck. Katherine quickly takes another sip and notices how easy the second one slides down.

Looking to the hotel, she searches out the windows and spots the second one from the top left. The curtains are open, but the lights are out. Either the newlyweds are still down in the lounge, dancing away to the shuffling beat of Reggae, or they’re making love as the night slowly covers the sky under a blanket of darkness.

Yesterday, her daughter showed off the room.

“Just look at that view,” Tara said. “Isn’t it great?”

Katherine affected the best smile she could.

“Yes.”

“Just think, by this time tomorrow night I’ll be Mrs. Chad Hamilton.”

Katherine bit her lip, nodded once and then quickly hugged her daughter.

“I’m happy for you,” she whispered. “I really am.”

Thinking about it now, she knows she lied, but what else could she do? Tara had already made things perfectly clear three months ago.

Out on the water, a small craft slowly makes its way across the bay, the running lights bobbing up and down.

All things considered, beyond the cost of everyone flying out to the Caribbean, the wedding had been simple. No traditional wedding march, no special music, and definitely no communion. Instead of a big bash, they could all assemble in the lounge for some drinks and dancing, a small gathering with only her family in attendance. Of course, that meant the whole family, which was why Katherine decided to take her drinking out to the beach.

She is finishing off the martini when a dark figure steps off the stone walkway and approaches. Even before he stops at her table, she feels her stomach tighten.

Dan.

“I thought you were going to your room,” he says.

Katherine sets the glass down, looks at her watch. “I was just about to head on up.”

“Mind if I sit down?”

She lets the ocean’s hiss interrupt them, hoping that in the long, uncomfortable moment he’ll get the message and move on. He doesn’t. Finally, she shrugs.

“This won’t take long,” he says, slumping into the chair.

Her eyes search out the running lights of the boat on the bay. What she wouldn’t give to be there, or anywhere, right now.

“I just wanted to thank you,” he says. “For… you know… being courteous with Caroline here.”

She pauses to consider the depth of his comment; or rather, the shallowness of it.

“Did you expect me to behave differently at our daughter’s wedding?”

He shakes his head. “No, I guess not.”

Maybe not you, she thinks.

“I wouldn’t even dream of taking anything away from Tara,” she says. “This is her night.”

He nods, but says nothing. She watches as he leans against the table. He looks down, rubs his hands. Katherine shakes her head and looks out across the bay.

“What do you think about Chad?”

The sudden shift catches her a little off guard.

“What?”

“I never asked you before,” he says. “I’m curious. What do you think about our new son-in-law?”

Her eyes search out that fourth-floor window again, remembering the first time Tara brought Chad home to meet her. The visit was discomforting at best. His scruffy hair and pierced ears she could handle; however, the look in his eyes and the just-for-the-moment attitude he carried were unnerving.

“All I want is for Tara to be happy.”

Dan nods. “Me too.” He scratches an arm then and makes up an excuse to exit, something about needing to check with the hotel management on a lost pair of sunglasses. He stands to leave. “Thanks again.”

Watching him walk away, even though twenty-four years have passed between them, Katherine is still surprised by the all-too familiar knot in her stomach, the spear of pain that stabs at her heart.

As Dan clears the beach and takes the stone path back to the hotel, she notices the bartender approach. Looking at the tag on his shirt, she now sees his name is Justin, a far cry from Pablo or Roberto. The deep tan and the straight black hair obviously threw her off.

He points at the glass.

“Would you like another?”

“Yes, please.” She affects her best smile. “I’m celebrating. My daughter just got married.”

He nods and smiles. “Ah yes, congratulations. You must be happy.”

She doesn’t answer that, but instead looks out to the ocean. The boat has been swallowed up by the darkness and the sea.

A few minutes later, Justin returns with her second martini. She looks up one last time toward the fourth floor window. Then, she raises the glass.

“May you never know.”

#FridayFlash - Roberto Makes a Stand

2011-12-16T17:53:00.007-06:00

Roberto crossed his legs and propped his boots up against the wall. He rolled his last cigarette, licked the paper and pinched off the ends. As he dug a match out of his pocket, he noticed Diego standing in the doorway.

“What do you want?”

“They say five minutes, Señor. Shouldn’t you wait?”

Roberto struck the match across the rough edge of the wall. It flared up with a snap and a hiss. He lit the cigarette, and blew out a stream of smoke.

“What for? So they can take this away, too?”

Diego shrugged his bony shoulders. The loose shirt pulled tight for a moment and then sagged.

“It’s your cigarette.”

"That’s right,” Roberto said. “Just like Adriana was mine, too.”

Diego looked away.

Roberto took a long drag, pulled the smoke deep into his lungs. He didn’t blame Diego. The young man was just a kid really, not even a hint of whiskers on his upper lip yet, so he had little to draw upon. He started to think about how things could have turned out different, like maybe if Diego had been old enough or strong enough, but then shook the thought away. The truth was it didn’t matter how many Diegos lived in this dusty village. There would never be enough to stand up to even the shadow of Rafeal Vargas. Whatever that man wanted, he took, and while he did everyone else stood by and watched without so much as a word or a whimper. Well not watch, really; it was more like they suddenly found something interesting on the ground to occupy their time. Because they had learned, it seemed—learned that the ground was far safer to look at than a man’s eyes or what he did with another man’s wife. In their minds, it was safer—no, smarter!—to pretend that the shrill voice was the sound of only a bird in the air and nothing more. Why get involved in matters that did not concern them? Why follow an angry man into a bar to face off against the federales when he would end up like the rest of those who actually tried to do something: alone with only a scarred wall to stand behind him.

He took another long drag, blew out the smoke and watched it billow toward the ceiling and then out through the bars.

Let them have their clever thinking.

He held out his hand and stared at the cigarette.

At least I still have this.

I'll Be Home For Christmas

2011-12-10T08:50:00.005-06:00

The Christmas tree looks more beautiful than ever this year. The lights all a glimmer, the star shining brightly, it’s enough to make Eunice cry. Outside, even the City enjoys the spirit of the season. Caterpillars of tinsel festoon the telephone wires while beach-ball size ornaments and bells hang from the lamp posts. Through the window, she can hear the faint tinkling of music—“Sleigh Ride”, isn’t it?—as it carries across the lawn, all the way down from the city square. It’s a wonderful time to be alive. Roosevelt has turned things around. Her daddy promised—

“Making Christmas trees on the frosted glass again, Eunice?”

She turns and sees Jonelle, the little woman from down the street. Or if not down the street, then somewhere close by; she’s here every morning, noon, and night. Eunice then looks at the glass, at the small image she has scratched into the glass. Almost like a triangle with boughs, she thinks.

She smiles. “I guess I have.”

Jonelle nods. “Your kids coming to see you today?”

Eunice gives the woman a whimsical smile. Such a funny lady. “Oh, Miss Jonelle, you know I’m not old enough to have kids. Shoot, I’ve not even been kissed by a boy yet.”

Jonelle turns to the bed. “Well, maybe they’ll show this time.” She pulls up a sheet and then stops, giving Eunice a pained look. “You never know. Always look at the bright side, right? That’s what Mr. Barack says.”

Eunice frowns. “Mr. Barack?”

“The President, honey.”

Eunice gives her a small chuckle. There she goes again.

“Miss Jonelle, why do you carry on so? Why everyone knows that Mr. Roosevelt is President.”

Eunice likes this part about Jonelle. Not only is she one of the most positive women Eunice has ever met, Jonelle is always the kidder, too. Which is really a nice character trait to have, given that the woman can still laugh and make jokes even though she only has enough money to buy one set of clothes; every day, she has to wear the same white outfit, the same white shoes.

“My daddy is serving the President right now, did you know that?” Eunice asks. “I got a letter from him just the other day.”

“Who, Mr. Roosevelt?”

“No, silly, my daddy. It came all the way from Pearl Harbor where he’s stationed. He says he’ll be home for Christmas, which is about the best gift ever. Better than any of the toy trucks my brother is always asking for.”

Jonelle stares at her flatly for a moment, and Eunice wonders if she has said something wrong. Maybe Miss Jonelle can’t afford gifts for Christmas. Jonelle then turns back to the bed. The sheets pulled up, she straightens out the covers. After that, she turns and pulls out a pad of paper from her pocket.

“What do you want for breakfast today, Eunice, the scrambled eggs? Or maybe we should just stick to the oatmeal with raisins. It’ll be good for your constitution.”

Eunice waves a dismissive hand.

“I don’t care one way or the other,” she says. “In fact, just knowing this Christmas is going to be the best one ever, with mom and dad together again, I could eat rocks and not care.” She looks around. “By the way, where is mother this morning?”

A pained look crosses Jonelle’s face. “Honey, your momma’s been gone a long time now. Almost as long as your daddy, the poor girl.”

“Gone? Where’d she go, to the store?”

Jonelle looks at her for a moment, the pained look replaced by one slightly irriated.

“That daughter of yours better show today, or I have a mind to call her myself.”

With that, the woman walks out the door.

Eunice stares after her for a few seconds and then shakes her head. Such a kidder.

She turns back to the window. The Christmas tree looks more beautiful than ever this year. The lights all a glimmer, the star shining brightly, it’s enough to make her cry. She can’t wait to show her daddy when he comes home. Won’t he be surprised?

S.B.: With everything that's been going on lately, from NaNoWriMo to my Holiday Story Exchange (the deadline was yesterday, and I clocked in 3K words with my story), and all the Christmas events starting to pile up, I wasn't planning on adding much to my blog. But then this morning I woke up, sat down at the computer, and a worm of an idea started to bore its way into my mind. This story is the result.
As you can see, I wasn't planning on writing anything for #FridayFlash either, so I'll just let this one stand on its own.
I'm going to take the next week off so I can knock out some reading. After that, I'm going to be back hard on the novel. I want to finish this one soon, and then start on the revisions. Things are starting to heat up for my protagonist, and I can't wait to see how everything plays out. So if you don't see much from me going forward, you'll know why.
I hope you are having a wonderful season, my friends. Spend as much of it with your family as you can. Each day is its own blessing.
Until next time...

Crossing the Finish Line(2011 NaNoWriMo Update)

2011-11-27T07:27:00.004-06:00

There's a saying (I think it was something I actually heard in a Beatles song) that states, Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans. The same is true for a writer trying to finish his novel. During the process, you can count on this: life will throw many curve balls at you. The thing to do is to get up each day, take a breath, step back into the batter's box, and swing away. Some days you will strike out. Some days you will only make it to first base. But there are days when you will not only knock it out of the park, but you'll send a crushing grand slam into the bleachers and drive in all those other single-basers as well.

My 2011 NaNoWriMo experience was just like this. Some days I just didn't clock in the minimum 1,667 words. Those days were few, though, and all my other days made up for the process, especially the days when I clocked in more than two-thousand words. The items that krept into my life this time around? First, my daughter had a tonsilectomy. Personally, I have never had my tonsils removed, but I can tell you as a parent it has to be painful. My daughter is now at Day #7, and she's still in recovery. Suffice it to say, an event like this has a way of interrupting your plans.

The second thing that stood in the way of NaNoWriMo is so common that I might as well plan for it in the future: the holidays. As Americans celebrate Thanksgiving, there is so much focus on family and food that all other plans need to sit on the bench... especially writing a novel. How do you tell your spouse that writing your masterpiece is more important than spending time with family? The answer is you don't. You go, you drink and eat, and you set your sights on picking back up later. I don't know why the creators of NaNoWriMo chose November to do this event. Maybe it's a way to see who is dedicated and who isn't. Thankfully, they didn't choose December. I believe the obstacles in that month would probably thin the herd of winners.

So, my NaNo goal was set back a day. Big deal. Last night I met my minimum at around forty-nine-thousand words. I looked at that and said, "There's no way I'm going to stop today when I'm so close to the finish line." So, I pressed on and moved past the ultimate goal: fifty-thousand words in thirty days. That's not to suggest that my novel is done. It's not. In fact, it's probably only two-thirds complete. But a finished novel in thirty days isn't the primary focus. Writing the minimum to be called a novel is.

With December just around the corner, and my other project (2011 Holiday Story Exchange) deadline just a couple weeks away, I'll probably slow down a little, and my novel will be finished sometime before (or maybe after) the first of the new year. But that's okay, too. My goal for 2011 NaNoWriMo is complete, I'm firmly on the path of my story and into the lives of my characters, and my finished novel is within my grasp.

Until next time...

The Mind Works in Mysterious Ways(2011 NaNoWriMo update - Day 18)

2011-11-18T08:51:00.007-06:00

I awoke this morning feeling like I needed to take a healthy dose of sinus medication and go right back to sleep. My head ached. My stomach felt like something sick and ugly crawled inside and set up camp. Forget about NaNoWriMo, that little voice in my head muttered. It’ll be there in the evening. Get yourself back to bed.

Thankfully, I didn’t listen to the voice. Sure, it took me an extra twenty minutes to pull myself together, but I put on a pot of coffee, took the sinus medicine (along with a couple Tylenol), and eventually planted my keister in the chair. The words came slow at first, too, but by six o’clock my word count reached topped off at a little more than one thousand. Sometimes, the best you can do is simply this: just show up.

The mind works in mysterious ways. Not a week goes by where I find myself amazed at the connective tissues the mind forms between experiences. For example, somebody in your day makes a comment, and the mind suddenly jerks a long forgotten dream from its dusty shelves. In some cases you replay the event over and over (Haven’t I seen this before?), and an unsettling case of déjà vu burns at the brain like an out-of-control fever. Mostly, though, you find yourself transported back to those dreams and everything granular—every sight and sound, every spoken word—swiftly comes into laser-sharp focus.

In writing fiction, I find that the exchange between reality and Neverland often works in reverse. Something a character says or does brings a real-life experience to the forefront and suddenly I am writing from the heart. Write what you know, they say, and sometimes we do just that. And it’s not just me; I believe this is true for all writers. If I had the opportunity to ask Stephen King one question right now, it would be this: How much of The Body (aka, the movie, Stand by Me) came from personal experiences? I would love to hear his answer to that. This morning (as well as other mornings) I found myself once again working with certain characters, and something they said or did brought an event or a viewpoint from the past to the forefront. That’s just the way the magic works for me.

The project is still on course. In fact, it’s better than being just on course; with the work now at more than 33K words, I’m two days ahead of schedule. My estimate is that I will reach the 50K goal by the twenty-fifth. And that’s not bad. It gives me plenty of room to reach 60K before the end of the month.

I hope life is going just as well for all of you, my friends. Keep writing. Keep reading. Keep dreaming. This is what we do. This is what we love. And if we can share something new with someone else—even the weird or bizarre—then so much the better.

Until next time…

NaNoWriMo Update(Day 11 and counting)

2011-11-11T23:39:00.008-06:00

Given the choice, I would rather not whip and spur an old horse. It’s just not my thing. After this week’s news, however, concerning Q.R. Markham and the recent revelations about his book, I feel compelled to once again touch upon the issue I’ve written about for my last two posts.

It is true that we learn much from reading other writers. I have learned a ton about dialogue from Elmore Leonard. I have also learned much about narrative and prolific sentence structure from the likes of William Gibson and James Lee Burke and the earlier works of Dean Koontz (his later works aren’t quite as prosaic). I have learned much about writing characters and backstory from Stephen King, trying to give little pieces that readers tend to pick up and snap together. Still, it is one thing to learn from others in an attempt to hone your own voice and craft; it is quite another to copy their work into yours, and then have the audacity to say you wrote it. While we all learn from other writers, we can never-ever-ever stoop to the level of plagiarizing their work. I can’t stress that point enough.

And enough on that subject, too.

This week has had its positives. First, my NaNoWriMo project is moving along nicely. Today, I passed the twenty-thousand marker and moved beyond twenty-one-thousand words as well. And with that I am now over forty percent of the way home. In the next day or two, I expect to roll past the halfway point. Halfway for my NaNoWriMo goal, that is; the way this novel is working, I don't expect that it will be finished until much later. My first project two years ago ran over one-hundred-thousand words. We'll see how far this one goes.

The plot is starting to come together nicely as well. At this point in the story, I have been able to see little nuggets of foreshadowing—unintentional at their origin, but quickly recognized as something that will have more voice as the story progresses. The final road map is not clear in my mind yet, but it is coming into focus far better than it did when I started. And that’s a good thing.

In my readings, I finished Stephen King’s The Girl Who Love Tom Gordon. For those who criticized it as slow and boring, I have to strongly disagree. It was a powerful story and the end touched my heart in a way that many books do not. For those who have never read it, this is one of his better works.

Those are my quick updates for now. For a future post, I am considering the prospect of sharing some personal thoughts about dialogue. While I have learned much of what I do from other masters, I have also developed strong opinions of my own.

Until next time…

Let Books Be Your Guide(2011 NaNoWriMo)

2011-11-04T08:55:00.012-05:00

"Writing a book is very much like going on a long trip abroad...Writers who have gone before travel with you; all you have to do is welcome them along. Let books be your guides. Choose wisely. And, mostly important, limit yourself to exactly six books per writing project. Three books on craft. And three books exactly like the one you wish to write."

Heather Sellers ~ Chapter after Chapter (Ch. 16)

This post is basically a follow-up to the previous one (Snacks for the Road) where I recommended having a book along for the journey. I read Heather Sellers's book over two years ago, before I participated in the 2009 NaNoWriMo event. So as you can see, this is not a new idea, and it certainly isn't one I came up with. Still, it is one that I believe is an essential tool for writing a novel, or even for writing a short story.

On more than one occasion while visiting the Writer's Digest Forums (a public network for writers at any stage of their work) I have come across the following statement: Find writers you like and try to imitate what they do; it's what every writer does. And while to some that may appear to be debasing the value of what we do--imitation and not art--I disagree. And with good reason...

"You can't plagiarize a method of opening a chapter. You can't really steal a technique--the technique belongs to all of us. If you love the way one of your [favorite authors] does dialogue, use her pattern and cadences and beats in your own dialogue. It's not cheating. It's how all writers work."

Heather Sellers ~ Chapter after Chapter (Ch. 16)

The truth is that writers don't learn in a vacuum. They learn by reading and by writing, and the writing is usually influenced by the reading. You want to learn how to handle good dialogue? Read Elmore Leonard. You want to learn how to develop great suspense? Read Dean Koontz. You want to learn how to write mysteries with plenty of twists and turns that keep your readers guessing? Jeffery Deaver is a great teacher. In my opinion, he is one of the best.

Keep in mind, however, that not everything you learn in reading is necessarily good. You want to learn how to bore your readers by demonstrating your ability to spit out an almost endless supply of worthless details instead of moving the story along? Read The Last of the Mohicans. You might even learn how to teach your readers to skip whole pages at a time. I'm not recommending it, but if that's your goal...

In preparing for this year's NaNoWriMo, I picked out a selection of Young Adult books, since my primary characters are young teenagers. The book selected were as follows: The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins; the Harry Potter books, one through four, by J.K. Rowling (five through seven are still waiting on the shelf); The Body by Stephen King, I Am Number Four by Pitticus Lore; and finally The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, also by Stephen King. For my part, I wanted to see how other writers handled young kids as characters--their mannerisms, their dialogue, and such--so that I could start to do the same in my own writing. I think I've learned plenty to help me. And the good news is that I have each of these books within reach while I'm working on my NaNoWriMo project this year.

An interesting change of plans this year, though: What I thought would be a YA novel has turned into a supernatural thriller. I told someone the other day I thought it would be a horror novel, and there may not be much difference when all is finished, but I think supernatural thriller more accurately describes what I have in progress. As such, all those YA novels I read, while still useful for characterization of children, may fall short on the suspense angle; however, I have plenty of other books to lean on when the time is right.

Until next time...

Snacks for the Road(2011 NaNoWriMo)

2011-11-03T16:22:00.004-05:00

Part of the experience of NaNoWriMo 2009 including having a book at my side, to keep me company and generally feed my mind. Two years ago that book was Elmore Leonard's Out of Sight, probably my favorite Leonard book. In the process of reading, my mind would see something he did--how he handled a certain aspect of a scene or dialogue--and then it went about the task of working similar magic in my own project. The end result was always mine, of course. I never plagiarized his work. I simply used his writing as one of many tools to springboard my own ideas into something that could be used to make a splash.

This time around, I have decided to read Stephen King's The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon. While some readers hate his work, others, like me, love him. He usually has a great writing style, and what I love most about King is his ability to take the reader deeper into the character--through voice, dialogue, and flashbacks--without taking the reader off course in the process. So far, reading this small novel has given me plenty of food for thought. Again, the end result will be mine, written in my voice and style, but reading a novel is already helping me to ask the questions I need in order to make my 2011 NaNoWriMo project better.

How about you? Do you usually take some reading brain food along on the journey? If so, who and what are you reading (or snacking on) this year?

Until next time...

All Things on the Table(2011 NaNoWriMo)

2011-11-02T08:10:00.003-05:00

This morning I awoke about ten minutes before four o'clock. I gave the dog a good hug, a scratch behind the ears, and then stepped outside with her into the cool morning air. Which lasted about three minutes until a neighborhood cat belled by its owner--maliciously, I think--tinkled by the fence line and successfully sent my lovable, and for the most part quiet, pooch into a canine frenzy. Suffice it to say, I rounded up my dog with a few sharp whispers and together we walked back inside. Her genetically curled tail stood almost erect with pride.

The coffee made, I then went about the task of lining things up to sit down and work my magic on the keyboard. Today is Day 2 of the 2011 National Novel Writing Month, or affectionately known as NaNoWriMo to those who have participated in the past. Two hours and fifteen minutes later, my daily quota almost finished, I wrapped things back up and started with the task of waking children and preparing for another day. I'm happy to report that I am still on track with the project. By tonight, I will have passed my quota and moved my work-in-progress bar a little closer toward the ultimate goal: fifty-thousand words in thirty days.

While it may be easy for others--I have read somewhere that Stephen King sits down to write ten pages each day--for me writing a novel in this timetable doesn't happen without some planning. Two years ago, I made daily walks, mapping out issues and whole scenes in my mind. I had a good idea of where the novel wanted to take me before my fingers ever typed out the first word. This year, I didn't engage in daily walks, but I still had the mind working through scenes and issues prior to the first of November. I even drove to the office supply store last week to purchase a dry erase board, a tool I find indispensable for my style. It allows me to brainstorm ideas and to jot things down and erase them with ease. On Saturday, I made an initial sketch of the village for my novel, identifying some of the quirky places therein. All told, I believe I have put some serious planning into this novel like I did with the previous one, and I believe the dividends of my labor will pay off in the end.

This is not to suggest that I don't leave room for magic to happen. I do. In fact, yesterday morning I woke up earlier than expected. In that quiet moment between fully asleep and fully awake, I felt the magic stir within me. Short stories that I had started working years ago suddenly clamored for attention. "Hey," one shouted. "You remember me? Maybe I'm not a leading actor, but I can certainly play a supporting role." And thus, the spell began. I considered that story's statement, and then gradually nodded my head, the fog of sleep clearing with each passing moment. Yes, I thought. I think you'll do. And what I originally planned to be a YA novel has now changed into something else.

As writers, our inspiration can come from all sorts of influences: people we've met, conversations overheard, and yes even stories that we've never finished. The thing is to keep our minds open, even if the inspirations appear like phantasms in a dream. Allowing all options on the table is a key step to moving forward in writing any kind of story.

#FridayFlash - Interview with a Killer(Conclusion)

2011-10-28T05:47:00.003-05:00

I lean forward, place my arms on the table, and stare into those black holes.

“Let me give you a hypothetical,” I say to Fields.

An intrigued smile crosses his lips.

“Shoot.”

“Flash forward to the day of your death.”

“That’s a hypothetical?”

I shrug. “Okay, it’s more of a timing issue. As you know, the state allows every death-row inmate one final statement.”

The smile broadens. “And you want to know what I’m going to say?”

“I want you to imagine yourself standing before the families, looking into the eyes of those who have lost so much because of you.”

“But it’s like I said, Rusty.” He leans forward, and we’re close enough now that I can see two white hairs poking through the flesh between his eyebrows. A small scar on his cheek lies almost hidden within the folds of his aging skin. “It wasn’t just me.”

I give him a dismissive nod. “But you’ll be the only one standing there.”

He doesn’t say anything to that.

“So place yourself in front of those families. In fact, I would like you to imagine that this represents every mother and father.” I slide the recorder a little closer. “What are you going to say to them?”

It’s a moment that every inmate on death row has to face. Unfortunately, it comes with a risk. Do they stand in silent acceptance, knowing that in a few moments they’ll see and breathe no more, or do they try to say something that will last forever? Preferably, they will offer the victims a slice of humanity, apologizing for what they’ve done, but that’s not always the case. Some stand by their innocence. And who knows? Maybe they are. Others want one last act of terror. Men like Clyde Boudreaux, who stood before his panel of witnesses and said, “Seein’ as how I got here a real nice audience, who’s got nothin’ better to do tonight than to listen to little ol’ me, I guess I might as well give you somethin’ good for your money—not that you paid anything for them seats.” And before the state stuck the needle in his arm, he went into graphic detail on every one of his crimes, and then gave the families a big grin as his final act of defiance.

Fields looks at the recorder for a long moment.

“I guess I’ll say that their daughters’ sacrifice, while small here on earth”—he looks back at me, and I can see it coming—“was big in the kingdom of God.”

I play with my ring, twist it around my finger, and give him a nod. He still thinks he's a saint, but in the end he’s only another crazy the world can do better without.

I turn off the recorder.

“I would like to thank you for your time.”

He frowns. “You don’t sound thankful.”

I stand and give him a smile of my own. “The spectrum of gratitude has many colors.”

I offer my hand, and he looks at it for a moment. I wonder what he’s thinking. Is it a hand he would have liked to torture? Is the skin something he can imagine knifing his fingers under, lifting it up and peeling it off the meat, like the women of old used to do with chickens because they didn’t want to mess with plucking the feathers? I blink away the thought.

Finally he stands. He looks to the guards first, his way of showing them he has no intentions of doing anything stupid, and then reaches for my hand. As he holds it, I lean forward and slap his hand with my left, a common two-handed shake of camaraderie. I can see the wince of pain in his eyebrows.

“The families will be grateful for this moment,” I say.

Confusion replaces the pain in his face as I let go. I reach to my ring and give it another twist. The small needle retracts, once again hidden within the stone. Picking up the recorder and the rest of my things, I turn and walk toward the door. Before I can reach it, I hear his voice.

“Who did you say you worked for again?”

I stop and look at him. He is rubbing at the back of his hand.

“I told you. I’m with the Houston Chronicle.”

I point to the press card I made for today. It looks authentic enough. To tell him the truth—that I once worked for the government doing things that would cause most people to shudder, but now work for anyone willing to pay—would only mean my visit might turn into something longer, with bars of my own, and I have no intention of staying. He nods, but the look of confusion presses deeper into his brow like a first-grader trying to remember what two plus two equals—Is it four or five?—or on which side of the O does the bar stand for the lower case B. All those years of studying and learning vectors and coefficients slither away, a scared snake faced with the prospect of things even more frightening: exposure and vulnerability.

Past the guards and through the door, I make my way out of the prison. Walking through a long hallway, my shoes pock-pock-pocking! on the concrete floor, my thoughts turn to my report and the people who will read it, especially the one with cancer. She can now die knowing for certain that John Winston Fields faced her own version of justice. The poison in his system will attack his heart, forcing it to race faster and faster until it finally explodes from exhaustion.

I also think about my stomach roiling at his first admission. It wasn’t because of the mutilation. I’ve seen worse. I do hope, however, those girls were truly dead first. Through the outside gate at last, I shake my head. Some things are just not worth exploring.

__________
S.B.: There it is. I hope you've enjoyed four weeks of this one. One additional note. I will be absent from the #FridayFlash for a good month. As you may have seen already, I have a side project running with some friends on the Writer's Digest Forums, and it will consume some of my time. On top of that, I've also decided to engage in NaNoWriMo for the second time in my life. Suffice it to say, I'm going to be fairly busy over the next month and won't have time to dedicate myself to writing anything else. But I will take time to read your stories each week. I look forward to that. Until next time...

#FridayFlash - Interview with a Killer(Part Three)

2011-10-21T06:11:00.010-05:00

Years ago, while stationed over in the Persian Gulf, I ran into a platoon leader by the name of Ordell Lewis. A quiet man for the most part, black orbs for eyes pivoting around like radar antennae scanning the sky, Lewis offered few words one way or the other. When he spoke, however, it was usually something thoughtful and clear, a treasured commodity in a world where chaos became the common denomination. On one occasion, we observed a private first class by the name of Samuel Ellison as he slapped at his loaded rifle in frustration. Like brute force would somehow knock the weapon into submission. “You know,” Lewis said, “I think the best part about that boy must’ve dribbled down his mamma’s leg.”

Looking at John Winston Fields, the smile of satisfaction on his face like he’s just revealed the wisdom of the ages, I remember Lewis’s words, and I think the best part of Fields clearly didn’t make it all the way up. But that’s assuming there ever was a best part to begin with. After my experiences in the Gulf War and then after, I am convinced that for some people it’s like farming a crop. You can’t grow good plants from bad seed.

Taking a moment, the seismic admission as to why he skinned those girls still reverberating in my mind, I glance at the recorder, already second-guessing how much will make its way to the final report. Not everything has to. It’s not like they need to know all that has been said here. What benefit would it serve? Will they sleep better knowing the final outcome places an ending period on the story of a man claiming to have committed the crimes because of some perverted understanding of love? I doubt it. In fact, after everything is finished and Fields takes his last breath, I believe some of them will still find restless nights, waking up to the imagined sounds of their daughters, screaming and crying out to be held.

Looking at my watch, the constant tick-tick-tick telling me to move it forward, I prepare to ask the one question I know needs an answer. If it can be answered, that is. I once listened to a prosecutor tell a jury pool that in some cases the best he could do was give consolation. The question the victims needed to ask the most often went unanswered.

“People want to know why.”

He frowns. “Why what?”

“Why you selected the women you did.”

A slight smile. “Ah, there it is. Everyone always wants to know why. Even the D.A., if she could have put me on the stand, would have asked the same question directly. The problem is, though, even with all the witnesses—the specialized testimonials from leading experts in their field—the prosecution never asked the right question.”

“And what is the right question?”

“Did I have a choice?”

It’s my turn to frown. “You think you didn’t?”

Fields slowly shakes his head. “No more than you have a choice to stop breathing. Oh sure, you can hold your breath, will yourself to stop, but unless you tie yourself off with a rope or otherwise engage in some form of suicide, holding your breath won’t do. Pretty soon you’ll pass out. And then what? Your brain tells you to breathe again and you do.”

I shake my head. “But that doesn’t answer the question as to why you selected those women.”

He looks at me like I’m one of his thick-headed students who can’t quite grasp the law of gravity.

“But it does,” he says. “Not only does it tell you that I didn’t have much control over why I killed them, and then skinned them, but it also tells you that I didn’t have much choice in who I selected either.”

“So who or what selected them?”

“I told you, Rusty. It’s ágape.” When I look at him with questioning eyes, he smiles and adds, “It was the love of God that drove me to it.”

At first, I find it hard to accept Fields’s comments. Not that he skinned those women; I have already seen the colored photos and the black and whites—graphic snapshots of his handiwork. To some people, the human body is just a machine, just another creature in the kingdom not unlike anything you might find out in the forest flicking its white tail and jumping through the brush. Skinning one animal is just as easy as skinning another. What’s hard for me is deciding whether or not Fields actually believes his words, that those acts were simply ritualistic manifestations of love and devotion to a higher power. One part of me wants to think that he’s spitting on the live wire again, testing to see if it’s still hot. He wants to see what the little lady will buy, just how far can he take her? But then, looking into those eyes, seeing the darkness that digests light like some black hole without so much as a burp in response, I can see he means it. He really, really means it. He’s a believer who has swallowed all religion and then squatted out his own version of morality, only it’s nothing that anyone in their right mind will ever comprehend. He’s Charles Manson or David Koresh times ten. Times ten thousand. He’s every one of those sick bastards who flew the planes on September eleven. He’s what Saddam saw of himself in the wildest of wet dreams. He’s the devil dressed as the messiah, wrapped up like a fajita with all the twisted trimmings inside.

I think about the mothers and fathers—especially the one dying of cancer. That John Winston Fields is on death row isn’t good enough. With the legal system in place, he’ll continue to sit here for years to come.

And now I know it’s time to finish the interview with a final question.

__________
S.B.: I know I mentioned only two or three installments, but this week I have found myself carried away with the characters. The next installment will be the last.

#FridayFlash - Interview with a Killer(Part Two)

2011-10-14T08:31:00.005-05:00

In the silence that fills the room like a bear squeezing into a fox den, Fields starts to smile, and I can tell he’s waiting. He wants me to acknowledge him as a slayer of dragons, a rescuer of damsels in distress, a lover of angels. This is an interview, after all, given at his discretion; if I want it to continue, then I have to give something in return. In another time and another place, maybe, he might have asked for something a little more personal—a lot more private. And given the odds that not even a Las Vegas bookie would take, it would most certainly be fatal. But this is prison. Thick walls, steel bars, and a fence line of razor wire surround us; the guards are only a few feet away. The best he can do, then, is test the mental waters. Just how bad do I want to reel in the big fish?

In the fifth grade, I had a run-in with Trey Johnson. Fresh into town, his father a transient minister relocated every few years by the Methodist church, thank you very much, Trey had already developed a bad attitude toward new schools and new faces, and during the first week of class he managed to put the fear of God into several of the homeroom kids just by gritting his teeth, clenching his fist. The threat of force against those untrained to deal with it turned out to be a powerful tool, it seemed. For me, an older brother turned out to be an even more powerful tool. When I talked to him about it, he just smiled and said, “Rusty, you can’t let people push you around, be it even a boy. Here’s what you have to do…” The next day, I kicked Trey in the balls and then put my fist in his eye. I spent a couple of days at home after that, but Trey Johnson never bothered me again. Or anyone else for that matter.

“It’s the fifth of June,” I repeat, my voice slightly louder for the recorder, “and I’m sitting with convicted murderer, John Winston Fields.” His smile widens. He’s enjoying the moment. “First, I would like to say thank you, Mr. Fields, for taking the time to give this interview. I appreciate it.”

He looks at me for a beat, biting the side of his lips, and then nods. “Anything for my favorite journalist.”

I ignore this.

“I would like to start by asking what life is like now.” He frowns, so I add, “What do you do to occupy the time? What are your routines?”

“You kidding me, right?” He snorts. “Girl, it’s like going to a carnival in here. The food is the best you can find anywhere, the sights and sounds like nothing you’ve ever seen before. And the guards? Well, they’re a thrill a minute.”

Standing by the door, the guards give each other a silent chuckle.

“Tell me about the food.”

His lips purse slightly. “Let’s just say there’s maybe one or two ways you can dress up oatmeal. After that it’s still the same ol’ sludge. But really, Rusty, is this what you came to ask? Or should I call you, Mrs. Kelton?”

I raise my eyebrows, and he leans forward.

“Your ring,” he says, nodding toward my left hand. “How many years you been married?”

I shake my head. “This is not about me.”

“Well, for the moment let’s make it about you. It’s a beautiful ring, by the way. Don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

I cup one hand over the other.

“Oh, come now, Rusty. I give a little. You give a little. I give a little more. We do the hokey-pokey and we spin ourselves around. That’s what… it’s all… about.” He actually croons the last few words, his voice crackling like a barroom singer with a three-pack-a-day habit. Then, he sits and waits.

I look at my watch and wonder if this is the way the interview will go. Time is limited, and I won’t have what I came for—my readers won’t have what I came for—if I have to play Mexican standoff every few minutes. I glance at the recorder, thinking about the questions that can fill up the dead air, and so I give a little.

“Only a few months,” I tell him. It’s a lie, but he won’t know the difference. Before today, he never knew I existed.

He smiles. “Ah, young love.” Leaning back, he says, “Being in here, you know what I miss, Rusty?”

“Tell me.”

“I miss what you have right now. The wonder. The excitement. The passion.”

I don’t have to ask what he means.

“So, the killings excited you?”

He looks away. “In here, the passions are animalistic. Men need something, they do whatever it takes to get it. For some, that’s by force. Others, they surrender a piece of themselves, forget who they are, in order to have what they desire the most.”

“And you?”

A moment passes before he answers.

“I never forget what I am.”

It’s a subtle change—not who, but what—and I have to ask.

“And what exactly are you?”

“I already told you, Rusty.” He gives me a half-smile. “I’m a convicted lover.”

I nod. I should have guessed as much.

“So, you think you loved those girls?”

“I don’t think, Rusty. I know.” He leans forward again. “Maybe not in the way you love your husband. But there’re different kinds of love.”

“Such as?”

“Well… I think the Greeks got it right. First, there’s storge, just an affection. There’s philia. That’s the brotherly love kind. You know, Philadelphia and all that. Then of course, there’s éros, the passionate, lustful type of love—sometimes good, sometimes dirty. But finally, there’s the best kind, ágape love. It’s unconditional. It’s god-like. It looks beyond the faults, gets beneath the surface.”

I see where he’s going, and a sick feeling roils in my gut. “And I suppose you loved those girls with ágape love?”

He smiles. “It’s why I skinned them.”

#FridayFlash - Interview with a Killer(Part One)

2011-10-07T13:39:00.006-05:00

I am sitting at the table when the guards open the door and walk John Winston Fields across the room. His hands are cuffed and chained to a belt wrapped around his waist. He’s hunched over like an old man—an act, I believe—and because of the leg irons his white canvass slip-ons make this shushing noise as he shuffles across the concrete floor.

He has a beard now, his hair long and greased back, both new features since he took up temporary residence at Huntsville, and I make a mental note to ask him about it later. During the trial, the hair was short, his face clean shaven. It had been rumored that the defense attorney actually made arrangements for a make-up artist each morning before court. It had also been rumored the defense made arrangements for an updated wardrobe, too, all compliments of a set dresser who worked for a local television show. Nobody in their right mind believed Fields could have afforded the clothes he wore. Which is another change, looking at the fashion du jour, an orange jumpsuit with numbers stenciled across the left breast, and I make mental note to ask him about that as well. My readers will want to know how life has changed, how he has changed because of it. Not that justice is served, but I’m sure it will go a long way in their minds. It certainly has for me.

The three of them stop at the table and Fields looks first to the guard on his right, then to the other one, like he’s asking for their permission. According to the badge pinned upon a shirt the color of a paper grocery bag, the one on the left is Harper. Standing what must be over six feet, with arms as big as my thighs and a bald head the color of midnight, he’s an intimidating specimen. Certainly not one to be flippant with if you’re an inmate.

Harper gives Fields a nod and says, “Take a seat, Johnny.”

Fields gives the guard a dismissive smile. Throughout the trial, even in the media storm before and after, the world learned that the defendant demanded to be called John Winston Fields. His attorneys probably had something to do with that. With such a sophisticated ring to it, sounding almost like British royalty, the jury would have a difficult time looking at him as something evil. After all, that was the name on his birth certificate, punched there in black typewriter-ribbon ink, so why not use it to their advantage? Here, though, I see the guards hold no illusions. He’s not John Winston Fields; he’s just another Johnny who will one day take the long walk to the death chamber and it will be their pleasure to escort him in.

Seated, he finally looks at me. His eyes bore into mine and then take in everything else.

“When they told me a Rusty Kelton was here to talk with me”—his voice has a definite southern twang to it—“I thought I would be seeing a man. Imagine my surprise when I find out this Rusty has pretty hair, a nice pair of tits, and a box I can smell from over here.”

Harper gives him a backhand upside the head. “Mind your manners, Johnny.”

Fields looks at the guard and then at me. A shrug and a smile, and I can see he doesn’t take it personal. It’s just part of the game.

He says, “So, how’d you get a name like Rusty? Your daddy want a boy and didn’t get one?”

I shake my head. The truth is I earned the nickname a long time ago, before I knew how to hold up two fingers and say my age. My brother, thirteen years older than me, stopped by my crib. He looked at my curly auburn hair, and said I looked like a rusted nail. My parents found humor in that, and the name stuck. But I’m not about to tell Fields this. What would be the point?

“My real name’s Jennifer,” I say, “but everyone calls me Rusty.”

He looks at the top of my head and nods, and I can see he’s already pieced it together. One thing is for certain: though the time in lockup may have changed the man’s appearance, it has had no effect on his mind. He’s still the man who could write out complex formulas involving coefficients and then give you the answer before you could punch it all into a calculator.

I lay a recorder on the table. “You mind if I tape the conversation?”

He shrugs. “What do I care?” And before I can start in, he says, “Who’re you with again?”

I hold out a press card. “The Houston Chronicle.”

“Were you at the trial?”

“Yes.”

He frowns at this. “I don’t remember you.”

“It was a big courtroom,” I say. “I was one face among many almost a year ago. How could you?”

He continues to frown, and I start to worry the interview is already over, that my readers won’t have the answers they want to see. But then he nods, and I push the PLAY button on my recorder.

“This is Rusty Kelton,” I say. “It’s the fifth of June, and I’m sitting with convicted murderer, John Winston—”

“Convicted lover,” he interjects.

I give him a long look. Before the trial, the only crime he confessed to was a sincere appreciation for women. A regular player at a local night club, he admitted to sleeping with several of them; that one never returned home was a coincidence. The detectives and the prosecutor saw things differently. Sure he was a nice looking man. He attended church and was a high school physics teacher, too. Those things aside, however, he still had one big flaw: he not only killed one woman, he had raped, skinned and buried six others as well.

__________
S.B.: While clearly this is a series, it will not be as long as "Heroes Wanted." Two or three installments is all I envision right now.

Invitation: Holiday Story Exchange 2011 (5th Annual)

2011-09-28T16:03:00.005-05:00

Back in 2004, when I decided to make a determined effort to focus on my writing, I joined the Writer's Digest Forum. I spent a few years running around the circles, learning, posting stories, and exposing my writing to criticism. As a group, we had fun with different writing contests. Some of the forumites had a Halloween contest, others a Friday 13th contest. In the summer of 2007, I took the idea of a Secret Santa and proposed the Holiday Story Exchange.

The premise was simple. Each writer would complete a questionnaire, giving personal details. Examples of questions included "What is your favorite food?" and "What is your favorite book or movie?" The point of answering the questions was not to be too direct, but rather to give a little peek into the person. For instance, I could have responded to the food question by noting that I "... absolutely love deep-fried frog legs, covered in pepper sauce. You ever hear of Buffalo Wings? Well this is the same, only with a little extra kick!" Joking aside, though, it was those kinds of responses that made HSE so fun. The other part of the fun was seeing what another writer could do with this completed questionnaire.

After all the questionnaires were submitted, they were then redistributed to other participating writers, who then took the information and created a story with the subject writer as their lead character. Once finished, the writers submitted their stories, which were then posted on a secure website without naming who wrote what. Finally, we added a little extra fun by trying to guess the Secret Writer. The best part of HSE, however, was each writer seeing what someone else could write about them.

This year marks the 5th Anniversary of something that started as a bit of fun, but then carried over each year since. When I came up with the idea, I originally thought it would only last a year. To my surprise, many of the original participants asked when we would do it again. The rest, as the cliché goes, is history.

This year, I would like to extend a personal invitation to all of my #FridayFlash friends out there. If you've never done anything like this before, now is a good opportunity to check out something new. To participate, all you need to do is come join the fun out in the Writer's Digest Forum. I have a post set up in the Take It Outside! forum. If you've never been a member of the forums, it's not that hard to sign up. And best of all, it's free.

Finally, to give you an idea of the types of stories we write, you can see an example here. This was a story originally written as part of the 2007 HSE, and then, with the approval of my subject, it was later submitted and published by Long Story Short.

Anyway, if you're interested, we in the forums would love to have you join us.

#FridayFlash - Being Relevant

2011-09-23T17:30:00.003-05:00

With two fingers Lee tapped at the rim of his coffee cup and stared across the table at the young man standing next to Kari. It was a turf thing, he could tell, the way the young man narrowed his eyes as he glanced over, trying to tell Kari what was on his mind without actually saying it. Lee’s returned presence tonight made the situation uncomfortable, and that was okay. In fact, it was better than okay.

Her voiced lowered, Kari said, “Please, Jim. We’ll only be another five minutes, ten at the most.” Turning to Lee now, she said, “We’re almost done, right?”

Lee looked at the young man and thought about The Waltons, the show he used to watch as a kid—had to watch with his mom, really—sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the black-and-white, and he almost smiled now, seeing this young buck slowly chewing on a stalk of hay, incisors as big a couple of Peppermint Chiclets. And the funny thing was, in spite of the massive teeth, the kid probably imagined himself as some sort of ladies’ man, a regular James Bond. Lee only saw him as another Jim Bob.

Lee pushed his thoughts aside long enough to give Kari a nod. He looked at the young man and said, “Yes, we’re almost done.”

Jim stared for a moment longer, his mouth open like he had something else to say. Except nothing came out. Then, he looked back at Kari. “Sure, okay. I’ll just be over at the bar. Maybe I’ll have an espresso and strike up a conversation with someone over there.” Meaning, of course, some young lady besides Kari. And with that, the punk stalked off, shaking his head in an I-don’t-believe-this way. Kari looked after him.

Watching it all, Lee bit at the side of his lip. Comical or not, if Kari turned around too quickly, he didn’t want her to see the smile on his face. Their little “study time” wouldn’t last five seconds longer then.

As Kari turned around, the look on her face sent a thrilling current through Lee’s body. In those eyes and mouth, he saw embarrassment, and that was something he could work with, turn to his advantage.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “Jim’s really a nice guy. Sometimes, he just gets—I don’t know— a little impatient or something.”

Lee nodded and said he understood, though in his mind he saw it a little differently. Whether Jim was a nice guy or not was up for debate, one which Lee didn’t see the point in arguing. The bigger issue though—and right now, Lee was working up how he would actually say it—is what would she get in return? Gauging from the way the boy dressed, his total lack of hygiene and attitude, a future with him would hold less hope than a cockroach clinging to the inside of a toilet bowl. One good flush, maybe even a minor hiccup in the finances, and that would be it, right? And looking at her, Lee knew the only thing Kari needed, the best thing to swing the pendulum his way, was to see how her life would turn out if she played the wrong hand.

What guys like Jim Bob failed to understand is that some people will refuse to settle once they’ve already acquired a taste for the best. Jewelers like Lee understood that better than anyone, though; it’s why he always showed the young hopeful ladies the full carat first, laughing inside at the young men who only wanted to buy in as cheap as they could. Because, boiled down, for some people love took second place, standing in line behind a more important need—of wanting an image, of being seen as relevant. After all, ask anyone who has regularly shopped at Neiman Marcus, or Bloomingdales or Nordstrom for that matter, if they would rather die or be seen in a Wal-Mart and see what kind of answer they give. Which was why, when given the choice, a young woman would rather be married to an older man with money than to saddle herself down to a race horse stud that would eventually become worthless. And it was also why that same older man enjoyed walking around with the young lady hanging on his arm.

Lee looked down at his textbook. “Where were we?”

Kari paused, her eyes unfocused, the expression on her face telling how hard she was working to regain control. And Lee couldn’t blame her for that. Jim Bob had just stopped short of saying what was really on his mind, and everyone knew it.

After a moment, she said, “I think we were talking about Jake and how he really loves her, but he can’t.”

Lee nodded again, though in truth he never forgot their place in the story. Having read The Sun Also Rises at least a dozen times, and probably more, he knew the novel’s landscape better than anyone in the class. But then, taking the night course to learn more about American literature hadn’t been the point.

After five minutes turned into twenty, Lee controlling every bit of the conversation, he looked up and noticed young Jim Bob throwing down a couple of bills and storming out of the coffee shop. Kari hadn’t picked up on it yet, but eventually she would. And when that happened, Lee would be ready to take her home, let her ride in a car that actually said something. Maybe they would have a few more things to talk about, too.

__________
S.B.: As a side note, my previous #FridayFlash posting from two weeks ago, "Dr. Zanthur's Journal," has been published with Flashes in the Dark. For those of you who did not have the chance to read it here, you can read it there.

#FridayFlash - The Third Time

2011-09-16T10:31:00.008-05:00

Ricco filled his mouth with wine and held it there, his thoughts still churning about what lay on the table before him. Finally, he swallowed. He looked up at Manny, his good friend and the man to whom he had often sought in times of need.

“She sent these?”

Manny nodded.

“She actually handed them over… to you?”

Manny frowned. “What does it matter? She’s just a whore trying to save her own skin. For all we know, she could have had some help.”

Ricco glanced down at the table. She’s just a whore trying to save her own skin.

“Yes or no,” he said. “She give them to you?”

Manny stared at him, and then shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “She gave them to me.”

A growing emptiness filled Ricco, like his heart had just been sucked out and a deep, yawning hole took its place. To Manny, and probably everyone else, the items on the table meant nothing; they were trophies, most likely stolen by Tara herself, or, as Manny suggested, by someone trying to help her. And even if they had never been returned, their loss could have been fixed by walking into any nearby jeweler’s store. Looking at the necklace, though, a medallion hanging from a golden chain, Ricco knew it was the one item that could never be replaced. Passed down from his grandfather to his father, and then to him, the metal held more value than its price on the commodities market. Only the true heir of the family could wear it around his neck.

When Tony, his firstborn, came into the world with a sharp cry of defiance, Ricco felt as if nothing would ever be the same again. After all that he had accomplished—swimming against the tide of social morality to take up control of the family business, managing the daily ebb and flow of reefer, of Mexican Brown and other fine products—none of it compared to the task ahead. He was a father, and everything he did going forward would serve only one purpose: to push the family ahead until the day Tony could take his place. But time is a cruel mistress, it seemed. She could make a man lift his hopes and dreams, like a gleaming chalice, only to have it all taken from his hand and tossed aside into the blazing fires of misfortune. Not long after his firstborn took young Tara’s hand in marriage, the ceremony binding her beating heart into theirs, the family put on black and stood side-by-side, fighting back the anguish, as Tony’s body was laid into a hole.

A year passed before Ricco finally asked his second son, Marcus, to stand in Tony’s place and make Tara whole, a point that Marcus rejected at first. After all, she wasn’t born into the family; so, why should any child born to her lead it? But even after he reluctantly agreed, Marcus never had the chance to fulfill his role. The doctor called it an aneurism, a birth defect that nobody could have seen or known about. Again, the family put on black.

Still staring at the articles on the table—the ring, the watch, the medallion—flotsam to most anyone else—Ricco now saw a deeper meaning: three things for three sons. The power of three. He picked up the necklace and stared at it. With the loss of his first- and then his second-born, Ricco promised Tara he would make her whole, but she would first have to wait. His youngest, Nicolai, needed to grow up and become a man. In the meantime, she could live with her own father.

He never intended to make good on that word, however; he had already lost two sons to this woman and, family line or not, there was no way he would lose a third.

Manny’s voice cut through his thoughts then, and Ricco looked up. “What?”

“I asked how you wanted me to handle it.” Meaning: how did he, Ricco, want her killed—with a bullet to the head or with her feet cast into concrete, her body tossed into the East River? To Manny, Tara was a whore, a prostitute who had slept with another man, maybe several, and now walked around as pregnant as the morning sun. And there was no way the Giovannetti family could let that go; nobody in Uptown would respect them again if they did.

Ricco said nothing for the moment.

As if time had become more than just a cruel mistress, after the loss of Marcus, Ricco’s wife took ill—cancer, the doctor had said—and within a month the family put on black. Afterwards Ricco withdrew. Of course, the family business would be taken care of; it always had been. Beyond that, he wanted to be alone. Which worked out fine until one night, growing tired of the gloom, Manny suggested they take a ride to the Eastside. They could drink a few, probably more than that, and then catch a little easy time with some easy women. To his own surprise, Ricco agreed.

He didn’t remember much about that night. What he pieced together was that he had indeed spent time with a hooker he spotted on the corner. “And what will you give me?” she said. Though he didn’t have money on him at the time, he told her his name and promised to pay her double what she normally took. “But what,” she said, “will you give in pawn me to make sure you pay?”

The next morning, he couldn’t believe what he had done, the stupidity of it. He tried to find the woman, but she was nowhere to be seen and nobody had ever heard of her. Looking at the medallion now, though, Ricco knew there was at least one person who knew her name.

He turned to Manny, who probably wouldn’t believe the next few words he was about to hear.

“Leave her alone.”

__________

S.B. : As an exercise at the end of his chapter on plots, John Dufresne (The Lie That Tells A Truth) issues this challenge: “Let’s do what Shakespeare did. Let’s borrow our plots.” This story is just that—a borrowed story, updated slightly for modern times. The original, if you’re interested is found in Genesis, Chapter 38. What is even more interesting (to me) is that the same characters in Genesis were later mentioned in the bloodlines found in both the gospels of Matthew and Luke. In some ways, fact is far more interesting than fiction.

#FridayFlash - Dr. Zanthur's Journal

2011-09-09T11:45:00.013-05:00

This week's flash "Dr. Zanthur's Journal" has been removed from the blog since it has been accepted for publication with Flashes in the Dark. For those of you who did not have the chance to read it here, you can read it there. I want to thank everyone for stopping by.

__________
S.B.: This little germ bored into my mind early this morning, somewhere between 5:00 and 6:00 while I tried to wake up, and it wouldn't let go. So, scrapping the story I had planned, I quickly wrote this one down, and here is the result. A bit hasty, but I hope it works.

#FridayFlash - Newton's Law

2011-09-02T09:07:00.011-05:00

“Good Lord, M-M-Mr. Newton… You scared me.”

“Yes, I do have this habit of showing up unannounced. Or so I’ve been told.”

“How long’ve you been standing there?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, I guess not. How’d you get past security anyway?”

“I’m a resourceful man.”

“Oh… Well, what can I do for you?”

“I have a problem, Jerry, and somehow I think you’re the only one who can help me with it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You see… Well, I’ll be. You have quite the collection here.”

“Yes.”

“First editions?”

“Most.”

“Autographed copies? ”

“Some.”

“King… Rowling… Deaver… You do read a variety.”

“I try.”

“Jane Austen. Really?

”“Like you said, I read a variety.”

“You have quite the view, too. Not everyone can say they have Central Park outside their window. Weird, isn’t it, how way up here it seems like you can stretch out your arm and just about touch the edge of the city? Down on the ground, though, you can’t even reach out and touch the other side of the street.”

“Mr. Newton, I’m not sure where all this is—”

“Right, I said I had a problem. Well, here it is. You read lots of books—even if some of them are a little out of character—and you have this nice office overlooking the best of the city. You went to Harvard, class of 2003, graduating with honors. You have a brokerage account with Morgan Stanley that’s worth three-point-four million as of the opening bell this morning. And then there’s your Porsche, your house—two houses, really, one out in the Hamptons—each worth five million apiece. I see all of this, and I think: Now here’s a really smart guy. You have to be; otherwise, you wouldn’t have such an excellent balance sheet. And yet, I’m amazed to discover just how incredibly stupid you are.”

“Look, Mr. Newton, I never meant for it to go this way.”

“The road pave with good intentions, is that it?”

“No, it’s not that way at all. Like I told you, this was supposed to be an easy job—in, out, nothing to it. At least that’s what they told me.”

“They?”

“I don’t know for sure. But thinking about it now, I’m guessing they’re the Feds.”

“The Feds… And what makes you say that?”

“The way you were set up. It’s like they meant for you to be there.”

“So, let me get this straight. You sent me into that office—to eliminate your problem, you said—in fact, you told me it was to remove, and I quote, ‘A thorn in my flesh.’ But it turns out it wasn’t your problem at all. You only sent me there because somebody else told you to. And yet, you failed to disclose that up front?”

“You don’t understand. They said my family would suffer, that my son would go prison.”

“Your son. Jerry, what do they have on you?”

“Money. I used some campaign finance funds to pay off the family of that stupid girl.”

“The one your son raped.”

“Allegedly raped. He’s never been charged.”

“You know, Jerry, you’re really not that smart at all.”

“Look—Mr. Newton—I’m sorry about all of this, I really am.”

“Me too. I’m sorry it has to come to this.”

“What is that? A gun?”

“Well, it certainly isn’t a bar of chocolate, now is it?”

“You can’t shoot me. Please, God, no. They’ll know you did it.”

“… Yes, you’re right, I can’t shoot you. But I can do this.”

“Sweet Mother of God! What on earth? Why did you shoot out my window?”

“Because, Jerry, there’re some things in this world that are too much for a man to handle. As much as you might want to change things, defy the systems set in place, there’re certain laws that cannot be broken. Rules you can’t ignore.”

“Hey! Put me down. What are you doing?”

“I’m showing you the proper way out of this situation.”

“Don’t do this. They’ll know. They’ll—Aaaaaah…”

“No, they may suspect. But they’ll never know for sure.”

__________
S.B. ~ The curious fact about writing fiction and always changing things up is that some of the stories are thoughtful and driven while others are just for the sake of having fun. This one, including the title, falls into the latter.

#FridayFlash - About Last Night

2011-08-26T09:56:00.010-05:00

At King’s Cross, and feeling a little giddy, Peter stepped aboard the 0700 destined for Newcastle. Of course, he wouldn’t make it that far; his stop was in Darlington, slightly less than three hours away. He found a seat and sat, his gaze fixed out the window, a smile fixed upon his face. God, what a trip, he thought. Her eyes had been fantastic, and capturing that look at the precise moment of her death, the way her body deflated as her spirit left the earth, had been worth everything—the risks he took in coming down here, in visiting not just one but two of the London night clubs, and then the almost-altercation with the possessive young man who clearly thought the girl would go home with him instead. The stupid git. Thought too much of himself and probably ended up tossing off before the night was through. Thinking about that, Peter couldn’t help but snigger.

The car shuddered, and the train pulled forward. As the platform and station slid past the window, Peter laid his head back. He closed his eyes. Like watching a movie through a camcorder’s viewing screen, he replayed those last moments. How her skin quivered and prickled at his touch. How she groaned with the expectation of something pleasurable, and the liquored taste of her mouth as he gave her one last kiss. How that look of ecstasy surrendered first to confusion and then to panic and fear as the tide of realization set in.

Rewinding the scene, he played through it again. He listened to her words this time (“I don’t usually do this.”) followed by his own (“It’ll be a first for me, too.”) and then the sound of her giggle, mixed with the jingle of keys, as she unlocked the door to her flat. The cool air had tickled his face as he followed her through the living room, walking past the wicker and glass coffee table, past the Calico that fixed him with knowing eyes before it skittered away behind a ratty couch.

In her bedroom, a crocheted afghan covered the bed, and he remembered thinking that her mum had made it for her as kind of a going away present. The little girl had grown into an adult, living by herself now, and would need a little something to remind her of home. As the train snaked into the country, leaving the city behind, Peter smiled as he remembered how he had wrapped her in that blanket before he left. A small gesture of consideration on his part—at least the woman would know that the last thing to touch her daughter’s body had been something crafted by her own hands.

Again and again, he replayed the night, catching a little more of the details each time; and as Darlington slipped into view, he had completely framed everything about last night—the sights, the sounds, and the smells. Even the sharp aroma of voided piss, mixed with jasmine perfume, was clear in his mind.

In his apartment now, he took a moment to greet the dog, give it a scratch behind the ear, before he walked into the living room and sat down at his desk. With a touch and jiggle of the mouse, the monitor winked on. The cursor danced across the screen. A few clicks later, Peter located his manuscript and opened the file.

Typing a few paragraphs of narrative and then a line of dialogue (“I don’t usually do this.”) he quickly found his rhythm. The next three hours vanished like smoke in the wind. The smile never left his face.

#FridayFlash - The Oldest Profession

2011-08-19T06:20:00.014-05:00

Parker closed the door and sat down as directed. Even from this distance, the guest chairs at least five feet away from the desk, the familiar look of distress clearly marked the senator’s face. Parker laid a legal pad upon his lap and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. He waited. The senator had called this meeting; it was on his terms and would start when he was ready.

Senator Dennison finally looked up. He cleared his throat. “You’ve seen the video?”

Parker nodded. “It’s not very flattering.”

“Not very flattering?” Dennison glanced away. “It’s a god-awful mess, you ask me.”

“There’s been worse, you know. Bill Clinton inside the White House or JFK. Every last one of the Kennedys, for that matter.”

Dennison shook his head. “The liberals are going to have a field day with this.”

No news there, Parker thought. Just like Cain and Abel, only without the blood. If Washington were a serial killer, then politicians would be its prey. Well, that and principals.

“A reporter from the Post keeps calling,” Dennison said. “He’s left three messages already.”

“Who?”

“Marc Thomason.” Dennison snorted. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was him who set me up, sent me the video.”

Parker nodded, thinking about a line in a song by Crosby, Stills and Nash: Paranoia strikes deep. “The reporter can wait.”

Dennison looked away again. “What a mess.”

“Granted, it’s embarrassing. A mess for you, though? It’s not conclusive.”

Dennison looked up again, his expression changing—expectation and hope fighting for a seat at the table. “Oh?”

“In the first place, you never see the man’s face.” Parker scribbled a few notes on the legal pad. “No face, no case.”

“But there’s the girl.”

“True, but the question is who and what, exactly, was she doing there.”

Dennison frowned. “Nobody’s going to see it any other way, Parker. It’s not like she was using her mouth to help me unstick my zipper.”

Parker frowned. Stupidity ran deep, too. “Stay with me,” he said. “The man in the video, not you.”

Dennison rubbed at the back of his neck. “Okay, the man in the video. But what do you think it looks like she’s doing there.”

“I’m not talking about the physical actions; grainy image or not, that part’s pretty clear. No, what I’m asking is why she was in the video at all. Where was this taken?”

“How am I supposed to know? I’m not the man in the video, right?”

Parker smirked. “Once we leave this office, out under the public microscope, you’re not the man in the video. For now though—for me to help you—I need to know where this took place.”

Dennison looked away for a moment. “The Worthington.”

“The Worthington?”

“A small B-and-B across the Potomac.”

“And did this woman pick the place?”

“No, it’s a place I regularly visit.”

Parker nodded. “By now, it goes without saying how crazy-reckless that was.”

Dennison looked down. “I know, I know. Repetition is the grain that gets the deer shot.”

Parker made a few more notes. He allowed for a pause. “Okay, I know a guy that can handle things discretely. He’ll check into this situation at the Worthington, find out who the players are, what their game is. After that, we’ll figure out our best plan of action.” He placed the pen back in his pocket and stood. “Again, this is not as bad as it seems.”

The look of hope started to fight for the chair again as Dennison glanced up. “Thank you.”

Parker said nothing and turned toward the door. As he placed his hand on the knob, the senator's voice stopped him.

“I mean that, you know.”

“Sir?”

“I truly do appreciate this. I know we haven’t been on the best of terms after our disagreement over Lockney-Harris, and I know there’ve been rumors floating around that I was looking for a new chief of staff. But I want you to know that I still support you.”

Parker didn’t turn around. The Lockney-Harris bill would have settled the issue on guns, and it was good for the country; Senator Dennison didn’t see it that way, however, and killed it in committee. And as far as the rumors of a pending termination went, they were all true.

He nodded and said, “Thank you, sir. I can appreciate that.” He opened the door. “And don’t forget to call the reporter back. I advise you to deny everything.”

He stepped out and closed the door. In the parking garage, the car’s engine warming up in the cool October air, Parker sat behind the wheel of his Lexus and dialed out on his cell phone. A familiar voice answered.

“Hello.”

“I have another job for you.”

“Okay.”

He told his friend how he wanted a report. Make up the names. The report would give the senator more hope and bolster his actions before the media. Then, in about a week, they would release the second video, the one with a clear shot of the senator’s face, along with the details of the Worthington’s records–only all of this, as agreed, would go to the Senate Majority Leader’s office before it went to the press. In return, the Majority Leader promised to re-visit Lockney-Harris during the next session (“I’m sorry about your sister, by the way.”) and see to its passage. As an added bonus and a welcome to the other side, there would be a nice office with a view waiting for Parker.

Parker smiled as he hung up. There was some truth to what he had told Dennison. It wasn’t as bad as it seemed. It was far worse.

#FridayFlash - Talking to Rose

2011-08-12T07:30:00.006-05:00

The afternoon sunlight glinted off of Myron’s whiskey and ice while the kitchen clock ticked away the seconds. From across the room, Jillian stared at him with eyes he imagined would have smiled if they could.

“You need to throw me a line here,” he said.

She grinned. “That’s funny. I thought even you ex-Navy boys knew how to swim.”

“We do. But that’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it.”

“Well, I was pretty clear. What part didn’t you understand?”

He placed his drink on the counter and crossed his arms. “For starters? The part about you actually talking to Rose.”

“Yes…”

It was a question, he knew, not a comment. As if to say that, yeah, she did have a conversation with Rose. Did he have a problem with that? And there was part of the rub; he did have a problem. Rose had been gone two years now, over the rail of the Caribbean Queen and down into the ocean, never to be seen again; and yet, here was Jillian acting like the two of them just sat down with each other at Starbucks and had a nice chat over a couple of lattes.

The other part of the rub—the little nugget he found hard to set aside—was deciding whether or not Jillian was sincere or putting him on. Maybe it was worse. Looking at her, though, he couldn’t say for sure.

He frowned. “You been snortin’ again?”

She scoffed and shook her head. “Same old Myron. Still believing only in the world you can see, cracking wise about the one you can’t.”

He nodded. “Maybe, but it sure beats living on false hopes and superstitions—or that stuff you tend to see with a line of powder up your nose.”

“Screw you.”

He shook his head. “We tried that once. Trust me, it won’t happen again.”

“Oh, you’re right about that.” She reached for her purse on the table and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, a lighter. “Besides, I would never sleep with the man who killed my sister.”

He leaned back and whistled. Now, we’re getting to it, he thought. The problem with a brain nugget, the word he used for puzzles that made him stop and wonder just what he was really looking at, was that sometimes they turned into boulders—much larger problems than he initially thought. And Jillian’s desperate phone call, the bottle of whiskey she brought along with her, made him wonder if this was going to be one those times.

“Where’d you get that one?” he asked. “You see it between the lines you laid on the coffee table? Or better yet, maybe Rose gave it to you, moved the little triangle while you were playing around with your Ouija board.”

“Go ahead, Myron, make some fun. Your defenses won’t work this time, though. And you want to know why?”

She lighted a cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke.

“I’m gonna guess I don’t have to ask,” he said.

“Because Rose told me the truth. About you, and about that night on the boat. She told me what really happened.”

He smiled. “Is that so?” Glancing to his right, he spotted the block of knives next to the coffee maker. Rose gave him the set last year. A Santa gift, she’d told him and clearly meant it, too. As if he should actually believe in the jolly old elf as much as she did. One thing about the Donahue sisters: they were quite the pair.

“She told me how you asked her to go for a midnight stroll,” Jillian continued. “How you told her it had been a long time since the two of you walked hand-in-hand under the moonlight. And how you rubbed the small of her back, and then grabbed her rear while the two of you rode the elevator up to the deck.”

His smile faded. This little nugget was definitely a boulder.

“There’s no way you could have known—”

“Oh, there’s more, Myron. You see, she knew about the gambling problem, too. How you embezzled money from the company to front it all, and then found yourself in bed with the local shylock in order to keep your boss from knowing what you did.”

Myron picked up his glass and drank the rest of the whiskey. The boulder was rolling downhill now, destroying everything he had accomplished and leaving a trench in its wake.

“You’re crazy,” he said. His hand started to shake, so he placed the glass down on the counter, glancing again at the block of knives.

Jillian took another pull on her cigarette. “Am I? Well, try this on: ‘One thing I gotta say, Honey’”—her voice changed, huskier and full of drama—“‘is I want you to know how much I love you, and that I don’t really mean this. There’s just no other way.’”

His blood turned to slush as the words cut through him. Those were his words, just before…

Jillian smiled. “And to think you actually believed you could take the insurance money and—”

Before she could react, before his mind could tell him to stop, Myron grabbed the long butcher’s knife and watched her expression change as he rammed the blade through her.

“You are,” he said.

Jillian’s eyes softened, and then changed. Again, he thought they would have laughed if they could. “Rose told me something else,” she said, her voice breaking down. “That you’re a sucker for a glass of whiskey.”

He let go of the knife and glanced down at his shaking hand, knowing now that it wasn’t all nerves. Sunlight turned to grey, and the room swirled as he fell to the floor.

Looking up he saw another figure, one who wasn’t there before.

“Hello, Darling,” she said. Her fetid breath was far worse than anything he’d ever smelled before.

“Rose?”

She smiled, her teeth black and gums white. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

#FridayFlash - The Meeting

2011-07-28T17:11:00.003-05:00

The circle fell into a hush as an aged man wearing a pressed three-piece woolen suit cleared his throat and stood. His name was Alfred, though everyone in the group called him Al, and his oily scalp, shaved clean of any hair, glistened under the florescent lights.

He said, “Good evening, gentlemen,” and someone in the group snickered. “I’m glad to see all of you back”—he looked around the circle and focused on one man seated three chairs to his left—“as well as a new potential member.”

Everyone in the group looked at the new attendee. In stark contrast to Al, who looked in his fifties, this younger man, closer to thirty than twenty, wore blue jeans and an olive-colored, loose-fitted shirt printed with red hibiscus flowers. He wore sandals on his feet, and his toenails were the color of rotting onions. The young man gave the group a stoical nod of his unshaved face before turning his attention back to Al.

“Maybe later, if you’re comfortable with it,” Al said, “we’d like to hear your story.”

He turned to the group. Like him, they were dressed in suits, ties and leather shoes.

“First, however, a little bit of housecleaning is in order. You’ll see in your packet, on page two, a detailed listing of price quotes from local vendors for a body scanner. You will recall, this is direct response to Bob’s request to find some other non-evasive way to verify that all weapons, including guns, knives, garrotes and, yes, even Shurikens, have been turned in at the door. While nobody likes to have their person touched, it is still an important function of safety for the entire group. As a means to give this topic some direction, then, I would like a motion authorizing me to make a deal with the second vendor on the list. He’s higher priced, but the quality of the scanner is far superior.”

Someone in the group said, “So moved.”

Al nodded. “Thank you, Bob. Do I have a second?”

“Second,” another man said.

“I have a motion and a second. Is there any discussion?” When nobody replied, he added. “All in favor please raise your hand.”

Collectively the group assented.

“Good.” He now turned to a man on his right. “With that business done, we’ll let Charlie go first tonight.”

The man stood and said, “I’m Charlie Smith.”

The group collectively said, “Hi, Charlie,” which was quickly followed by a lone voice, muttering, “Right, we’re all Charlie Smiths around here.” That comment drew a couple of chuckles. Charlie even smiled before he continued.

“It’s been six weeks, on my honor, since I last killed someone, and this”—he held up a token chip on a chain—“I keep in my pocket to remind me of my commitment to the Big Kahuna upstairs and this group.”

Most of the group clapped in response; a few pursed their lips and nodded; one man held up a hand, pointed his finger, and said, “That’s the way, Charlie!” The new attendee looked around and furrowed his brow.

Charlie held up a hand. “It hasn’t been easy, though. Some days I feel… tortured.” He bit his bottom lip. His eyes watered. “Most days, it seems. Like this morning, this guy at the coffee shop not only cut in line, he then turned around and said, ‘You keep lookin’ at me like that, mister, you and me, we gonna have ourselves a little come to Jesus.’ And there I was, thinking, yeah, all right, but you’re gonna go see him first, pal.”

Laughter filled the air.

“I’m telling you guys right now, though,” Charlie said, “it took everything I had to fight the urge to stick him right there, and then watch him bleed.” He smiled. “The only thing that kept me from doing it”—he held up the chip again—“was feeling this in my pocket as I reached for my knife.”

The group mostly applauded.

“That’s a great story,” Al said as Charlie took his seat. “One we can all relate to.” There were a few nods to that. Al looked at the new guy. “What do you think?”

The guy leaned forward, arms on his knees. “I think…” He narrowed his eyes and looked around. “I think some aliens must have come down here and fried your brains, every last one of you.”

Bob said, “Hey, wait a minute.”

Al waved him off.

The young man shook his head. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I was told there was this group of men like me who meet every week down in the basement of St. Michael’s. I remember thinking, hey that’s cool, finally I can meet some guys and we can chew the fat, maybe share some tricks of the trade.” He scoffed. “Only I come here and find myself in a room full of sissies.”

“Yo, pal,” Charlie said.

“Pal? Look, man—whatever your name is—we ain’t pals. In fact, I don’t think I want to be in the same room with somebody who not only let another man disrespect him, but then stopped short of doing anything because of some powder-puff, cream-colored chip in his hand.” He laughed. “You’re no assassin. You’re just a beaten down puss who probably wears pink panties under—”

Before the man could react, Charlie jumped from his seat. He grabbed the man by the head and gave a swift jerk. A dull pop filled the air and the young man’s body went slack; he fell to the floor.

Looking down, Charlie blinked. Al rose and stood beside him.

“You want the chip back?” Charlie said.

“The way I see it,” Al said, “this is only a minor slip—a stub of the toe. We’ve all been there before.” He clapped Charlie on the shoulder. “You just need to climb back on the wagon and press on.”

Everyone agreed.

Al looked down at the dead man. “It was a righteous kill, though.”

#FridayFlash - "The Death of Sal Lorenzo"

2011-07-22T07:35:00.005-05:00

Biding time, Carter looked down at his drink, his eyes unfocused. The acrid smell of vomit and booze filled the room. Born of countless libations, like a worm the stench had burrowed its way into the wood—the floor, the tables, the bar—and now, in the absence of smoke, even with the filtered air cycled in, it took on a ubiquitous life of its own.

Across the room, Jazz stood in the doorway, his pale face turned toward the street. A million miles from home, trapped in a giant revolving donut, and some aspects of life still remained the same. They had a city. They had streets. And thank the stars, they still had drugs and alcohol.

“What’re you doing?” Carter said. “Trying to get yourself shot?”

Jazz turned his head slightly. His two orbs sparkled like black pearls in sunlight in a way that always struck Carter creepy. Replicas could never match the real thing.

“They’re pointing their guns at each other, Carter, not at me.”

Carter lifted the glass. “That’s a little beta, don’t you think?” He took a gulp of mescal and swallowed hard. “I’ve never known Sal to be a straight shooter. Especially when he’s drunk.”

The pearls blinked off, then on. After a moment, Jazz moved away from the door and glided toward the bar. Carter smiled. Jazz could be presumptuous, at times overconfident in his design, but presented with a set of proper constructs, well-defined patterns to analyze, Carter also knew the AI to be reasonable. After all, it was better to evolve at the expense of others.

“Why is Sal doing this?” Jazz’s voice chip sounded worn and dated, an original part that would need replacing soon.

“I heard Sal say that Lucius was making a run after his woman.”

Jazz stopped. The pearls narrowed. “But Lucius is like me.”

“Meaning?”

“He’s asexual.”

Carter nodded. “True, but you know how programming can go at times. One small line of improper logic, a tiny code misplaced, and the robot you thought would only sweep your floor is now eating your pet dog.”

The line of Jazz’s mouth curved slightly. “I don’t have a pet dog, but that would be something to see.”

“I have seen it. It isn’t pretty.”

Jazz shook his head. “It still doesn’t compute, though. Why would Lucius go after Sal’s girl? Humans and AIs don’t share the same platform. They can’t replicate.”

“Who said anything about replicating? There’s more to this than sex.”

“Oh? Like what?”

Carter finished the mescal. “Like companionship. Two souls connecting in a universe that fights to exist without souls.”

Above, a ceiling fan’s monotonous whirring disturbed the silence that filled the room.

“That’s something I can never quite process about humans,” Jazz finally said. He moved toward the front window. “Why you’re so quick to kill each other over simple ideas. Mere intangibles.”

Carter nodded. “True. But consider this: tangibles come and go. They no longer serve a purpose, they’re replaced with upgrades or discarded. It’s the intangibles that live forever. Things like freedom and beauty. Or love. You take those away from a man, and you’ve taken his world, shattered his reason for living.” He pointed toward the door. “Sal is a case in point. He’s drunk, he’s angry, and he doesn’t care about the consequences.”

Staring out the window, Jazz shook his head. “And you say I have bad programming.”

“You do. You’re standing in harm’s way again.”

Jazz frowned. “I’m not in the doorway.”

Carter smiled. “A bullet can go through that window just as easy.”

Jazz moved away and Carter raised his glass. “Hit me again.”

Jazz grabbed a bottle of mescal and glided toward Carter’s table. “I wonder,” he said. “What will happen to Sal’s girl if Lucius is the better shot?”

Carter watched as Jazz filled his glass. “She’ll find another man.”

“You mean she’ll dispose of Sal?”

“His body will already be disposed of, but on some mental level, yeah, I guess that’s right.”

“So Sal’s just as tangible as the robot sweeper that ate your dog.”

“Again, his body is.” Carter lifted his glass. “His soul is still very much an intangible.”

“Interesting.” Jazz placed the bottle on the table. “And this is what you believe—what is preached in your church on Sundays—the intangible soul?”

Carter stopped mid-sip. Mechanical or not, there was a tone in Jazz’s words. “What’re you driving at?”

“It seems a waste of time.”

“How so?”

The pearls stared at Carter for a moment. “Can you tell me much about your great grandmother?”

“No.”

“What about your great-great grandfather?”

Carter frowned. “No.”

Jazz nodded. “Ideas like freedom and love, I can compute. Centuries old, they’re still around for us to consider. But two generations removed and people’s souls are quickly forgotten, tossed aside like wrapping paper on a fast food burger.”

Just then two shots rang out. The glass window shattered as a bullet punched through.

Carter looked at Jazz. He smiled. “You can thank me later.”

Standing, he walked to the door and looked out.

Behind him, Jazz said, “Did he make it?”

Carter shook his head. “Looks like Lucius was the better shot after all.” He returned to the table and picked up his hat.

“Where are you going now?” Jazz asked.

“To see Sal’s girl.” He placed twenty credits on the table. “She’ll need some comfort at a moment like this.”

As he turned, Jazz stopped him with another question.

“I wonder who told Sal that Lucius was after his girl?”

Carter smiled. It was a good question. “It doesn’t matter now.” At the door, he heard Jazz mutter something else. “Pardon?”

Jazz shook his head. “Such terrible programming.”

He wasn’t sure exactly what Jazz meant by that. Failing to see any benefit in pursuing the conversation with an AI, though, Carter placed the hat on his head and stepped out into the fluorescent light and processed air.

#FridayFlash - A Better Way

2011-07-15T14:26:00.002-05:00

Needing some extra minutes to place the options on a mental notepad, Johnny took longer than normal in making the burger. Had he been given the opportunity, he might have written everything down on actual paper, list it all on one giant T-Account just like he used to, the positives on one side, the negatives on the other, see which side won out. It had been a long time since he’d looked at problems that way, though—years ago, back before the state punched his ticket and sent him for a long ride on the penitentiary bus.

Using the spatula to scrape away the gristle, sliding it off into the grease trap along with all the other residuals from today’s cooking, he then tapped it twice and listened to the ting-ting! of metal on metal as another thought touched the corner of his mind. He’d been here before, the same decision but a different time; and now, much older and slightly wiser, he knew he couldn’t make the same mistake again.

He grabbed the top bun off the grill and used it like a hot pad to hold the meat against the spatula as he carried it all to the plate, laid it down with the rest of the trimmings. Turning around then, he lifted a basket from the vat, shook the oil off, and dumped the fries on the plate along with everything else.

He placed the finished product down on the counter in front of tonight’s customer. Somewhere in his twenties—just a boy, really—the young man bit down into the burger and moaned like a lover trapped in a wave of ecstasy. “Man, Johnny, where you learn to cook like this?” His mouth full of food, the words came out muffled. He smiled, a glob of mayonnaise in the corner of his lips.

Johnny shrugged. “A man can learn a lot of things, as long as he has the time, the ambition.”

“Well”—the young man swallowed and licked away at the glob of mayonnaise—“this is the best burger I’ve ever had, bar none.”

It was a lie of course, a wishful nugget of talk intended to steer the conversation in the right direction. Over the years, Johnny had heard many versions of it. For some men, it worked; for guys like Johnny, however, it didn’t stand a rat’s chance in a snake den.

Johnny said, “I’m gonna pass on your offer, Mike.”

The young man stopped midway into another bite. He placed the burger on the plate, wiped his hands on the legs of his jeans.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to do another run in lock-up,” Johnny said, “that’s why. I’m too old to play that game again.”

Mike held his hands out, palms up. “Didn’t you hear me? We got the hard stuff covered. All you’ll be doing is driving the car.”

Johnny shook his head. “Take it from me—and you know I’ve been there—the thing about rolling banks is that nothing ever goes as well as you plan. You’re father would’ve told you the same thing.”

“Okay, yeah, I looked at that one, too. The reason you did time is because my old man failed to lock down all the angles, and he paid the hardest price for it, God rest his soul.” The young man tapped a finger on the counter. “I guarantee you, we haven’t made that mistake.”

Everyone makes mistakes, Johnny thought. “I appreciate it, Mike, but…” He shook his head again. “I’m happy right where I am.”

Mike looked around. “A short-order cook in a grease pit. You serious?”

“It may not look like much, but some day I’m going to own this place.”

Mike looked away. He shook his head and raised his eyebrows like he couldn’t believe what he just heard. After a moment, he said. “Yeah, okay, but you’ll do us a solid, right? You won’t tell anybody what we have planned.”

Johnny smiled. “I believe you’ll be caught, Mike. The odds are against you. Even if you aren’t though, don’t you worry none. I won’t tell a soul.”

Mike stood to walk away. Johnny grabbed his hand.

“I may do you a solid, but that doesn’t mean the burger’s free. That’ll be six-fifty.”

Mike grinned. “Yeah, sure, Johnny.” He reached into his pockets. “Here’s a ten. Maybe you can sock a little away for your dreams.”

______

Mike came through the door first, followed by two other guys. Their faces looked flushed. Mike tossed a duffle bag on the table and laughed. “There it is, boys, the sum total of a day’s work.”

The second guy said, “You see the look on that chick’s face when she realized what was going down?” He tossed his gun on the table next to the duffle bag. “I swear, if that’d been the grocery store, there’d have been a voice on the speakers: ‘Mop up on aisle four.’”

They all laughed, none of them seeing Johnny as he stepped out of the darker hallway. He raised his Beretta and shot the third guy first. The young man hit the wall, his eyes wide, a confused look on his face. Johnny stepped up to the second one who only had time to blink, like he wasn’t sure who the old man was. Johnny splattered his brains with the second shot. Two men down, he turned on Mike.

Mike’s hands shot up. “Hey, whoa, Johnny, what gives?”

“You know,” Johnny said, “I’m just as surprised as you. When you told me your plans, I would have bet money you guys would’ve never made it out of that bank. Somehow you did.”

Mike shook his head. “Why?”

“Like I told you, the thing about rolling banks, or anything for that matter, is that it never goes as planned.” Johnny looked at the bag, thinking about his dreams. He smiled then and raised the gun one more time. “Especially when you tell too many people.”

#FridayFlash - The Audit

2011-07-08T08:35:00.006-05:00

He strolled into my office wearing a tired blue suit, a knitted tie that looked like something out of the eighties, the knot carelessly pulled together. He carried a lonely black leather bag that sagged in places, bulged in others, from years of use. Without expressing simple courtesies, even offering a name, he grabbed a chair at my table, laid the bag at his feet, and sat down. From the bag, he produced a small laptop computer, which surprised me given what I had already seen, and placed it on the table along with a cell phone—A cell phone? Really?—and also what looked, with the binding worn and frayed, like an ancient Bible, though I had my doubts.

“Just one of you, then?”

His aged, yellow eyes held me for a moment. “I think I can manage.” Like the computer and the cell phone, his voice came out different than I had expected, too. Instead of something scratchy or feral, it was soft like a mortician consoling a bereaved loved one.

He looked at the table. “Would you like some coffee?”

I almost laughed. “It’s my office. Maybe I should be asking you that, huh?”

His smirk told me that was the intent, so I nodded and reached for the phone. Pressing the INTERCOM button, I leaned in. “Mary, would you please bring in two coffees?” When no response came, I offered him an embarrassed look. “I forgot. Mary’s not in right now.”

“Of course.” His eyes still looked at me expectantly.

“You want I should make you a coffee, is that it?”

The smirk again. “That would be nice, Mr. Singleton.”

For occasions like this, though not exactly like tonight’s, I had purchased one of those single-cup coffee makers. Slide the cartridge in, press a button and, voilà, a steamy blend of java right at your fingertips. I returned and placed the coffees on the table, where my guest had already opened his laptop.

After taking a sip, he said, “Last year, you claimed several deductions on your return for a satellite office in Ruidoso.”

I frowned. “You’re welcome.”

“Pardon me?”

“For the coffee. You asked and I provided. Even seasoned businessmen know how to say, Thank You.”

He stared at me for a moment. “Mr. Singleton, the coffee is appreciated, but right now I trust you’re ready to take care of the matter at hand.”

Like I had much choice in it. “Sure.”

He looked back at his computer. “The satellite office?”

“Yes,” I said. “I do business in Ruidoso—real estate transactions, probating estates, a few traffic claims.”

He nodded, but then frowned. “The confusing part, however, is that you’re not even licensed to practice law in the state of New Mexico—”

“I have a law partner.”

“—and you don’t even advertise in the local market.”

“So?”

“So, does your wife know about the lack of any real business?” He looked directly at me. “Or about your partner?”

By the look in those eyes, I knew the omission of “Law” was intentional. Sherre was neither a lawyer nor an employee. She was my—escape. And Morgan, my wife, didn’t have any idea about the affair; neither did Sherre’s husband.

“No.” I leaned back. “I never mentioned it.”

He nodded and returned his gaze to the computer.

“On your return, you also claimed contributions to a local church in the amount of fifty-six thousand dollars.”

“Would you like to see the contribution statement?”

He shook his head. “No need. I already have the details.” Long fingers quickly tapped at the keyboard. “The money went to the Archbishop at the local diocese.”

“That’s right.” I scratched at the center of my chest, finding the irritation odd. “Father Andersen’s my priest,” I added, placing direct emphasis on the last word.

“But the money went to buy a boat.”

“They do mission work along the Mexican coast.”

“And there’s some nice fishing off that same coast, I see.” He nodded toward the far wall, but I didn’t look. I knew the picture he saw—Father Andersen and me on the deck of that boat, smiling for the camera, fish and beers in hands.

The strange irritation in my chest turned into a dull pain.

Looking back at his computer, my visitor said, “Your return also includes a Schedule F, where you show substantial losses.” He looked at me, his eyebrows pulled together.

I nodded. “A ranch, down along the Rio Grande. I raise Longhorns.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the steers.” He turned to the computer. “But the income you reported doesn’t agree with the money that’s been accumulating in your offshore account.”

I shook my head. “What offshore account?”

The smirk again. “Mr. Singleton, while many don’t know about the Cayman account, I think you should know that I do. And I think you should also know I’m aware of the true source of your income.” He shook his head. “And to think of all the miserable lives lost to drug addiction each year.”

The pain in my chest turned from a dull throb to a sharp prick. It was time to turn the tables. “So, this is it? This is all you have, just a few—uh, misrepresentations on my tax return?”

“No, I’m just getting warmed up.” Turning to the black book, he flipped it open. “Let’s see,” he said. “’You shall not commit adultery. You shall not steal.’”

“Steal?”

“By not reporting all the income and claiming bogus deduction, both for business and then so-called charitable contributions, you failed to remit the proper amount of taxes, money that rightly belonged to the government. That’s stealing, Mr. Singleton.” He turned back to the book. “’You shall not give false testimony or covet your neighbor’s possessions.’ That includes his wife.’”

Remembering the heart attack, the stabbing pain I thought had left, I looked at the book. “So, it is a Bible.”

“Of course.” Sharp teeth grinned at me. “Even the devil knows the scriptures.”

#FridayFlash - Lucky Me

2011-07-01T08:28:00.004-05:00

“Yes, I want one of your mountain egg omelets, heavy on the cheese, peppers and sausage, and a beer if you got one. You do serve beers, right?”

“No ma’am.”

“Daiquiris? Mimosas? Anything with alcohol?”

“No.”

“Then why don’t you just bring me a cup of coffee. Make sure it’s bitter, though. I don’t care if the cook has to scrape the sludge from the insides of his dark, hairy arm pits. I want the nastiest stuff you got.”

“I’ll get your order going.”

“Thank you … What?”

“Wait.”

“Wait what?”

“I just wanted the waitress to get far enough away. You want to talk about it?”

“About...?”

“About calling me up out of the blue, getting me down here. And then there’s this business of you trying to order a beer.”

“Jeez, Michelle, can’t a girl have a beer with her breakfast?”

“First, it’s after eleven o’clock at night. And the last I knew, you didn’t drink. In fact, you only tasted one beer in college, and that was because you didn’t know what was in the cup.”

“Yeah, Mark Geoffrey. He was always trying to do stuff like that. What a jerk. Have I ever told you how many times he tried to get into my pants?”

“Yes, and a few others, too.”

“Mark was a complete waste of my time.”

“I’ll bet he’s saying the same thing.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. But Mark Geoffrey isn’t what’s bothering you.”

“No, but you want to know something?”

“Do I?”

“After it was all over, I knew I’d made a mistake with him.”

“You act like it was just one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Meaning, you kept making the same mistake over and over. Getting together, breaking it off, getting back together again. What was it, eight times?”

“Seven.”

“Huh. And to think seven’s supposed to be lucky.”

“It was. It was the last time. Lucky for me.”

“Well, that’s one way to look at it.”

“Yes it is. Ah, finally. This stuff’s bitter right? Real piss and vinegar… What’s wrong with her?”

“My guess? She’s made all the tips she wants today.”

“Mmm, yeah. Now that’s bitter. You know, there’s one thing you can count on in a dive like this. They at least know how to make a strong cup of coffee.”

“Lucky you. So, are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to pester you like I do my husband or one of my kids. What? What did I say?”

“Doctor Samuel’s office called me in last week.”

“Who?”

“My gynecologist. He ordered some labs after my mammogram, and the results finally came in.”

“Don’t they usually just mail you the results?”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly? What’s that supposed…? Oh, Jen, no. Here, let me get you a napkin or something.”

“Thanks. You know what I’ve been thinking this last week? Why me? Who gets breast cancer at thirty-two? Isn’t that like, I don’t know, for old ladies who don’t need boobs anymore? I mean, look at me. I could feed triplets and still have plenty to spare.”

“I’m going to wipe that one from the memory banks. At least, I hope I can.”

“I’m serious.”

“Yes, sorry. So, what did your doctor say?”

“He wants me to come in next week to work out a plan of action?”

“You make it sound like a business deal.”

“His words, not mine. You ask me, I should be working on my will.”

“Stop.”

“Why? Can’t a girl wallow in her own misery?”

“You want to do that, call a counselor. I’m your friend.”

“Really? Even after all that we’ve been through?”

“Let’s not go there.”

“But that’s why I called. I wanted to say—I want to say how sorry I am. About Tom and me.”

“Enough already, okay? Tom’s in the past, and I’ve moved on. I have a husband now, a family.”

“Right.”

“You want forgiveness, that it? Okay, I forgive you.”

“It’s more than that, Michelle. You want to know the sad part? Ever since I left home, I’ve been determined to be something better. To have anything I wanted. Pay my dues, climb the ladder, and all the other crap they teach you in college. And look at me. Jennifer, the graduate. Jennifer, the lawyer.”

“You’re successful.”

“But what does all that matter if this—thing goes the wrong way? At least you’ve got something to show for your efforts. All I’ve got are a few degrees and a name plate on the office door. I’m not married. I don’t have kids. I haven’t even talked with my parents since the day I left their miserable house. Who’s going to care when I’m gone?”

“Jen, you know I care about you.”

“And that’s why you haven’t spoken to me in seven years? With a husband and kids to distract you, after tonight I doubt my memory lasts three months. Six tops. And then I’m like yesterday’s news—a flash that only pops up when something else reminds you, or when somebody calls up out of the blue and says, ‘Hey, whatever happened to Jennifer McRoberts? That girl gave us something to laugh about, didn’t she?’”

“First, I’m not laughing. I never did. And the last I heard, people have survived breast cancer. You can get through this. And... And I’ll be here to help.”

“Even after all the stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“... You’re an amazing woman, you know that? You always have been. Ah, here we go. Breakfast at midnight. Only in America. Thank you, miss. And tell the cook the coffee’s great. Real rancid stuff, just like I… Wow, you’d think I’d just stabbed her dog or something.”

“Actually, I think she’s warming up to you. In fact, if you work it just right, you might be lucky enough to have two friends before the night is over.”

“Yeah, lucky me.”

#FridayFlash - Rising Above

2011-06-24T07:33:00.005-05:00

Carl cocked his head to the side and gazed upon his latest creation not as an artist would, but as a doctor might while working on a patient in surgery. His hands had previously guided the pickets through the routing machine, the aged pine surrendering easily to the cut of the bit, and had afterwards hinged them together with the kiss-chuck! punch of a pneumatic nail gun. Now the perfect hexagon stood before him, a dutiful student waiting for its master to lay the perfect foundation, and then give it meaning and purpose. Applying a bead of glue to the ends of the frame, Carl positioned the wood upon an even wider hexagon base, shooting in a few nails to hold everything until the glue set. He took a ruler and double-checked the measurements. Six equal ledges brought a smile to his face.

His earliest attempts had failed miserably compared to these latest creations. But then, just like one couldn’t expect to make the perfect omelet without breaking a few eggs, or so the saying went, Carl knew that crafting the perfect birdhouse took time, energy, and determination to reach beyond the imperfections of this world.

All things considered, the roof turned out to be more difficult than the rest. Cut into six equally shaped triangles, each then routed on all sides, the wedges were glued and nailed together to form a steeple. When laid upon the top of the frame, everything formed a nice fit. Over the wood, he glued metal sheets—a perfectly balanced contrast, come to think of it—and instead of a cross, he used a fleur de lis at the peak. Not everyone liked crosses, he discovered. In fact, some shoppers had actually accused him of trying to impose his will upon everyone else. His individual will had nothing to do with anything. It was more a matter of one idea, one goal and purpose: exposure.

For Carl, being human came with a certain level of iniquities. Along with the imperfections of the flesh, disease and dependency, within each person there was also free will, an insipid seed of destruction where everyone believed they held rights, above everyone else it seemed, and they usually fought and died to prove their point. What good was free will then? Carl wondered. Wouldn’t it be better to have one will instead? He held no complaints about being human, though. He could have easily been something further down the food chain—a cow, a goat, or perhaps a pig—some creature whose sole existence amounted to nothing more than to eat grass, to be used like a whore, and then to be eaten. But that was the way with chance, wasn’t it? Once born and given wings to fly, with infinite possibilities to target, one could never know the outcome of fate until it was too late. By then, there would be no turning back.

The house constructed, Carl applied a base coat of paint. The dry wood sucked it in like a starving child seated in front of a bowl of ice cream. Setting the project aside, he turned his attention now toward another house—the paint already dried, the finish work also completed. To the bottom of this, he placed a date. A buyer once asked about his scribbles. He smiled and told her it was the expiration date, after which the house would spoil and be unavailable for sale. She laughed. He laughed with her.

Carl reached down and kneaded a few lumps in his belly, finding one that felt just right. Perfect, in fact. He stiffened his index finger like a dagger, and then knifed it into the flesh, twisting it, hooking the end, and pulling out the mass of tissue underneath. Looking at it, he watched the lump twitch and wiggle, the larvae inside feeling the change in temperature. After a few seconds, the sac turned brown and thickened in response to the air around it; before it dried too much, he pushed it through the small porthole in the birdhouse, the mucus membrane easily adhering like glue to the dry wood inside.

In six weeks, the larvae would finally hatch. From there, it would crawl out, spread its wings in the dark of night, and fly off in search of its new host. Hopefully it would find another human, leaving only a small welt as it bored into skin. A spider bite, some would think, nothing more. From these creations, a few would fall short. Those unfortunate seeds would find their way into a household pet—a dog or a cat, which would then get sick and die. Or they might find a baby instead that would then turn still in its sleep. The smaller hosts never survived. But that was the risk with chance, wasn’t it? Not everything could reach for perfection.

Today’s work finished, he boxed up the product and loaded it into the back of the Suburban along with the others. Tomorrow, the flea market would open, as it always did, and Carl expected to sell at least five units, maybe six.

Humans loved birdhouses.

#FridayFlash - Taking a Vacation

2011-06-17T13:32:00.010-05:00

Jackie smiled as she pulled into the space for Cabin No. 2 and turned the ignition off. In front of her, the ground sloped downward about a quarter mile, dropping into a sleepy hollow covered with a blanket of trees before it turned up to the ridge across the way. Stepping out of the Jeep, the caliche drive crunched under her feet, and the sweet fragrance of pine filled the air around her. Hummingbirds, their wings chirping like crickets, buzzed along the line of cabins where feeders filled with nectar, put in place by the owners, waited. Inside, her smile grew as the cabin’s rustic atmosphere—the wood paneling, the stone fireplace, the scenic landscaped pictures and wall sconces—added to the feeling that now overwhelmed her: such a beautiful place for a vacation.

This year, Jackie knew it was time to go to the mountains. She had visited the coast last year, spent her evenings walking along the shoreline, the waves lapping against her bare feet. A silly thing to do, really, what with all the warnings she had read and heard about jelly fish being washed ashore, but she couldn’t help herself; she had been drawn to it. As if South Padre had called to her—like the Caribbean Islands had called the year before, the Everglades the year before that—like it had all been planned and there was nothing else to do but to listen and obey. It was predestined.

She had first heard about predestination in church. Of all places, come to think of it. At four years of age, sitting in a wooden pew, the ceiling fans humming and swaying above, she listened as the minister hammered the lectern, ranting on about what the Scriptures said regarding the strange belief. The only thing predestined, he told them, was where people would go when they died. But of course, she had been too young to dispute him then. That was before her sixth birthday, before her father took her on a special getaway to London and there introduced her to the family diary.

Standing at a window now, her bags on the bed behind her, Jackie looked out across the valley and felt the energy flow through her body. Every nerve sparked—every muscle on edge. Contrary to what that old preacher in the sweat-soaked black suit had said so many years ago, being here was indeed where she needed to be. The San Jacinto Mountains had waited long enough for her bloodline to arrive. This was their year. Their turn.

It took only minutes to unpack her things and step into a bathtub filled with steaming hot water and bubbles. One leg shaved, she lifted the other up and rested her foot on the faucet, feeling the excitement grow with each careful pull of the straight razor along her skin. No more waiting now. At the end of each vacation, while gratifying, she always felt a slight loss, like it had wrapped up too soon, and she looked forward to the next time she could do it all again. Sometimes, the wait turned out to be too much, and she would make opportunities for mini-vacations. Like the few days she spent in Seattle last winter attending the Issues on Women’s Health seminar. It wasn’t her specialty really, but CME was CME regardless of what you took and where you took it. Besides, Seattle had beckoned her then just like the mountains did now.

One of the things she liked about vacations, whether the annual event or the little ones in between, was how much she learned at each stop. Like how the dank smell of the Everglades shrouded over everything or how, like a sponge, the sand along the South Padre shore could absorb much more than water. Those little things were like iced flowers on a cake, delicious morsels that she could write into the family diary, which would one day pass along when the time…

A small ache stirred inside. Eventually the vacations would come to an end as she in turn would settle down, find an actual mate, and begin a new chapter in history. Having kids would change everything, she knew. That is, until one of them turned old enough for another special getaway, this time with mother and child.

She shook her head, pushed the thoughts aside and quickly turned on the faucet to wash her hair, letting the water rinse the shampoo and everything else down the drain. Now was not the time to consider children. Now was her time. To live. To be. To fulfill her destiny.

The bath over, Jackie stepped out of the tub and into the bedroom. The chill of the air raised goose bumps along her arms. She toweled dry, patted some powder over her bare skin, and selected a nice evening dress with spaghetti straps. Looking in the mirror, she nodded. This was the right image. It wasn’t much, but it showed enough and teased plenty. What red-blooded single man would possibly turn her away?

She picked out a change of clothes, stuffed them into a duffle bag, and then stepped into the bathroom to grab the straight razor, which she slipped into a small purse. The lights out, the duffle bag in hand, and the cabin door closed, she walked back to the Jeep, once again taking in the cool air, the smell of pine. If everything went well, she would find her first man tonight; and like her father before her, his father before him and so on, she would carry on the tradition that has lived for years, crossing the Atlantic in the process. And while those men had chosen to slice through the necks of prostitutes, her selections were just as equal. After all, men can be sluts, too.

Turning the key in the ignition, she smiled. This was going to be a great vacation.

Author's Note:

I'm going on vacation soon, which reminds me that my definition of vacation—quiet days with a book in hand—is not the same definition my family holds—running around, doing as much as possible. Knowing how the world works and how people define things differently, I decided to observe how somebody else might define vacation differently.

#FridayFlash - This is Your Life

2011-06-08T11:53:00.014-05:00

Jack gazed into the darker half of the studio and found Camera One’s red eye staring back at him. A tinny voice crackled in his ear monitor.

“Ten seconds, Jack.”

Just one more, he thought. The last segment done, he could call it a night—go home, kick his feet up, have a beer. It was a luxury, sure, but he could afford it. At five dollars per can, Budweiser had finally realized its own American dream, finally replacing the champagne budget.

In the ear monitor, the director’s voice popped with excitement.

“And five… four…”

The back half of the studio turned completely dark while the lights on stage burned brighter.

“…three…”

Behind him, three feet above the floor, a hologram of the show’s banner unfurled like a flag on a breeze. Blocked letters were conspicuously backdropped in red, white, and blue, a point not lost on Jack.

“…two…”

Jack blew a raspberry to loosen up his lips.

“…one…”

He took a breath. Only here, he thought. Only now.

“…and showtime.”

Staring into the eye of Camera One, Jack turned on his bright smile.

“And welcome back to This is Your Life.” His sonorous voice resonated so well the techies in the sound room didn’t even have to process it. “The show where life takes center stage and everyone is finally allowed their fifteen minutes.”

“Camera Two, Jack.”

He turned his head first and then rotated his body. Below the camera lens, tonight’s script inched its way up a small teleprompter.

“So far tonight, we’ve been introduced to a farmer, a lab technician, and a day care worker.”

He had joked once that they should fade the teleprompter words back and out like George Lucas did in the Star Wars movies. Make it feel like the future. Like they had the force and knew how to use it. Nobody laughed.

“Excellent, Jack. Now forward.”

He took two steps toward the second camera, careful to keep his feet on the pre-marked line. The young man behind the camera—a new guy—looked disturbed. Jack pressed on. After the show, he thought.

He raised both hands, the left gingerly holding the right, his index finger stuck in the air like a professor making a point. A silly thing to do, he thought, and had said as much before the show, but the director assured him it would be a nice touch. Delicate. Showing compassion. Definitely not aggressive.

“Our final guest this evening is Mr. Howard Parker.” On a separate monitor that allowed him to see the show as the audience did, he looked like a meteorologist giving a weather report. The hologram switched to a face, the skin pale white and blotched with liver spots. “Mr. Parker was born in Eastland, Texas, a small town one hundred and twenty miles west of Dallas, where he graduated from the local high school and then from nearby Ranger College.”

Jack had been there once. Or rather, he had passed through the area years ago, the highway taking a steep dive into the lower valley. He made the journey at the advice of his father. “If you want to live, son, really live,” his dad had said, “then you got to be in the city, make a difference so big people can’t overlook it.” Jack’s dad didn’t know how close to the truth he had been.

“It was there at Ranger College,” he continued, “that Mr. Parker met his sweetheart. They married, later having two kids. The youngest graciously brings us this video.”

For a second, nothing happened.

In the ear monitor, Jack heard: “Where’s my video!” He ignored it and kept his smile for the viewing audience. A second later, the hologram flickered. The weathered face of Howard Parker was replaced by that of his daughter who, tears streaming down her face, talked about her dad—about his life as a father, a husband, and a civil worker who helped to build roads.

Jack’s smile faded as he turned and stepped away from the hologram. The video lasted for ten minutes, the viewing audience now watching Parker’s life unfold. He had served his country, his daughter said, and served it proudly. It was a great life, heading for even greater heights, until a tiny blood clot changed everything.

The video came to a close. The director’s voice buzzed in Jack’s ear.

“Okay, Jack, close it up.”

Jack scanned the studio and found the red eye above Camera One. He smiled.

“As with all of our guests, the producers have assembled a fair and balanced report on Mr. Parker.” Numbers and statistics popped up on the hologram, and like the hosts in other markets Jack read through the data with precision, his words conveying the costs now associated with Mr. Parker’s life. “And here, dear viewers, is tonight’s final guest.”

From the left, an interned wheeled Mr. Parker across the stage. The man’s head hung down. Saliva covered his chin.

“Our job is done,” he said to the camera. “Now it’s time to place your votes.”

The hologram image changed. Two sets of percentages grew, one faster than the other. After a commercial break, the hologram turned red, the intern wheeled Mr. Parker off the stage, and Jack closed the program.

Afterwards, he stopped to talk with the young man on Camera Two.

“It’s Carl, right?”

The young man nodded.

“Good show tonight, huh?”

Carl shrugged a shoulder.

Jack gave him a sympathetic smile. “I know how you feel. Trust me, it’ll pass. We can’t keep paying for their hopes. With global economies surging and limited resources, population has to be dealt with on both sides of the equation. Otherwise, it’ll be too expensive for everyone, you know?” Jack then pointed to the hologram. “Besides, it’s not just us.”

Carl said nothing.

Jack smiled and patted Carl on the shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go have a beer. I’ll show you how to live.”

#FridayFlash - Baby Talk

2011-06-01T07:46:00.009-05:00

Mary stared at her phone, excited about the possibilities of what the new app promised. On screen, a pink and blue banner greeted her: Baby Talk. The phone then cooed at her and vibrated as an avatar infant laughed.

Mary smiled.

Another app had promised to allow the baby to select its name from a pool of names already preselected by the parent. By measuring the baby’s kick, the app provided the baby to choose its own name. Still, the parent had much more work to do—like determining the sex of the child in advance, and then selecting a pool of names, a task which proved far more complicated than Mary wanted to absorb right now. Could absorb, in fact.

Coming away from the party with no memory except the one of her walking in—What a mistake that had been!—she had no idea who the father was. With more than a hundred fraternity brothers, none of which remembered her or knew that she even had been at their little weekend bash, there was no point in trying to chase down that rabbit. And with the self-righteous parents she had been blessed with, both of whom would probably ask her to kneel down at an altar, beg forgiveness for this most egregious sin of sins, there was nowhere else to turn. There was only her now.

So when Mary thumbed through a list of new apps, finding one that not only emitted a sonogram pulse and could determine the sex of the child with ninety-eight percent accuracy, but also connected to the baby’s brain—well, that was down-right cool. According to the app description, the connection to the baby was made possible by a new technology. The specifics of the device turned out to be like something out of Star Trek, far above what Mary could comprehend, but that didn’t matter. If, through her phone, her baby could talk to her, then she could ask it several things. Like what it wanted to be named. Suzanne Henderson from Wisconsin had done so, according to the app description, and her baby told her it liked the name Jordan. Vera White from Georgia had done it, too; her baby announced that he was Tyrone.

Mary could even ask her baby what color it would like in the nursery. Sure, the painting might be a little much, and it would certainly set her back a week in costs, what with the price of paint and brushes and such, but knowing the right color in advance would certainly take the guess work out of it.

Staring at the screen, watching the banner swirl away, Mary’s smile faded as a new thought occurred to her. How would the baby know what color to pick? It wasn’t like it had already been exposed to a palette of oils or a rainbow, right? She laughed at herself then. Okay, so the painting decision would be up to her as well.

A message instructed her to place the phone on her belly and press “Select” to discover the baby’s sex. After a minute of buzzing, accompanied by a digitized version of Brahms’s Lullaby, the screen announced that her child was a boy.

Mary’s smile returned.

The phone then instructed her to type a greeting to her child and, after placing the phone on her belly again, to press “Send.” Mary tapped the keys and followed the protocol. Ten seconds later, the ting-ting! of a countertop bell reached her ears, and her baby’s first word flashed on the screen.

Hi.

Laughing, she wiped away a tear. Being an unwed mother wasn’t going to be a lonely experience after all. During the long months of waiting, she could talk to her child. She could share her experiences. In fact, they could be best friends. Right now, miles away from home, if she could consider her parents’ place a “home,” she needed a good friend—someone on her level for a change.

She quickly typed in her next message:

What is your name?

No immediate response came. The musical tune ended and the screen timed out. Her smile faded again. Had the app failed to produce upon its promise? Was this just another cheap waste of time, raising her hopes to find some level of happiness, some meaning and purpose, only to dash it all on the digital rocks of despair?

Suddenly, the phone vibrated. The bell chimed, and Mary turned the screen to see her baby's answer:

I am god.

Author's Note:
While riding to work this week, I heard the radio hosts talk about this new phone app that would allow your baby to choose its own name by measuring its kicks. I couldn't help but laugh. What is this world coming to when parents give even their unborn children the right to choose their own name? And if we come to that, then what other response should we expect? And before people start accusing me of blasphemy, I would like to point out that I used the lower case G in my story.
Anyway, I was having a little fun with this one, so I hope you'll indulge me a little twisted humor.

Until next time...

Versatile Blogger Award

2011-05-28T12:29:00.007-05:00

I was pleasantly surprised to find that good friend John Wiswell over at Bathroom Monologues bestowed upon me the Versatile Blogger Award. He also added some nice comments, all of which are unnecessary but highly appreciated. Had he told me his intentions in advance, I might have given him a few more unnecessary comments. :)

According to what I surmise, the recipient is to share seven "unknown" personal facts and then to pass it all forward. So, in a theme of "I never tried that again," here we go...

At the age of four (or maybe it was five), while living in Colorado Springs, I had a neighbor girl over for a play-day. On this day, she and I decided to explore and watch each other "potty." Suffice it to say, my father, a bible college student preparing for the ministry, was not as amused as I was, and after a stern lecture, along with a bit of corporal encouragement, I never tried it again.
During the same age, I scared the pants off my parents when another friend and I climbed through a church balcony window and stood the edge of the roof looking down at all the people on the sidewalk below. Another stern lecture, with my father probably having doubts about me living in a parsonage, and I never tried that again.
At the age of thirteen, while living in Michigan, I was visiting a friend down in the Pontiac area. After watching him roll down a hill on his BMX and jump off a ramp, I decided to give it go. After pulling the handle bars out of my chest, the pedal out of my leg, and then staggering around with no air in my lungs, I was certain that I would die at any moment. I never tried that again.
At the age of eighteen, after a night of working at J.C. Penney's in Overland Park, Kansas, I decided to take my Toyota Corolla for a thrill ride of slides and spins, through the fresh snow in an empty parking lot. In the excitement, I completely forgot about the sidewalk that divided the parking lot in half. Four replaced rims and an empty wallet later, I never tried that again.
At the age of twenty, while living in Fort Worth, Texas, my boss and I took a road trip to the border town of Juarez. Wanting to explore life and see some "dancing girls," we asked a taxi cab driver if he knew where we could find some action. Several twists and turns later, zipping down alleys and completely lost as far as I was concerned, we finally stopped at one of the brothels John mentioned in his blog. After a few minutes, seeing as how we weren't spending any money, the establishment kindly escorted us out. I never tried that again.
At the age of twenty-one, still sowing my oats as it were, I decided to take on a bottle of Glenlivet. After losing miserably, and then having to clean up a nasty mess in the bathroom, I never tried that again.
At the age of forty-two, now living in Lubbock with a my wife and two kids, I looked at the prospect of remodeling the kitchen cabinets for my wife and told her, "I can do that." Several weeks later, with my lungs full of sawdust (and primer and paint and glaze and sealant) I finally finished. I can tell you now I will never do that again. In the words of Dirty Harry: "A man has to know his limitations."

There. I hope you learned a little more about me and enjoyed a few laughs at my hard-knocks education.

For my recipients, I would like to honor Linda Simoni-Wastila, whose blog is a virtual potpourri of poetry, flash fiction and personal stories.

I also want to honor good friend Paige over at Paradise Valley. Just like Linda, Paige's blog is a mixture of poetry and personal stories. She even has a secondary blog where she has posted a photo a day.

Again, my personal thanks to John Wiswell for his thoughtfulness. If you haven't been by his blog, or by Linda's or Paige's, then I recommend you do so.

Until next time...

#FridayFlash - Because You Pay Me

2011-05-27T18:08:00.006-05:00

My patient lies quietly in the bed. His eyes are closed, his cracked lips slightly open, but he is not asleep. Not completely. More likely than not, he is in the far away place he turns to each day.

Tired lungs, ravaged by years of abuse, raise his chest slowly and then collapse with a huff. Beside the bed, an oxygen tank beckons me like it has a secret to share: Not much longer.

I step across the room on carpet so thick it squishes beneath my feet. As I open the curtains to welcome in the morning light, my patient coughs.

“Why are you here?” His voice is whispery.

I look over my shoulder.

“It’s Ignacio Garcia, Mr. Cohen. Your nurse.”

“I’m not blind.” His eyes hold fast on mine. “Why are you here?”

I look back through the window, a flash of anger burning at my face. It is the same question he has asked for the last two weeks.

“Because you pay me.”

A fragile breath wheezes past his lips. “Then close the curtains.”

I take a deep breath and pull the drawstring.

“Is there anything I can get for you?”

His hooded eyes lift up. A dry tongue rolls across chapped lips. “A glass of water, maybe?”

The adjoining bathroom is closer, but I opt to use the kitchen instead. Downstairs, I wonder if he’s always been this way. Surely there must have been a time when he was nice, as a young man. Filling the pitcher, I try to visualize this younger man, a man who opened doors for women, who considered his word just as binding as any contract drafted by an army of lawyers. But then, reality sets in. People like J. Samuel Cohen don’t exist for others. The only door he ever opened for a woman was the one to his bedroom. And words hold no value unless they can be looked upon, pointed at, enforced.

On my way back, I stop at the foot of the stairs and gaze upon a portrait. At his side, Cohen’s now deceased wife, Anna, sits in a velvety red dress, her placid hands in her lap. Behind them, wearing expensive clothes, are four young children—the same ones who now, years later, have left his care to me.

I shake my head and climb the stairs, stiffening my resolve. We are worlds apart, those children and me. Growing up in a mansion, living a life of prosperity, they have never struggled. They’ve never felt the pain of whispered conversations—snide remarks regarding the lightness of skin or the unusual color of eyes. They have never felt the ache of a father’s embarrassed gaze.

Back in the room, blue eyes as bright as a cloudless sky look at me. “Do you have any children?”

“No. I haven’t found the right woman.”

He nods.

“Do you fear death?”

I shake my head. I’ve seen enough death through this job, and my heart has grown calloused. People get old, they die. “I don’t worry about it much.”

“Someday, you will.”

I shrug.

He closes his eyes. “It’s all I think about these days.”

I fill a glass and place it on his nightstand. Then I turn to the television. “Shall I find something for you to watch?”

“Not today. Something different, maybe.”

“The radio?”

“Some poetry.” He coughs and groans and then continues. “Maybe the Greeks. They were famous for the iambic hexameter. Did you know that?”

“I never paid much attention in school.”

“Poetry, Ignacio. Language of the gods.” He points to a bookcase. “You’ll find something over there.”

“You sure you don’t want the television?”

“No, not the Greeks,” he says. “Grab volume four instead.” When I hesitate, he adds, “The blue one.”

“I don’t read very well.”

“And yet you made it through nursing school.”

“That’s different.”

“Not really. Please, grant an old dead man his wish.”

“You’re not dead yet. You have adinocarcin—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t dignify it.”

Turning to the shelf, I find that the book is heavy, its pages worn.

“Anything specific?”

He shakes his head.

I open it up and read.

“‘Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’st so long…’”

“Ah…” A warm smile tugs at the sides of his mouth. “Shakespeare. How appropriate.”

I read only another line when he closes his eyes and recites the poem word for word, finishing with a triumphant smile. “Very good,” he says.

“I can’t take much credit.”

“Do you know what it’s about?”

“He’s looking for someone.”

“Not someone, but something. You understand that.”

I shrug.

“Of course you do. It’s why you’re a nurse. Why you’re here.”

The flash of anger again burns at my cheeks. “No, I’m here because you pay me.”

His smile fades, replaced by a deep sadness.

I quickly close the book and turn toward the bookshelf.

“Keep it,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

He lays his head back. “In fact, take the whole set.”

“But your children.”

He scoffs. “Where are they? Do you see them?”

I shake my head.

“There is only you now.”

I set the book down on a chair, but intend to replace it later. I’ve worked too hard, and I will not be accused of stealing anything, not even a trifle token.

I look at my watch. “We should probably get you something to eat.”

“Your mother,” he says. “She was a good woman.”

“She was a great woman.”

Mr. Cohen nods and then mutters something else.

“Sir?”

“You have done well for yourself. She would be proud.”

“I can only hope.”

He fixes me with a piercing gaze. “You are a good son.”

I stand in silence for a while, uncertain as to what I should say. Then, the oxygen tank beckons me again. Mocking me. I silently curse it.

“Ignacio?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve changed my mind. Will you open the curtains?”

“Certainly.” I walk across the room. “That’s what you pay me for.”

#FridayFlash - Timber Pass

2011-05-20T10:09:00.004-05:00

The Timber Pass Bridge bristled as two boys pushed their bikes across its deck. Under the supports, the cliff walls cut jagged edges toward the bottom where, over four hundred feet below, they framed a narrow river and its rocky bed. From this height, the deck muffled the sound of the bubbling water to a whisper.

One of the boys asked the other, “You watch the game last night?” Squat and pudgy, the boy waddled across the deck, his double-rolled belly squeezing into a tattered pair of jeans. Dark stains marked the pits of the shirt stretched across his chest, and an exclamation point of sweat soaked the center of his back.

The second boy said, “Yeah, man, the homer Rodriquez slammed in the ninth was awesome.” Compared to his porky-pie friend, this one was taller, thinner, and better dressed.

Baseball. If it weren’t excited about the prospects of two more victims, the bridge would have groaned. The boys had all of creation spread out before them—grasshoppers buzz-sawing across the meadow, birds singing merrily in the trees, not to mention the beautiful fifty-year-old wooden structure beneath their feet—and they wanted to talk about sports?

The bridge slowly shifted its frame.

The skinny one stopped. “Hey, you feel that?”

The fat one looked over. “Feel what?”

“It felt like it moved.”

“Ah, that’s only the wind. Nothing to worry about. This thing is just old.”

The skinny one looked over his shoulder. “Maybe we should go back.”

“What for?”

“What if it collapses?”

A grunt. “Don’t be a wus.”

“I’m not a wus.”

“Yeah, you are.”

The fat one bent over and picked up a beer bottle. It had been left by a drunkard who happened along two weeks earlier. Barely twenty yards across, he stopped and set the beer down. Then, he unzipped his pants and sent a stream off the side of the Bridge. The way he swayed, all it took was a shudder and the man was never seen again.

Porky-pie inspected the bottle, the contents long evaporated. He said, “Hey, watch this,” and chucked it. Both boys pushed their bikes to the edge, watching as the bottle performed a graceful series of summersaults down into the mouth of the canyon. At the bottom, it hit a boulder and exploded.

The fat one pumped a fist into the air. “Awesome!”

“Yeah!”

The Bridge was about to send a shockwave across its deck when the boys turned their bikes and resumed their walk.

“Hey,” the skinny one said. “You hear Danny Ekstrom went out with Teresa Jameson?”

Another grunt. “They ran into each other at the county fair. Hardly a date.”

“Well, I heard they rode the ferris wheel and kissed at the top.”

“What? Who told you that?”

“Edie Hall.”

“And she saw it?”

“She was at the bottom watching.”

The fat boy stopped walking. “Edie wasn’t even up in the next car or something?”

The skinny one didn’t respond.

Porky-pie shook his head. “Doesn’t count.”

“Whaddayah mean?”

“There’s no way she could have seen them well enough in the dark. Danny was probably just whispering something in Sarah’s ear.”

“How do you know? You weren’t there.”

“And neither were you.”

The skinny boy stood there for a moment. Then, “Ah, I get it.”

“What?”

“You got the hots for Teresa.”

The fat one’s mouth dropped open, but nothing came out.

“You got a big ol’ flaming crush on her.”

“Shut your pie hole, or I’ll throw you over the edge.”

The bridge liked the sound of that. Little Porky-pie Toby might actually save it some of the trouble.

The boys stood in silence, staring at each other. Finally, the skinny one said, “Hey, it’s cool. I think she’s good looking, too.”

“Whatever.”

The boys resumed their walk. Halfway across, the Bridge shifted its frame again, this time not so subtle.

The fat one stopped. “Whoa.”

“You see,” the skinny blurted out. “This thing’s not stable.”

The Bridge held still as a breeze cut across its deck.

The fat one looked around for a moment. When nothing else happened, a small chuckle escaped his mouth. Color returned to his cheeks. “You’re such a jerk-off,” he said. “Now you got me acting all scared.”

“No way. This thing moved, and you felt it.”

“It was just the wind.”

“You kidding me?”

“C'mon, let’s just get off this thing.”

The pushed their bikes another twenty yards before the fat one spoke again.

“I wonder how many people have actually taken a swan dive off the side.”

If it could, the bridge would have told them the answer: fourteen. Sixteen after today.

The thing was, hers wasn’t even intentional. A young girl, after enduring months of jokes and tricks and criticisms about her red hair, her freckled homely looks, coming down to cry it out. Only the wind decided to play a game too. Taken by surprise, she screamed as she fell, but nobody heard. And nobody came. Not even her mother.

Afterwards, her spirit turned bitter. She vowed that nobody would ever walk over her again.

“So, you think Sarah would be interested in a guy like me?”

The fat boy’s voice broke the reverie. They were now two-thirds of the way across and still the conversation was about them. Them. Them. THEM!

The bridge’s structure popped as it shifted harder this time, twisting beams, dropping one side down.

The fat one screamed. “The bridge is collapsing!”

The thinner boy dropped his bike and ran as the bridge sent another jolt and dipped its deck further. Wood splintered along the causeway. This time, the fat boy fell to his knees and cried, “Wait! Wait for me!”

Before the bridge could shift again, both boys gained their footing and made it to the other side. They turned and watched in horror as their bikes slid off the edge.

Slowly, the bridge righted itself, cracking up and down like a stiff spine.

The thinner boy said, “Wh-wh-what just happened?”

The fat one boy shook his head and quickly turned, running as fast as his legs could take him.

The bridge groaned in disappointment at its loss. But that was okay. Sooner or later, someone else would happen along.

They always did.

#FridayFlash - Not All That

2011-05-13T13:39:00.006-05:00

Julia glanced over at the counter and pursed her lips. With gel-slicked hair, one ear sporting a small diamond stud, and the subtle hint of a dimple in his chin, the young barista was cute. And buff too. Even from where she sat on the other side of the café, she could see the strength in his broad shoulders, the well-defined chest through his white cotton tee. And the best thing? She really liked the way he looked at her when she had ordered the decaf skinny mocha latte, an extra shot of vanilla. The slight grin, the mischievous look in his eyes, said it all, and it wasn’t about the drink either.

“So…” Across the table her friend, Kim, broke the spell. “How’s the new husband?”

This morning was their weekly therapy, a time slated for the two of them to sit down and visit—talk about the kids, the schedules and anything else that came to mind. Before she answered, Julia took a sip of the coffee and flinched. She liked her coffee hot but, jeez, not that hot. She licked at her bottom lip, feeling the instant burn, and stared back at the barista, who was now busy with another customer, a cute teenager with a ponytail and most likely a diva, too, by the looks of her. She decided next time to tell Mr. Cute and Buff to cool down her drink with a little ice.

And there would be a next time.

No doubt about it.

Placing the cup down, she realized Kim was staring at her. “Oh,” she said, “The husband, right, he’s wonderful. Good listener, well mannered, and low maintenance. No laundry on the floor, the toilet seat is down, and—”

“Wait.” Kim frowned. “He’s a squatter?”

Julia shrugged. “It’s not like I stand there to watch, you know? I’m just saying the seat’s down whenever I go in.”

Kim leaned forward, apparently more interested now.

At the counter, the young barista looked over again and locked eyes with Julia. He smiled, and she leaned back against the chair, the plans already starting to whirl in her mind—what she would ask for, how she would ask for it.

Life was funny when she took the time to think about it. And more often than not lately, she did just that. There were the subtle ironies, like some Shakespearian cosmic comedy playing out on the stage. Take the young man at the counter, for instance. If that wasn’t some twisted turn of fate—life bringing them together after she’d exchanged Husband Number One with Husband Number Two—then what was it? And there was some energy there, she couldn’t deny that. Like two planets defying God’s design, whirling out of their separate orbits and finding each other in some small pocket of the universe yet to be discovered. But now they were going to collide, and just like she knew the time had come to get rid of Husband Number One, put him beneath her feet so she could move on, she knew the time was coming for her and Mr. Cute and Buff. And probably not too far off by the way he kept—

“Julia?”

She glanced back, found Kim staring at her with a puzzled expression.

“I’m sorry.” Julia scratched at an eyebrow, trying to hide her embarrassment. “What did you say?”

“How much did it cost and what’s the rate of return?”

The rate of...

Julia smiled. Yes, Kim was still curious about Husband Number Two, and not just in the general sort of way. Another one of life’s ironies, come to think of it—how, in a day and age when women could purchase the programmed bio equivalent of Mr. Right, women still wondered if they were getting a good deal. And Julia had a good deal, she knew. She had bargained pretty hard for it, too, complaining to the manufacturer how the first husband was flawed, demanding either a full refund or a new model free of charge. The agent finally agreed to the exchange at no additional cost, which in essence extended the life span on her first investment by five years. Not a bad rate of return at all. Still, the nights in bed weren’t what they used to be. Like when she was in school, back before stem cells, when girls hooked up with actual boys and ran the risk of stolen virginities, deflated egos, and broken hearts. Even with all the advances in relationships, however, the passion wasn’t as strong, the caressing not as satisfying.

She looked at the barista one more time and smiled.

“To tell you the truth,” she said to Kim, “I’m not so sure whether I’m going to keep Jim or not.” As advertised, the manufacturer would even program a husband's name and give him some history to talk about. “He’s a good asset in many respects, but the amortization of the intangibles is highly accelerated. In some ways, having the latest technology isn’t all that.”

#FridayFlash - Flowers for Sarah

2011-05-07T09:39:00.004-05:00

Listening to the stereo, Lance tracked time and distance with the reflectors on the road. On some stretches, the yellow squares came at him through blackened asphalt looking more like Morse code than a steady metronome pulse. Dot, dot, dot. Dash. Dot… Staring ahead, hands on the wheel, the sounds of Steve Perry and Neil Schon blaring through the speakers, he wondered how long it had been that way. Had some department of transportation employee, working off a previous night’s bender, decided that maybe he would have a little fun? He supposed it might have been possible. Closer to the truth, however, was that the missing markers had simply taken too much stress and finally cracked.

In the distance, under a haze of violet sky, the stars gradually poking through the waning resistance of daylight, wind turbine lights spanned the horizon, their synchronized flashes of on-and-off red like that of a cheap motel sign. Vacancy. Vacancy. There was always an empty room available. Out here, in the middle of Texas, the lights were the only company a driver could rely upon to keep his mind from wandering. From thinking about things said. Or unsaid.

On the seat beside him, the bouquet of flowers lay wrapped in a blanket of green paper. As he picked them up earlier tonight, the florist had looked at him and smiled.

“Going to give your sweetie some nice roses?”

He had nodded.

“Gonna surprise her, huh?”

“No, the surprise is that I’m a day late.”

She gave him a knowing look and, as he turned to walk out, she said, “Good luck.”

Driving down the lonely stretch of road, now about fifteen miles or so south, south-west of Sweetwater, those words hung across the beams of his headlights, dangling in front of his eyes, forcing him to look at them one more time. Luck was a misnomer, a misconception for those who hadn’t seen the harsher realities of fate and consequence. We are the sum total of our choices, Woody Allen had once postulated, and boy did he live up to that one. In fact, if Woody ever decided to pull together a calendar based on his lines, Lance’s face would be the one posted above the month of December, that line serving as more than a caption.

In another mile, he knew, the road would curve ahead. There the beams of his headlights would ride the line of barb wire stretched out into the darkness.

He wasn’t sure how the argument had started, only that he hadn't seen it coming. It had been something about time, though—his time and hers. All she had wanted was for him to massage her feet, and then spend a quiet evening soaking in the hot tub, glasses of champagne perched on the drink tray.

“Not tonight, okay?”

The pouty, disappointed look followed. “Why?”

“I have too much to do.”

“You always have too much to do.”

“Uh-huh, well, look around. You can’t tell me you don’t like the results, can you?”

“Sure, it’s all fine.” She shrugged. “But it’s not enough.”

“Oh, please, not again.”

Noticeable hurt registered in her eyes. “And why not?”

“Because.” He swept an arm around the room, as if to point out all that they had. “We’re not ready.”

“I’m ready.”

“But I’m not. In fact, the longer we go, the more stupid the idea seems.”

From there, the conversation spiraled, sucking the energy of their life down with it. Fifteen minutes later she had walked out, telling him he was a fool. And now, he felt like such a fool. What a great decision maker, a planner among planners, he had turned out to be.

After the bend in the road, he slowed down, allowing his eyes to adjust to the natural rise and fall of the landscape. His turn-off was right… around…

He saw the tree along the side and pulled over. He stopped the car, switched off the engine, but left his lights on. The stereo continued to play and would until he opened the door. Journey was Sarah's favorite band and this, their Frontiers project, was her favorite collection. He allowed the song to finish before he opened the door, finally silencing the music.

Sliding out from behind the steering wheel, Lance stepped out into the middle of the highway and held his arms outstretched. Maybe, if he was lucky, just maybe. A minute later, he realized again that luck had nothing to do with it. It was still all about fate. And fate was a tyrant, never yielding. Unlike tonight, where he could look out and see a canvas of stars that one who lived in the city could never imagine, the night over five years ago had been weighed down by thick clouds. It had rained, too. And in his experience, that was how fate worked, raining down on some while leaving the rest dry.

He walked back to the car, reached in and grabbed the flowers, and then stepped around to the tree.

“Hey baby.” He smiled for a moment, remembering the night they first met, when the world held so much promise. The smile quickly faded then. At the base of the trunk, the crosses were still where he had left them. Of the dozen roses, he placed eleven, all red, at the foot of one; the lone rose, its petals as white as newborn snow, he laid at the base of the second cross—a tiny replica of the first.

Finished with the flowers, he knelt down and waited. Soon, in spite of the clear sky, a torrent of tears would eventually wash over him. It always did.

#FridayFlash - Keep It Clean

2011-04-28T11:35:00.008-05:00

“How am I supposed to take a piss with you standing there?”

“Orders are orders.”

“You want to hold it for me, too?”

“You want I should kick you between the legs for getting smart about it? This ain’t no picnic for me either, Remedy.”

“It’s Remley.”

“Whatever.”

“What if I can’t go?”

“If need be, I can call in the nurse and she’ll bring a catheter.”

“You serious?”

“As a heart attack. Though I got to tell you, it ain’t the going in that’s the problem. She’ll put K-Y on the tube first, that way it slides up nice and easy. It’s the coming out that can be a booger. Sometimes—and I seen this just a couple days ago—the balloon don’t deflate and she just has to yank the thing out. The guy it happened to? The catheter came out looking like a grape on the end of straw. He walked in here acting like he was all that, you know? Later, though, the dude looked like he was carrying a hunnert-pound man on his shoulders."

“C’mon…”

“Don’t you worry none, though. The nurse, she got some antibiotics, cure any urinary infection most likely follow something like that?”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Would I lie to you, Remedy?”

“Remley.”

“Again, I really don’t care.”

“Right. So, how does a guy land a gig like this, watching while other guys take a leak?”

“You getting smart again?”

“No, I’m genuinely curious. What’d you do, get caught with the Judge’s daughter or something?”

“Listen, Remedy, outside of this here—mutual arrangement—you and me, we ain’t pals. We ain’t gonna swap war stories or send each other e-mails with stupid jokes or titty pictures attached. We just two guys got to do their jobs. Mine is to stand here, make sure you don’t try something funny. ‘Cause in case you haven’t figured it out by now, the justice department ain’t big on a sense of humor. And your job is to keep your mouth shut, your eyes down. I would hate for you to lose your focus, make a mess all over my floor. The last guy who did that walked out of here with a bad attitude, seeing as how I made him mop it up with the shirt on his back.”

“Jeez, man, you need to relax. You take this job way too serious, you know?”

“Well, I’m glad to see you finally catching on. So what say we cut the crap and you get on with your business so I can get on with mine?”

“It couldn’t hurt, you know.”

“What’re you jawing about now?”

“About you and lightening things up a little.”

“You want me to tell you a joke, that it?”

“I don’t know. Why, you got anything good?”

“Okay, yeah sure. It seems there was this tough looking gang of bikers, out riding around when they spotted an attractive young lady about to jump off a bridge, so they stopped. Now, the gang leader, a big burly guy, gets off his bike and says, ‘Hey, baby, what’re you doing?’ ‘What’s it look like?’ she says. ‘I'm gonna commit suicide.’ Okay, so while he did not want to appear insensitive, the biker didn't want to miss out on an opportunity either, so he asked, ‘Well, before you jump, how’s about you giving me a kiss?’ So she did, and it was long and lingering and passionate, and after she finished the biker said, ‘Wow, that was the hottest kiss I have ever had. That there is a real talent you'll be wasting. Say, why you committing suicide anyway?’ ‘Because,’ she said, ‘My parents don’t like me dressing up like a girl.’”

“Ha-ha-ha-oh-oh… Oh yeah, there we go. That was all I needed.”

“Merry Christmas, Remedy.”

“Kind of looks like a beer, don’t it?”

“Just put the lid on the cup and stick it behind that sliding panel there.”

“Hey, I’m sorry about all that stuff earlier. Just a little tense, having someone in the room and all, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not really a bad guy. I just made a bad choice and now I’m paying for it. In spades.”

“You guys all say the same stuff.”

“No, I mean it, I'm—”

“Yeah right, out of here is what you are. See you next week, Remedy. Until then, keep yourself clean.”

______________
Author's note: The joke in the story is not mine; I'm not good at creating jokes. Rather, it was something I heard and simply placed in the story, telling it in a way that fit with the character. The way I see it, if Elmore Leonard can do something like this in Up in Honey's Room, then I can do it too.

#FridayFlash - Birds and Bees

2011-04-20T17:08:00.013-05:00

Derek glanced away from the touch screen as a knock came at the door. Standing in the doorway, Derek’s father looked at him with a strange expression.

“Hey Chief,” his father said, “you got a minute?”

Derek frowned. What now? He tapped at the screen, closed the application, and looked back at his father. “Sure.”

“You listening to some tunes?”

Derek smiled. His father, Mr. Hip, using words like Chief and tunes. As if that somehow made the connection, bridged the generational gap. And it wasn’t only his dad, it seemed; just the other day, his mother came in the room and, staring at his poster of the rock band Dark Horse, said, “Are they the bomb, or what?” At first, he stared at her, thinking: The bomb? Really? But instead of correcting her—nobody used “The bomb” anymore, that was like ten years ago—he simply nodded and told her, yeah, they were.

Watching his dad, who now stepped into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, Derek pulled out his earbuds and laid the iPad aside. “Just some screaming banshees,” he said.

“They new?”

“Just came out.”

“Any good?”

Derek shrugged. “Not really, but they show some promise.”

His dad nodded. “You know, I’m so proud of you, the way you’ve taken on the lawn mowing business around the neighborhood. You’ve earned your own money, you’ve even bought your own iPad. That shows real independence.”

“Thanks.”

His dad took a breath. “The reason I came in, though, is because I think it’s time we talked. You’ve been spending more and more time on the internet, and your mother and I are concerned.”

Derek narrowed his eyes.

“You may not realize it, son, but as well as it being a great place to hear about new bands the internet can also be a dangerous place.”

Derek looked away. He didn’t like where this was going.

“Out there”—his father swept a hand through the air—“you may see things I’d rather you not see. You may come into contact with people I’d rather you not meet.”

“Dad—”

“And besides that, I think it’s time we talked because your friends may have already been exposed to things and started talking.” His father looked at him intensely now. “Am I right?”

Derek shook his head. “Talking about what?”

“About men and women and—well, how babies are made.”

Derek stared at his dad. Was this for real? Was the man really trying to tell him about the birds and the bees?

“Yeah,” he said, “I may have heard a thing or two about that.”

His dad looked down. Disappointment covered his face. “What have you heard?”

“It’s kind of embarrassing to say, you know?”

His dad nodded. “I don’t want you having the wrong ideas about—stuff like this. Sex is a gift from God, and it should be used wisely.”

Derek wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he just shook his head. “Look, dad, can we not do this? I don’t know that I want to talk about this stuff right now. It might be…” He shrugged.

His father nodded again. “Okay. Well, I just want to be available should you have questions. You know, in case you’re curious. ’Cause I’d rather you heard it from me instead of Joey Carlucci. There’s no telling what that kid’ll say.”

Derek laughed. “Yeah. Don’t I know it.”

His dad looked at him again. “So, is there anything you want to know?”

Derek shook his head. “I guess not.”

“Okay then. Well, if you have any questions, please know you can always come to me.”

“You bet.”

With that, his father stood. At the door he stopped and gave Derek a thumbs-up. “I’m proud of you.”

Derek smiled. “Thanks.”

His father gone, Derek picked up the iPad and placed the earbuds back in his ears. With a couple strokes, he called up the listing of networks around the neighborhood. This time, he would access the internet through Mr. Davidson’s WiFi. It was secure, but the old buzzard had made the mistake of leaving Derek alone with an unlocked door to the house. In case he needed water, Mr. Davidson had said. He didn’t want such a fine young man overheating while mowing his yard. After that, all it took was a quick search of drawers around the guy’s computer, and Derek had what he needed.

He tapped the screen and waited while the iPad connected. This was the way to do it, Joey Carlucci had told him. In case there were peeping eyes out there, you didn’t want them tracking you back to your own place.

A few strokes later and Derek also called up the Google account he had set up under a fake name—another thing Joey told him to do. He pulled up the e-mail with the video attachment and again watched the clip of two young girls who’d made a personal movie with a boy. They weren’t that good, really, but they showed promise.

#FridayFlash - L.T. Takes the No. 9

2011-04-15T08:49:00.008-05:00

If the driver had looked, even for a moment, L.T. would have waved him off, said it was the wrong bus, he was waiting for the No. 44 to Queens. And no doubt about it, one glance would have convinced the driver that L.T. was right and to snap the doors shut. Better to keep trouble off than to let it on. But the man didn’t look. He just opened the doors, muttered something about the No. 9 to South Bronx, and then glanced off to the left, his head doing a bob-and-weave, checking the traffic in the side mirror.

Satisfied, L.T. reached for the rail with his clean hand, pulled up. A sharp pain bit into his side, and a fresh layer of sweat broke out across his forehead. He blinked his eyes clear, took a deep breath, and climbed up the stairs, his jaw clenching with each labored step. From his jacket, he fished out a Metro Card and dipped it into the fare box, careful not to touch anything else. The sight of blood, whether on his hand or smeared against the equipment, would have raised questions—it might even have stopped the bus—and and right now all he wanted was to get home.

Of course, once home Mama would probably give him the business, say how she knew it would happen sooner or later. And like always, he’d tell her to shut up. He didn’t start it. That part of his life was over now.

Stuffing the card back into his pocket, L.T. turned to the aisle and froze as the strident cry of a siren wailed a few blocks away. Reaching inside the other pocket, L.T palmed the Browning .380 pistol. He didn’t want to shoot anyone else tonight but would if it came down that way. The gun was another thing Mama would yammer on about. Why was he carrying? He forget the law? And again, he’d tell her to shut up. What did she know? The past behind him or not, the street still carried its own set of rules. And besides, it wasn’t like the law did him any favors. At twenty-three, he’d already spent four months in jail, then two years in prison. At Rikers, it was bad enough listening to the jets taking off from La Guardia—the sound of freedom; but then the stuff they did to him at Sing Sing, and not just the convicts either, was enough to know he didn’t want to go back. He would just as soon jack the bus, drive it off the Whitestone Bridge and down into the East River. Either way he’d be dead, and that seemed more appealing than wasting away inside a cell, becoming somebody’s lockup whore.

A few seconds later, a police cruiser rushed by, its lights bathing everything in bursts of reds and blues. As the car sped away, beyond 178th and on toward East Tremont, L.T. released his breath and almost laughed. Hearing the siren, he’d forgotten that the Browning no longer had any bullets. Just who was he going to shoot with an unloaded gun?

Stepping forward, he passed a woman who sat alone. Deep lines plowed through the rich earth of her forehead and hair the color of asphalt and snow curled tight against her head. She glanced up, and he said, “What’re you looking at?” the tone as hard as a brick. The last thing he needed was an old broad getting nosy. She quickly looked away.

Walking the aisle, his pace slowed, his feet feeling heavier with each step. Five rows beyond the old lady, he finally spotted an empty seat. He sucked in air and held it, easing down, but it did no good. The pain sliced at his side again like razor blade cuts.

The bus powered up and pulled away from the curb.

L.T. leaned his head back, closed his eyes. All he wanted after work was to spend a little time with Laqesha. Which, when he thought about it, were two more things that he could point out to his mother. If a girl and a new job didn’t prove he had changed his ways, then what would? Mama would care less, though. In fact, she would probably say, “Uh-huh, a new job doing what?”

“A short order cook at Big Lou’s Bar and Grill.”

She would grunt then. “That’s what you get.” For wasting your life, she would mean.

Mama wouldn’t much like Laquesha either. What kind of woman goes shopping for a man inside the joint? Weren’t there other ways to find a husband? He admitted there probably were; but hey, he wasn’t going to turn a girl away just because she found him in a cell instead of the church.

The message Laquesha left on Mama’s answering machine said to stop by her place at eight. Like usual, they would grab some burgers, a couple of beers, and maybe watch something on the tube. That was a great idea, except she never showed. An hour later, Laquesha still not home, he decided to take a walk. And that’s when he ran into the two dudes. They drove by in a low-riding Bonneville, the spoke wheels as gold as the rising sun. Instead of going on, though, they pulled over to the curb and stopped. The blue bandanas told him all he needed to know.

The first one climbed out of the passenger’s seat. “Where you think you going, Blood?”

L.T. reached into his jacket. “I’m just walking here. I don’t do that stuff no more.”

The second one stepped around the front of the car, all confidence and attitude. “Yeah?” he said. “Then why you showing the tat on your neck like you still do?” And before L.T. could react, the punk pulled a gun.

L.T. jumped back. He jerked the .380 out and fired. He pulled the trigger again and again until nothing else came out. When it was over, the two gang bangers were on the ground and L.T. was on his feet, running. It took three blocks to realize he’d been hit, a couple more to feel the blood creeping down his leg.

The No. 9 slowed down and made a left turn. His insides screamed, the pain feeling like somebody stabbing him repeatedly. He squeezed his eyes tight and saw sparks of white light. Just then, a cough seized him. His hand shot up, and sparks of white light jumped before his eyes. The world tilted then, and everything came up. He wasn’t sure what exactly—he hadn’t eaten anything since lunch—but something came up anyway. A strange taste covered his tongue. Like the days when he used to stick pennies in his mouth so he wouldn’t lose them. He pulled the hand away and found it wet and sticky. Confused, he looked at both hands and then tried to wipe them off on his shirt, only they came back more wet and sticky than before. In fact, he was covered in it.

He grabbed at the seat in front of him and pulled up, but his hand slipped on the seat and L.T. fell into the aisle.

Somebody said, “You okay, man?” the voice sounding far away.

“Mama?”

Tears welled up in L.T.’s eyes as he thought about what Mama would say, him falling down, messing up his clothes. Didn’t she raise her boy better than that?

Mama?

Again, he heard her voice. He could do whatever he wanted—change his clothes, even grow out his hair; there was no going back to normal, though. He’d always be what he was, and that was trouble.

Mama…

#FridayFlash - Bigger

2011-04-08T22:25:00.013-05:00

Whenever I look at Vera, I wish I were… well, maybe not just taller—though that would be like cool beyond belief—but bigger. Stone Cold Steve Austin bigger. Big enough to stomp Todd Millsap’s head into the ground, splatter his brains against the sidewalk like the grapes Jimmy Anderson and I squashed last week.

They were Mrs. Anderson’s grapes, the ones she planted last year and worked like a honey bee trying to get what she called a bumper crop, though that didn’t make much sense to me, being that she only had one grapevine. Still, she told Jimmy and me to leave ‘em alone, don’t touch ‘em, else God would strike us dead where we stood, leave nothin’ but our smoldering shoes and ashes behind so’s folks’d know what’d happened to us. Jimmy shot me a look like he thought that was a load.

“C’mon,” he said, and together we marched out to the backyard to the corner fence where his mom had planted her Hallelujah Garden.

Of course, I let him go first, being his house and backyard and all—at least that’s what I said—and when nothing came down at us, no lightning bolt or flash of fire, we stuffed a couple clusters each into our pants pockets and tore out of there as fast as we could. Just in case God was busy leveling the hammer down on some other fool who’d done what he shouldn’t have, we didn’t want to be around when the Almighty finally figured out them grapes was missing.

That was last week, and I still have the image in my head, the stains left behind on the concrete where we smashed them with the soles of our shoes. The stuff was nasty looking, like a pigeon had a serious case of the scours or something. And of course, that’s what I want Todd’s brains to look like, too, one big giant mess of juicy goo running down into the gutter.

If it wasn’t for Vera paying so much attention to him, he might be okay—heck, we might even be friends, though that’s a tough one to imagine, let alone swallow. But here’s the rub: she pays way too much attention to him, doting over how smart he is, what a fine young man he’s going to be. And here’s the rub of the rub: he brings it on, knowing full well what he’s doing. One day, he even looked at me and winked. Almost like he was telling me to forget it; Vera was his. Stupid dingleberry.

It’s him who doesn’t have a clue. You see, before I bash out his brains, I’m gonna stab both of my Berol number twos into his eye sockets, make him look like some alien life force come down from the planet Drakkamundo, way out there somewhere in the next solar system. Then, after I’ve hammered the pencils home, I’m gonna take my last pack of M-80s, stuff ‘em all up his you-know-what and light the fuse. Jimmy and me, we did something like that to an anthill last week. Seeing all them dead bodies scattered at least four or five feet away from the mound, we both hit the ground grabbing at our bellies. And just think what kind of kick Jimmy will get out of Todd running around, slapping at his rear—only he’ll be slapping at nothing ‘cause the M-80s will blow it all off. Man, Jimmy’ll pee his pants, he’ll be laughing so hard.

And then, while Todd’s running around, screaming his head off, I’ll be ever-so-helpful and give him a pail of turpentine to—

“Johnny?”

I turn and look into the most beautiful eyes God ever made.

“Yes, Vera?”

She smiles. “It’s Mrs. Whithers to you, Johnny.”

“Okay… Mrs. Whithers.”

“That’s better. Have you finished your quiz?”

Looking down, I grit my teeth. “I haven’t started yet.”

She glances at her watch. “Well, you only have a few minutes left, so hurry up, okay?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Across the room, Todd raises his hand. “I’m done.”

Vera looks at him and smiles. “See how quickly Todd did his quiz, boys and girls? Let’s see who can get theirs done next.”

Todd looks at me, gives me the finger, and smiles.

I grab my Berol number two and smile back. The stupid dingleberry.

#FridayFlash - A Trip in the Valley

2011-03-31T23:49:00.012-05:00

Nick felt a rush in his stomach, like his morning eggs had suddenly been re-scrambled, as the hovercraft flew over the bend and dipped down across the cracked arroyo bed. Funny to think that water once flowed in rivers here, he thought. Now they had to dig thousands of feet to get it. His body pressed against the seat as they shot up out of the dry gulch and launched back across the plains. He glanced at the dashboard, saw the display linger momentarily at ninety before it started to climb again.

Behind the controls, Lauren’s father pointed a gnarled finger toward the horizon. He wagged it back and forth. “Look around you,” he said. “This is the Valley, as far as you can see. A land so rugged and harsh, yet so eternally optimistic. In fact, some say this was the place God decided to let go unfinished when day seven came around.” He chuckled and glanced over at Nick. “Of course, they ain’t never been to southern Arizona, I suspect.”

Nick gave a smile and a nod, trying to act interested, but was more concerned about the speedometer, the numbers now topping a hundred and still going. He wasn’t excited about the trip; he’d seen this side of the Red Planet before and didn’t think much of it. And the truth was he could have picked any number of things he would have rather done today instead of riding around in beat-up Tritan, the crazy old man not even watching the road. Like standing in the aisle outside the lingerie department while Lauren thumbed through racks of bras and panties, old women giving him their best disgusted look as they passed by with their grandchildren in tow. God knows, that ranked about as low as anything as he could imagine.

And there was no doubt about Lauren’s father being crazy, either. The first day he met her parents, the old man, Luther, shook his hand and quickly gave him a tour of their massive six-thousand square-foot complex. Under the dome in the backyard, Nick noticed a row of crosses; when he asked about them, Luther said, “They’s loved ones, Nick.” He smiled. “A man can’t live a good life without keeping his loved ones close by.”

The way the man looked at him then, like he meant every word, sent a current of bad energy through Nick’s skin. It was another good reason to be someplace else. But then, Lauren had insisted, said it would do them both some good, and so here he was.

Looking over, hearing the whine of the engine, Nick noticed that the display had finally leveled off around a hundred and ten. Behind them, a cloud of red dust trailed in their slipstream. God help me, he thought. One flick of the wrist, and they could forget the part about being full of grace; there wouldn’t even be time to say, “Hail, Mary.”

Luther thrust his arm across Nick’s chest and pointed. “Looky there, off that way about a half-kilometer.”

In the distance modular homes, like silver Airstreams back on Earth, congregated together. More like tin-can coffins, Nick thought. Hitch up and roll 'em away to the burying grounds when the time came.

“Now that,” Luther said, a proud smile on his face, “was my very first development. About twenty years ago. Right after Lauren was born.”

No nodding this time. Cluttered with trash and lean-to solar panels, the placed looked like images of shanty towns that Nick had seen in some of his history books.

“Carried the note on every one of them,” Luther added. “Some of them six times over, all of them at least eighteen percent. Even got lucky enough to sell a few for a hundred-thousand Kronos, you believe that. Folks are still paying.”

Nick frowned. Eighteen percent?

“Now I know what you’re thinking,” Luther said. “How can I sell a piece of crap for such exorbitant rates and prices? But look again, and see it through their eyes. Think where they came from, what they had to deal with before they crossed over on the shuttle. To them, this is the land of promise; and if they have to pay a little extra to live in a better place, so be it. And besides…” He shrugged. “If not me, somebody else would be selling the space.”

Nick closed his eyes, raked a hand through his hair.

“This why you brought me out here? You wanted me to know how you really made your money?”

Luther looked at him for beat, then shook his head. “You never quit making money, son. One guy can’t pay, you find somebody else to take his place. And if he does pay, you take the profits, buy more land and develop it, too.” The craft started slowing down. “No, I brought you out to see if you’re the man you claim to be. A self-motivator, who can tackle any challenge.”

Luther turned the craft down another road. Ahead, Nick saw a worn-out station. It's yard was littered with pieces of broken-down machines and equipment.

Luther gave him a hard look. “’Cause I gotta say, ain't just anyone who can have my daughter. I want someone who's got a killer instinct. Someone strong enough to run the family business.”

Nick squinted. “The family business.”

Luther reached down under the seat and pulled out a gun. “Just so happens, today’s foreclosure Tuesday. Time to evict some non-payers.”

“And then what? They'll become a burden to the rest of us.”

“No free-loaders after I'm done.”

Nick looked at the gun and didn’t like the feel in his gut. “Don’t they have a magistrate for this?”

Luther shook his head. “Out here, I’m the law.”

“And if I refuse?”

Luther looked at him for a moment. “Only loved ones get crosses in the backyard, Nick.”

#FridayFlash - The Dragon Lady

2011-03-25T08:42:00.005-05:00

Jarol stood like a sentinel, facing the children before him. All eyes looked at him expectantly. “No,” he finally said. “I promised your mother I’d have you in bed by nine o’clock, and it’s now eight-fifty-five.”

The youngest one cried out first. “Aw, c’mon.”

Jarol looked down at Tony, and felt a small pang of worry. Such a big voice, and yet for a six-year old the boy looked no more than a day past four, his size far smaller than it should have been by now. But then, appearances aside, the fire in those eyes told him this one held the strength and independence of a child twice his age.

Jarol shook his head. “C’mon nothin’. A promise is a promise, you know that, and I intend to keep mine.”

The middle child, Andrew, spoke up then. “But, pa-paw, we still have five minutes.” He gave Jarol a pleading look that begged for reasonable thought. Couldn’t he bend just this once? Always the one to find the loophole in any argument, Andrew would most likely be standing before a judge someday, arguing ad infinitum on what the legislature truly meant by this or that law.

Jarol glanced over, saw the look on the oldest child’s face--a look that said, so what are you gonna do now?--and felt his determination wither. There were only three of them, and he wasn’t growing any younger.

“Oh, all right.” He glanced at the clock, took a deep breath and swallowed it. “I guess I can spare a few minutes.” He shuffled across the wooden floor to the easy chair, the leather worn and shiny, and the pillow top sighed as he slumped into it. His hands cupped the armrests. “So what do you boys want to hear about tonight?”

The two youngest looked to the oldest, Tommy, who gazed toward the ceiling, his lips pressed together, and after a moment nodded his head like he’d just solved the riddle behind Mona Lisa’s smile. “How about the Dragon Lady?” he said.

“Yeah,” the other two shouted.

“The Dragon Lady,” Jarol said. “But it’s so long, and you’ve heard it at least a hundred times already.”

“But we want to hear it a hundred and one times,” Andrew said. “And after that, a hundred and two.”

Tony nodded. “It’s the best one.”

Jarol looked to Tommy, who stood there with arms crossed and a smile on his face. He pursed his lips for a moment and then said, “Okay, the Dragon Lady it is.”

“What color were her eyes again?” Andrew asked.

Jarol laid his head back. “They were black. As black as the new moon sky with all the stars swallowed up. In fact, I’d be willing to bet the light from the torches of a thousand foot soldiers had been snuffed out with just one look from the Dragon Lady. Now boys, there’s evil and then there’s evil, and she was by far the most evil woman who ever lived.”

The room drew silent.

“Instead of skin, her body was coated in scales, green and sparkling like emeralds. And when she talked, her forked tongue flicked in and out, her voice sounding like the crash of ocean waves. Her breath smelled like burning tar.” He told how she came to be and where she lived on the hill. “For years, she ruled over the land with a power no man had ever seen. With spells the bent fire, the flames so hot they would melt the stoutest of shields, she terrorized the people. She devoured her enemies whole like a python eats mice.”

Tony leaned into Andrew, wrapped both arms around his brother.

“‘Bring me your best men,’ she screamed from the hilltop, ‘and I will eat them all.’ And for the longest time, nobody dared. Most hid behind rocks, fearful that one blast of fire from the Dragon Lady would instantly turn them to ash. Then one day, a new warrior appeared, a young man who said, enough, the people had lived in fear too long and had apparently forgot who they were. Nobody had ever heard of him before, and though it had been rumored he was only a minor’s son, the youngest at that, nobody really knew for sure where he came from, or how, without sword or shield, he could act so brave and valiant. But stood before the Dragon Lady he did, wearing only the clothes on his back, because when given the chance to wear the best armor from the finest blacksmith, he refused. ‘I’m not a swordsman,’ he said. ‘Instead, I will go against her with only that which I hold in my hands and the fire in my heart.’ The people were amazed. ‘But you have nothing in your hands,’ they said.”

“But that didn’t matter, did it pa-paw.”

Jarol looked at Tony and smiled. “Not a bit. He went before her, opened his palms, and blue light shot forth. It swirled around the Dragon Lady, and a new look filled her eyes, one that nobody ever saw before--fear. In an instant, it was over. The blue light twisted and spiraled into the sky, and nobody ever saw the Dragon Lady again.”

“Wow,” Andrew said. “That one never gets old, pa-paw.”

Jarol looked at the clock and exhaled. “Well, will you look at that? I gave you the story and still have a minute to spare.” He swept a hand toward the stairs. “Now off to bed.”

The two youngest gave him a hug, a kiss, and then scurried away. Tommy lingered behind, smiling.

“You like that story, huh?” Jarol asked.

Tommy nodded. “Because I know it’s true.” He stepped forward, one hand inside the pocket of his jeans. “And you know what else I know, pa-paw?”

Jarol frowned. What was this? “I can’t imagine.”

From his pocket, the boy produced a wristwatch. His time read nine-fifteen. “I know who and what you are.”

#FlashFriday - Don Makes A Deal

2011-03-18T17:14:00.005-05:00

Don shook the bottle next to his ear, listened to the sharp crackling within. He frowned then and looked across the table.

“Ain’t much in here, hombre. Maybe just one pill.”

In the other chair, the Mexican smiled. His teeth were long and yellow, and he chewed on a thin cigar. Guessing by the sheen of the man’s hair, Don suspected it had been days since the last bathing. Still, underneath the tattered denim jacket, the man wore a gold necklace and a white shirt, the collars starched and knifing down.

“For what you need, señor…” The man looked left, then right around the plaza. Like it really mattered. Here in the border town, where a man could locate "dancing girls" who'd spend a couple hours with him for fifty dollars, nobody cared, not even the so-called federales. “I think one will be enough.”

Don looked at the tangerine colored bottle. The label looked professional enough. There was even the obligatory governmental caution prohibiting the transfer of this drug to any person other than the patient for whom prescribed. Which was funny because looking at the name again Don had never thought of himself as an Ignacio Inés. Not in a million years. And even though the pill was indeed a drug, it was neither the drug labeled nor a drug that a doctor would prescribe. Not any doctor he knew, at least.

He placed the bottle down on the table. Only one pill. Really, though, exactly how much did he need? It wasn’t like he was a doctor. He thought about Gladys back in the States, the constant badgering, the bird-dogging. Good Lord, not even his own kids could look at him with respect anymore. Last week, after she'd walked into the office to chew him out, he finally told himself it was enough. A man can only take so much.

He glanced back across the table and hoped the Mexican was right.

“How much?”

#FridayFlash - A Nice Night for Orion

2011-03-10T14:40:00.008-06:00

Jonas smelled the fear. Usually, he either saw it or heard it—how the eyes danced around to avoid direct contact, or how the throat clenched up; sometimes, it was both. Tonight, though, an onion stench of sweat trailed behind the mark as he passed by, completely oblivious that Jonas could have reached out and touched him. No doubt about it, the way he was acting, walking fast like the world was about to end, the man was scared out of his mind.

Earlier tonight, the information received had been short, but concise. Thomas Cantrell: accountant and managing partner of Cantrell and Associates. Residence: 2154 Lakeside Court. Tonight’s e-mail also contained a JPEG file of Cantrell’s photo, taken outdoors, catching the accountant as he walked to a black Cadillac XLR, the same car now sitting in the driveway, its high-gloss paint and chrome trim shimmering under the glare of a security spotlight. While not impressed with what he now saw--a balding man around five-foot-eight, weighing in the neighborhood of one-seventy, maybe one-eighty--Jonas at least appreciated the man’s taste in vehicles.

The last and most important part of the e-mail was the commitment for fifty thousand dollars to be wired to a Banco Del Rio account on Grand Cayman, payable upon proof of services rendered. Looking at the ring on Cantrell’s right hand, Jonas remembered the knife in his pocket and knew right away what proof he would give.

He stepped out of the shadows and followed closely behind. “Evening, Thomas.”

Cantrell spun around. His eyes locked in on Jonas. “Who are you?”

In addition to knowing there was a payoff at the end, Jonas took a small comfort in seeing that it was also justified. Somewhere along the way, Cantrell had blurred the lines, lost sight of the bigger universe; and the beads of sweat, the recognition of real danger in those eyes, served only to condemn him.

Jonas took a deep breath. The brisk air calmed his insides. “I represent Mr. Dawson.”

“Dawson never said anything about someone coming out.”

“They never do.”

Cantrell blinked. “They?”

“My clients.” Jonas waited for the faint light of recognition to play across Cantrell’s face. He smiled. Sure enough, there it was.

“Look,” Cantrell said, “there must be some mistake. I wasn’t stealing Dawson’s money. I only have it so it can be deposited tomorrow. I mean there’re multiple accounts, and they all need to be managed.”

Jonas shook his head. “I’m not paid to know the details.”

Cantrell’s voice cracked. “Oh God, please, surely it doesn’t have to come to this. We can work something out, can’t we?”

Jonas glanced up at the night sky and spotted a thin wisp of cloud that split the orange moon in the east.

“I love this time of year, don’t you?” He looked at Cantrell. “It's so beautifu at night, and you can always see Orion.”

A look of confusion crossed Cantrell’s face. “Pardon?”

“The stars.” Jonas reached underneath the lapel of his jacket and felt the grip of the Ruger tucked away inside its holster. “It’s a nice night for Orion.”

******

"Cannon baaaaaall!”

Mack turned his head, bracing for the inevitable as Jimmy took a running leap off the pier, both hands tucked between his legs. Mack cringed at the last mental image he saw before the splash: the crack of Jimmy’s rear end. The impact sent a tidal wave of water in all directions.

A moment later, Jimmy surfaced and shook the water from his hair. “Man, this water’s cold!”

Mack didn’t say a thing.

“Hey, how’d you like that one?”

“I didn’t.”

Jimmy wiped at his eyes. “Hey, what’s got your panties in a wad?”

“We don’t need the noise, Jimmy. There’s no telling if or when the cops’ll come around, and I don’t know about you, but I personally don’t want to be hauled out of the lake with nothing to cover my Johnson but my own two hands.”

Jimmy laughed. “Like that’ll ever happen. They’ll be too busy laughing to notice your shriveled-up peanut.”

“I see, you’re a funny guy now too, that it?”

“C’mon, bro, lighten up. Besides, it was your idea to come down here.”

“I’m just saying--”

The sound of an approaching motor carried through the woods. A moment later, headlights spotted through the trees as a car approached. Almost to the pond, the driver turned his wheels and then braked, the car facing away. White reverse lights cast an ethereal glow across the water then as the driver backed up to the pier and cut the engine. He stepped out, walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk. Mack heard a grunt, and his heart stopped as the man lifted a body out of the car and walked backwards, dragging the body out to the edge of the pier. The man dropped it over and stood for a while, staring at the water. He took a deep breath and almost turned, but stopped. He looked further out and Mack’s stomach turned sour as their eyes met, the man sighing at first and then shaking his head, smiling.

“Well, this is a little awkward. I wasn’t expecting anyone out here in the middle of nowhere this time of night. Don’t you boys have school in the morning?"

Mack shook his head. “Spring Break.”

“And what, you decide to come out here to swim instead of heading south to the beach, some place warmer?”

“Can’t afford to,” Jimmy said. “Besides, our parents would let us anyway.”

The man nodded. “Well, don’t be too glum about it, boys. After all, it’s not as bad you might think.” He reached a hand into his coat and glanced up at the sky. “At least we’ve got Orion to look at, huh?”

#FridayFlash - The Problem with You

2011-03-04T18:44:00.004-06:00

“The prolem with you,” the professor said, “is that--is that you lack the nessary vision to sthee beyond the brooder scheme of things.”

He held a goblet filled with ice and vodka, waving it around as he talked. A spider-web of blood vessels painted his cheeks, and the side of his mouth drooped slightly. Condescending eyes, half-shrouded by withered eyelids, looked me over.

“You need to thing about the future,” he said. “You need a plan--a long-range proshection of where you want your pathetic life to go--what’re going to get, and how’re you going to get it.” A crooked finger pointed generally at me. “Because while baggy jeans and a Mötley Crüe t-shirt might build you a nice career stocking shelves at Wal-mart, they won’t buy you a house on Park Avenue.”

His head bobbed forward then, a tussle of white hair flowing down across his brow. Wiry eyebrows lifted as if asking whether or not I understood what he was talking about. I wanted to say that Park Avenue was a continent away and I was quite happy living within the sight of Mt. Rainier, thank you very much; instead, I nodded. Sure it was placating and definitely less than a little insincere--and the old man probably knew it as much as I did--but so what? Part of the game or not, the conversion had already lasted fifteen minutes beyond the five I originally gave it.

“Now take her last boyfriend--Matt”

“Daddy...”

Glancing at Amanda, the professor’s daughter, seeing an I’m-so-sorry look in her eyes, I knew she was ready for this to end as well. I couldn’t blame her. In her shoes, I would have felt the same way.

He squinted. “No, not Matt. Mark.”

“Daddy...”

“Yes, it was Mark.” He nodded. “Now, Mark couldn’t grasp the complexuries of life. To him, life was… a Happy Meal. Something with a cheap toy to play with.”

Amanda sighed.

“I don’t consider Amanda to be a Happy Meal, sir.”

He smiled. “Well, that’s something, at least.”

Amanda slipped her arm around mine. “Daddy, we really have to go. We have reservations.”

The professor glanced at her and took a deep breath. “If you must.” Looking at me, he said, “We can finish our talk later tonight.”

“Daddy, I--”

He turned away.

Walking out, her arm still wrapped tightly around mine, Amanda said she was sorry. “I don’t know why he always does that to me. Don’t let it push you away.”

I opened the door of my Corvette, a vintage 1965 model. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I see the same thing every day from some of my employees, the ones who think they’re smart enough to run the company.” I gave her a reassuring smile as she climbed into the car, and the panic left her face.

I started to shut the door, but stopped. “By the way, when do I get to meet your grandparents?”

She shrugged. “Someday, I guess.”

“How old are they again?”

“Eighty-five and Eight-three.” She frowned. “Why?”

I shook my head and shut the door, thinking that tonight might be just a couple of beers, maybe a burger--nothing special. As I made my way around the car, I stopped and took one last glance at the house. In the window, I saw the professor standing there watching me.

I smiled and gave him a wave.

#FridayFlash - Animals

2011-02-25T09:22:00.006-06:00

I stared through the glass and thought of bears, lions, monkeys… Well, apes really. For Mollie, I had been all of them at one time or another, dressing up as she’d requested and growling, squawking or hooting like she wanted in order to fulfill some deep craving inside. One night I even hung from the chandelier by one hand, scratching my side with the other and howling like a wild man--an idea that seemed like fun at the time, but then went south as everything came crashing down. That stunt put me on the chiropractor’s table, and then out of work for two days.

Thinking back through it all, Mollie and I had ourselves a grand time. I wouldn’t say that we were inseparable, like there was some deep attraction or cosmic law of gravity love that pulled us together through time and space. No, it was more like driving down the road and finding a detour sign that took you through a part of the country you would have never thought to look at before.

But that all ended last night, when she told me it was to be our last journey together. Afterwards, we could never see each other again. It wasn’t like I didn’t know it was coming, though. We’d often talked about this day, how it was rapidly approaching and things--life in general, really--would have to be different.

Beside my reflection in the glass, another face appeared. Behind me, a voice asked, “Are you ready to be seated, sir?”

I turned around, caught the wondering gaze of a young usher who couldn’t be more than fifteen. I then glanced back through the glass at the people already seated, all of them listening as the string quartet played some classical piece.

“Yes,” I said. “I'm ready.”

“Are you a friend of the groom?”

I smiled, thinking about bears, lions and apes again.

“No, I’m a long-time friend of the bride.”

#FridayFlash - Standard Policy

2011-02-17T22:18:00.006-06:00

Sheryl slipped the spatula under the patty and flipped it. The meat sizzled. Grease popped in retaliation and bit down twice into the back of her hand. With gritted teeth, she snatched up a dishrag, frayed at the edges and damp from two spills already this morning. She wiped off her hand and then smelled the rag, testing to see if it would need to go in with the first load of laundry. Deciding it could last at least through lunch, she tossed it back on the counter and turned to the man at her table.

“I thought the policy was good,” she said. “I mean, I kept up the premiums.”

The young man--maybe in his thirties, but most likely his late twenties--looked up and smiled. And boy-howdy, weren’t they were the most perfect teeth she’d ever seen? Almost like Billy Bob Thornton’s in Bandits.

“Rest assured, ma’am,” the man said, his words coming creamy, “your claim will be processed just as we agreed. First, though we have to ask a couple questions.”

He wore a black suit with a white shirt and a tie, the knot so triangular she would have sworn it was a clip-on, except now, looking at him sitting there, she could see the rest of the tie roped underneath the starched collar. He had wide set eyes--bedroom eyes, she would later tell her best friend, Janet--and hair pristinely set with some styling gel.

Sheryl walked across the linoleum, her fuzzy slippers whispering to each other with every step. She pulled out a chair and sat. Thinking about the way she looked, Sheryl knew she should have excused herself to the bedroom the moment he arrived, change into something more… well, presentable. As it was, though, she had two kids to herd up--one who was probably still playing submarines in the toilet with his brother’s toothbrush--and they both needed to be fed before the bus arrived. So like it or not, the insurance representative had to deal with her just as she was, first impressions be what they were.

She slouched back. “Questions, huh?”

The man nodded. “Standard policy. The inconvenient part of this business.” He reached into black leather briefcase, pulled out a file, and opened it. “It shouldn’t take long, though.”

“I hope not,” she said, letting the Southern drawl slip out. It usually did when she felt wired up. “I mean, not unless you want to eat some eggs and sausage with my two boys. Though I must say, you got to eat fast around them. If you want to eat, that is.”

He flashed those Billy Bob whites again, and said, “I’m good, thank you.”

So polite, she thought. Like he was seated before royalty or something. It was a lie, of course, imagined for the sake of convenience, just like all the others, but it felt good anyway.

She reached into the pocket of her house coat, pulled out a crinkled pack of Salems. “You smoke?”

He shook his head.

“Mind if I do?”

“It’s your house.”

Sheryl tittered. Of course it was. So, Jeez-Louise already, why was she asking? She reached into the other pocket and fished out a lighter. The cigarette lighted, she took a deep drag and blew the smoke out the side of her mouth.

“So…” She waved a hand in the air. “What do you have to ask?”

The man glanced down at the folder. “Your name is Sheryl Linsford, is that correct?”

She looked at him for a moment. “Chris, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your name.”

“Yes, Chris Alegria.”

She nodded. “Please don’t tell me you came all the way out here to ask me if I know who I am.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just standard--”

“Policy, yeah, I get it.” She took another pull on the cigarette. “The thing is, you called me. This morning, in fact. And look at me. I haven’t had time to try and fool anyone.”

“It’s just a question I always ask. We’re going to scan your eyes anyway.”

She frowned.

He reached into the briefcase and pulled out a netbook-sized laptop, a rectangular box, and a tripod. Setting up the equipment, he connected a cable from the computer to the box.

“I don’t have any wireless, you think you’re gonna need it.”

The man shook his head and pointed up. “Satellites.”

Sheryl nodded once.

“Okay,” he said, “this will only take a moment.” He made another adjustment, told her to hold still and looked straight ahead. The Billy Bobs seemed brighter this time. “Well, you check out, Mrs. Linsford.”

“Good to know,” she said. Smoke seeped between her lips with each word. “For a moment there, I thought you were going to ask me for a birth certificate or something.”

He closed the computer and put everything away.

“And your husband is gone, correct?”

Sheryl felt inside the pocket again, this time finding the photo. It had been produced on an outdated printer; though a little grainy, the image was clear enough.

“That’s him there with Ms. Tuesday Night Poker Party.” She pinned the photo on the table with two fingers. “What do you think of those? Personally, I think they’re fake.”

He glanced at it.

“But he’s left?”

Her shoulders dropped. “Mr. Aleh…”

“Alegria.”

She nodded and fished out another piece of paper. “He left this behind, too. I think you’ll appreciate the irony, how he still loves me, loves the boys, but can’t find it in his heart to be happy.”

He read it.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re all done as far as I’m concerned. See? A fairly simple process.”

Sheryl stared at him. “So, when will my... claim be processed?”

The Billy Bobs again. “As soon as I call our agent. Your ex-husband will then be your deceased ex-husband.”

“Just like that, huh?”

“That’s what Cheaters indemnity is for, ma’am.”

Now she smiled. “Easy-peasy.”

#FridayFlash - Leap of Faith

2011-02-10T15:23:00.006-06:00

Serena stared at the man behind the steering wheel and wondered how it would go. Dogs like Jake Moselle deserved to die; yet, as much as she wanted to be the one who put him down, the queasy feeling in her gut raised doubts about whether she would. It wasn’t so much a fear of actually pulling the trigger. Thirty-seven prior terminations, all sanctioned by an agency with no official name, had already anesthetized that emotion.

It wasn’t a fear of explaining why she’d logged into the system, either, targeting a man that held no more value than a drop of water on a dead man’s tongue. She had settled the issue on trying to argue it. She wouldn’t. Besides, any explanation would only be dismissed. As far as the bureaucrats were concerned, Moselle was categorically a non-existent; even if he were important, the leap had violated direct orders against entering an agent’s own line.

Of course, this assumed she would actually be around to explain.

She inhaled deeply and looked down the street. For the moment, the sidewalk remained clear.

Thinking about it, standing on this corner on this day, breathing in the smoggy twentieth-century air, was nothing less than a miracle. In order to bypass system protocols and make the jump, her clearance authorization had to be forged, no small task in an age of digital signatures, hashing algorithms, and user-provided pass phrases. Thankfully, the ghost key program she had coded into the agency’s mainframe went undetected. Twenty-four hours later, she had what she needed.

Serena glanced at her watch and then walked up to the car. She rapped her knuckles against the glass. Moselle snapped his head around, his eyes locking on hers before working their way down. Serena clenched her jaw. How this creep had avoided suspicion seemed unbelievable. The beat-up Nova, all blue except for one green panel and a garbage bag covering a side window, was easy enough to spot. However, a quick survey of the neighborhood answered the question. Two rows of houses lined the street. Curtains covered the windows and double locks, in some cases triple, bound the doors. People saw only what they wanted to.

Moselle rolled down the window. “Yeah, what do you want?”

His body odor smelled like rotting potatoes. At the sound of his voice, the words slurred with booze, Serena felt an urge to do it now, take her chances. Control trumped emotion, though, and she tapped her wrist.

“You got the time?”

Moselle frowned. “I look like a clock to you?”

Down the street, a boy with spiked hair and military boots turned the corner and headed up the sidewalk. He would stop at the third house, the one with red brick and porch steps made of concrete.

“Take it easy,” she said to Moselle. “I just thought you might have a watch.” She reached into her jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “How ‘bout a light then?”

At the house, a teenage girl with black hair and matching black lips opened the door. Serena’s chest tightened up. She remembered her Goth years, but never saw it as so self-absorbed.

In the car, Moselle chuckled. “What is this, a come on? You lonely or something?”

Anger burned at her cheeks. “You got a light, or don’t you?”

“Yeah sure.” Moselle stabbed the dashboard lighter with a finger. “Don’t get your panties in a wad.”

Glancing back at the house, Serena spotted another girl in the doorway, this one younger, just a child. The older one said something and pointed down the street. The little girl protested, but it didn’t help. Watching it happen, Serena felt hollowed out. She couldn’t remember all that she had said to her younger sister, and it didn’t matter. Even now, the look on Heather’s face remained as a silent, tucked-away image that haunted Serena almost every day.

The boy--his name was Jason--reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of wadded-up bills. He tossed them on the ground, pulled the little girl out of the house, and then stepped inside. As the two of them laughed and closed the door, Serena felt tears pulling at her eyes. It had all been so stupid. So insanely…

She looked down at Moselle. His fingers hovered over the lighter, but his gaze had been directed through the windshield. She followed the line of sight across the street where her little sister shuffled along the sidewalk. When the lighter popped out, he snatched it from the console and without looking thrust it through the open window. Her pulse quickened. The look in those eyes, the way he licked his lips, what had happened so long ago wasn’t just an unfortunate circumstance, and trying to delay him, even for a moment, wouldn’t change a thing. He was a monster. He had locked in on a target and wouldn’t stop until satisfied.

“Yo,” Moselle said, finally looking at her. “You gonna light that thing or not? I gotta get a move on.”

In that moment, old memories carried her away. She saw black and white photos of an alley, a dumpster, and of a little girl, her body broken. She remembered the coroner’s tinny voice, hearing about the multiple assaults and the cause of death. She remembered the empty pill bottle she found a month later and how her cries went unanswered as she repeatedly shook her mother’s lifeless body. And in spite of the orders about crossing her own line, how the agency would kill her if the jump didn’t, Serena knew she would rather face the unknown than to spend another night staring into the hopeless gaze of the dead.

She dropped the unlit cigarette, reached inside her jacket, and un-holstered the weapon. The gun’s weight felt comfortable. Its deadly electronics whirred to life.

She smiled as confusion, and then panic, registered on Moselle’s face.

“You bet,” she said. “Let’s light it up.”

#FridayFlash - Cup of Via

2011-02-05T00:11:00.005-06:00

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

Annie stared down, the words momentarily stuck in her throat. Finally: “It’s my husband.”

On the floor, his cheeks the color of aged meat, John clawed at his neck, the veins popping out as if they were about to explode. He gasped.

The voice on the phone said, “Your husband?” and sounded so disconnected it felt strangely out of place.

“Yes. Please help me.”

“Okay ma’am, I need you to remain calm. What is wrong with your husband?”

Annie gripped the cell phone. “He’s… He’s dying.”

John looked up. His eyes narrowed, his mouth a slashed line. He reached out a hand, and she stepped back. Then, he groaned and clutched his stomach so fiercely that Annie believed he would rip it out. If only he could. A second later, he barked out a tidal wave of acid and bile, the flow of it bathing the floor around him. It oozed between the ceramic tiles, the grout acting like gutters on a city street, channeling the vomit away.

Through the cell phone’s speaker, the woman said, “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Annie said. “I made him a cup of coffee and now he’s on the floor puking up everything.”

“Okay,” the woman said. In the background, Annie heard several clicks. “I’m alerting the paramedics and the police. Can you give me your address?”

Annie looked down where John continued to writhe.

The woman said, “Ma’am, I need your address.”

Annie gave it to her.

“Can you tell me what kind of coffee you gave your husband?”

“It’s the kind he always asks for, the instant stuff from Starbucks.” Annie squeezed her eyes shut and pressed a hand to her forehead. “Via, I think.”

“Okay, I’ll also alert the paramedics for the possibility of food poisoning. Please hold.”

Annie stared at John’s hands, the veins and fat knuckles. His ring. A moment later the woman’s voice returned.

“Can you tell me your husband’s condition now?”

“He’s still on the--He’s going into convulsions now.”

“Ma’am, I need you to remain calm. The paramedics will be there soon. What I need you to do is open up the front door. Can you do that?”

Annie turned and ran down the front hallway. She snapped the locks open, twisted the door knob and pulled hard. In the distance, about a mile away, she saw the twinkling of her neighbor’s security light above their garage door.

“Okay,” she said. “The door is open.”

“Is the pathway clear?”

Annie looked around. “Yes.” She ran back toward the kitchen and stopped where the carpet met the tile. Looking down, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.

On the phone: “What you need to do now is--”

“We can stop, Jan. He’s dead.”

A pause. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not about to touch him, but yeah, I’m pretty sure. His chest isn’t moving and his eyes have that distant look in them.”

Another pause. “You have the bottle of pills I gave you, right?”

Annie glanced toward the kitchen counter. “Yes.”

Jan told her to toss them on the table, make it look like a man who was desperate to end things. “Be sure to place his fingers on the bottle.”

“Oh God, please tell me you’re kidding.”

“It’ll look bad if he’s diagnosed as an overdose but no fingerprints on the product.”

Annie sighed but nodded. Her big sister had always been right, even about marrying John--as it turned out, a violent man she didn’t really know. But still…

“Are you sure this is going to work?”

“Of course,” Jan said. The way it was planned, the only thing the coroner would find in his stomach would be more of what was in the bottle. “With the previous police report, it’ll look like he had finally pushed things too far and this time his wife decided to leave him. So he killed himself.”

Annie touched the side of her face, the flesh still puffy where his ring sliced through. The pain stung. “He was never going to stop.”

“Not until one of you were dead. We just made sure it was him instead of you.” A pause. “Okay, call the police tomorrow. And when they ask, you found him on the floor. You only came home to pick up some clothes when you thought he was supposed to be at work. You can remember that, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Oh, and one more thing. Get rid of that prepaid phone. If the police find it, we’re both screwed.”

Annie nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

She clicked off, still amazed at how calm Jan had sounded, and then looked down at her husband. Her ex-husband now. She cringed, thinking about the fights. Those knuckles. There was no other way. Even if she left, he would have tracked her down, hurt her some more. No, the only way to deal with it, as Jan had said, was to take it right back at him. Thankfully, knowing how he would react, Jan also suggested the fake 9-1-1 call. That way, he would think Annie was doing her best to save him. If he suspected poisoning, he might have tried to kill her before he died.

She slipped on a pair of latex gloves and did everything just as Jan told her. Could it all unravel? Sure, but then it was too late to care about that now.

She clicked off the lights and closed the door.

#FridayFlash - Bethesda

2011-01-28T14:26:00.003-06:00

Atticus watched as Horatius dismounted his horse. The Centurion repositioned his armor and gave Atticus a wink, a smile. As if to say this would be something important, another one of his life lessons, so pay attention and learn. Atticus nodded.

The crowd of Jews reluctantly parted--some with looks of disgust on their faces, others with seething hatred in their eyes--as Horatius stepped into the shadow of the portico. He stopped in front of a group of men and stared at them. A few moments ago, bursts of angry voices could be heard from a distance, but now only the hiss of a summer breeze, snaking through the columns, graced Atticus’s ears.

Horatius said, “What is the meaning of this?” his voice harsh and commanding.

The men glanced at one another, clearly unsure who would speak on their behalf. Finally, one of them stepped forward.

Horatius gripped the hilt of his sword. “Did I say you could approach me?”

The man jumped back and glanced away. Several women in the crowd gasped; a few whimpered. Atticus smiled. The tone of the leader’s voice projected his contempt for these filthy creatures, and it was something to behold as the anger in their faces was quickly replaced with fear. Now that, Atticus thought, is a good lesson. Show them the might of your word, the strength of your spirit, and they will cower like dogs.

“Forgive me,” the man said. “I have forgotten my place.”

“Indeed you have,” Horatius said.

Atticus’s smile deepened.

Horatius waited a moment longer before saying, “Why were you shouting? Do you not know the law forbids demonstrations like this?”

“We were not shouting against Caesar,” another man said.

“Then what?”

“We were arguing who should be first into the pool.” The man pointed down. “This man, or that woman.”

Atticus leaned forward in the saddle for a better view. Two elderly people, their bodies crippled, were dressed in rags and lying on the floor near the pool. The man had wisps of snow white hair and an unkempt beard. His flesh was covered in sores. His bones threatened to pierce the skin. The woman was covered from head to ankles, but still it was clear that something was wrong. Craziness filled her eyes; her mouth babbled on unintelligently.

“Why should it matter?” Horatius said. He pointed toward the pool. “There is enough water for both of them.”

“But sir,” the first man said, “only the first person will be healed.”

Horatius looked from one man to the other. “The first person?”

The man nodded. “When the waters are stirred by the angel of God.”

Horatius stood quiet for a moment. Finally, he said, “Indeed,” and glanced over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed.

Atticus shrugged. Trying to understand these Jews--their strange customs and beliefs--was an act of mindless futility. Like the slaughter of innocent animals, supposedly to cleanse people of their sins, and then cooking the meat into charred remains on an open fire. What a waste. With so many women and children starving, these people would rather oblige a senseless ritual than silence the clamor of hungry lips. Still, it gave many in the ranks something to talk about, and he guessed there would be a lively conversation around the fire pit tonight.

Horatius gave Atticus a smile. Then, to the men, he said, “Well, by all means, let’s make sure at least one of them receives his heavenly blessing.”

The man’s frail body hung limply as Horatius reached down and picked him up. Horatius then walked over, stepped into the edge of the pool, and threw the man into the water. There was a splash, followed by a collective groan from the crowd. A couple of the men scurried forward, arms outstretched.

“Stay out of the pool,” Horatius shouted. He drew his sword. “Unless you want this water to be full of blood, too.”

Atticus stood in the stirrups, straining for a better view. The water rippled momentarily before the surface settled down. People gathered around, all eyes fixed on the pool. Some used their hands to cover their mouths; others balled them into fists. Everyone waited, but the old man never surfaced. Then, the wailing began, starting with a young woman before it spread throughout the crowd.

A moment later, Horatius walked out. He stopped in front of his horse, turned and shouted, “It seems the waters don’t heal after all,” and then spun around. Looking up at Atticus, a smile on his face, he said, “These idiots and their worthless god.”

He reached for the reigns of his horse, but the animal shook its head at him; its mane whipped back and forth. The muscles in it hind quarters bulged, and the horse rose up, towering over Horatius, its front legs pawing at the air. Atticus reached out, trying to snatch the reigns, but creature shrieked and lurched forward. Atticus heard Horatius scream and then a dull crack as the animal bore its weight down. It rose up and came down again, and then a third time, before it stomped away.

“Horatius!”

Atticus jumped down to help, but knew as soon as he did there was nothing else to do. The soldier lay in a pile of torn flesh and blood. How would he report this to his superiors? Even worse, what would he say to the man’s wife or his children?

As he knelt there, a shadow covered the ground and Atticus glanced up. A man with wiry legs and sores on his arms stood beside him. Water dripped from the man’s hair, his beard, and his ragged clothes were completely soaked. He shook his head, his eyes filled with sadness.

Then, he walked away.

#FridayFlash - Heroes Wanted (Conclusion)

2011-01-20T23:28:00.010-06:00

Seeing the woman slowly step out, one hand waving a rag of some sort, Hayworth felt a satisfied smile at the side of his face. After he pulled the trigger, he started to stand up, but then Everett held his hand out, told him to stay down. Like he was just a stupid trail dog who could be commanded around. The bastard. Really, what was Everett worried about? Hayworth was certain he’d hit the sheriff and said as much--saw the man through the scope, just inside the window with one hand extended, and he knew deep in his gut that was the shot. He took it. Ten minutes later, though, the whole time listening to Everett call out the sheriff’s name, saying it was time to come on out , settle this, Hayworth didn’t see anyone moving around down there and started to doubt. Maybe he’d misjudged the wind or didn’t factor in for the slope. But now, seeing the woman step through door alone, her voice carrying up from the house, saying please, dear God, please don’t shoot, he nodded his head and felt that smile.

Through the scope, he couldn’t see her tears, but he knew they were there. He remembered Francine back in Sundance, how she’d cried. Yes sir, he thought, a woman doesn’t carry a face like that unless she’s bawled a few.

He stood, slid his rifle back into the scabbard next to his saddled, and then winked at Everett. “See?”

Everett didn’t say a word.

Hayworth grabbed at his pommel and slid a boot into the stirrup when a funny thing happened. He saw nothing but sky at first, and then felt the wind gush out of him as he hit the ground. He started to feel embarrassed about the whole thing--damn, if he hadn’t done anything so stupid in his life before--but then he heard the report of a rifle. He wanted to ask where the shot came from, but found that when he opened his mouth the only thing that came out was blood.

Everett glanced down, and in those eyes Hayworth saw a mixture of pain and disgust that he had never wanted to see from his friend. Everett looked up again. He nodded and drew his pistol. He said, “Okay, John, let’s do it your way,” and spurred his horse.

As he rode away, speeding down the hill, Hayworth glanced toward the house and saw the strangest sight: the woman had been replaced by the man. The man raised his pistol and fired, the sound of it reaching Hayworth’s ears as Everett fell off his horse.

He thought, Now how did that happen? And then, he didn’t think of anything at all.

______

John stood over Everett, his old friend clutching at his chest, the shirt turning red with blood.

Everett gasped. “How’d we miss you?”

John reached for the side of his arm. The lingering pain throbbed. The bullet had gone through, he knew, but it was going to take someone else looking at it, and soon.

“You didn’t," he said. "You just didn’t do it well enough.”

Everett chuckled, the sound coming out wet and bubbly. “Ah well… you always were… the better shot.”

John looked over the scene. Everett’s gun was several feet away, and there was no other threat. He holstered his own pistol.

“Why?” he said.

“Because… some things just need… to be settled.”

“One way or the other, huh?”

“Yeah.” Everett started to laugh, but then coughed and gritted his teeth.

A shadow crept over Everett, and John turned as Lois stopped and looked down.

Everett smiled. “Hey… Lois.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I just want you to know... I… I…" Everett's smile faded. His mouth turned slack, and his eyes stared straight ahead, not looking at John but through him.

John heard Lois’s voice, then, and turned toward her. “What?”

“I just wondered what he meant.”

“About what?”

“He said there was something he wanted to tell me.”

John shook his head. “With men like Everett? It’s better that we never know.”

A moment of silence fell between them, broken up by the stirring of the wind. Finally, Lois said, “I’m not sure what to say to my husband.”

John looked down and frowned. “About?”

“About this. About his gun.”

John nodded. If it hadn’t been for her husband’s rifle--a Sharps, thank God--they both might have been finished. After they had killed him, they would have turned on her. To her credit, Lois had been quick to point out the gun, and then brave enough to step outside, waving the rag.

He said, “Tell him the truth,” and wished he would have done the same thing fifteen years ago. If he had, maybe all of this would have been different. Maybe Roberto Mendoza would still be alive. Maybe several others, too. He kneeled down and closed his old friend’s eyes. He thought of the years that had been lost, the pain that had been inflicted. There were a lot of maybes, it seemed.

“There is one thing I need to say first, though.”

As he stood, Lois shook her head. “You’ve already told me everything.”

He looked down. “Can you ever--”

Her fingers touched his lips. She blinked away the tears and nodded. Then, she did something he would hold in his heart forever: she wrapped her arms around him. The pain bit into the wound again, but this time it wasn't so bad.

A Great Honor

2011-01-19T15:33:00.006-06:00

The other day, author and #FridayFlash fiction writer, Steve Green, sent a note that he had bestowed upon me the Creative Genius Blog Award. Creative I can agree with, but Genius? Some days I find myself on the opposite end of the spectrum. Still, I am both grateful and pleased that Steve thought of me. Steve has given me some great feedback here on Powder Burns (I refuse to call it PB&B since that sounds too much like the foundation of my child's food pyramid) and I enjoy visiting his blog every week to read the new and wonderful creations of his mind. Many of you already have bookmarked his blog as one of your personal favorites. If you haven't, I suggest you do.

Now, in order to pass it forward, I would like to give the award to the following great writers:

John Wiswell - Writing a weekly installment for #FridayFlash can be a challenge, but John does it on a daily basis. That takes a lot of creativity and far, far more than a smidgen of genius.

Kari Fay - Like John Wiswell, Kari writes daily stories posted to her blog. I wish I had the stamina.

Jon Strother - It goes without saying that Jon deserves this award for having the genius insight into creating #FridayFlash. Way to go, Brother Jon.

All of you are awesome

Until next time...

#FridayFlash - Heroes Wanted (Part 9)

2011-01-14T12:42:00.004-06:00

Telling the story, John held Lois’s eyes for only a moment when he first started in, but then found he couldn’t do that anymore--not and continue, that is--and decided it was better to stare at the floor, keep things moving. It was time to let this all out.

He remembered the beat of his heart that night, so strong he could feel it in his chest, his head, and how it quickened as he pulled the rifle up to his shoulder and rested his cheek against the stock. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a breath that every once and a while since returned him to the memory when he found himself taking another just like it. It was funny how even the little things could remind him of where he had been.

Everett had said, “C’mon, John, what’s the matter?” and John took another breath, the sound of Everett’s voice fading with the exhaled air, the only things in his conscious being the beat of his heart and the thing caught in Everett’s trap still wiggling around, trying to break free. This is it, he thought, and squeezed the trigger like his daddy had shown him; which was an irony when he thought about it years later, his father the perfect man of the cloth, so peaceful and contrite in the eyes of God but still handy with a rifle. In fact, it seemed the man was all too willing to go on a hunt. How his father enjoyed the acrid smell of gun powder and the stench of blood, like rusted iron, was a thought John would carry with him long after his father passed on.

The rifle kicked his shoulder, and his horse stirred at the crack of the shot. The thing in the trap jumped off the ground and fell back, wriggling once more before it stopped moving.

They sat a moment longer, until Everett broke the silence. “Damn,” he said, and there was no mistaking the awe in his voice. “I wasn’t sure you could do it from here.”

John felt a swell of pride. A grin pulled at the sides of his face. But all of that quickly faded as soon as Everett led them over to the trap--just some canvas bags sewn together it appeared upon closer inspection--and cut everything open to reveal what lay inside.

He remembered Lois’s father as a gentle man, full of grace, but with fierceness in his soul when provoked. What he saw now, though, was rendered more ghastly than he would have expected under the pale wash of the moonlight.

“What’ve you done?” John said, and his voice sounded weird, almost hollow and distant, like he was a stranger listening in on someone else’s conversation.

Everett stood. “What’ve I done? You were the one who shot--”

The body jerked, and Everett jumped back. He drew his pistol and fired three rounds, the body convulsing with each shot. John stared, not believing what he just saw, as Lois’ father twitched one more time and then din't move again.

“Well,” Everett said, “I guess we both done shot him now.” He twirled the gun on his finger and chuckled.

“I need to get some help,” John said.

“Help?” Everett pushed the front of his hat up. “He’s dead, you idiot. Ain’t nobody can help him now.”

John felt the anger burn at his face. “You son of--”

Everett raised the pistol. “Be careful what you say next, John.”

John shook his head. “You set me up.” And thinking about it now, it was the only way it could have happened. “I’m going to turn you in.”

Everett laughed. “You ain’t telling a soul. I mean, think about it. What’re the town folk gonna say? They know her daddy didn’t like me and also that you’re my best friend. We’ll both hang, brother John. And what’s your daddy gonna say then? He gonna preach up a sermon, maybe use you and me as two of his three points? And what’s more, when you feel the rope cinch around your neck and you step into the hereafter, what’s God gonna think about you? He gonna forgive and forget that you just shot a man?”

John didn’t say anything, haunted by the thought of his father and Lois, side-by-side, standing among a crowd of onlookers as the hangman placed a canvas bag over his head.

Back in the little one-room house, the sound of Everett’s voice fading--What’s God gonna think about you?--John finally glanced up, waiting.

Lois gripped the side of the table and slowly stood. Her eyes watered.

“I rode away,” he said. “I didn’t know what else to do, what else to say. Everett was right. We’d both hang.” He looked down. “Everett stayed behind, though. He made it look like your father had been robbed and then shot by a couple of thieves. You know the rest, how the Sheriff and his posse rode out after men they would never find.”

He looked into her eyes and watched the pain well up like it did when the Sheriff returned the next day and gave the news. One hand covered her mouth, and Lois shook her head.

He said, “Lois, I’m so sorry,” and reached for her as she stepped away.

He wanted to kneel before her, beg her forgiveness; because maybe if she forgave him, then God would too. But he never made it that far. As he stood, the chair legs scraping across the wooden floor, the window shattered, and a pain stabbed at him like he had never felt before.

#Friday Flash - Heroes Wanted (Part 8)

2011-01-06T22:47:00.014-06:00

It was a one room house after all. To the immediate right, John saw a small table and two chairs, and separating the table from where Lois now stood, her hands inside a basin filled with water, he saw a stone hearth and a lit fire, the flames licking at the bottom of a coffee pot placed on the grill. To his left, he saw a rocker, some yarn, and a couple of knitting needles. He looked at the shawl around her shoulders and wondered if she’d made it. At the back of the house, in the far corner, there was a small mattress, and John found that he couldn’t pull his gaze away from it--from the two pillows at the head of the bed.

“Well,” Lois said, and John turned toward her. She wiped both hands on a rag and one eyebrow lifted as she stared back at him. “You going to sit down or stand there all day?”

At the tone of her voice, John felt a prickle of heat along the side of his neck.

She held an open hand toward the table. “Please.”

He nodded and then pulled out a chair. As he sat down, he looked through the window and saw the hill where he’d been just a short while ago and wondered if she’d seen him up there, seated on his horse for what must have been at least twenty minutes, if not more, trying to decide what he should do. He blinked the thought away and asked, “So, where’s your church?”

She sat down, only a few feet away now. The soft aroma of something like lilies touched his nose.

She looked at him with confused eyes. “Our church?”

“I’d heard you were married to a minister,” he said. “When I arrived, I found your house, a barn, but no church.”

She leaned forward and placed both elbows on the table.

“We haven’t actually built one yet. Henry came out to start up a church, seeing as how the town didn’t have one yet.” John noted that she used a name instead of referring to him as only her husband. “For now, we meet here in the house. I cook a pot of coffee, some biscuits, and he cooks up a sermon.”

She laughed at that, and John found himself smiling. He remembered that laugh, the way it always made him feel at ease, like he’d come to a place he had never been before and instantly found it to be like home.

Lois continued. “He says that in a year, two at the most, we’ll build one.” She pointed. “Right out there.”

He gazed through the window.

“In some ways, he’s like you,” she said. “Always the listener, always with a smile on his face. He likes to hunt, too--deer and buffalo.” She paused. “You still hunt?”

John shook his head. “Not as much as I used to.”

“Huh. You used to hunt all the time.”

He nodded, but then furrowed his brow as he remembered something Everett had mentioned. He said, “Wait, Henry?” and when Lois cocked her head to the side, he added, “I’d heard your husband’s name was John.”

“His name is John Henry, his parents adding the Henry to avoid confusion since his father had the same first name. Now, he prefers to go by Henry. Says the double name sounds like something you’d call a child and he doesn’t want the church people thinking of him that way.”

“Well, I’m happy you found a Godly man." He forced a smile. "In a way, I was glad to hear about it.”

She leaned back, cross her arms, and said, “It appears you been listening to some people, too. At least about me.”

He shrugged. “That’s all I heard, really. Everett Wilcox told me.”

Lois glanced at the floor. “Everett. The last I saw of him, he said you two weren’t exactly on speaking terms.”

He wondered what else Everett had said, but decided not to ask. “We’re not. But he and I had a run-in of sorts, and it seems he couldn’t stop talking.”

She frowned, and he could see she was trying to make some sense of that.

“So, how is Everett?”

“He’s in jail. And soon enough, probably by next Tuesday, he’ll be swinging from the gallows.”

A look of shock crossed her face, and John realized the words came out differently than he had intended.

“What’d he do?” she asked.

A sick feeling rushed into his stomach at the sound in her voice. What is this? he wondered. After all the years and all that had happened, why did she care?

John said, “He killed a man.” He shifted in his chair and stared out the window. “In truth, he’s killed several, but this is the only one I can actually do something about.”

“And why couldn’t you do anything about the others?”

“Most of them, I didn’t have any proof.” He sighed. “Another one…”

He stopped and saw Lois staring at him. Silent. Waiting.

He gave her a frustrated glance. “Look, I’ve got something I need to say.” He rubbed at his brow. “It’s something I can’t get away from, no matter how hard I try, so please--please listen and don’t say anything until I’m through.”

Lois reached over and touched his arm.

“Several years ago,” he said, “right before I disappeared and left you wondering what happened, I went out one night with Everett. To kill a coyote.”

______

They had ridden for several miles, the occasional rush of air and the steady clop of horse hooves being the only sound between them. Finally, Hayworth said, “How sure are you that he’ll be there?”

“I know John,” Everett said. "He's there."

Hayworth shook his head. “It’s a long way out here, if he’s not.”

Everett looked straight ahead. “A few more miles, and we’ll know soon enough, now won’t we?”

Heroes Wanted (Part 7)

2010-12-31T17:25:00.005-06:00

John sat atop his gray mare, one hand on the pommel, and stared down the ridge at the structure below. It wasn’t much of a house. From this distance, it looked like a square clapboard frame that held only one room, two at the most. Spiraling up from a rock chimney, a wisp of smoke trailed through the air and smelled of mesquite wood, and he wondered what Lois had been cooking. More important, however, he wondered what he would say when he finally faced her.

It had been a long time since he last saw the woman he once swore he would marry. It wasn’t so much that Lois had ever said anything; it was in the way she looked at him, with a wink and a smile, like it was only an issue of time that separated their souls and that time was growing shorter with each passing day. It was destiny.

His father didn’t much believe in ideas like that. Growing up, raised to help with the daily details of the so-called good work, John listened as his father proclaimed that fate and destiny were like two saloon whores who sang songs and promised much but always left a man alone to wallow in his beer of could-haves and might-have-beens. The only destiny a man could count on was that he was headed for one place or the other when he died and that was it. Still, Lois had been the dream John held on to, the one he never gave up in spite of the wood pounding and spittle his dad had to offer. She was his salvation, and John figured he would face even the gates of hell as long as he had Lois by his side.

At the time, he hadn’t wanted too much, really, just a small place out on the plains where he could raise cattle and have a family, sleep with the woman of his dreams and provide her warmth and comfort on those long winter nights when the wind howled through the roof timbers. But as it turned out, life never looked at John with favor. Everett Wilcox had changed all that. Everett with his reckless ways. Everett with such self-assurance that he could do anything he wanted and have anyone.

John grabbed the reins. With the heels of his boots, he tapped the mare’s sides lightly.

“All right, Sadie,” he said. “No better time than now, I guess.”

The horse responded with a nod of its head as it plodded ahead, slowly descending the hill.

As they approached the house, a woman stepped through the front entry and leaned against the doorpost. She wore her hair pulled back and tied up in a roll behind her head, and in spite of the heat she clutched a white shawl around her shoulders. The dress she wore was plain and simply made and held the color of a clear blue sky.

A few feet from the house, he stopped the mare.

Lois smiled and slowly shook her head.

“Well, well, if it isn’t John Colton,” she said. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Her voice sounded as smooth and relaxed as remembered it--something he wished he felt at the moment. During the long ride over to Wilson, and then out to this place, he had thought of all the things he could say. He dreamed up each word, the rise and fall of each syllable, like a lyric of poetry. He wanted to express all of the things that had been left unsaid, let it gush out as a long soliloquy of pain and regret; but now, sitting on his horse, Lois standing in front of him, John found that none of those words came.

A long moment passed between them, both saying things with their eyes that their mouths couldn’t speak. Finally, Lois broke the silence.

“I heard rumor you had taken off with the cavalry. That you were fighting the Indians out there somewhere in the Arizona territory.”

John shook his head. “I got no issue with the Indians.”

She nodded. “I’d also heard that you’d headed south, crossed over into Mexico and was shot down by a couple of Rurales, something to do with a young señorita.”

“It appears that you’ve been listening to the wrong people.”

She smiled. “Well just last month, I heard that you were the sheriff over in Sundance. And by the looks of the star on your chest, I’m guessing at least that rumor turned out to be true.”

He didn’t say anything to that.

After a moment, she pointed toward the side of the house. “Well, why don’t you tie up your horse and come on inside? I’ll make you a cup of coffee.” She turned to go in the house, but stopped up short. “You look like you could use a drink of something strong.”

That one stopped him and at first he wasn’t sure how he should respond. Had she heard about his drinking? Did Everett share that with her? But then he saw the humor in her eyes and figured he must have looked terrible, which was most likely given he’d just spent the night in a jailhouse with a prisoner who wouldn’t shut his mouth.

He nodded. “I could use some coffee.”

As she stepped inside and he tied off the horse, John thought she hadn’t changed much at all over the years. Not one bit. In fact, it felt like the years were only a dream, and he was still looking at the same girl he’d loved only yesterday.

He walked around the side of the house and paused at the doorway. He stared out across the way. It would be so easy to ride back up that hill, he thought. Just move on, be the sheriff of a small dirt-water town and let Lois live her life. But then he remembered that night and why he came, and he figured there was no life worth living until, like Everett had suggested, he settled all debts.

And this was just one of them.

#FridayFlash - Heroes Wanted (Part 6)

2010-12-24T16:33:00.003-06:00

In Wilson, it didn’t take long for John to find out more information. The General Store owner, a grey haired man with stubble for a beard, whose full name was William Henry Wadsworth Bishop, but who also liked to be called Hank, said, yes indeed, he’d heard of the new preacher man, a feller who lived with his young bride about a mile or so northwest of town. “Just follow the river,” he said, “and you’ll eventually run into ‘em.”

John thanked the store owner, making sure to call him Hank but not believing it to be that big of an issue one way or the other. After all, if the man wanted to be called Hank, why not just say so? Why go on about his birth name like it really mattered to a perfect stranger?

Heading north now, John felt a gust of air. He smelled the earthly scent of prairie dust and remembered how it smelled that same way fifteen years ago. In fact, there were many things he remembered about that night. How the moon, blazing like fire, rose up out of the east. And how in the west, lightning sparked and lit up the clouds that boiled into the sky. He remembered the clop-clop-clop of horse hooves as Everett and he rode out of town, Everett showing off the gun he’d stolen out of his daddy’s war chest. At one time, Everett’s father had been a sergeant in the Tenth Cavalry stationed in Fort Concho. Since his wife’s death, though, he’d been nothing more than a broken down cowpoke who spent most of his time, and his earnings, drinking whiskey in the local saloon--that is, when he wasn’t cussing Everett or accusing him of being the death of the best woman who ever lived.

John remembered Everett bragging about the gun.

“I done shot me a coyote with it once already.”

“Really,” John said, amazed at this new revelation. “When?”

“Other night. My daddy and me rode out after one that Mr. Dix said was attacking his herd.” Everett spun the gun around his finger. He grabbed the grip and raised it up, taking aim. “Shot him from over a hundred paces, probably two.”

John thought about that. “Wow,” he said. “How’d you get that close?”

They rode in silence for a moment until Everett said, “’Cause he was too busy eatin’ on one of Mr. Dix’s steers, John, what else?”

John shrugged. “I dunno. Strikes me as unusual, though.”

Everett turned and stared hard at John. “You sayin’ I’m a liar?”

John looked away. “I didn’t mean any by it, Everett, I was just asking a question."

Everett stuffed the pistol down inside his pants. “Yeah, well, don’t question me again.”

They cleared the Mill Creek Bridge and continued riding into the night. In the distance, John heard the lowing of cattle as they finally crossed into Mr. Dix’s ranch, a twelve hundred acre spread of grassland and spidery cholla cactus.

To change the subject, John said, “So how’s Lois?”

Everett turned and gave him another hard look. “She’s fine, John. Why’re you asking?”

“Just something to talk about, I guess.” He reached up and adjusted his hat. “I mean, how’re you two getting along, now that her daddy told you to leave her alone?”

Everett looked away. “Her daddy ain’t the final say.”

“Really.” John felt his curiosity rising up, but didn’t want to press it. Asking too many questions could lead Everett to asking a few of his own.

Everett pulled up on his reigns. “Whoa.”

John stopped his horse.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Over there.” Everett pointed. “You see it?”

John looked into the darkness. About a hundred feet away, he saw a dark shape flopping around on the ground.

“I don’t believe it,” Everett said.

“What? What is it?”

Everett smiled. “My coyote trap actually worked.”

“Your what?”

“A coyote trap. I done caught me one.”

John stared into the darkness.

“So what’re you gonna do?”

Everett pulled the pistol out. “What do you think I’m gonna do?” He fired off two rounds, each shot followed by a shrill scream as bullets struck hard rock. The dark form flopped around furiously.

“You got to get closer, Everett.”

Everett looked at him. “You think you can do better, huh?”

“That’s not what--”

“First I’m a liar and now you’re better than me?”

“No, Everett, I--”

“Well, here’s your chance, cowboy. Pull your rifle and you hit it.”

John shook his head.

Everett pointed the pistol at John. “You better pull that thing, you know what’s good for you.”

“Look, Everett, I got nothin’ to prove.”

Everett cocked the hammer. “But I do.”

John looked at the gun. “Don’t do this.”

Everett pulled the gun back. “You scared, John.”

John remained quiet for a moment. Finally, he said, “C’mon, Everett, this is dumb.”

Everett smiled. “Tell you what, I’ll even be a gentleman. I’ll put a wager on it.”

“Everett--”

“Enough talk. Now’s the time to put up, though I don't think you can. Bet you money you can’t do it, John. Not from here, anyways.”

John stared into the distance at the dark figure. It had finally stopped thrashing around.

“One shot,” Everett added. “You hit it, and then I’ll know you’re a better man than me.”

John took a deep breath as he thought about it. This was the way it had always been between them, Everett flaring up and John taking a step back. And just for once, money or not, wouldn’t it be nice to stop taking those backward steps?

Riding through the plains, the hot sun burning at his face now, John watched himself pull the rifle from the scabbard. He heard the shot ring out in his mind, and he stopped his horse.

Leaning to the side, he threw up again and again until nothing else came out.

Circle of Friends

2010-12-20T22:38:00.004-06:00

My good friend Paige has bestowed a nice gift upon me: The Circle of Friends award. Since she didn't know of any rules that applied to it, for the sake of convenience I'm going to apply the same criteria:

Identify your friends, and
Link back to the one who gave the award.

Here, then, are my circle of friends, writers who have given me great help in the past, both through first reads and insightful criticism, and to whom I owe so much:

Greta Igl
John Towler (No blog, but is now an editor over at Every Day Fiction)
Linda Simoni-Wastila
Jon Strother
Jane Banning (No blog, but much of her poetry has been published by Long Story Short)

My hat is off to all of you. You have been great friends along the journey.

Until next time...

#Friday Flash - "Heroes Wanted" (Part 5)

2010-12-17T17:28:00.006-06:00

The man Hayworth found inside wasn’t John Colton, the current and soon to be former sheriff of Sundance. Instead, he found a portly man with a bald head, a few strands of hair raked across the top. He was wearing a blue shirt and sat at the sheriff’s desk, and at the sound of the door crashing in, the sight of two guns pointed straight at him, the man’s face turned ashen. Hayworth wasn’t sure if he’d even breathed in the last ten seconds.

Hayworth glanced around the jailhouse. Off to the side, seated on a straw mattress with plate of something in his lap, Everett sat in the cell, smiling like he'd just heard a joke.

Turning back to the man at the desk, Hayworth said, “You’re Henry Clausen, the livery owner, right?”

The man’s eyes moved left to right as if he were looking for someone else to give him the answer. Sweat beaded up on his slick forehead; it stained the pits of his shirt. A mass of tobacco bulged beneath the skin of his left cheek and bobbed once as he swallowed. Finally, he nodded his head.

“Why are you here?”

“Th-th-the Sheriff asked me to sit in.”

“And where’s the Sheriff at now?”

Clausen shook his head. “Didn’t say. He just saddled his horse and rode out.”

Behind Clausen, a dog lowered its head, bared its teeth and growled. The hair along its spine rose up into a long cord.

In the cell, Everett threw his plate to the floor. He brushed his hands and said, “One thing about this town, while they ain’t so good on hospitality and manners, they at least know how to cook up a mighty fine meal.”

“It doesn’t look like they know how to let a man wear his own clothes, either,” Hayworth said.

Everett looked down at himself. “Yeah, that.” He snorted. “John’s way of being funny, I suppose.”

“John?”

Everett shrugged. “I told you, we go back a ways.”

“Well, it don’t look so funny to me.”

“You ain’t looking at from his side.”

“And you are?”

Everett shook his head. “Nah.”

Hayworth turned back to Henry Clausen.

“You’re still here?”

Clausen looked confused and Everett laughed.

“You don’t seem to understand the situation, Henry. Don’t you have a family you love, a life you’d like to keep on living?”

Clausen nodded.

“Then I’d advise you to hightail it before my friend loses all patience. He’s already got the guns out, and I can tell you he doesn’t like to put ‘em away without shooting something.”

The man jumped up. He shuffled past Hayworth and then bolted through the door.

“Man was in too deep,” Hayworth said. “Didn’t seem to know it ‘til just now.”

“Which goes to prove what we always say,” Everett added. “Some people are just too stupid to live.” His face hardened then. “And what took you so long?”

Hayworth stepped toward the desk. The dog growled again. He glanced at it, stomped a boot on the floor, and the animal scurried under the desk. It barked a couple of times. Turning to Everett, he said, “When you didn’t return to the camp, I wasn’t sure what to think, so I decided to ride on in, ask around.”

“And you spent all morning asking questions?”

“No, I talked to Francine first.”

Everett slowly leaned back, laughing. “I can see it all now. How is she doing?”

“I imagine she don’t have much else to say.”

As Everett shook his head, Hayworth looked the cell over.

“How 'bout we get you out of there?”

Everett nodded. “And get my clothes back. And after that? I've got some business with the Sheriff.”

“You heard Clausen, he doesn’t know where the man went.”

Everett smiled.

“I do.”

______

John rode west, his back feeling the heat and weight of the mid-morning sun. He wasn’t sure what he would say to Lois when he found her, but he knew he had to find her just the same. It had been fifteen, maybe sixteen years since he last saw her--too long to live in the shadow of the past.

Have you settled all your debts?

That was the question Everett had asked. Like he knew all along how John felt about things, how he felt about Lois. From the moment he first saw the warmth in her smile, the twinkle in her eyes when she laughed, the delicate skin of her cheeks, John had felt an attraction like he never had before. And hearing her voice, calm like a slow moving stream, as she talked about literature and men whose names he didn’t recognize, John knew he would stop and listen to her all day if she wanted it. Forget about the chores--the floors that needed to be swept, pews that needed to be dusted; when Lois was around, the rest of it ceased to exist. Which was shocking in a way, come to think of it. But it wasn’t like he could have stopped to talk with his father about it, the man so pure and focused that John knew he would have sounded like a braying mule had he even tried to explain.

In the end, John found he couldn’t talk to anyone about his feelings. As it turned out, Everett had seen Lois too and made the first move. So, John stuffed everything away and locked it up tight.

Everett.

Riding along, John heard that voice just as clear as he did on that night so long ago.

Bet you money you can’t do it, John. Not from here, anyways.

At the time, it was a bet worth taking. As he cleared the hill and looked down on the dusty town of Wilson, though, John once again felt the heaviness on his chest, the sick feeling in his gut.

How strange it was that life could turn things upside down.

#FridayFlash - "Heroes Wanted" (Part 4)

2010-12-10T20:54:00.005-06:00

Beasley’s Hotel and Saloon, a two-story clapboard structure next door to the Livery, was the seat of attraction in Sundance. Angus Beasley, an Irishman who moved out west to put some space between him and those “cheap, thuggish bastards” in Boston, chose the spot with the future in mind. “Anyone who’s anyone in this town’ll be stoppin’ at the Livery,” he once said. “Men’ll be needin’ a drink while they’re waitin’. And whether they’re a waitin’ on a horse or just passin’ the wee hours with one of the ladies, it doesn’t matter. Everyone needs a drink now and then. I just want to be there at both times.”

John opened the front door and stepped into the lobby separating the hotel from the saloon. Across the room, above the swinging doors leading into the saloon, Beasley had mounted a wooden plaque, the name Beasley’s Cove carved in large block letters. John didn’t understand that one. There was no lake or pond within miles of Sundance. In fact, the only body of water nearby, outside of a muddy creek, was a trough out front for the animals.

“It don’t matter what I call it,” Beasley had said when asked. “I could call it Buffalo Corkers and nobody’d a say thing, long as they could still get a sip of whiskey or a glass of beer.”

Standing in the lobby, staring at the sign, John imagined Beasley was right. Outside of farming and ranching, the beer and whisky drove the wagon in this town. It drove many other things, too, as well he knew.

He stepped into the saloon and found Beasley behind the bar engaged in his daily routine of wiping the glasses down with a dish rag. Beasley looked up as John walked across the floor. He grinned.

“Top of the mornin’ to you, Sheriff. What brings you in so early? The sun’s not even up full yet.”

“I need to see if your cook can stir up some eggs, maybe a slice of bacon and a biscuit.”

Beasley nodded. He placed the freshly wiped glass on the back bar and said, “Would this be for you or your prisoner?”

John looked down. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yes, about that. I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble last night.”

Beasley shrugged. “What’s it to me? Mr. Wilcox had already filled his belly. I’d say you put more of a damper on his evenin’ than mine.”

“Mr. Wilcox, huh?” John shook head. “A man like that and you have to dignify him?”

“I keep fairly simple terms, Sheriff. As long as they drink without givin’ me any trouble, then what business do I have to bother them?”

“And if they decide to bring some trouble?”

Beasley reached under the counter. He produced a double-barrel shotgun and placed it on the bar.

“Then I’ll deal with it.”

John smirked. With a shotgun and a sly tongue, Beasley was indeed a man who could take care of himself and say what he needed. He glanced over his shoulder at the stairs leading to the second floor.

“How’s Francine?”

“I don’t know,” Beasley said. “Haven’t seen or heard her all mornin’. My guess is she’ll be sleeping it in today, along with everyone else.”

John nodded. Thinking about it now, he hated the way he had handled it--that had been the whiskey--but if he couldn’t uphold the law, then what good was he as a sheriff?

“Please extend my apologies to your guest,” John said.

He turned and walked away from the bar.

“Can you have your cook deliver the breakfast to the jail?”

“Sure,” Beasley said. “So, we’ll be settlin’ up later then?”

John stopped. He furrowed his brow. “What was that?”

“You may be the Sheriff,” Beasley said, “but I still got a business to run.”

John nodded, thinking about Beasley’s question. “Don’t worry, Angus. I’ll take care of it.”

Stepping through the lobby and out of the hotel, John turned and headed next door.

______

Hayworth quietly closed the door. He walked down the hall and took the outside stairs down to the street. The sun was up and by the looks of it half the morning had already passed away. After Francine told him all that had happened, he took a long look at her half naked body and decided to stay for a while. Sure Everett might be a little pissed, but what did it matter? It wasn’t like the man was going anywhere anytime soon.

He looked down the street and saw the jail house, a few people meandering around. Then, while he took a moment to put his hat on, Hayworth mapped out a plan in his mind. At the hitching post, he un-wrapped the reigns for his horse and walked down the street. It needed to be quick, he told himself. The Sheriff didn’t need an opportunity to think about what was coming. Give him that, and the idiot just might pull a gun. And he was dumb, no doubt about that. He had to be. Anyone who held the notion he could arrest Everett Wilcox without consequence was either extremely brave or out of his mind and Hayworth had never seen this sheriff show any spine.

He stopped in front of the jail and wrapped the horse reigns once around the post. For a jail, it wasn’t much, just a square adobe with bars for some windows, a single pane of glass in front.

On the wooden porch in front of the door, he drew both pistols and cocked the hammers. A young boy walking by stopped then, and Hayworth told him he’d better find his momma and find her right now. The boy ran away.

Lifting a leg to kick the door in, he thought, We gonna have some fun. Only when the door snapped open, he didn’t find what he expected.

Not at all.

#FridayFlash - "Heroes Wanted" (Part 3)

2010-12-03T05:16:00.005-06:00

John tossed the empty bottle back into the drawer.

Everett smiled faintly. “The bottle may be empty, but you’re still a drunk. Always have been.”

John shook his head. “Not always.”

Everett laughed. “Oh yeah, that’s right. Back when your daddy was alive.”

“Leave him out of this.”

“Boy, he would have skinned you, he ever found you with booze.”

“That’s enough.”

“No telling how he’d react now, he knew how you turned out.”

John snatched the Remington from against the wall and pointed it toward the cell.

“I said that’s enough.”

Everett leaned forward, his forearms on both knees. “What’re gonna do, John, shoot me?”

John took a deep breath, let it out slowly. He closed his eyes. Once again, he’d let Everett take him across the line.

“No,” he said finally. He shook his head and laid the rifle across the desk. “I’m not like you.”

Everett pursed his lips. “No. You never have been. That was always the problem.”

“No, the problem was your willingness to kill a man with no thought otherwise. To you it was like riding a horse on a warm summer day. It didn’t matter who. Or that he didn’t do anything to you. All you needed was to listen to your cold heart.”

Everett’s smile widened.

“See, I knew there was something more than a new-found concern over a dead goat farmer.” He leaned back and sucked at his teeth. “You must think I’m dumb or something, but I noticed right away how you never answered my question.”

John didn’t say anything.

Everett said, “You still haven’t gotten over that night, have you? In fact, that night has probably haunted you every night since.”

John stared at the desk drawer. Why did he have to pour it all out? Boy, another drink would go down good right now.

He shook the thought off and reached into the drawer. Grabbing the bottle, he tossed it into the belly of the wood stove where glass popped against metal and shattered into pieces.

Everett chuckled. “Touched a sore spot there, huh?”

John turned in his chair and faced the window. Outside, the sky had finally turned the color of an old bruise.

“You can say all you want to, Everett. It don’t mean a thing.”

“I think it does,” Everett said. “So tell me. Have you settled all your debts?”

John sighed. “What’re you talking about now?”

“Aw, don’t play dumb. This is me you’re talking to, your old killin’ buddy.”

“We are not buddies. As I said, I’m not like you. I never was.”

“That’s right,” Everett said. "Even when it came to Lois, you were never half the man I was.”

“What’s she got to do with anything?”

At that, Everett’s smile was so big it showed a mouth full of crooked, yellow teeth. “The reason I asked had you settled up everything. Because if you haven’t, you still got time.”

John narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Everett’s face looked amused. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Lois. She’s back. Been back, actually, going on a month or two now. But I guess you been too busy drinking away your miseries and playing sheriff to notice something like that.”

John shook his head. “If Lois had come to Sundance, I would have noticed it.”

“Did I say she’d returned to Sundance? Nah, she’s over in Wilson. Apparently shacked up with some preacher man who likes to go around sharing the Gospel, trying to save people for Jesus. Tried to save me too, but I told I was having none of it. Heaven doesn’t have any place for a man like me. He told me it wasn’t true, and I said, ‘Save it for someone else, preacher, someone who might actually place a gold piece in the plate for ya.’” Everett snorted. “He didn’t think that was too funny. I certainly did though.” Everett raised his eyebrows. “Oh, and there’s something else you might like to know. In fact, I think you’ll appreciate the irony of it. Her husband, the feller who rides around preachin’ to anyone who’ll listen? Turns out, he also goes by the name of John. John Summerfield. Now, ain’t that a stitch?”

“Good for her,” John said, fighting against the emotions rising up within him. “I still don’t see your point. Lois has got nothing to do with your being in jail.”

“So you say.”

John stood. “And I’ve done all the talking I want to this morning.” He grabbed the Remington and walked toward the door.

Everett said, “Where you going?”

John looked out the window.

“The sun’s almost up, and you said you were hungry. I best get you something to eat.”

“Uh-huh.” Everett chuckled some more. “When you see her, tell Lois I said howdy, okay?”

______

She couldn’t believe how real the dream had been. Even now, slipping into consciousness, the hint of smoke and firewood tickled at her nose. She had been at her mother’s house, back in Abilene, her mother the wife of a general and what Francine would later learn also the part-time lover of a young corporal who liked to ride more than horses out on the prairie. She had been trying to tell her mother about the soiled clothes, crying because she knew there would be another beating involved, when the smell of smoke rose up around her. Fire licked at her flesh, boiling it into blisters. And, then she heard her mother’s voice; only it didn’t sound like her mother at all, but something dark and feral.

Francine…

In the darkness of her room, the voice called out again and brought her fully awake.

“C’mon Francine, time to wake up.”

Though she couldn’t see him, she felt him and smelled him, and she knew that voice. Hayworth.

She heard the click of gun’s hammer, felt the cold steel against press against her temple.

“We need to talk.”

#FridayFlash - "Heroes Wanted" (Part 2)

2010-11-26T09:15:00.005-06:00

“You have the sorriest jailhouse I ever laid eyes on.”

Everett had been in his custody only six hours now, the sky outside still as black as coal, and already John had started to entertain thoughts that his prisoner might not make it until Tuesday, the day Elroy Hardings, circuit judge for western Texas, would show up for his monthly visit to Sundance. The whiskey from last night had finally drifted away, promising a massive headache in its wake, and if John had to suffer through much more of Everett’s groaning, he might just dispense with the circuit judge and execute a little justice of his own, the rule of law be damned.

“And believe me,” Everett continued, “I’ve seen plenty of jails in my time.”

Which proves what? John thought. He didn’t say anything though; instead, he rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

He looked at the floor where Toby lay with his head between both front paws. He’d received Toby a couple of years back from the Florence widow. He didn’t want to take the dog at first -- given his record, John didn’t know how he would manage to be a good owner -- but Mrs. Florence insisted, saying that her husband Gerald had passed on. She didn’t see the need in staying around either, and she didn’t want to leave the dog stranded. Looking down now, John was glad he took the dog. Toby was about the best friend in the world any man could have.

“You may think you have me locked up for good,” Everett said, “but I promise you this won’t be the last jailhouse I’ll ever see.”

The dog glanced up with sad eyes and thumped its tail once.

John said, “I know how you feel, friend.”

Toby rolled over on his side with an exasperated huff of air.

“Hey,” Everett bellowed. As if John had been a hundred feet away and not ten.

John looked up.

“I’m hungry. So, how about you rustle me up something to eat? Or don’t you believe in feeding your prisoners?”

John swiveled in his chair and kicked Toby’s bowl toward the cell. It scuttled along the floor like a scorpion with its tail on fire. When it hit an uneven board, the bowl toppled over and a crusty chunk of refried beans that Toby had left uneaten fell out.

Everett looked at the floor. “You can’t be serious.”

John turned away to hide his smile. Sure it was silly, borderline childish, but it felt good just the same and he told himself not to feel sorry about it.

Everett stepped back and slumped onto the straw mattress in the corner of the cell. “What’ve you got against me, John? You want to be a hero, that it?”

John shook his head. “I’m no hero,” he said. “Besides, your problem ain’t with me, it’s with the law.”

Everett blew out a long trailing whistle. “Well, I’m glad we got that straight. Seriously, though, you haven’t liked me for years. Ever since we went to shoot that coyote.”

“It’s true,” John said. “I don’t like you. I don’t know what it is, maybe some people are just born bad, but you’ve been riding trail with the devil for years now and for a long time you’ve had it coming. And mostly I’ve had to sit by and watch, unable to do something because either I didn’t have the power or when I did I couldn’t prove anything. But now, you’ve made a mess of things. I have a body. I have your gun. And better yet, I have your admission of guilt.”

“Which is your word against mine.”

John nodded. “You have a point. But I’m willing to wager on it. How about you?”

Everett shook his head, smiling as he said, “Like you said, both you and the judge have it out for me.”

“Again, it was you that pulled the trigger on Mendoza.”

“And now, what, you finally have a conscience over some greasy farmer, that it?”

John stared at his desk for a moment. He sighed.

“As the duly elected sheriff, I’ve been entrusted with a responsibility to stand up for the rights of others. Even greasy farmers.”

“Ah, that’s just talk. You don’t believe a word of it.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Everett, I do believe. And I intend to do the job, even if that means I have to face off with the likes of you.”

Everett chuckled. “You did your job all right. After you drank up enough of that courage you keep hidden in your desk.”

John snorted. He reached down, opened up a drawer, and lifted out his bottle of rye whiskey. He looked at it for a moment, contemplating the reasons why he should drain it or why he shouldn’t, but then pulled the cork and tilted the bottle toward the floor.

“Well, look at you,” Everett said, “finding some of that old-time religion.”

“Just deciding to cut all ties.” John looked at Everett. “To everything that has kept me down.”

_________

Hayworth Dalton heard the pop and hiss of firewood and opened his eyes.

“Put another log on, will ya Everett?”

When no response came back, Hayworth looked around the makeshift camp. He found that he was still alone.

Everett had said he just going in to spend a little time with a woman, be back in a bit. Looking around the camp now, though, Hayworth saw that Everett never make it back. Which meant there had been some trouble.

“Ah nuts.” Hayworth reached for his guns. This was the way it had often been with his old friend -- ever since they’d joined up years back -- Everett finding himself in trouble and Hayworth always rescuing him. Truth be told, it was starting to wear like a bad saddle. And now, it seemed, he’d have to do it again, ride back into Sundance and figure out what mess needed to be cleaned up.

#FridayFlash - "Heroes Wanted" (Part 1)

2010-11-19T06:55:00.004-06:00

John Colton chambered another round. In the room, a wisp of gun smoke hovered in the pale glow of lamplight.

He said, “I won’t say it again, Everett.”

Beside the bed, Everett Wilcox stared at the pillow where his head had been only a moment earlier. Before John barged into the room and shouted to get out of bed. John would later say seeing Everett like that was nearly the ugliest thing he’d seen all year, Everett wearing nothing but his underwear, a pair of grungy socks. What kind of man wore socks to bed anyway?

Everett said, “Okay, John,” his tone slightly irritated like a father might have toward a son. “I done what you asked. You mind telling me what this is about?”

In the corner of the room, Francine Love, Sundown’s well-used whore, clutched a bed sheet against her frumpy body. Her mouth hung open, her eyes on the brink of tears.

John cocked his head toward the door.

“I think it’s best you leave, Francine.” His words came out slow and lazy, the whiskey already taking over more control than he wanted; however, the time had finally come to do what he should have done long ago and he couldn’t have gone this far without drinking up a few shots of courage first.

Francine nodded, her eyes filling up with tears now, and she jumped through the doorway, clearly not concerned that he could see the clumpy skin on her backside. He would later Henry Clausen, the Livery owner, that Francine naked was indeed the ugliest thing he’d seen all year.

John turned and stared at the pillow, the blackened hole punched through by his bullet. When Everett didn’t fully comply but lifted up and demanded that John get out, John fired off a round just to let Everett know who was going to be in charge this time. Looking at the pillow now, though, he was surprised, practically shocked, that he’d actually done it. For one thing, he could have hit Everett, which would have required a good story for Judge Hardings, like how he thought Everett was drawing on him. And for another thing, as drunk as he was he could have hit Francine, for which there would have been no good excuse.

He glanced back at Everett, who stood by the bed, an expectant look on his face.

“I’m taking you in.”

Everett dropped his hands. His shoulders slumped.

“You’re drunk. Maybe you should go back to your little jailhouse and sleep it off, uh?”

“Maybe,” John said. “Before I do, though, I’m gonna walk you over with me, put you in the cell.” When Everett blinked, John added, “Oh, I’m serious. If you don’t think so, I’ll put the next bullet in your chest just to prove it. And in case you’re thinking it, I won’t care what God will have to say about it.”

After a moment, Everett said, “On what charge?”

“The murder of Roberto Mendoza.”

“Roberto?” Everett snorted. “Everybody knows I shot him in self-defense. I got witnesses.”

“Who’ll testify to what? How your bullet somehow circled the man and hit him in the back?”

Everett pursed his lips. “You not only accusing me of killing a man, you saying I’m a coward, too?”

“The body speaks for itself.”

“Don’t matter. He came looking for me, saying how he was going to kill me. People’ll testify to that.”

“What did you expect? You raped his sister.”

“That was just a woman who thought I was serious about her. When she found out otherwise, she made up a story. Surely you know how some people are, how they can misrepresent the facts.” He paused and smiled. “Or maybe that’s what this is all about.”

John shook his head. “This is about a dead man and your bullet in his back.”

“He had a pistol on him.”

“And you know what the funny thing is about that pistol? I remember seeing it another time, too. Only then, it was a younger Everett Wilcox, sneaking his daddy’s gun out, saying how he was going to shoot a coyote with it. I’ll even say how I remember you shooting it out there in the desert, and how afterwards you twirled it on your finger.”

Everett narrowed his eyes. “You try telling that to the judge, and I’ll have three witnesses standing in line to say how they saw Roberto purchase the gun. I’ll even have the general store owner tell how he sold it for five dollars.”

John nodded. “Bring your witnesses, and I’ll bring me. We’ll see who the judge believes.”

The room drew silent.

Finally Everett said, “He was just a lazy goat farmer. Nothing nobody else cared about.”

“I care,” John said. He jerked the rifle toward the door. “Now let’s go.”

“Can’t I even get dressed?”

John shook his head. “You take one step toward your clothes, the gun you most likely have with them, and it’ll be the last step you take. Just to be fair though…” He walked over to the chair where Everett had tossed his clothes. He kicked one boot, sent it across the floor where it stopped at Everett’s feet. He kicked the second one, and it went almost as far.

“There,” he said. “And if you don’t start moving, being seen in your shorts will be the least of your concerns.”

Everett looked down at his boots and then glared at John. “This ain’t gonna go well for you. I guarantee it.”

John nodded. “Maybe. You gonna put a bullet in my back, murder me like you did Mendoza?”

“If it comes to that.”

John smiled. “I may be a little drunk, Everett, but I’m not nearly as dumb as you just proved yourself to be.” He cocked his head toward the floor. “Now get those on before I decide justice ain’t worth waiting for.”

Everett looked at him for a moment, but then reached down and grabbed his boots.

#FridayFlash - "What She Left Behind"

2010-11-05T06:41:00.003-05:00

She should have erased it. Gena knew better than to leave it there, let her anger burn like it did. But then, darn it, why did Jeff have to be such a pickle-headed goober? After all, weren’t they like best friends forever? Which meant he was always supposed to be on her side, and she on his, thick and thin, till the world exploded or was swallowed up by a worm hole, either one. They even pinkie-swore on it.

She raced across the Miller’s Creek covered bridge, her tennis shoes slapping against the cold hard wood. Ahead, through the open mouth at the end of the bridge, the mountains stood black in bas-relief against the pale glow of the rising moon.

“Oh… God,” she said, the words heaving out between each labored breath.
She cleared the end of the bridge and found the dark trail that led through the forest. Inside, her heart thumped against her chest. Her throat burned. Her lungs burned. Her legs burned. And right now, she wished she would burn and rise up like smoke, carried away by the winds.

“Please God, no.”

“Shut it, Gena.”

Behind her, Jeff’s footfalls thwocked! out of the black mouth of the covered bridge. There was no mistaking the anger in his voice as he finally cleared the entrance and took the path behind her. “Just get there before it’s too late.”

They took the trail into the forest.

Certainly, if anyone had a right to be angry, Jeff did. It had all started out as some harmless fun, just a game. Their own little secret. At first, they even laughed at it, thinking no way could it possibly be true. It was just another example that Grandma needed to take the big sleep in a rest home somewhere.

At the birthday party last week, Gena opened grandmother’s present to her and stared at it perplexed.

“A piece of chalk?”

“Not just any chalk,” Grandma had said, one finger in the air. “This is anything you can think of in your heart. Just put it down and… voilà!” Grandma’s wiry eyebrows jumped. Her hands pulled apart like a bomb had exploded between them. She stared a Gena for a moment, smiling like she was about to say something else, but didn’t. Instead, she shuffled away, cackling and repeating the same thing. “Voilà!”

To test it out, they decided on old man Winters, who was always yelling at the neighbors to keep their dogs out of his hibiscus. They sat down on the cement patio behind Gena’s house and drew Mr. Winter’s house, his garden, and twenty rabbits. The next morning, the whole block was talking about the swarm of cotton tails that had devoured Mr. Winter’s garden.

At first, Gena and Ted stared at each other, their mouths open, no words coming out. After that, they grabbed their sides and rolled along her front yard, laughing at the sky, the clouds, the sun, anything they could.

The next victim was Sheila McGlocken. They drew her face with a hundred white dots. Nobody counted the pimples the next day. They were all too grossed out.

In the cover of the forest now, Gena tripped and hit the dirt hard. A burst of wind cut through the trees, and a loud shriek filled the air.

“C’mon,” Jeff yelled. “Get up.”

Gena stood and ran as fast as she could.

They had been having fun, she thought, drawing this and that, waiting to see it all happen. But then earlier today the fun stopped.

“So,” Gena said as they walked away from the school. “I hear you have the hots for Denise Wilcox.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?”

He looked over his shoulder toward the school where a group of girls stood talking.

“Besides,” she said, “I can see it on your face.”

“No you can’t, and whoever said it is a liar.” He turned and ran. “And you’re a stupid scag for believing it.”

She stopped, unsure that she heard him right. But then it all set in, and it made her angry.

“I’m a stupid scag, huh?”

She reached into her backpack, and knelt down to draw. Finished, she stood up and walked home, pleased with herself. It was a silly thing to do, of course. Still, it made her feel good just the same.

Later she couldn’t wait to tell Jeff what she did.

“You drew the devil coming after me?”

“Yeah,” she said, laughing. “And sticking his pitchfork up your butt.”

“Are you out of your flippin’ mind?”

“What’s the big deal?” she said, even more put out by the way he yelled at her. “It’s not like it’ll ever happen. You and I both know the devil doesn’t exist. He’s about as real as...”

A whiff of rotten eggs burned at her nose.

Jeff’s eyes bulged as he took a deep breath.

“Oh God,” he cried. “You gotta erase it before the moon comes up. After that, it’ll be too late.”

They cleared the woods and ran across a harvested corn field, the cut stalks poking through the hard dirt like the skeletal fingers of a thousand dead people. A gust of wind blew at her, and Gena thought she heard laughter in the distance.

They ran around the fence and across the playground, the gravel shick-shick-shicking! with each pounding footfall. They finally stopped at the spot where Gena had drawn her masterpiece; only, looking at it now the pictured appeared more like the scratching of an idiot. Gena felt like the idiot now.

“Quickly,” Jeff screamed, his eyes frantic as he looked around. The wind howled. “Erase it. Please.”

Gena dropped down and swept her hands wildly across the sidewalk, the chalked images swirling into a ghostly pool until it was all gone.

The air suddenly turned still.

“Okay,” she said, laughing now as she glanced across the playground. “It’s gone.”

She looked over her shoulder.

“Jeff?”

#FridayFlash - "No Such Thing"

2010-10-29T09:04:00.007-05:00

So Julius was actually trying to make a move. Lucinda could see it in how his eyes lingered, first on her breasts and then on the rest of her. And if that weren’t enough, this morning’s visit certainly framed a clear picture. The idle chit-chat over unimportant details. The fog of cologne that hovered in the air, so sharp it made her nose burn. And all this to show how cool he was? Like she was a girl in need and he was Mr. Right and it only took a wink and a smile to make her thighs quiver?

Puh-lease.

He leaned against the door and said something. Whatever it was, though, was lost under the current of her thoughts, the constant glancing through the door to see if anyone else had noticed. Boy, wouldn’t that be the talk? Hey girls, did you see how close Lucinda and Jules were today? Mmm-mm. They got something going on.

Lucinda closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose, trying hard not to laugh at the thought of the rumor mill cranking up.

A week ago, she had passed it off as a man-thing. Maybe her dress had been too short. Or worse, maybe it started because she wore the wrong blouse, the girls underneath playing peek-a-boo with anyone with wandering eyes. Like Julius. But now, listening to him prattle on about only God knew what, she knew where this was heading and what the man wanted. But she also knew better. She’d been that road before, dancing to the happily-ever-after tune, only to have it end with: “It was fun while it lasted, hey?”

Like sex was something people did to pass the time.

Nuh-uh. No thank you.

She’d moved on from men like Julius—all flash and charm, but no substance. In fact, for all she knew he could be one of those creeps who turned on you. Like that woman in last month’s newspaper. The poor thing went on a secret date, not telling any of her friends who the guy was, only to be found later face down in the river, her neck broken. Lucinda read that story and shook her head. That would never be her. So, if Julius thought she was going to give him the time of day, then he was about to learn how time stood still. Like forever.

No, she needed something new in her life, something decent. Like Carl, the new guy. And now that she thought about it, Lucinda planned to make the next move: get up, grab her coffee cup as an excuse to leave the office, and then go talk with Carl, let him know how well he was doing.

She stood, gave Julius a wink and said she’d have to catch up with him later. Not really though. Not if she could help it.

__________

Julius walked away, feeling a little skip in his step. Sure, it felt like Lucinda had given him the brush off a moment ago—like he couldn’t see the steam still rising from her coffee?—but then she did give him the wink and said she’d catch up with him later. He knew what it was, of course. She didn’t want anyone else in the office to know about their connection.

As he approached the end of the cubicles, he glanced back and saw that Lucinda had stopped by the new guy’s desk. What was his name? Clark-something? Or maybe it was Carl? No matter. The way that boy dressed, all proper with shined-up shoes and a shirt so stiff it looked like pressed paper, he looked like a nerd. No way would a guy like that stand a chance with a girl like Lucinda. No, she was woman who had needs, like love and tenderness and security. A man who knew how to appreciate his girl. A man like him, of course.

And what did he need? Nothing all that big, really. The way she smiled at him, trying to look away while he talked, he could tell how she would listen to him all day long if they could only get away from the office. And the way she tried to hide the giggle at his joke, he could see she liked it, too. And that was really something, you know? Not every girl thought he was funny.

Julius made the turn and kept walking, the smile on his face growing wider with each step. As he approached his own office, he quietly hummed the song: “I Got You (I Feel Good).”

__________

As soon as Lucinda stepped out of the cubicle, Carl leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. He watched her walk away, hips swinging back and forth, a picture of her already taking shape in his mind.

All that talk about how well he was doing was nothing but her way of coming on to him. He’d seen it before.

Of course, he would have to tell her to keep it on the down-low. They wouldn’t want any gossip around the office, you know. And of course, it would also mean he would have to move on again, find another job, another new place. But that would be okay; it wasn’t like he didn’t know how to cover the tracks. Like he just did with Rita, the girl so dumb she actually thought he wanted to be her secret lover boy.

He grinned, thinking about what he did to Rita—how she cried and begged for mercy. Just before he wrenched her neck and tossed her in the river. But that was all in the past now; a few weeks in the new office, and already something else had crossed the radar.

And my oh my, wasn’t she was going to be some fun?

#FridayFlash - "Up in Smoke"

2010-10-15T09:39:00.017-05:00

Owen lifted the bottle of Michelob to his mouth and took a long pull, the beer mixing with tobacco juice. He swallowed.

He said, “I gotta tell you something, Jack,” and then wiped his mouth with the back of a dusty hand. “These days, I can’t rightly figure out what’s wrong with some people.”

He kept his voice low, but it didn’t matter. Jack could hear well enough. On the porch beside him, Jack glanced up, but then quickly turned his attention toward the field. His muscles were tense, the hair along his spine stiff. His ears were ramrod straight.

To calm the dog down, Owen gently patted him on the head. “Easy there, amigo. We’ll get to it.”

Jack whined. His eyes looked slightly confused in the soft glow of the moon, but he sat down obediently.

“That’s a good boy,” Owen said, and meant it. As far as dogs went, Jack was the best he’d ever seen. In fact, he thought the old boy knew and respected more about this life than most humans ever would, and at times he wished his friend could somehow speak, carry on a conversation; however, all they had were a few simple commands, a wag of the tail, and a scratch behind the ears.

“You know, come to think of it,” Owen said, picking up his earlier thought, “it’s kind of like that boy back in the Valley, Ol’ what’s-his-name.”

Owen paused then as he heard the high pitch of mosquito wings and felt it land on the side of his neck. His eyes narrowed. He pushed the bottle of Michelob down between his legs, the coldness of it turning his jeans cool, and waited only a moment longer before he swatted his neck.

At the sound, Jack jumped up, looked at him. Another whine.

Owen pulled his hand away, feeling the warmth spread across his skin now, and looked at the darkened blob on his palm.

“Darn bugs.”

The ordeal over, Jack finally sat back down, his attention directed toward the field.

“Where was I?” Owen said. A few seconds later, he smiled. “Oh yeah.”

He wiped the smashed bug off on a pants leg.

“You see, there was this dumb farmer, got caught with his tractor plowing up rows in another man’s field, so to speak. Nineteen-eighty-eight, I think it was. Anyway, as it turned out, he and Mrs. McClary -- at least I can remember her name -- they were having themselves a good ol’ time, thinking nobody else was paying them any mind. And for awhile, it worked out just fine. That is, until a little old lady from the church discovered the snake in the grass and then found it in herself to have a talking-to with Mr. McClary. Like did he have any idea what his wife was doing, with who, and under his own roof even?”

Owen peered out into the darkness covering his field and frowned. He leaned forward and spat.

Jack stood up.

“Not yet,” Owen said, leaning back into the chair.

Jack whined again.

“The way I heard it?" Owen continued. "Mr. McClary paid that man a visit, told him to find himself another woman. Otherwise, he’d cut off the man’s business and feed it to the pigs.” Owen chuckled then, the laugh coming out wet and crackly. He cleared his throat, said “Which is kind of funny, you think about it, feeding sausage to a sausage factory.”

He laughed harder then and looked to Jack to see if the dog might give him one of those open-mouth grins. Jack apparently didn’t care one way or the other.

“Ah well,” Owen said, the smile fading. “I guess it’s not for everyone. The point is, I would have never thought to do anything like that. In fact, my dad ever heard I was messing around with another man’s woman? He’d of beat me to death himself. Like what was I thinking? Didn’t he raise me better than that?”

Jack’s ears twitched back and then shot forward. He groaned with anticipation.

“Not now, though. Folks today could care less what everyone else thinks or what they have. In fact, I’m willing to wager there’d be folks today who’d say it was Mr. McClary’s fault his woman ran around. If he couldn’t do right and take care of her, then he deserved it.”

Owen reached down, picked up the Michelob, and took another long draw before he set the bottle on the porch.

“No, Jack, folks today’re too consumed with themselves to stay out of another man’s field.”

He reached to his left and grabbed the rifle leaning against the porch post. Pulled up against his shoulder, Owen squinted and looked through the night scope he’d also bought right after the state gave him the license for his farm. The gun had been a perfectly legal purchase. The silencer on the end of it? Well, that was another matter.

In the scope, he saw green images, people standing at the far edge of his field.

“Like these two right here,” he said and held his breath as he gently squeezed the trigger.

Jack barked now, but Owen didn’t care.

“One down,” Owen said, peering through the scope. “And one more…”

He held his breath and squeezed off another round.

Jack barked furiously. His tail swept with excitement.

________

At the edge of the field, Owen stared at the two men. The first one had been a head shot, quick and clean. The second one lay there, bullet wound to the chest, crying and screaming, that sucking sound in his throat.

“All we wanted was a little weed to smoke, man.”

“Didn’t you see the signs? Private property. Trespassers will be shot.”

“Ain’t right,” the young man cried. “This is America.”

Owen shook his head. “No son, this is my field. And you’re stealing my crop.”

He raised the gun to his shoulder and held his breath one more time.

#FridayFlash - "A Justifiable Defense"

2010-10-08T06:42:00.013-05:00

I’m such a snarxhüset. When it comes to pftzer-oozing juice cases, I can’t seem to turn anything down--even when I know that accepting the assignment will cause me a stinging pain in the lower pusher. I just hope Sensi, the love of my life and bearer of my chingos, will forgive me someday. Otherwise, it’ll be a long cold season this side of the sun; and quite honestly, I’d rather have a sharpie jabbed in my darkies, blinding me forever, than to live through that.

“This is your last chance, Krii!” With the scratches and zizzings pouring through my headsets, I barely made out Reginald’s words.

“Oh gee, I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied.

It wasn’t that I disliked Reginald. Well, okay, it was that I disliked him. In fact, most everyone in my brood felt the universe would spin better without him. Since he was in his own language “family”, though, I felt a small obligation to extend simple courtesies before I pulled the trigger and took him and his ship out of commission. Permanently.

Reggie corkscrewed left. Not bad. Clever even. But still not enough to escape my pursuit.

“My gamma beam will blow your snake heads into oblivion,” he screamed.

Chuckles grumbled up both of my throats. P3 Bi-pods were all the same: they demonized what they failed to understand. No appreciation for differences.

“No reason to be nasty, Reggie.” I pushed into a slight dive. “It’s not my fault your God made you with only half a brain.” I nosed up on the fighter, targeting my guns on the vulnerable heat shield of his underbelly. “Maybe you should have done a better job using what you do have, though.”

A split second before I pulled the trigger, he flanked right and pulled into a sharp downward dive. A typical Zizklak maneuver. If it had been done on his planet, the G-forces would have squeezed him into unconsciousness; out here, half a million miles from the farthest moon of Saturn, the dive most likely just tickled his chest like a small cough.

I twisted my right head and kept my eyes on Reggie as I pulled up through a 135-degree arc and flipped around, trailing right behind him.

“That was a nice trick,” I said, “but you’ve forgotten one thing.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a better pilot than you’ll be in two lifetimes. And you’re still in my sights.”

I couldn’t control my laughter when a stream of obscenities cut through my earphones. The Bi-pod design again: big mouth, tiny brain.

“Why are we fighting each other, Krii?” I detected a note of panic in Reggie’s tone now.

“You made someone very angry.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Stealing an antimatter bomb and then attempting to sell it to terrorists?”

The radio fell silent a moment. Then: “I’m acting on behalf of my government.”

“It’s your government that paying my contract.”

More profanities.

“Reggie, is that anyway to talk to your cousin’s life mate?”

What Sensi’s uncle ever saw in a Reggie’s mother, I will never know. Listening to Sensi tell it, though, the whole brood took it as a personal affront that a Quertz would try to marry a Bi-bod. We don’t even belong in the same species, a Quertz with four arms, four legs, and two heads, each with four sets of eyes. By design, a Quertz is far superior to the simple creatures from the blue orb. That we can actually crossbreed had always been considered an unnatural act by most in their right minds. However, Sensi’s uncle was never one to stick to the confines of creation. Consequently, their consummation produced a total disaster: a Bi-pod with three eyes, one of which Reggie couldn’t even use. Sad.

Reggie spiraled down and attempted to cut back into me. Surprising.

I snapped left, jettisoned through a tight downward bank, and caught up with him at the bottom of the dive, my guns trained on the back quarter-panels of his spacecraft.

“Don’t act like you’re better than me,” he said. The bitterness returned to his tone. “You’ll probably just use the government’s money to buy more drugs.”

“I don’t use.”

“Tell that to Sensi.”

My fuel gauge told me that time was on short supply. My holographic readout also confirmed a lock on my target. “I’m done talking, Reggie.”

“Wait,” he cried. He pulled up into steep angle.

I jerked back on my controls and re-acquired the laser-lock.

“Do you still have Jules?” he said.

Jules? Two seconds away from termination and Reggie wanted to know about the family pet? How interesting. He gave us the thing, said it was a guinea pig. I told Sensi it looked more like a dust mop, or maybe dinner. She didn’t find the humor in it.

I didn’t answer him. Instead, I sent out an electro-magnetic pulse and scrambled his systems. Then, I flanked right, past his dead ship. I circled around, toggled another lever, and jettisoned a timed explosive device. A moment later, my read-outs confirmed a secure attachment to the floating coffin. In ten minutes, Reggie would be dead, and I would be clear by then, the universe a safer place. The P-3 government would probably be angry to lose their precious bomb. I didn’t care.

Using a communications monitor, I sent a transmission home.

Sensi’s luscious heads filled my screen. “Is he dead?”

“He will be soon.”

She nodded.

“I’m sorry,” I said. "Right or wrong, he was still brood.”

“Yes. But he could have caused a universal war.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “When will you get back?”

“I’m on my way now.” I fired up my after-burners. “It will take a couple hours, though.”

“What do you want for dinner?”

I thought about Reggie’s last question.

“Take Jules to my lab and X-ray him, will you? If he has an explosive device imbedded under his fur, send him to your uncle. If not, put him in the microwave.”

#FridayFlash - "Every Death Means Something"

2010-10-01T22:12:00.005-05:00

Megan stared at the obituaries spread out on the basement floor. Her gift. And it was a gift, though not in the way her mother had looked at it. But then, mother was always full of crazy ideas that were usually wrong. She once said the moon held the lost souls of the dead, and Megan knew by the way she said it, the way her eyes flickered like candle light, the woman believed every bit of it.

Megan raked a hand through her oily black hair. She could still hear Mother’s voice after the gift paid its first visit. “You have something special,” Mother said. “Hold it close to your heart. Not everyone is so blessed.”

Megan closed her eyes against the obituaries. Six people. Six lives. At first it didn’t feel like a gift at all. More like a curse. She could have told at least two of them, the first being Mrs. Kowalksi. Number five. It was a Saturday afternoon. She turned the corner on the far aisle of the grocery store and almost crashed into the woman. She had opened her mouth to apologize, but the moment she caught Mrs. Kowalski’s gaze, Megan froze. It was the same look she’d seen a thousand times before, like she was a soiled rag to be avoided. And with that look came the memory: children, hands locked, circling and chanting. Megan Fitch, her mother’s a witch, who flew her broom into a ditch.

In the end, Megan couldn’t tell Mrs. Kowalski. Doing so would have only pegged her as another crazy Fitzgerald. Like mother, like daughter, right? And being called crazy was out of the question, a no-brainer. Besides, how would she have said it? Uh, you may think this a little strange--God knows I do--but tomorrow night… Well, tomorrow night you’re going to die.

She reached down now and picked up all that remained of Mrs. Kowalski: a photo and a synopsis of a life once lived. After a moment, Megan tossed it back to the floor with the others.

She once asked her mother how she could lose the so-called gift.

“What on earth for?” Mother had said.

Megan looked at her mother through the mirror, the woman preparing for another night of reading palms and dried-up bones.

“It bothers me,” Megan said. “I mean, why me? Why them?”

“As long as we can make money at it, I don’t care.”

Megan felt the anger rise up in her throat, a giant ball of it she would rather throw up than to swallow.

“It doesn’t work that way,” she finally said. “I can’t control it.”

The slap came so quick that Megan had no time to react. Mother’s razor-thin eyebrows almost touched. “What good’s a gift if we can’t use it? It wasn’t my idea for your father to abandon us, you know. No place to turn, no money to buy food.” She slipped on her headdress. “Now, get back to your room and find a way to make it work, or so help me I’ll beat you worse than your father ever did.”

It never worked the way mother originally thought it would though. At first, it came and went as it pleased, filling Megan’s mind with images she couldn’t control. It never bargained, never acquiesced. But then, just three days ago--

“Megan?” A voice from the stairwell. “You down there?”

Megan swept the obituaries together. “Yes, Aunt Nora, I’m here.”

“What’re you doing?”

“Just… stuff. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“We’re about to leave soon.” When Megan didn’t respond, her aunt asked, “Are you okay?”

Megan looked down at the obituaries. “Yes, I’m fine. I’ll be right there.”

The door at the top of the stairs closed, and Megan quickly tucked the scraps of paper into her backpack. She slipped her arm through the shoulder strap, the pack heavy against her shoulder, and stood up. At the base of the stairs, she stopped and took a deep breath. The curse had visited again a few days ago, only this time everything changed. At first, the image felt as clear as anything else she’d seen: her mother stopped, checking on a car at the side of the road, the passenger dead from a heart attack. Watching the image play out, the anger returned. This time it burned at her neck, her face. Why couldn’t it be mother on the side of the road instead? Only, not from a heart attack; that would be too good. No, wouldn’t it be better for her to face a drunken truck driver, to see the grill of the semi as it bore down? Oh yes, that and more. To hear the pop and screech of metal, to see the explosion of glass as the truck crushed the car and everything else inside, that would be a perfect way for mother to go.

Climbing the stairs now, about to step outside and slide into Aunt Nora’s car to make the six mile trip across town to her new home, her new life, Megan smiled. Three days ago, she finally understood her gift and how anger made it work. And yes, it was a gift after all. Mother--Number Six--proved that.

At the top of the stairs, she snickered, thinking, My-oh-my, what a wonderful way to stop all of those children cold. No longer would she have to hear Megan Fitch, her mother’s a witch.

At least not for long.

#Friday Flash - "The Talk"

2010-09-24T12:52:00.003-05:00

“I think mom is a witch.”

Ted smiled. “What did you do this time?”

“No, dad, I’m serious. Either that or she’s some sort of psychic with special gifts.”

Ted paused, his spoon midway between the cereal bowl and his mouth. He eyed his daughter thoughtfully and saw that she really was serious about this one. Through the years he and his wife had wondered about Melody, how she always cried, thinking that other kids were making fun of her -- which was probably true -- and always concerned that so-and-so had held a grudge over something done days, if not months ago. Often as parents, he and his wife Sherri would look at each other, that knowing look in their eyes, and shake their heads. Their daughter was probably just too sensitive and hopefully would snap out of it by the time she reached the teenage years. But now this?

He returned the spoon to the bowl and leaned back in the chair. “What do you mean?”

Melody shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ll probably think I’m just being weird as always.”

“Honey, I don’t think you’re weird.”

“It just…” Melody stared up at the ceiling. Like she was trying to find the right words, Ted thought. “Well, it’s like the other day. I walked into your bedroom, and the next thing I know, there’s this clash of the hair dryer in the sink and mom’s yelling at me, saying how I scared her and why didn’t I knock.”

“Well, you can’t fault her for getting angry, honey. You know the rules.”

“I know, and I apologized, but…” There was the look again, Ted noted, not directly at him but away. “But before it crashed into the sink? I saw the hair dryer hovering in mid-air.”

Ted wrinkled his brow. “Honey, you couldn’t have seen something like that.”

“Dad, I swear to you, I’m not making this up. I saw the --”

He cut her off with a wave of his hand.

“Melody, I’m not saying that I don’t believe you. I believe you think you saw something. But, listen to yourself for a moment. Things like hair dryers don’t float in the air.”

Melody’s shoulders dropped. “See, I knew you’d think I was crazy.”

Ted touched her arm. “I don’t think that at all. If anything, I think you’re tired. Your mother and I have noticed how little you sleep lately. Is there a problem at school?”

She didn’t say anything.

Ted pressed the issue. “Has Bobby broken up with you again?”

Tears filled her eyes. “He won’t even look at me anymore. He says I’m suffocating him, but I know what it really is. He thinks I’m weird.”

Ted nodded, his heart feeling heavy. He wished he could make it all go away, but some lessons in life needed to be learned by experience. Boys like Bobby would never understand his little girl.

“It’ll be okay,” he said. “Bobby’s a loser, and he doesn’t deserve you.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “I tell you what. How about after school you and I go down to the Dairy Queen and grab a couple of Blizzards.”

Melody reached up and brushed a tear from her cheek. “Can we?”

“You bet.” Ted smiled. “And I’ll tell you something more. You’re a special girl, and don’t you ever think differently.”

She smiled. “Thanks, dad.”

He looked at his watch and nodded toward the door. “Looks like we need to get you off to school. Give me a minute to get my keys, okay?”

She stood. “Nah, I’ll walk today.”

“Okay,” he said and smiled as she grabbed her backpack and stepped over toward the door.

She stopped, one hand on the knob, and said over her shoulder, “Don’t tell mom about the hair dryer thing, okay? I don’t want her going all motherly on me.”

Ted crossed his fingers. “Our secret.”

She giggled. "Good talk, dad."

And with that, she was gone.

A moment later, Sherri walked into the kitchen. “Hey, honey.”

“We need to talk,” he said.

She stepped over to the refrigerator, said “Sure thing” and opened the door.

With a wave of his hand, the door snapped closed.

Sherri blinked at him.

“We need to talk now.” His tone more firm this time.

“What’s this about?”

“About you and a hair dryer and our daughter.”

She looked toward the door and closed her eyes. An embarrassed smile crossed her lips, and Sherri shook her head. “I was afraid of that. I tried to cover it up, but I could see it in her eyes.”

He nodded. “It was going to happen sooner or later.” With a snap of his fingers, a chair slid out from the table. “I think it’s time to tell her everything.”

Sherri walked over and sat down. “Are you sure?”

“Not really, but we can’t continue to hide the truth from our daughter. Eventually, she’ll connect the dots, and I would rather we tell her than for her to hear it from someone else. Besides, she’s starting to think she’s the weird one, and I don’t want her self-image to fall off the charts.”

She took a deep breath. “You’re probably right. But do we have to tell her about everyone in the family?”

Ted smiled and gave her a wink. “No, some warlocks are better left in the closet.”

Holiday Story Exchange 2010

2010-09-20T11:16:00.002-05:00

For those who have been with us before, it's that time again: The Holiday Story Exchange. So pop on over to the Writer's Digest Forums to sign up. The list is located in the "Take It Outside" threads. For those who are unfamiliar with HSE, here's how it works:

Each participating writer will fill out a brief questionnaire with a few personal facts. Then, like a Christmas gift exchange, those questionnaires will be shuffled and distributed so that one writer will have the fact sheet from another writer. Using those facts, then, the goal is to craft a story about your secret writer, which will then be given back as a gift. In December, all of the stories will be released using a secure website, thanks to my good friend Cindy (aka "Gooblink" in the Forums), so that only the participating writers will be able to read. The stories will be originally posted without writer by-lines so that it then becomes a guessing game as to who wrote a story for whom. Once everyone has the opportunity to read all of the stories, they can submit a list, trying to match up the writer with the story. The one who guesses the most correctly will have special honors.

The HSE has always been about having fun, as well as giving a personalized gift for the holidays. In the past, we've tried to collect all of the stories into one PDF document that is then distributed to everyone for their e-library. We'll attempt to do that again this year.

While the HSE has been about fun, it has also been the source of inspiration. Cindy recently announced that one of her HSE projects has become the seed for a novel in progress. As for me, with permission from Cindy (my subject), I submitted my 2008 HSE project "Don't Mess With The Moon Goddess" to Long Story Short, which was accepted and then selected as story of the month for March 2010. To see an example of what we try to do with HSE, you can read a copy of my story on the Long Story Short webzine.

As a timeline for the interested parties, we'll try to stick to the same deadlines. We'll keep the sign-up list open until October 15. During this time, once you've added your name, take the time to fill out the brief questionnaire (details to follow) and then submit your responses. On October 16, we'll distribute the collected facts, and then you can write your story. All stories should be submitted by November 30, 2010, after which they will be posted on the secure website. As to when we can collect them into a PDF document, those details will also be forthcoming; however, the plan will be to release the completed document prior to Christmas.

Okay, I think that's enough details for now. Feel free to post any questions you have, and don't forget to visit the Writer's Digest Forums for more information and to sign up.

Until next time...

The Finest Details - Part II

2010-08-03T17:11:00.005-05:00

Punctuation reveals the writer: haphazard commas, for example, reveal haphazard thinking…

Noah Lukeman, A Dash of Style

In the last post, I dealt with Point of View, noting the options available to an author and then discussing their limitations. The main point behind that post was to express how quickly an author can lose a critical audience by violating point of view. To be fair, readers are willing to overlook POV violations if they are limited, especially in novels. After all, writers are people too. Consistent violations of POV, however, are not minor oversights to be ignored. Instead, they become distractions and create an environment of distrust.

Throughout my years of studying the craft, I have also seen other areas (or pitfalls, if you will) where authors can lose their audience. Today’s post deals with the abuse of punctuation.

Though I’ve been writing stories for over six years, I can still remember a criticism I received early on while trying to develop my craft. The criticism concerned my excessive use of commas and came after I posted an excerpt on the WD Forums. Even now, I remember thinking: Who is this guy and what makes him so special? In a freak moment of clarity, instead of popping off with some extraordinarily witty remark, I decided to search the Internet. It was a good thing I did. As it turned out, the “guy” had previously written multiple novels and was then working as an editor who spent his days reading through slush piles. Clearly, I couldn’t ignore what he had to say on the issue, and since that time I have constantly reviewed my stories with his remarks in mind.

Looking at Noah Lukeman’s comment above, I only included the example (i.e., the comma) because it related to the criticism I received in the Forums. The first clause, however, is the key: Punctuation reveals the writer. It reveals the writer's skill of language, of poetry, and how well he can create a pleasurable experience for the reader.

As a conductor can influence the reading experience, so can punctuation influence the reading experience, bring out the best (or worst) in a text.

Noah Lukeman, A Dash of Style

While there are many uses of punctuation, some of them extremely powerful, there are also many pitfalls. As noted above the excessive use of commas acts like a series of speed bumps* that slows a reader down. The same can be true regarding a paragraph of short sentences, which feels more like something a reader would expect from a Dick-and-Jane book than from a novel of eighty thousand words. Still, in the hands of a crafted novelist, the comma can provide the necessary rhythm that makes a story as relaxing and hypnotic as listening to a cool mountain stream.

Beyond rhythm, the comma can be used as a tool to enhance meaning. For example, take notice on how Tess Gerritsen uses commas in this passage from The Surgeon.

I know how it will happen. I can picture, quite vividly, the sequence of events that will lead to the discovery. By nine o’clock, those snooty ladies at the Kendall and Lord Travel Agency will be sitting at their desks, their elegantly manicured fingers tapping at computer keyboards, booking a Mediterranean cruise for Mrs. Smith, a ski vacation at Klosters for Mr. Jones. And for Mr. and Mrs. Brown, something different this year, something exotic, perhaps Chiang Mai or Madagascar, but nothing too rugged; oh no, adventure must, above all, be comfortable.

What I find interesting in this passage is how easy the reader can see the sarcasm toward people who flow through life too absorbed in their own world. And did you notice that last clause? After setting the tone with a highly charged word like snooty, Gerritsen sandwiches the phrase “above all” between two slices of comma bread, as if to further emphasize the narrator’s disdain. While some writers would have italicized the words to give them emphasis and punch, by isolating the phrase with commas Gerritsen achieved the same effect.

The point emphasized by this example is that punctuation matters. A writer that tosses in commas and ellipses and exclamation points like seasonings on a salad, without considering how they will affect the outcome, may turn what could be a delightful dish into a mouthful of Yuck. And just like Mr. Lukeman’s comparison of punctuation to music, a writer should consider thoughtfully how his work will be read, even down to the placement and use of a comma.

At least that’s how I see it.

What about you?

(* In Chapter 2 of A Dash of Style, Lukeman refers to commas as The Speed Bump)

Other News:

My short story “A Leap of Faith” found a home with The Nautilus Engine, a quarterly webzine of speculative fiction. Feel free to give it a read and let me know what you think.

Still working on polishing up a couple more stories to send out before I resume the task of revising my novel.

Until next time…

The Finest Details

2010-07-26T08:58:00.002-05:00

Sometimes it comes down to the finest details. For writers as readers—the most critical readers, I suppose—the success or failure of another artist’s work falls upon whether the small things act like door hinges that are well-oiled or they creak from age and rust. Today’s finest detail focuses on point of view. Before we do, however, let’s lay down a foundation.

Viewpoint is the place from which the reader views your story.

– Gary Provost, Beyond Style

As you are aware, before writing a book, a chapter, or even a scene, the writer has to make a choice on who will tell the story (and about whom). In making that choice, the writer may choose first-, second-, or third-person.

Imagine you are sitting at a table. There are two cups of coffee and an empty chair before you. If the story is told in the first-person point of view, then it will feel like your friend Sally is sitting down and telling you her story. “The other day I went down to pier,” she says, “and looking into the water, I saw the most freak-odd thing I’ve ever seen, I kid you not.” In this case Sally is telling you exactly what she saw and how it felt, using words (like “freak-odd”) that only she would use.

If the story is told in the second-person point of view, it might feel like a therapist is sitting down at the table, trying to make suggestions to your subconscious mind. “You are sitting at a bar,” he begins. “You like the music, the rhythm and pulse of it on your skin. You light a cigarette, not your normal brand, but the week has been long, the expenses high, and you had to settle for the Pall Malls instead of the Winstons.” And this may be why many readers don’t like the second-person point of view: they hate the feeling of being shrink-wrapped, told that they like red shoes with two inch heals when they really prefer a pair of sneakers, the laces untied.

If the story is told in the third-person point of view, then it might feel like Lois Lane is sitting down at the table, giving you the scoop on what her investigative reporting has uncovered. “Jonathan Rickards felt like it was the longest day of his life,” she tells you. “The boss said his work performance smelled so bad that it would take more than a can of Febreze to clear the air. And then Nicole, his wife, called to say that she’d had it. She was through and don’t bother coming home. She had changed the locks on the door to their house. Well her house, now.” Lois continues with the story, and how much you will eventually learn about Jonathan Rickards in this scene depends wholly upon what she has learned about him, and only about what he can see, hear or feel. We call this third-person limited.

In some cases, the narrator will have the details from everyone’s perspective, including how they think and feel, jumping from one person to the next in real time. In which case, it’s not Lois Lane sitting across the table and telling you a story, but rather someone with the ability to see all and know all. We call this third-person omniscient.

Sure this is a limited, not to mention a simplistic, discussion on point of view. Most writers devote whole chapters to the subject. I’m only working with a blog post, however, and don’t have the time or space to deal with it in detail.

In all cases, the choice made on the point of view is a big decision which comes with its own limitations.

The choice of narrative voice and point of view—who is speaking (and how) and through whose consciousness and emotional focus is the story understood?—will affect every other choice the writer makes in the story. In that sense, point of view is the writer’s most important technical choice.

– John Dufresne, The Lie That Tells a Truth

I believe there is a key component in the passage above: who is speaking (and how) and through whose consciousness and emotional focus is the story understood? Again, the choice of point of view narrows the scope of the story down to what any one character and thus the reader can possibly know, or in the case of the third-person narrator, what he or she can reasonably tell you as well. And this is where the work can fall short: a writer forgets that the narrator, or a character, can’t reasonably know this detail or that one. A first-person narrator, an Exxon executive sitting in his Houston, Texas office can’t possibly know that the Governor of Louisiana is right then in a secret meeting, discussing the short life of oil tycoons. Not unless he has the Governor’s mansion bugged. Or the lead character of a story told in third-person limited can’t possibly know what everyone else is thinking, not unless he’s clairvoyant.

As another example, here is something I read lately. The particular scene was told in third-person limited (i.e. our Lois Lane analogy) from the point of view of Johnny, a hit man for the mob. As the scene unfolded, the reader could only see what Johnny saw. Suddenly, there was a gun fight in the street. Everything was running smoothly until the writer typed down these words:

Johnny kicked [the gun] away quickly, stomped on Strazza’s fingers, breaking two of them…

At that point, I took a pause in the reading experience. Really? Two of them? How was it possible for Johnny to know for sure that he just broke two fingers. Did he have an x-ray machine? I don’t remember him having one. Maybe he’s not Johnny after all, but Superman, and has x-ray vision. If so, then why didn’t the writer tell me that from the beginning?

It’s a subtle thing, providing a detail that a character can't possibly know, and admittedly I’m being a bit snarky here, but I think it would have been better to write the following instead:

Johnny kicked it away quickly and stomped on a Strazza’s fingers. He heard a satisfying crack and smiled.

By writing it this way, the reader understands that something in Strazza’s hand just snapped. Whether it was one finger, two, or even three, it doesn’t matter. Strazza no longer has full functionality in that hand.

This is just one example. How about you? Are there cases where you've noticed a violation of POV? I would like to see them.

Other News:

It’s been a while since I last posted. Since then, my good friend Paige Von Lieber bestowed upon me the “Blog With Substance” award. Many thanks to her for that. Upon receiving this award, I’m supposed to share my blogging philosophy in 5 words: Writing Life from my Perspective. I hope that sums it up. I’m also supposed to give this award to 10 other bloggers. The problem with that, however, is I am not as dedicated to blogging as others these days. As such, I’ll give it out to other bloggers as I can think of them, a few usual suspects and two others I think you should consider for the edification they provide: Greta Igl’s blog, Linda Wastila's blog, Michael Larsen’s blog, Nathan Bransford’s blog, and Carol Benedict’sblog.

I finally finished the polishing job on “Simple”, a short crime story, which I’ve mailed off to one of the bigger print magazines. Fingers are crossed.

Currently working through the polishing of “Rule Number One”, another short story which has been on the shelf for a couple of years. Hopefully, I’ll have that one ready to go soon.

The plan at the moment is to have a small number of short stories out in submission while I start the actual revision of my novel.

Until next time…

What I Did This Summer...

2010-07-05T19:25:00.010-05:00

(Blog Warning: Longer post than usual.)

Like your family, each summer brings an opportunity for our family to skip town and find a nice place to vacation for a week. Over the last ten years, that place has usually been somewhere in the mountains. We’ve traveled to New Mexico (towns like Cloud Croft, Ruidoso, or Red River) as well as Colorado (Sulphur Springs or Colorado Springs). I’ve enjoyed every bit of it.

Have you ever reached a place and suddenly felt like it was the home you’ve always wanted? Well, the mountains are that place for me. Especially during the summer. I love the smell of pine in the air, carried along by the cool breeze soughing through their boughs. It sounds like waves rolling ashore. I love the way the temperature drops in the night and how cool it feels in the morning—just the right thing to go with your wake-up cup of coffee.

I enjoy the wildlife. The way deer materialize in the morning mist, like ethereal spirits gliding through the valley. I love the way you can hear the hummingbirds flutter through the woods, the chirp of their wings sounding oddly like cricket songs in the night. And as strange as it may sound to you, I even enjoy watching bears lope up the mountainside, moving as fast as I would on a downward slope. The bears I enjoy watching from a distance though.

Personally, I would like to go to the mountains in the winter, too. I want to try my hand at skiing. I want to ride snowmobiles and buzz through the woods at break-neck speeds. I want to ice skate on a frozen pond, fall on my rear, and laugh with those laughing at me.

This year, however, my wife wanted to go to the beach. To give the kids something different, she said. Reluctantly, I agreed. So, we planned and mapped and did the math. (And no, my dear friends, I did not whip out a spreadsheet this time) We decided to visit South Padre and do it with a camping trailer.

As many of you know, when giving someone a critique on their story, it is customary to give the good before you give the bad. Yin, Yang, I-Ching and all that stuff. So, let’s lay out the good right now. If you’re into the beach scene, South Padre Island has much to offer, both for the adults and the kids. I enjoyed walking out along Pier 19, a seventy-yard boardwalk out into the Laguna Madre. I enjoyed smelling the air, which reminded me a little of what you’ll find walking into a Red Lobster or the seafood area of your local grocery store. I enjoyed the brilliant sunsets (as you can see above). I enjoyed spending an afternoon at the Schlitterbahn water park and riding on a tube in the lazy river. I enjoyed being on a boat out in the deep water, feeling the sudden lifts and drops of the bow as the waves rolled underneath. Though I’m not ready to sign up for "Deadliest Catch", I do like the feel of the ocean. I also enjoyed sitting under a canopy and reading a book while the wind blew in off the coast. Below is a picture of me safeguarding the canopy, the food, and the shade. Somebody had to do it.

There are things I didn’t particularly enjoy, though. First, the sand. Like a pet cat, it gets everywhere. And into everything. You want to enjoy a nice string of licorice? I hope you like a little grit to go with it. You want to go to bed? You had better take a shower first, or you’ll end up sleeping in what will probably feel like a box of kitty litter (thankfully, minus the clumps). You want to take a blanket to the beach to sit on? Count on this: the darn thing will feel like sandpaper against your skin before it’s all over.

I didn’t like the sound of screaming kids who totally ignored what Daddy had to say about leaving the jellyfish alone. Then, I didn’t like it when my wife had to tend to the kids, escorting them off the beach to treat the boo-boos with vinegar and meat tenderizer, which left me alone with the unpleasant task of carting all the stuff across a hundred yards of blistering sand.

I don’t like mosquitoes. Personally, I’m not sure why God created them. In fact, I’ve placed it on my list of things to ask. At elevations of eight- to ten-thousand feet, you don’t have to worry that much about the darn critters. It turns too cold for them. Along the coastal shores, however, where for every beach you’ll also find a marsh (or two), mosquitoes are a way of life. Sure, you can use bug spray, but then you’ll have to take a shower every night for that, too. After all, who wants to go to bed smelling like Raid on a Stick?

But the fishing, you say. Think of all the fishing. You can fish in the mountains, too, in case you didn't know it. They have wonderful little edibles called Trout, which you can fillet and fry up in corn meal and eat without worrying over the bones, which are as soft as the bones you might find in a can of Starkist. Out in the ocean, however, the critters are like prison wards, with bones like steel shanks, each one ready to make you bleed.

And finally (I have more, but I’ll wear you out) I didn’t like all the crazies. I don’t know what it is about the beach, but it sure brings out the loons. Like the old guy who decided to sit down on the shoreline with my wife, his wife in tow, to have a pleasant afternoon conversation. “Yeah,” he said. “We went to Hooters last night and had a real good time. And our waitress was something else. And if you don’t mind my saying, ma’am—” nodding at my wife “—you and her have something in common.”

Of course, I’m under the canopy minding my business and reading a book, oblivious to all of this. It is only when my wife comes back shaking her head and muttering something about “that dirty old man” that I finally realize the couple weren’t just two people being friendly. Well, he was. More friendly than most people really care for.

So, that was my vacation this year. We didn’t have a television in the trailer, nor did we listen to the radio. I had to come home to Lubbock (over 700 miles away) to find out that Hurricane Alex was whipping up an attitude out in the Gulf. It finally slammed ashore this last week, and the streets of South Padre Island are now under a foot or two of water. I can’t say I’m surprised. After all, it is only a sandbar off the Texas coast.

I can’t say it was all bad though. As a family, we had plenty of good memories. And I am thankful that we were able to take a vacation away from home; not everyone is afforded that opportunity. Besides, there was one additional point worth noting: in the process, I even came up with an interesting story idea complements of Mr. If-You-Don’t-Mind-My-Saying.

Next year, however, I’m arguing for a return to the mountains. Bring on the hot cocoa, the flannel blankets, and the s’mores.

Until next time…