Short Stories

Dallas is Where Hope Goes to Die

2009-11-02T15:44:00.005-07:00

Still working on the digital publishing. Sit tight for that. In the meantime, here's a new social science-fiction sort of piece.

Please, pass it along if you like it, and be sure to comment.

2/18/2014 THIS IS A RUSH TRANSCRIPT. THIS COPY MAY NOT BE IN ITS FINAL FORM AND MAY BE UPDATED.

JIM KNIGHT, KNIGHT REPORT ANCHOR: Welcome to the Knight Report for February 18th, 2014. Tonight, we'll be talking about the big vote today on Capitol Hill. Did the majority leader get the numbers from her own party to end a filibuster? Or has she lost control of not just the moderates, but her own party. But first, we have Dr. Jonathon Prothero. He cured cancer but he's still controversial. Some say he stole their research and the vaccine he's planning on giving away for free should be theirs to sell, right after this commercial break.

[Pfizer Pharma]

[McDonalds]

[Knight Report Promo]

[Viagra]

KNIGHT: And we're back. Welcome to the Knight Report. Our first guest tonight is Dr. Jonathon Prothero. He single-handedly cured cancer and, in a stunning move, plans to offer the vaccine at low or no cost to every man, woman, and child who wants the inoculation. He's been called a modern day Jonas Salk, but in other circles, he's known as a thief. Before we bring the doctor on, we have two Knight Report regulars to discuss the debate. On one hand, we have Dr. Jacob Michelson, he runs the left-leaning "Center for Science in the Public Interest" and next to him, we have Rick Chambers of the Center for Democratic Policy, headquartered in Washington, D.C. Thank you for being here, gentlemen…

DR. MICHELSON: Thanks.

RICK CHAMBERS: Thank you, Jim.

KNIGHT: I want to start with you tonight, Rick, because I'm a little confused about this. Your organization has been one of the loudest voices in calling for the prosecution of the man who cured cancer.

CHAMBERS: Well, simply put, we're on the side of the property owners who all live in a society of laws. Dr. Prothero stole intellectual property that didn't belong to him. And, although his goal was admirable, he built the vaccine on research paid for by Pfizer.

KNIGHT: So, you think he should be held liable for billions Pfizer is presumably going to lose by not being able to sell this formula?

CHAMBERS: Trillions…

KNIGHT: Trillions?

CHAMBERS: We're talking about the cure to cancer. People around the world would be willing to pay top dollar for what Prothero wants to give away for nothing. Quite frankly, it's criminal.

KNIGHT: Let me bring you into this conversation, Dr. Michelson. What do you think about that? Sure, he cured cancer, but he broke the law and hurt a lot of influential people doing it.

DR. JACOB MICHELSON: What's missing from this debate is the Dr. Prothero didn't actually steal anything. Pfizer filed a patent on a gene that is involved in cancer growth. It wasn't like he broke into the laboratory and stole three fourths of the formula and just finished it up and released it before Pfizer could. He funded his own research and found that the cure involved a certain gene set that Pfizer patented for use. This is a loophole in patent law we're been working hard to lobby congress to eliminate.

KNIGHT: So, he's like a modern day Robin Hood…?

MICHELSON: But as I've said before, he hasn't stolen anything.

CHAMBERS: That's a pretty backwards view of the situation, Jake. No matter how benevolent his goals were and how hard you and your liberal friends lobby congress to change the laws of ownership, the fact of the matter is that Pfizer owns the patent on the exclusive right to exploit anything that affects that specific piece of genetic material. Prothero stole the use of that patent, costing a major American corporation trillions of dollars. This is a grave crime of the highest order.

KNIGHT: Switching gears, Dr. Michelson, I'd like to ask you when this vaccine will hit the streets. When can I get mine? (laughs)

MICHELSON: Well, it's the position of our Center that the sooner the better. Unfortunately, Pfizer has filed injunctions in court against the manufacturers contracted to mass-produce the vaccine by Dr. Prothero. Though Dr. Prothero has been making small batches and has been taking them on the road with him to decry Pfizer's actions, which are deplorable at best.

CHAMBERS: Depolorable? Jake, let me ask you a question. If an intruder were on your property in the middle of the night threatening your loved ones, belongings, and livelihood, would you do anything you could to protect it?

MICHELSON: Of course I would, but that hypothetical situation simply isn't applicable here.

CHAMBERS: Sure it is. Property is property.

MICHELSON: That's ridiculous…

KNIGHT: Gentlemen, we're going to have to leave that right there for a moment. When we come back, we'll be talking to Dr. Jonathon Prothero about his miraculous cure for cancer, his status as a would-be Jonas Salk, and the very real idea that he's a thief who built his cure on the backs of others. That's next on The Knight Report.

[Burger King]

[Volkswagon]

[Walmart]

[Pfizer]

KNIGHT: Welcome back to the Knight Report. Right now, we're going to be talking with Dr. Jonathon Prothero, the modern day Jonas Salk, the man who cured cancer and wants to give away the cure for nothing. He's also being called a monster, a liar, and a thief by the pharmaceutical industry. Dr. Prothero is joining us from our studios in Dallas, Texas. Welcome, Doctor…

DR. JONATHON PROTHERO: Thank you, sir. I'm happy to be here speaking with you.

KNIGHT: So, let's get to the meat and potatoes here, doctor. You've done a remarkable thing, but people are calling you names, saying that you're a thief, that you've stolen a piece of your cure. They say it's great you're giving away a piece of the pie, but you're giving away a pie that isn't yours. What to do you have to say…how do you respond to that?

PROTHERO: It's absurd.

(silence)

KNIGHT: Ummm… Do you have anything to add to that?

PROTHERO: What's to add?

KNIGHT: Well, I think people are making some pretty heavy duty accusations about you and they deserve your take on it.

PROTHERO: My take? My take is that curing cancer transcends property rights. I don't rightly care what they've patented.

KNIGHT: You think curing disease transcends property rights?

PROTHERO: That's what I said. Would you like to talk about the actual cure?

KNIGHT: We can move onto the actual method you discovered after we get to the bottom of the issue that's at the heart of this debate.

PROTHERO: What debate? You've made this into a debate, not me. I cured cancer and all you can talk about is whether or not you think I did it properly. Is there an improper way to cure one of the most deadly and pervasive diseases in our world? That's not rhetorical, the answer is no. As far as I'm concerned, if you don't want to talk about the issue, you can all go to hell.

KNIGHT: You don't need to… Please… Dr. Prothero, please sit back down. Oh God…

(Gunshots, screaming)

KNIGHT: I think… Do we have anyone there? Bob? Bob? What's going on down there? Yeah. Yeah? Ladies and gentlemen, it is my sad duty to inform you that Dr. Jonathon Prothero has been shot outside of our studio in Dallas.

Be sure to stay tuned into the Knight Report for breaking updates about who is behind this heinous crime.

END OF TRANSCRIPT

A Pistol Full of Silver

2009-10-21T18:44:00.002-06:00

Here we have some Halloween themed prose. Sorry it's been so long between posts, but we've been working hard on turning this site into something a little better (including audio book versions of these stories.)

I should be back in a week or two with another story (maybe sooner), I'm picking back up the pace with the writing.

Predictably, the moon was full and set high in the crisp autumn sky the night I found my family murdered, mutilated, torn to pieces. Something had crashed through the front picture window and began to tear them apart one by one. The gas lamps were out, snuffed by the drafty gale rushing in through the shattered window. I entered my home hurriedly, kicking the door open with my boot, illuminating the front room with my lantern. Shadows grew long and flickered in the lamp’s firelight. It was the remains of my wife I saw first. I was grateful that the light was so poor because the carnage was too great for me to bear, even in the dim light.

A low creak in the wood up the stairs snapped my attention in that direction. I felt a cold rush as the blood drained away from my skin, I must have been a pale white from fear, but with that fear, my resolve grew. I raised my pistol up to my hip, leveling it toward the noise. I hoped and prayed that it wasn't necessary to have smelted the six silver bullets that occupied each chamber of my revolver, but if they were indeed required to rid the world of this monster, then, by God, I would be prepared. Aiming the light as best I could toward the stairs. I took slow, careful steps in that direction. Another SNAP and a KLUNK stopped me in my tracks. I wished so badly to stop, to turn around to leave this problem to someone else, someone much braver than I, but I knew that wasn't possible. Choking down my fear, I gulped hard and took another step forward.

And another.

And another.

One foot in front the other, each one in front of the next. Each step closer to the stairs got my heart racing faster. Each step I took up the staircase raised my pulse to match my ascent. I'd worried so much about getting to the stairs and up them that I almost didn't notice the remains of my daughter intermingled with what was left of my wife's body. I didn't realize that hot, salty tears had been streaming from my eyes. It was a completely automatic response; I had to put my grief out of my conscious mind until I'd dispatched this grievous creature.

Finally, I'd reached the top of the stairs, either by overcoming my fear or being overcome by it. I couldn't tell which. Keeping the lantern raised in my left hand and the pistol aimed ahead in my right, I swiveled back and forth, looking for a sign of which hallway to direct my search.

I scanned the floor for any clue or indication, a bloody paw print, a scrap of flesh, anything that could give me an edge. I'd need any and every advantage I could obtain in order to get the drop on the monster. Unfortunately, no sign presented itself, so I stopped, trying my hardest to listen carefully for any audible giveaway. Sadly, I was winded so severely in fright, all I could hear was the wheeze of my own labored breathing and a rattle deep in my chest. It was obvious I was just going to have to simply pick a direction in hopes that my instincts proved accurate. My mind raced though worst case scenarios and my mind flashed instantly to my young boy, aged eight years old. IT would make a grim sort of sense that the beast would come up the stairs hoping for an easy snack to go with the main course he made of the rest of my family downstairs. With that in my mind, I turned to the left, down the corridor my son's room resided.

The lantern light swung back and forth down the hallway as I used that arm to wipe the sweat and tears from my cheek and brow.

Down the hall, I could see the door to my boys bedroom was ajar. No sign of light could be seen through the sliver of bedroom between the door and the jam, only the black of night. This made me nervous. Still I could hear little but the rusty creaks of the lantern shaking in my fist and my still belabored respiration. I crept forward, praying both that I'd guessed right and that my son had hidden away, out of reach of the jaws and claws of the feral beast. I counted slowly to myself down from three, working hard to compress and contain my overwhelming sense of dread. As I got to "one", I banished all the cowardice I could from my mind and body and quickly nudged the door open with my pistol arm. And behind the door, there he was!

I caught only a glimpse of him, his head snapped around, his blood red eyes took me in. His snout full of sharp teeth snarled at me, the low growl he was emitting was interrupted only by the loud report of my pistol as I squeezed off two quick shots, each missing its mark. Sensing the danger, the bipedal wolf turned quickly away from me and leapt desperately through the second story window, scattering glass across the lawn and shrubs beneath him. Following up to the window, I caught sight of him, hitting the earth on all fours, scrambling into the deep thicket that surrounded my once peaceful and lovely country home.

"Damn!" I shouted before I turned, wondering at the ultimate fate of my son. "Jonathon," I called out to him.

No response.

"Johnathon…?" I called out once more to no reply.

I took a glance around the room, pointing at dark corners with my lamp and seeing nothing, neither my boy, nor what could be his desecrated remains. I could not decide if I should have more worried or relieved when I heard a stirring from the closet. A hopeful sign, to be certain, but I still had to be cautious. I set the lantern on the bureau and watched my shadow shrink further and further as I got closer and closer to the closet door, my hand wavering over the doors knob, aiming my silver loaded gun chest-high toward the closet. With a whoosh, I swung the door open violently to see my boy standing amidst the clothes and various linens. The blood had left his face and he was a clutching a kitchen knife longer than his forearm. Upon the opening of the door, he lunged at me with the serrated instrument. It was fortunate that instead of firing one of the few precious silver bullets left at the boy, that I sidestepped and grabbed his wrist, forcing the knife from his grasp. As the knife fell, realization hit him and he understood that his father was there. God willing, I'd be able to protect him, by God I'd do my best.

"It got mother," was the only thing the boy could eek out in his stupor of deep shock.

"It's all right, my boy," I assured him, "I'll take care of him. I'll kill him dead."

I clutched the boy to my chest, holding him close, rough but tenderly. He was the most dear possession left to me in this world and I wished that I could have stayed longer to comfort him. But I had to give chase to the beast once more. "Stay here," I told my dear boy, "Hide in the wardrobe, stay there until I come to get you."

The boy nodded his understanding.

"If you don't hear from me, do not leave until the morning light. Do you understand?"

The boy said nothing as I guided him back to the mess of cloth. "Do you understand?" I repeated. I had to be sure he understood the danger he was in.

"Yes, father," he said meekly.

He sat in the closet, retrieved his knife and looked up at me. His face was sad, void of colour and any other shade of emotion. As I closed the door on him, I told him things would be all right and I silently hoped that this wouldn't be the last time he ever saw his father alive.

With that, I shut him back into what I prayed would not become his tomb and raced down the stairs and out the door of my home.

The woods seemed dead, the evening breeze had given way to the still of night and it made my spine shiver and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on their end. Once again, I began by creeping slowly in the direction I last saw the monstrosity heading. From the boy's window, he seemed to be heading due east, the direction the sun would be coming from and end him if I couldn't before hand.

Gathering my resolve, I set out toward the East.

Usually, it was a refreshing thing to come out here in the thicket in the evenings and listen to the nightingale sing and the crickets chirp, but tonight, the woods were filled with terror.

It may have been my imagination, but I thought that I could hear it breathing, hot and heavy, down my neck behind me. I turned on my heels and fired twice in the direction I was certain the beast was in, only to find that I'd fired two of my rare bullets into the empty knot of a hollow tree that splintered open upon impact. No sooner had my ears finished ringing from the sound of the gunshot, could I feel the beast rushing behind me in the opposite direction. I was left no time to marvel at how fast he was, I simply had to turn as quickly as I could in hopes of catching it with a bullet.

But no sooner had I turned, the creature had vanished into the night air like so much vapor and mist.

Once more, I wiped the sweat from my brow with my lantern arm, the shadows were much more menacing in the changing light from all of the gnarled tree branches and dense foliage in the wooded area. As I had the lantern hanging high and my bicep absorbing my perspiration, that's when it hit me.

Square in the back, I got it with all the force of his weight.

I could feel the pads of its feet and the claws toes jam into my back, knocking me off balance. I lost my grip on both the lantern and the pistol and I could perceive them skittering off in front of me into the thick, matted grass of the forest floor. The lantern spilled open, leaking fire onto the ground, brightening the scene more and more as it burned more and more dead branches. If I couldn't extricate myself soon, this whole region would be consumed in flame.

But first I had to deal with the beast.

I could feel the hot scratches deep into my skin as the creature dragged his paws and claws across my back. My shoulder grew hot, I could feel my blood spilling…

I knew if I was to survive, I had to do something drastic, but I was pinned. I tried hard to rotate to my right, to no avail, and then to my left, but the monster had me, dead to rights. I groaned under the strain and tried to leverage the wolf-man over me and that didn't work either.

His hairy digits we're reaching around my throat when I heard him squeal and whelp as though he'd been hurt, though clearly not at my hand, and then his grasp around my neck went limp. His weight no longer borne on me in its entirety, I was able to crawl a few feet away, putting me within arms reach of my pistol. Having no idea what was going on, I could tell that something had at least hurt the beast, because it was alternating between wailing in pain and snarling…

Finally, I was able to grab the gun and contort my body around, hoping to get a good shot, but the only thing staring back at me was my boy.

I coiled around to see the demon fleeing into the woods, the knife I left my boy with was sticking out of its back, it bled profusely all the while. My boy must have come out here, hoping to save me, and did.

He succeeded. But more than saving my life, he succeeded in making me forgetful of the torch burning down the forest.

We were left with only one course of action: to flee. Pursuit of the werewolf would have to wait.
Tonight, we would watch our old family home and surroundings burn to the ground under the light of the full moon and tomorrow the boy and I would begin our training. We would avenge our family and make sure the werewolf didn't live to see another night like this.

He was wounded and we'd be sure to discover his true identity in the morning light that was creeping up over the crackling fire. Oh yes, we would have our revenge.

Convention Sketches

2009-09-15T11:57:00.003-06:00

Hello, all. Before we get to this month's short story, I'd like to make a little announcement. I'm going to start publishing these stories, along with my brother (and a few other writers I'm talking to) on the Kindle, for the iPhone, and as PDFs. There will be samples of all the stories still available here as we convert them, slowly, and they will be very cheap and bundled in packages of three or four (maybe 5 or 6?) stories.

Basically, it comes down to the fact that we think our stories are worth paying at least a little bit for and we'd love to have the support from you guys to help us write more of this stuff. For the

This process will take at least a six months or more. We're going to be cleaning up and revising the stories with an editor and packaging them in themes. And hopefully you guys can spread the word and make this a successful endeavor. In the meantime, we'll still be posting stories for free every month until the switchover is complete. And if things go well enough, I might try publishing my novel this way instead of going to a traditional publisher...

In any case, here is the latest: Convention Sketches:

From the moment he stepped out onto the pavement in front of the transit station he was clearly lost. He tapped out the address to the hotel into his phone with one hand and guarded his luggage warily with the other, but to no avail. Confusion washed over his face like a cold sweat and it was apparent to everyone.

“Which hotel you lookin’ for?” A voice called out from the void.

“Huh?” He looked around, wondering where it came from.

“Which hotel you tryin’ to get to,” the voice asked again, revealing itself as a lanky black man in an oversized t-shirt.

“Ummm… The Mariott.” The nerd replied, unsure of himself, his voice breaking.

“You here for the Con, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit, man, I could tell jus’ by lookin’ at ‘ya.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, man, come on, the hotel’s this way.”

And without a second to think better of it, the pair of them were off on their way.

“Shit, man, the look on your face, I thought you were stayin’ at some place way out of town, but your place is close, man.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, man. So you ready to party?”

“Ummm…”

“You ever been to this Con, man?”

“No. This is my first time.”

“Shit, man. This place is a par-tay. You guys for the con really know how to party, like, it doesn’t stop, man.”

“You here for the Con?” he asked, naively.

“No, man. I’m homeless. I work the conventions now and again setting stuff up, but mostly I’m just homeless.”

“Oh.”

“This place is always better when the Con is goin’ on, though.”

“It’s a lot of fun.”

They reached the intersection and the homeless man pointed down the street to the right. “Down that way, that’s where the party is all the time. That restaurant, it don’t close. There’s a party going on there from tonight through the weekend, it’s fuckin’ kickin’.”

He pointed down the left, “Now we’re gonna cross down this street, and then your hotel is gonna be right here close. C’mon.”

And they went as soon as the light changed.

“So, man. This is it. This is you right here, man. You just head up that walkway there and you at the Marriot lobby. It’ll be a party in there all weekend, too, for sure.”

“Thanks for the help, man.”

“No sweat, man. But now that I helped you, you think you can help me out, like help me get something to eat tonight?”

“For sure,” he said and without thinking his wallet was out and he had a crisp five dollar bill in his hand.

He gestured for the homeless man to take it.

“For reals?”

“Of course.”

Thankfully, he snatched the bill and offered his hand for a shake. “Shit, man. You’re all right. My name’s Sylvester.”

He took his hand and shook it with “Andrew.”

“Andrew, you should come on down and hang out tonight, man. You’re all right.”

“Maybe. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“For sure.”

“But seriously, thanks for your help. I really appreciate it…”

“My pleasure, man. My pleasure.”

They shook hands again and parted ways, never to see each other again. Andrew left thinking, I feel like that was money well spent, what a way to start a con, and he meant it.

* * *

Of the forty years of the San Diego Comic-Con, Gerald had been to the last twelve, and of the last four, he’d been the proud retailer in booth 1216 who specialized in rare, vintage comics. When he arrived at the convention center on Monday, the exhibition hall seemed deep, dead, and empty. Pallets of materials stood in the center of the carpeted off areas, leaving no hint or promise of what fascinating attraction they might become.

Monday was always spent assembling his makeshift storefront: walls of thin black grating, a table with a white linen cover and a trio of bookshelves that needed assembly to serves as the back wall. This would be his temporary home for the next week. Tuesday was spent sorting through the inventory he’d brought, hefting and sorting long box after long box full of the kind of comics that had brought him joy over his forty-three years of life.

He spent Wednesday putting comics up for display on the shelves and walls. A Stan Lee Daredevil. A Bob Kane Batman. Spider-man. Superman. The Hulk. The Flash. On and on and on and on.

The last comic to find its way onto the display wall was Gerald’s favorite book, the first one he’d ever acquired to resell. It was an extremely well preserved copy of the first issue of The X-men from 1963. Through the plastic clamshell, one could see the the sharp corners and vivid colors with the first Jack Kirby rendering of what would become one of the most iconic rivalries in modern history: Magneto versus the X-Men.

He’d tried selling it in the past, but it was never in extraordinarily high demand at a show like this, and for the price he was selling it for. He secured it to the metal lattice of his wall with a plastic zip tie at each corner at the end and at eye level so he could glance at it periodically through the day. It would calm him in a way, from the overwhelming nature of the show.

5:30 on Wednesday, the exhibition floor was ready, the doors would be opened, and thousands of four day pass holders would get their first glimpse of the hall, spilling into each aisle, elbow to elbow, a sea of sweaty geeks who had spent all day in line for their passes and then admittance.

Business was always slow for Gerald on Preview Night. The Hall was open only for three hours and the majority of people were on the floor merely to collect swag. At least that’s how it seemed to Gerald. People who stopped by on the first night were there to gawk or browse. For many of those passing by, it was their first in-person encounter with Amazing Fantasy #15, or Detective Comics #27, or whatever. Sometimes, a father would stop with his eight year old son and point to an issue on the wall and say, “That was the first comic book that Wolverine was ever in,” or, “That issue of Secret Wars, yeah, the orange one, that was the first Venom costume, evcr.” It would fill Gerald with a hopeful satisfaction knowing that he was a torch bearer for an art and medium that was important. At the end of the day he was a purveyor of history and culture, “And that,” he’d always add, pointing at his prized issue of The X-men, “Is the first time The X-men ever appeared, and they were already fighting Magneto from the start.”

Things picked up on Thursday and Friday, but Saturday was always the biggest, busiest day of the Con.

Saturday was the day everyone attended. It was impossible to breathe for all the people crammed into each aisle. Traffic would invariably congest right in front of Gerald’s booth every few minutes when someone would catch sight of a rare comic book that was their hearts desire. It was at that moment that Gerald would swoop in, “Wanna see it up close?” he’d ask, always knowing the answer.

He’d be reaching for it before they would have a chance to respond. He could see them straining their eyes for a glimpse at a price tag or marker, and it would always make him chuckle just a bit. He never put a price on it. Not because he thought the asking price would scare people away too much, but because he wanted an excuse to pull it off the shelf and talk to people about it.

It would take a moment for him to loosen the straps that bound it to the wall, but it would always be worth it. Handling it gave him an inexplicable rush.

The sea of backpacks and costumed superheroes was overwhelming by midday. People lapped up on the shore of his booth, interest in his wares waxed and waned with the ebbing tide of potential customers.

Soon, a man arrived carrying a metal attaché case, placing it on the table in front of Gerald. Attache cases always meant business, Gerald knew this game and asked him, “You buying or selling?”

“Buying. Buying plenty.”

Gerald rolled up his sleeves, getting down to business. He was a very focused man and quite honestly didn’t see anything else when he was making a deal.

“What is it you’d like, and what is it you’re interested in paying?”

“Well, I’m looking for four key issues, and I’ve been told you’re the man to see.”

“I may well be, what can I help you find?”

“First and foremost, I’m looking for a Hulk #181, Giant-Size X-Men #1, Uncanny X-Men #130 and, surprisingly, #1.”

“Well, #130’s are dime a dozen, what is that, Dark Phoenix?”

“First appearance of Dazzler. I’ve got a client and he wants first X appearances. He’s a celebrity, wants to remain anonymous.”

“I’ve got a Giant Size here…” Gerald turned and reached down deep into a box and withdrew a clam-shelled copy of the seminal issue. “Hulk #181 is a little harder. That would take some doing. I can’t think of anyone here at the show who has one. If you give me a week, I can probably track one down, probably for about half of what you can get it for on eBay.”

“And Uncanny #1?”

“You’re in luck, friend.” Gerald turned to his happy place…to see nothing but a blank space on the wall.

The blood drained from his face.

“You okay?” the would-be buyer asked Gerald.

“Ummm…”

Gerald looked around, trying to see where it could have gone.

“I’ll come back,” the buyer said as he slid his business card across the table while sliding his attaché case off.

Gerald rose from his stool, not even noticing the customer fleeing. Could he have been responsible? No. That was absurd.

Suddenly, it seemed as though each passer by was a suspect. Could it have been the pimple-faced teenager with the green backpack, the Thor with the bad wig, the overweight Deadpool? Panicked, Gerald went back to the wall, inspecting the ties he’d so carefully unbind each time he pulled it down to see that they’d been cut.

Slowly, it hit him like a kick in the chest.

His book was gone.

Never to return.

He slumped back onto his stool, defeated. His posture left him, he was hunkered down as though his spine was giving out. Someone had just walked off with thousands of dollars worth of one comic book.

Gerald buried his head in his hands and wondered quietly where he would get the strength and inspiration to carry on for the rest of the show.

* * *

The most fascinating moment from the Con was my encounter with perhaps the most socially awkward and retarded human being the world has ever known. There I was, standing next to a friend at an exhibitors booth on the dealer room floor where we were both admiring items we wanted to purchase as much as the reasonably attractive young lady who was helping us. She was blonde, freckled and of a slight frame. Her face was plain but cute and she wore a tight black corset that created a mesmerizing effect with her bosom. In short, she was beautiful.

“I want to get it,” my compatriot told her, of the overpriced Darth Vader snow globe she’d pulled down from the top shelf for him to look at.

“And I’d like to get this,” I added, indicating the shirt I wanted from the table.

“All right, let me find out how much with tax,” she told us in her faux-British accent, no doubt practicing for some Renaissance fair or another.

“Ummm…” A voice interrupted our transaction, clearly begging for her attention.

“Yes, can I help you?” she asked the boy politely. Though “boy” may be a misnomer, the unkempt, mouth-breathing “boy” was easily in his mid-twenties.

“Yes, I would like to know how much that Musha Cloth Heavy Weapons Gundam behind you is,” he said in a voice that was stereotypically nerdy: nasally and unsure despite the matter-of-fact tone. He pointed at a massive gray and red box behind her that looked like it could fit four or five board games inside of it.

“That’s $230,” she told him quickly, “Would you like to see it?”

“No. I have a friend who has one. He already built it, I know what it’s like.”

“Uh-huh,” she said as we emptied money from our wallets to make our purchases.

“I think I might get it. My parents owe me the money.” It seemed painfully obvious he wanted to impress her with his story, but to what end we couldn’t be sure.

“Oh,” she replied, trying to pay attention to our transaction, and not him.

“You see, I need to babysit my grandfather this weekend and they owe me money for that,” he continued his intended courtship.

She nodded at him, still calculating tax for our items.

“He’s 94.”

I suppressed a laugh, realizing that this was about as bad things could get for this poor kid. At least that’s what I thought.

“He’s incontinent and doesn’t like to wear adult diapers.”

My companion and I shared a wide-eyed look as our cashier blushed badly, trying her hardest to make eye contact with us and not the boy. And just as I thought things couldn’t get worse, the boy opened his mouth again.

“Somebody has to clean up that mess. And they pay me to do it.” Completely disarmed, her hands dropped to her side, unable to concentrate on her customers.

“Yeah,” the unfortunate boy continued, “I’ve already spent $400 at this con. I think I’ll get that Gundam. I just need to ask my parents. Maybe I’ll be back.”

“Okay,” the poor girl said, sheepishly, as he walked away without a graceful goodbye of any sort.

After holding our breath for fear of laughing, finally the dam broke. “Wow,” my companion said after bursting into torrent of laughter. “You know where I come from,” he told the girl, “when you want to impress a pretty girl, there are a lot better ways to do it.”

Her face was flushed and red, her eyes were darting about, not sure of herself. She laughed nervously, trying to let some of the emotion escape.

Finally, I asked her, “Does, uh, that happen to you often?”

“I don’t think anyone has ever tried to impress me by talking about poop.”

The tension broke as she said it and we all broke out into a deep and hearty laughter over the whole episode. Once the laugh was over, we completed our intended task, I stuffed my new shirt in my bag and we walked away, wondering how the awkward boy felt about his top game in attracting girls.

The Accidental Date

2009-08-18T15:23:00.004-06:00

Sorry I've been slacking this month. Well, not really, but... I've been working on a different short story I wanted to post this month, but it's proving to be more of a bear than I realized.

Then the idea for this came to me and it was much, much, much easier to write... So... Hopefully I'll still finish the other piece for you this month, or early next. It's comic-book themed.

In the meantime, enjoy this one:

It was time to leave and I wasn’t sure what to do or say, or how to act. I’d spent all day with her almost by accident. Never before had I run into an acquaintance by happenstance and have it turn so quickly into an impromptu date.

I paid for the drinks and we sat down next to the front window of the coffee shop. The bright, hot sun of the early afternoon shone on the seat opposite her like a magnifying glass zeroing in on a picnic-invading ant. Despite the glare from the light, I got my first real look at her features and was delighted by her. Short, dark hair framed her face around a pair of black glasses that framed her deep, dark eyes. Every so often they would catch a reflection in the window and would glow warm and with a quiet ease. She grinned slyly and off to one side the entire time we spoke. The word to describe her, the one I’m looking for is “enchanting.”

After a few minutes, the sun became too much to bear and, quite politely, I asked permission to move my chair around the table, closer to her. As the sun moved over the course of the conversation, so too did I, like a minute hand to her hour hand. We began, metaphorically at 6:15 and by the time our drinks had been drained, we’d ended up in a 6:40 position. I was like a sundial, but instead of measuring time, it was a measurement of how much closer we’d become in so short a span.

“I need to move my scooter,” I remember telling her, “So I don’t get a ticket.” I’d spent more than four hours parked when I’d intended merely to spend fifteen minutes in a two hour parking space. “We can take a walk over there, if you like…”

“Sure,” she said in her sweet voice, giggling nervously afterward.

We walked closely side-by-side out toward the street where I’d parked, “What’s so funny?” I asked her.

“Nothing,” she’d said. “I guess I’m just nervous.”

“Nervous about what?” I could feel my cheeks flush, hoping I’d already known the answer.

“Nothing.”

By that time, we’d reached my scooter, an unimpressive little 80cc. “Here she is.”

“That is so cute. And love the color. Green is my favorite and this kind is very pretty.” It was a glossy, pearl green.

“Why, thank you. She’s not much to look at, but she gets me where I need to go. Her name is Maggie.”

She giggled nervously again. We had stood there for a moment, neither of us knowing what to say but I could feel that fire burning in the small of my chest, an aching request by my heart for more time with her.

“Do you need to get back to work?” I could tell by her tone that she must have felt close to the same way.

“No,” I lied. “I was just about to go grab some food. You want to go grab a bite with me?”

A smile crept across her face. It was a like a perfect moment, frozen in amber. She smiled wide, unable to hide a resounding and unexpected happiness. And then our eyes met. The wind gently swept her hair to one said and I was lost. Doubly so when I heard her response: “I’d love to.”

On the way to the restaurant, she rode on the back of my scooter, trying her hardest to keep her distance. Her hands grasped the side of the scooter and I could barely feel even her legs against me for the duration of the ride. It was understandable, but somehow disappointing

We ate at a lovely Asian restaurant at her recommendation, laughing and giggling together the whole time like we were in some sort of bad romantic comedy. As we ate, we spoke of many things, of dreams and wants, of the here and now, and even the distant past.

And before anyone could have known, it seems as though we could have been an item, where four or five hours before we were mere acquaintances. It would have been easy for people to mistaken for a couple, though nothing could have been further from the truth.

We weren’t that at ease with each other, though. I had to force a level of sangfroid that was almost foreign to me. The meal ended and the sun went down, but we remained, talking and talking.

We could tell the waitress was getting impatient, so I stood to pay the bill.

“What do I owe you?” She asked me and I laughed.

“I’ve got it. And for all the wrong reasons, too,” I replied and she laughed.

And then we walked out of the restaurant and it was time to leave. And I didn’t know what to say, or do, or how to act.

Where did we stand?

I truly didn’t know.

We walked mostly in silence out to the scooter in the parking lot. “Would it be okay if you gave me a ride home?”

“Of course. Trust that it would be my pleasure,” I said with a crooked grin. I was smiling inside and out.

I held the scooter steady as she got on, and I got on myself. As I started the engine, I could feel her against me. This time, she wrapped her arms all the way around me and leaned her head against my back. A few times I could feel her dig her chin softly into my shoulder, watching the lights and cars go by.

Though I could barely see the stars through the din of the street-lights, I felt like I was among them, riding down the city-streets with the wind in my hair. She guided me to her apartment complex, which came far too soon. I turned off the scooter and got to me feet. I offered her my hand and helped her off like one would imagine a lady being led down the steps of a carriage in an old movie.

She got to her feet and instantly embraced me, wrapping her arms around the front of me this time. Her head rested in my chest, I wrapped my arms around her and I could feel her beneath me take a deep, cleansing breath.

“I had such a good time today.”

“Me too,” I told her.

“Can we do this again some time?”

“Nothing would make me happier.”

We separated and she took a step back. She was twice as beautiful in the moonlight than in the glare of the sun. Or that could have just been how far things had progressed from that time to this. I really couldn’t tell. She took a few cautious steps backwards, toward the stairs leading down toward her apartment. “You’ve got my number. You going to use it?”

“I will.”

I watched her walk away, every cell in my body still smiling, that sense of smitten wonder rising in my chest. I’d been struck by something.

We waved again and smiled as she disappeared into her apartment.

Driving away into the night, I was struck once more by something else: the stinging realization that I should have kissed her.

GUEST STORY: The Organism From Unreality

2009-07-29T23:24:00.002-06:00

Jason is here again with another science fiction sort of story. I quite like it.

The universe is a device of uncertainty. Time passes strangely within its borders, as in places where matter doesn’t apply. The only thing in the universe that is faster than light is dark. We know this because the dark heralds the light. The universe expands at a pace that exceeds light speed; it is the pace of darkness.

Matter doesn’t come from nowhere, it comes from a place that isn’t. It could only go by the title of unreality. This is where the universe draws its material. The universe seeps into unreality, at a destination immeasurable using time or space.

An organism comprised not of atoms, but of anti-matter in a somewhere that has no life or death sits in waiting. Waiting to be absorbed and merged with a universe. Outside of the laws of the universe the organism moves at random through unreality, wherever it wishes to be, it is. Here is not farther than there, they both exist simultaneously in an abyss that has no beginning or bottom.

As the outside, the laws that bind the universe together don’t exist at its borders. So as the universe expands it maneuvers through unreality the same way anything else does, sucking it up here and there, but never linearly. The chances of the anti-matter organism being apart of the unreality absorbed is about one in one hundred million billion. Which just means over the span of a long enough time it’s inevitable, and it is sucked into the universe.

The universe expands ubiquitously, at all angles at once. The borders expand at an equal pace contorting unreality into universe. Because there is no dimension of unreality, the borders use the same material at all ends. If it were possible to view its expansion from the outside, it would look like filling a balloon with air. Due to these facts, when the organism is taken into the universe, it exists on all sides at once, like a film blanketing it.

The laws of the universe twist and bend the organism, forcing it to conform to its extremely simple laws. The universe speaks in the language of mathematics, it’s anti-matter can’t touch matter, or it will explode. The victor will always be the larger of the two. This is reality. Beginning at the edge of space, a series of small explosions take place, only the size of the particles that exist in its vacuum. Dark purple spirals form and then dissipate when they pass into the organism, wreaking havoc on its anti-body, mutating it, building it up, and budding it out. Converting all the matter into anti-matter, it grows with celerity. Just as the universe doesn’t obey the laws that it contains, neither does the sentient anti-matter. It consumes the universe faster than light can move. The force of the big bang drives matter towards the being. Therefore the organism that has no name eats the universe faster than it was made.

Contained within the anti-matter organism are new forces of nature, new laws that begin to govern the universe in another way. Flipping all positive to negative, unmaking material, turning living things into something that can’t be described to those that thrive in the third dimension.

The universe eater consumes the universe for a billion years, turning its 41 billion light year span into twenty billion. It’s ever moving eye scans its prey as it breaks it into opposite. It has unmade more than a hundred trillion stars, many of which had rocks circling them that contained a warm film called life forms. As with every other life form in all the cosmos, a superior being hovers above their rock, and makes the life in it’s image, small versions of itself, operating like wind-up toys, conforming to its will for all time. Life forms in the broadest sense, for that that is immortal can never be said to live. The cold monotony of the universe turns to anti-matter the same as any other. At nineteen billion light years the organism looks ahead, and views a star with a small blue rock, different from all the other rocks it has consumed.

This blue marble is different because unlike all the other rocks with life, this one has no one to look out for it. A deity doesn’t hover above it like all the others. It’s unique through random chance. The laws of this particular universe have allowed a probability factor that a rock could be the precise distance from its star, without gravity weighing too heavily upon it, dragging it into its stars surface. On top of that chance, this rock has other bigger rocks that help prevent it from being showered by even smaller rocks that would nonetheless eradicate life far to frequently for it to evolve. It is comprised of just the right materials, and is just the right size to harness life. Against all odds, without a helping hand, the conditions are perfect for life on this one particular rock, throughout many universes. The organism is awed by this remote probability.

Best of all this blue ball changes, progresses, it holds it’s own fate in it’s hands, and its amazing. Through a process called evolution, the film on the planet began in liquid water as a single cell, and millions of years later morphed into gigantic beings with tiny brains. Now bigger brained beings that send radio signals into space, hoping to receive a reply. The beings send manned missiles into the darkness, hoping to learn more about it. The planet is filled with hope, it’s future is the only thing uncertain the creature has ever seen. The rest of the things called life are cold and consistent. This pale blue dot is beautiful. The language of the universe is mathematics, and life forms speak it eloquently.

Upon this discovery, the organism frantically tries to stop itself, willing to do anything in it’s power to preserve the random life on the blue rock. To do this it must go against every fiber of it’s being. It must contradict the force that drives it forward, the one consistent law that is apart of every universe, and outside of time. That anti-matter and matter can’t coincide; they are forced into epic duel for as long as they exist.

The universe eater moves faster with every bit of material it converts. It has already sheared this universe in a slice less than half. Now, at this late interval, the organism fights every instinct it has trying to put the breaks on it’s descent, but to no avail. Just like yeast trying to rewrite it’s prime directive it’s hopeless. When yeast comes into contact with sugar it excretes alcohol, so is the case with the unnamed organism, when it comes into contact with matter, it excretes anti-matter.

It passes through another rock covered in life film and a god; a crackling sensation passes through its intestines. It can’t help itself, bearing down on the universe which is now only 16 billion light years across; it has never seen anything as special as the blue marble throughout all the cosmos, and would happily sacrifice it’s own anti-life to preserve it. But it was designed to eat, and it was designed to watch, but it was not designed to intervene. The universe has already been perverted, and it can do nothing.

Looking inside itself, it thinks of all the things it’s seen through all the universes it’s unmade, never once considering in its eons of consciousness that what it was doing was wrong. Switching matter into anti-matter, turning cold laws into refined chaos. It could never see that among the matter could exist such beautiful randomness. It flexes its consciousness, trying to think itself backwards, but it accelerates. Disgusted with itself it fills it’s mind with pity. On the fringe of the blue planet, merely a billion light years away, its dark eye begins to leak matter, and with that, it slows down.

It’s deceleration refines it’s sight. Peering closer into the lives of the film of the blue planet, it sees human children growing into adults, and having their own human children, it sees hive bees creating geometrically perfect hives through the power of instinct and evolution. And it sees the emotions on the faces of the creatures as they move through their lives. Measuring the time of their short existences with the sand in an hourglass. Making the organism think about when it was new, and when it became conscious of itself, and its instincts that pulled it through the first universe it consumed, and it can’t stop it’s eye from leaking matter.

Reflecting in on itself, it realizes that all it has consumed had the same rare random chance of life, and that converting it to anti-matter, removed the probability of that happening again. This train of thought makes the creature so sick that it vomits matter from its entire circumference. Holding it still, and finally gently pushing the organism slowly back the way it came.

It watches the blue planet grow old, from life beginning in the sea, moving out, and expanding to the brink of killing itself, and then starting over again. It finds it strange that the inhabitants with the largest brains all look into the sky, and imagine a being that isn’t there. They can’t see what they really are, and that their lives represent the grace of the universe. They simply think that they are common like everything else. But as the only life in the universe without an architect, besides the universe itself, they couldn’t see that they were apart of the universe itself. They were the instruments of a beautiful symphony, conducted over the life of the entire universe; they were the song of the stars. Unable to look in on themselves they were blind to the truth, but the organism watched in wonder, drifting back to where it came.

Billions of years past, the blue planet blossomed many times before it withered. The song it sang never played the same tune twice. But like all true life, it inevitably came to an end. The organism sunk back into unreality dripping matter from its eye. It’s black hole tentacles are the last to fade. Leaving the laws of the universe in tact, but cutting its expansion further. Without expansion the universe was sealed. Nothing could enter and nothing could leave. In the eons to come independent life never sprang up again, all the sand turned to glass. Until matter itself grew old, and began to deteriorate. Stars began to fade, and then galaxies, until there was no light. Eventually even the magnetic force that bound atoms together fell apart, and everything that had ever been was melted into the cosmic sea. Leaving the universe cold and empty for the rest of eternity.

The universe was dead, but the organism from unreality, outside of time brought it back to life beyond eternity, by humming the song of the stars. It sounded like this.

A Cold Summer Morning

2009-07-03T01:04:00.004-06:00

So, I've been working on the new screenplay and haven't had much, if any, time for short stories. There was a longer one that I was working on for last month, but I never had time to work on it. So, this is what you get in the meantime. I hope to have the new one done before the end of the month.

Meanwhile, there's going to be some flash-fiction, more poetry and I think Jason has another short story percolating.

Enjoy it (and tell your friends to stop by for a visit)...

She awoke alone, his familiar form absent from the bed next to her. The smell of morning coffee wafted up the stairs and she took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma while she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. As soon as her eyes opened, she could see the light seeping in through the edges of the Venetian blinds was still the gray of early morning or an overcast day.

Drifting in and out of consciousness for the next ten minutes, Vicky finally pulled herself into the full realm of wakefulness and rolled out of bed.

Wrapped warmly in her soft, terry robe she left the comfort of their bedroom. Descending the stairs toward the kitchen, the rich odor of the coffee grew stronger and stronger in her nostrils.

Walking into the kitchen, she saw him standing there, staring bleakly out the window at the cold, early summer morning. In his matching bathrobe he sipped his coffee and gazed at the black storm clouds, gently coating the grass and street with a thick layer of dew.

He didn’t turn to meet her gaze as she poured herself a cup of coffee of her own from the pot. He simply stared out the window, looking at nothing in particular, but the morning as a whole. She sat down at the kitchen table, facing him. Stirring the milk and sugar into the coffee until it turned the color of light chocolate, she looked up at her husband, wondering what was on his mind.

The coffee was hot and bit at her tongue when she took the first sip, holding the cup to her mouth with both hands, but it tasted good and made her feel awake.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“Nothing,” he replied.

After a few moments, still gazing out the window, he changed his answer to, “Nothing really.”

Taking another hot sip from her steaming mug, she left it at that. She was still too tired to do anything other than leave his words hanging in the air. Tired as she was though, she could feel the tension rising in his chest from across the room. She knew him better than anyone, and well enough to know he had something to say.

There was a flash of lightning that brightened the room through the window, followed a few moments later by the baritone snap of thunder. Following that, the rain picked up and they could hear the individual drops hitting the window and the roof.

“Bad dream?” she asked.

“Yes and no. I don’t remember the details, but I remember for a moment it felt as though it alternated between dread and... I don’t know… Falling in love? Those are normally my favorite dreams. The ones where you go to bed dead tired and wake up and feel like you’ve fallen in love all over again. But this one had this feeling of doom to it. A finality I can’t explain.”

“Hmmmm,” she replied, taking another sip of her rapidly cooling coffee. She could tell it wasn’t the dream he was holding back.

Finally, he could no longer hold it in. “You know I’d meant to leave you. A dozen times I’d tried and I never could.”

He paused, letting that sink in. He never turned from the window. Turning and seeing her there would remind him that he was actually confessing this and it would be too much for him to bear and he wouldn’t be able to say it. He took another deep breath, “I never wanted to get married. I never wanted this. And it just got harder and harder until suddenly we were married. I wanted to go and do my thing and just be alone.”

She wondered how long this had this had been weighing on his mind. So far as she knew there were no secrets between them. No matter how hard it might have been to listen to, deep down, she felt excited that he could still surprise her with some tidbit of deep, personal information.

It was clear that it was a struggle for him to continue, “For the longest time, I felt like I needed to hurt you. To make it stick. I felt like I needed to plunge a dagger into your heart. So you wouldn’t follow. But here you are.” After a brief pause, he added, “Here we are.”

Vicky put her coffee down on the table. Even dampened by the din of the pouring rain, the sound of the ceramic mug hitting on the table was sharp. Her mind raced, wondering where this could be leading.

“We were kids when we got married. Over the years I constantly wondered what it would be like to be living alone. I’d go out of town for work and pretend you didn’t even exist, trying to manage a taste of what I wanted. It never seemed to work. I just couldn’t shake you. And you wouldn’t go away. Despite my best efforts, you couldn’t let go of me. There’s something about me that you see that I’ll never understand that keeps you here no matter what. And I just don’t get it.”

For what seemed like a long while, neither of them said anything; the confession filled the room like the sound of the rain beating on the house.

“You know I love you, right?” He turned to look at her, the landscape had finally broken its spell on him. She was nodding, holding back tears.

He came around the table and sat next to her, putting down his cup of coffee and placing his arm delicately around her back. Vicky leaned her head down onto his shoulder and he put his lips to her ear.

Softly, he whispered into her ear, she could feel the hot breath of his words as he spoke, “I guess what I’m getting at is that I didn’t know what I wanted before. But I do now. And it is you.”

Kissing her on the top of the head, he pulled her away from him and turned her to face him. Tears were streaming down her face, but she had a peculiar grin. Wiping the tears from her cheeks and under hear eyes, he made a soft shushing sound and asked, “Why are you crying?”

Using the sleeve of her robe, she wiped the rest of the tears from her chin and face and told him, “Because I’m happy.”

He smirked, “Why?”

“Because I love you.”

She embraced him, squeezing him across his middle, pressing her head into his chest, and suppressing more tears.

Quietly, he told her he loved her too, and meant it.

GUEST STORY: The Sky of Fire

2009-06-27T11:24:00.002-06:00

I'm going to be honest. I think this is the best story Jason has written to date.

They lit the sky on fire. The planet was dying. They released chemicals into the atmosphere that were supposed to turn the pollution into clean air. It didn’t work. The sky is made of lead. It rains bullets. You would’ve thought we’d have learned our lesson, but we are worse now then ever.

I am certainly the last man alive. I am the lucky one, or the unlucky one depending on your point of view. I was testing a space suit beneath the manmade ocean when they ran their experiment. I lost all communications, and when I emerged from the bowels of the rapidly evaporating Cerulean Ocean, I was crushed with twice the amount of pressure than from the bottom of the sea, the planets new atmosphere. The space suit works like we hoped it would.

I immediately take shelter from the metallic storm, in the space test center where this suit was designed. No one else is alive. Dead bodies fill the rooms like Armageddon. They don’t even look like human beings anymore. An epiphany strikes me, and I sink to the bottom of my suit. Every living thing on the planet just died at the same moment less then an hour ago. Every bird plucked out of the sky in mid flight, every forest and every creature living inside every tree, every person I have ever known or ever loved. Dead. Although odors can’t pass through the vacuum that is my suit, I can still smell the death, and it makes me vomit.

Their brains weigh a thousand pounds. I’m only capable of walking because of the suits boisterous hydraulics. It sustains my life in almost every conceivable way. It absorbs molecules and turns them into oxygen, it extrapolates the hydrogen from the atmosphere and hydrates me, it takes the dim sunlight and converts it into energy, and it dissects my waste and recycles the nutrition back into my body, but it can only keep it up for so long. If I take the suit off, I die. My body will implode like all these other suckers. The atmosphere is so harsh I wouldn’t even last a fraction of a second. I’m forced to slowly starve to death. The thermometer in my suit reads 600 degrees and rising on the outside. The inside maintains a tepid 80 degrees. I’m issued a life sentence to my body armor.

I make my way through the facility in hopes that they were running some other strange experiments preserving the life of any other human being. I know the outcome of the search before I make it. I go anyway, out of vanity and boredom. Waiting for my body to run out of nutrition.

I remain in the facility for a week, staying in my old office most of the time. Not even a picture of my family survives the planets new climate. My depression is complete when I picture what their dead bodies must look like now. I fight the urge a hundred times to make the dangerous trek home to see if there’s still some way I can save them. Warm tears run down my cheek, and I pray for my destruction to come.

I look for someone to blame for this whole mess, and I realize that this all came about because of the planets fleeting condition. It wasn’t nature that did this, we did. The extinction of the human race was methodical. The pollution we created over the last half-century should have been stopped a long time ago. I didn’t stop even after the imminence was so obvious. Thirty percent of all human babies were being born with cancer. Those that lived faced terrible odds that they would be born mutants. My wife had six miscarriages before we had one healthy child, and I couldn’t think of a better way to get to work. We sacrificed our green energy sources when they devised a quicker cheaper fuel. Of course it pushed pollution into he air, but a full tank of gas was cheaper than a glass of water. We moved our whole civilization on to the hybrid grids. Radicals filled the streets with picket signs, and made sure we kept “clean” alternatives that no one would be caught dead using.

Thinking about the grandkids I’ll never have, I cry. The planet will be a better place after I’m gone, but I don’t want to leave it like this. I’m embarrassed to leave it like this. I imagine aliens coming from beyond the solar system, noting the disgrace of the human beings and moving on. We treated the planet like such shit that we can’t even invite guests over. How did it get this bad?

My son always use to remind me to recycle, he would change the knob on the washing machine to the cold setting, he wanted me to buy a stupid looking solar car. I always thought it was so funny that he would worry about the little things, that he still had hope for the future. He’s dead now, roasting on the living room floor with his limbs scattered. At my lowest I decide to brave the violent cataclysm outside.

The horizon is red and pink, and the mountains reach into the sky higher than my eye can see. The miasma is translucent, but physical. I take note of the fact that the outside temperature has peaked at just over 700 degrees Fahrenheit. The ground quakes truculently as I walk away from the facility and the roof finally falters under the pressure of the dense atmosphere. My life is spared once again. The Impervious suit shudders with every step I take.

My body is weak from sleep deprivation, and malnutrition, but the suit is doing most the work walking through the necropolis. My heart is ripped in two every time I see a fallen monument. I am the final spectator, witnessing the extinction of the human race, and there isn’t a fucking thing I can do about it. I drive the suit through the city faster than before, as fast as it can go, and I don’t look back.

My home is past the endless desert where the first colony was set-up. My wife didn’t want to raise kids in the big city, even though that’s where my job was, Olympus City, the city of the future. Now it’s just a massive graveyard, the city of the dead.

It’s a mere 500 degrees outside the metal metropolis. I look past the wasteland towards my old home. Boiling lava spits from the surface, turning craters into a plethora of fiery puddles. I walk right through them as if they weren’t there. The suit was designed to withstand temperatures far hotter than lava. They have been developing heat shields that could resist the temperatures on the surface of the sun. I keep moving through the venomous environment. The gloom in the sky consumes the whole planet. The shadow of death looms directly over my head. I ward it off for only one reason, to make my final resting place as close to my family as possible. Every step I take across the chaos is one step closer to eternal sleep. The flesh on my blistered feet peels from the muscle. The pain forces my chest to convulse. My legs give way, but I persevere, my own annihilation fuels me, a man driven by death.

My toils bring me past the N.O.V.A. hybrid nuclear power plant. I used to pass it everyday on the drive to work. The once massive pillars have been cut down to ash, the uranium core has fallen to the ground, and radioactive wastes gush from the rubble. This place was supposed to be safe. It was suppose to be indestructible. It use to be a symbol of our advancement, created with the same technology that propels our space ships a million miles an hour. The power it generated powered the whole continent. The guise of its purity has been torn, it was so beautiful, but now it’s regressed to a holocaust. The temperature in its vicinity is off the charts, had I not been wearing this suit, it would quickly melt my bones to cinder. A dense haze emanates from the plant forming a torrent of dark clouds with the prominence of the planets core. It radiates dark light over the desert, and I can see my reflection in my visor. My own dread image wrenches my stomach a full rotation and makes me nauseous.

I can hear the planet turning, it sounds like a pyre. If I listen closely I can hear the euphoric voices of my family calling out to me. The screams come from the ghost town in front of me. There isn’t a building left standing. Metal skeletons poke out of the ground marking the territory where people use to spend their cursed lives. A sandstorm blows over the town, and runs right through me. It cuts into the suit as if it were made of knifes. The force of the dauntless gale lifts me up and hurls me back. I loose a kilometer. Blood sifts through my broken skin, but I’m still alive. This smoldering dead planet is trying to get rid of me, but I won’t let it. I get up and try again.

Fragmented carcasses line the streets. The walls are painted with blood. I find solace in the fact that they all died instantly. I reach my home barely alive, and find the liquid remains of my dog spattered across the front yard. The easiest part of the journey is behind me. Frozen in place, unable to move into the remains of my old home. I turn away. Hours pass before I muster the courage to look back again. The temperature has dropped drastically, below freezing. The inside of the suit remains a stoic 80 degrees.

My family calls out to me again, and I call back to them. Mustering the last of my courage, I breach the threshold that was once my front door, and go into my old living room. I find their crushed rib cages twisted together. At least they had each other. I fall to my knees crying. I laugh through tears, and release the pressure lock on my helmet, taking a deep breath from the bottom of my lungs, I lift the fish bowl from my head.

I fall over expecting my body to implode. Wanting it to. It doesn’t happen. I look straight up through the fallen roof into the pink sky. The temperature is 80 degrees. The purging is complete. The atmosphere is as clear as the day we first made it.

The fix brought on the apocalypse, it reminds me of a famous story my great grandfather use to tell about the marsh of Camarina, People were dying from a strange epidemic, they believed the disease was coming from the marsh. Despite the warnings from their oracles they drained it anyway. Once they drained it, there was nothing to stop the hostiles on the other side, and the whole village was slaughtered down to the last infant. I memorized the story, but never learned the value. My great grandfather was a member of the last generation of Earthlings. He came to Mars on one of the last ships before Earth crumbled. This is the second planet human beings have destroyed.

I remove the armor from my tattered body, and I walk on the cold red ground. Gazing into the sky I notice that Phobos is missing. The heavy atmosphere must have pulled the moon out of orbit crashing it into the surface of Olympus Mons. Fore the mighty mountain is now a shadow of itself. The devastation brought on by our own decadence is inconceivable. The murderous atmosphere killed all life on the planet, and anything that would sustain life along with it. I am the last exception, but I won’t be for long. It’ll take millions of years for this newly thriving planet to sustain life as complex as a human being again. All of this happened because our technology slowly siphoned the life from us, we were always looking for the quick way to advance, but the more advancement we made the faster we were killing ourselves. It took thousands of years for us to destroy the Earth, but less then a century to compromise Mars. We figured out a miracle cure at the end, but at the cost of all life itself, a reset button.

I assemble the bones of my dead family, and bury them together. I keep pieces of their picked bones to hold against my chest. My work here is done now, and I feel my life flying away from me. I lie face up on the mutual grave of my wife and son, and close my eyes. The sky sheds heavy tears of pure water onto my face and the dry Martian surface, liberating us both. My arms and chest shake in my last moments of consciousness. The sun sets forever on all mankind. I go to sleep with my family and dream.

GUEST STORY: True Lust

2009-06-04T00:50:00.001-06:00

My little brother is back again with another short story. I'll have one up myself in the next week myself. Follow us and spread the word if you like this stuff.

(Also, I've posted a smattering of poetry since this went up, but put it behind this post. You can read it here and here.)

Hello, this is Jason. I would just like to say to anyone that is about to read this story that I appreciate anyone that does take the time to read it, and if you have any thoughts afterwards feel free to leave a comment. As I can only assume I will learn more with input.

Far from apologizing, I would also like to state that this is an experimental piece for me. Being the first story I have ever finished that wasn’t a comedy. I had fun writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it. Here goes:

Does true love really exist?

She looks into my eyes, and there isn’t anywhere else I would rather be. Her naked skin is smooth and flawless. I lightly dig my nose into her neck and suck in a deep breath of her beauty. She smells perfect. Her white skin rests on the white sheets like an angel in the candlelight. I take a breast in each hand and caress them softly. She lets out a shallow moan and then smiles up at me warmly. I bring my ear to her cheek that’s as soft as a silk and grope her body while I kiss her on the lips and I know I’m in love.

We wake up at the same time and look into each other’s eyes for hours. Our sweaty legs are tangled together and our hands exchange each other’s chests. I pull her closer until our chests touch. It isn’t close enough. We keep each other warm with our body heat, and I feel the warm blood rushing through her veins. She lightly closes her eyes, and I kiss her eyelids gently. We fall back asleep until god knows what time.

When we wake up, we decide to get dressed and go for a walk. I get ready quickly so that I can watch her dress. She puts her panties on sensually in front of a mirror and then bends down reaching for her bra that was thrown on the floor. She picks it up gracefully, watching her get ready, is to watch her perform a dance. When she sees I’m watching her in the mirror she smiles, but does not stop. Next she puts on her stockings pulling them tightly up her silky long legs. I resist the temptation to undress her, and make love to her again. She bends all the way over to grab her blouse in the bottom drawer of her dresser. She’s teasing me.

We take a long walk through the park in the sunset holding hands. Walking slowly so it will never have to end. We stop at a park bench and sit down. There’s a clearing in the tree’s allowing us to see the deep orange horizon. It’s beautiful. I put my arm around her exposed back, and she gives me an unexpected kiss. I’ve kissed her a thousand times since last night, but this one is set apart from the others. It feels like true love. My mind swims to the future, I feel like we are going to be happy forever. The sun sets into oblivion, and the night air rolls through the park. I give her my jacket, and we finish our walk through the gallant twilight.

It’s still early yet, and we decide to go out for a night on the town. We end up at a posh French restaurant and she orders the most conservative thing on the menu. Always thinking about my pocket book. I tell her it doesn’t matter what she orders, if I have the means I’ll buy it for her. She tells me it’s really all she wants. I order the most expensive wine on the menu anyway, just to show her that money isn’t an issue. The food is wonderful and she looks stunning in the restaurants dim light. We enjoy ourselves and have a marvelous time.

When she steps away to the ladies room, I pull out a small box containing a necklace I’ve been keeping secret from her. Putting the small box in front of her plate I wait for her return. The suspense and being away from her make the wait seem like hours. On her return, the mere sight of the box on the table makes her jump with excitement. She opens the gift quickly and says she adores it instantly. I suggest to her that we go back home and make love, but she says that she wants to show her new necklace off, and so off we go.

We end up at a dive bar. A band plays songs about drugs and lust. We order beers and the bartender doesn’t stop looking at her cleavage. I forget to tip him, but I hate to admit I like the attention she gets. Her flawless teeth shine through her perfect smile, and I have fun despite myself. I think, “as long as she’s happy, I can enjoy myself.” She’s the most beautiful woman in the whole bar, and everyone is looking at her. The women in the bar whisper to each other. I imagine they are calling her names, masking their jealousy. Other men gather the courage to come over and flirt with her presumptuously. I hold her hand defensively, while I listen for her to tell them she is spoken for. The night sails on in the same manner until it’s late.

I talk to her about leaving soon, but she doesn’t want to go until the band stops playing. Looking past her for a second to the entrance of the bar. I see a goddess enter. Her majestic curves make my heart race. She wears a fiery red dress cut low exposing her firm perfect legs. Her eyes twinkle like starlight. She walks to the bar like the goddess she is. I must speak to her, but I have no idea how. How can I break away from my girl without breaking her heart?

The Goddess reaches across the bar to pay for her drink, and I wish I were next to her buying it for her. She swings her hair and turns towards me. Her beauty is insurmountable, and her lips are like that of a succubus. I look down at my girl and she is looking back at me. She isn’t smiling anymore. My opportunity to meet the goddess is fleeting. I’ll take anything I can get. Uninterested, I ask my girl if she wants to leave, I don’t even listen to her response. For at that very instant the goddess spills her drink fifteen feet from me. In a clumsy attempt I push other men out of my way trying to get to her before it’s to late. I succeed, and with a napkin I help dry her dress. She smells like an angel. She thanks me, and we have a short awkward conversation. Her voice is like a harp, and I learn her name. I’m in heaven.

Looking back at my girl, she holds her hands on her hips ashamed. I go back to her with a poor excuse, she anticipates hearing it, and is eager to accept it. She wants to leave immediately, but I delay her as long as I can. Every moment I gaze at the goddess is a moment I will keep with me forever. Eventually, unavoidably, my girl drags me from the bar and back home.

I get her home and I tear her cloths off. Turning out all the lights, we fuck while I think about the sultry vixen of my dreams. After I finish, I lie on my side thinking about the goddess. My girl turns the other way, and I hear her weep. I whisper the goddesses name as I go to sleep, and when I wake up I’ll find her and make her mine.

Love and Loss

2009-06-03T22:34:00.003-06:00

It must be spring or something, because all of this poetry is coming out of nowhere. Did someone put some type of hex on me? (Hell, I did these two just a couple of days ago, too...)

In any case, I hope this stuff doesn't suck. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm not a poet.

1) Love:

When I'm not with you
the only thing I can feel
is a tightness in my chest,
a deep and gorgeous thirst
for your angelic presence.

The moment I can bask in it once more,
a grin creeps across my face
and I can feel angels
hoisting my heart to the heavens.

When we drink together,
you think me a lightweight,
but my secret is this:
you intoxicate me already.

2) Loss:

It was over.
You were gone.
And in my sorrow
I took to the hills,
to clear my head,
to wonder why,
to escape the city noise.
The songs of the birds
no longer sounded sweet,
but shattered,
bitter,
and hurt.
Breathing in,
fresh mountain air
filled the hole in my heart.
Breathing out,
left that hole twice as empty.
Though I found no answers,
and left as perplexed
and as saddened as when I arrived,
at least the view was beautiful.

Two Poems For Lovers in Spring

2009-06-02T15:27:00.002-06:00

1:

I awoke to birds deep in song,
singing that sweet, 'twas your
beauty they must have gazed upon.
Soft as the lark, sweet as nightingale
They sang of your praises, fair and hale.
But my sadness grew deep
when I opened mine eyes,
for quickly I realized you not at my side
and I let out a deep dozen sighs.
"Take heart," 'Twas what I said to myself,
"you'll see her again, and soon to be sure"
Alas, but not soon enough...

2:

Though our situation is unique
It's filled my heart with bliss
However filled with newness my feelings
It's provided a lifetime's worth of joy
Sordid and scattered as our lives may be
Us, together means the world to me
And so I say,
Sweetly,
Softly,
Simply,
I love you.
And for that I wouldn't trade the world.

A Memory's Echo

2009-05-26T01:42:00.002-06:00

I hadn't planned on another short story this month, but I couldn't sleep and a short story leapt out of me. It's shorter than I wanted it to be, but that's what you get when I'm doing this suddenly at two in the morning with no warning or planning.

One of the fondest memories I had of my grandfather before he passed away were the times we’d spend out in the front yard. I was about six or seven and he would sit in a foldout chair under the shade of the old, wooden garage door and watch me ride my bike up and down the sidewalk. I’d blaze by as fast as I could and he’d slap his hand to his forehead and make some kind of exclamation, usually, “Wow!”

We lived with my grandparents then and this was the closest thing I felt I’d had to bonding time with him. Sure, we’d watch cartoons and he’d watch us play and things like that, but for some reason, our time in the front yard with him watching me bike back and forth seemed incredibly special.

Soon, he would watch me from his same spot, only from the comfort of his wheelchair. I can still remember every detail of that chair. It was green with a rusted chrome body and gray rubber handles and the left wheel was mysteriously missing a notch in it’s rubber. I remember being upset when my grandmother gave it away to an ailing neighbor years later, but I couldn’t say a word about it.

My little brother was sitting in my grandfather’s lap when he had the heart attack that eventually killed him. They were playing a game where my grandfather would pretend to pass out and the only thing that would revive him was a kiss. He passed out onto the floor, the paramedics were called and while they worked on reviving him, my little brother shoved his way into the commotion and tried kissing him.

It didn’t work and he died in the hospital not too many days after that incident.

It was devastating, to be sure. I always felt that it might have been even more devastating to my little brother, though on a subconscious level, since I wonder if he actually remembers that as vividly as I do. But I would always cherish the memories that I did have of my grandfather, and few would be more precious than him watching me ride my bike.

I lost my grandfather so young that it was hard, later in life, to hear the bad stories about him. For my part, he was wonderful and that’s all I needed to know.

But I was stung today. I was caught completely off-guard and it was sad and sweet all at the same time.

I walked out my front door today and saw his wife, my grandmother, sitting in the shade in a fold-out chair, watching my six-year-old daughter ride her bike up and down the sidewalk, blazing by as fast as she could while she made exclamations about her speed.

“Granny,” she called out, racing by, “Look at me!”

“Wow!” my grandmother called back.

I had intended to go, but I sat down on the porch behind my grandmother and took in the scene, trying my hardest to repress the tears I felt coming on. A thousand things raced across my mind, but I simply had to enjoy this one sweet moment, an echo of one sweet memory.

She’s in her eighties and may not be with us much longer, but I feel comforted knowing that my children will have the same fond memories of her that I did of her husband.

Only I hope they have a lot more time with her than I did with him.

The Cruel Kids

2009-05-23T20:19:00.002-06:00

This is a very short one. Part of the reason it's taken me so long to get this one up is because I felt like it needed to be longer. So time and time again I would come back and mull over it, wondering where I could add length to it.

My problem was that even at this brief length, it was communicating everything I set out to communicate.

It was then that I decided that brevity in and of itself could be a virtue.

(On a sidenote, I'd like to ask that if you enjoy these stories, do me a favor and try to tell someone else about them, too...)

Anyhow, Enjoy:

I imagine it’s never an easy thing to hear that someone you knew a long time ago killed and raped a little girl. You think back and you wonder if there was anything you could have done to change what had happened. The most frightening thing about Jack Thompson is that I really feel like we could have.

We grew up in the same neighborhood, fifteen years ago. He was younger than the group I would hang out with, but his older brother was part of that group and he was always hanging around.

Back then, he wasn’t wanted at all, we never wanted him around at all. He would ride around the neighborhood, following us and whatever we were doing on a girls bike in bare feet that were constantly as dirty as his face. He was a weird kid and didn’t have many friends and naturally he would gravitate toward the crowd his older brother congregated with.

But we were all brand new teenagers, kids really, and kids can be cruel.
The time that haunts me the most was on a bright summer day. The trees in the neighborhood did their best to shade the sidewalks and the streets, but the heat was so overpowering that you fried like an egg anywhere you stood, shaded or otherwise. We traveled in a pack, roaming the neighborhood without a specific goal or destination in mind. Some days, we’d play games encompassing an entire block, other days we’d simply move about like a group of wolves sniffing out something to do.

On this particular occasion, we were on the hunt. We had no leader, it truly was a pack mentality, and for some reason, perhaps it was the heat, we were all supremely annoyed each time Jack would ride by on his bike, staring at us coldly.

Things began to race downhill when his brother, Jared, began to shout, “Quit following us!”

Without a word, Jack kept pedaling by.

The next time Jack circled the block, Jared shouted again, louder this time, “Will you go away?!”

And once more, silently staring, Jack pedaled by the five or six of us that were there.

“Why can’t he bug his own friends?” Jared asked us.

I had no answer, but I vividly recall falling prey to the mob, “Yeah. Why can’t he?”

Another voice from the pack chimed in, “Stupid brat. Why can’t he leave us alone?”

As Jack rounded the corner to buzz by us a third time his brother once again picked up a rock at let fly. Without thinking, so did the rest of us. Of the group, only two of us actually made contact. Like a firing squad, none of us knew who fired the blanks and who fired the kill shots, but the effect was still the same. We knocked Jack down from off his bike, he spilled onto the pavement, scraping his hands, legs, and what little of his pride there was left.

Watching him go down like that, I would have hoped that my sense of empathy would have kicked in. Were it to have happened to the me of today, I’d certainly be able to feel the hot tears flowing down his dirt-caked cheeks, the sting of the pavement, the deep rejected hurt of his peers. But on that day, all I could do was laugh. All we could all do was laugh.

And laugh and laugh and laugh.

God damn it, kids could be cruel.

After three suppressed sobs, Jack picked himself back up from the pavement, turned his girls bike back on the road and pedaled to the sound of the continued haranguing of his older brother, “Go home and cry, you little bastard!”

This kind of scenario wasn’t an isolated incident. This was just one instance that our group seemed to make a concerted effort to make this poor kid feel unloved and unwanted.

As a kid, I didn’t realize that this sort of behavior could have lasting negative effects beyond the potential for getting into trouble with my own parents. And even now, I can’t point to this incident and say, “This is the reason Jack Thompson killed and raped that poor little girl.”

But I have to say it weighs heavily on my mind.

GUEST STORY: The Beast

2009-05-17T17:37:00.004-06:00

Here's another one from my little brother, Jason Young.

The city sleeps when terror casually strolls out of the misty hills. She’s not bad by nature, but few would argue the fact that she is a beast. Left over since long before the ice age, from a time when the Earth was a much harsher place, a distant epoch when evolution was still playing cruel jokes. She is the last of a dying breed, natural selection's failed champion. She leaves the place of her birth, the only place she has ever known, in search of a mate, in search of a future.

She doesn’t look back as she leaves the protection of the misty hills. She crosses over the borders of a small town at the base of the silent knoll, never looking back. As she passes by the houses on the outskirts of town it’s hard to keep from mentioning the fact that she’s as big as a house herself, with jaws that could easily snap bone,and paws as big as an adult human being. It’s a particularly quiet night, and at this late hour it is even quieter. The streetlights and mailboxes overload her tiny brain with puzzlement. She is filled with fear, just like any stranger walking in a strange land, she is afraid.

The night is old, and a blood moon looms over the dark city. The bloody light drips into the streets, an omen of things to come. Not knowing what to expect, she hesitantly wonders deeper into a residential area on the boarder of town. As she passes the house of a particular yappy dog, it lets off a barrage of yips, and yaps. The dogs tiny barks feed her fear and she recoils onto a nearby Porsche. The former vehicle let’s off a siren car alarm, the dog keeps barking. The noise is amplified in her head from many years living by comparison in complete silence. She runs away, deeper into the city.

A man is startled awake in the middle of the night from the sounds coming from outside. Not thinking too much about the sounds, he remembers that he has forgotten to take his garbage to the curb for the garbage truck to pick up. Like a zombie running on autopilot he puts on his slippers and robe then walks outside. He picks up the garbage pail and lugs it to the curb. Unaware that he is outside, he zones to sleep while standing up, never to wake again.

A stampeding beast taken in the clutches of fear running without looking at what lies in front of her. She tramples a man sleeping on the curb without even realizing it. A life snuffed out of the confines of reality. She doesn’t stop until her crimson fur is soaking with sweat. The start of a new cycle takes place when she stops in the territory of another particularly yappy dog. This time more composed, she sits and listens to the yips and the yaps. She misinterprets the dog’s weak barks as some sort of a game, so she calls back. Shattering windows in the near proximity with the force of her blast, she turns the yappy dog, into a yelping dog, a whimpering dog. The defeated dog yelps away.

She is proud of her victory, and she stands proud with her breast puffed out. The victor let’s out another cry somehow louder than it’s predecessor. Half the city lies awake in their beds, checking the locks on their doors before returning to sleep. Those closest to the sound wave get out of their comfy beds to investigate. A small boy is the first outside to witness the monstrosity. Horror freezes the paltry boy in place and empties his bladder. The frail boy gazes upon the beast and wishes his favorite comic book hero would come and rescue him. The helpless boy cry’s the name of the comic book hero, but he doesn’t come. He is a defenseless statue made of flesh and blood. The pint-sized boy is given an unconscious choice: fight or flight. Flight a metaphor for the boy’s mind.

Others are given a similar choice, but take flight in a much more literal capacity. A young married couple run down the street in their pajamas screaming. Thinking this is a game, the beast misconstrues yet another message. She wags her tail, her tongue dangling out of her beastly mouth playfully. She is upon them in a single bound. Accidentally crushing the newly wed woman with her massive claw. She squelches not one, but two life’s. They just got the news yesterday. They were going to have their first son. They had already decided on a name. Thomas. The newly made widower suffers a fate worse than death, when he is taken up into the creature’s monstrous muzzle. Rending his thin flesh with her sword like fangs, he is hurled twenty feet on to a neighbor’s lawn. His wounds will heal in time, but his scars will last a lifetime. Painkillers numb his pain, but nothing will bore the memories of the beast from his head. He will relive the same moment a million times over in slow motion.

A local gun nut hurries back into his home. Next to his bed inside a night table, he finds a loaded revolver, “Old Trusty”. Having seen the demon outside his home, causing what could only be described as utter carnage, he takes what seems like his last option. The chamber clicks around one-sixth of a rotation and then falls to the ground. Old trusty has never faltered. Another life taken into the hands of God, another journey to the darkness.

Others make a more courageous attempt to save themselves from the creatures destruction by phoning the police. The emergency lines light up like a Christmas tree. An emergency dispatcher is given a report about a beast with fiery red hair, and fangs like swords. She hangs up on the caller sarcastically. It isn’t until the fourth call that she takes it seriously enough to dispatch every available unit.

Dawn is drawn over the city when the police finally arrive. Their first and only response is to shoot every bullet in their arsenal. It doesn’t do a bit of good; the beast’s fur might as well be a coat of platinum armor. The little pricks just seem to be making her angry. A renegade cop overwhelmed by the stress of juggling a badge and a cheating wife, against all reason turns himself into a kamikaze. Driving his police cruiser straight into the beast’s leg. A glancing blow at full speed manages to injure the creature enough to make it realize it is under attack. The flesh wound whispers blood, soaking into her ruby fur. Not comprehending what’s going on in the least, she does the only thing she can think to do. With a single bound over a house the police don’t have a chance to keep up with her.

She has a slight limp in her injured leg, but it doesn’t stop her from running at full stride down the vacant streets. She is now afraid and angry. Her enemy, the humans, and what a dangerous enemy she is, her claws like a morning star, her fang the soul of a samurai. A news helicopter flies overhead. In the heat of her rage, she clubs it, hurling it to the ground spinning, the anointment of a brand new cemetery. As she nears the center of the city her heart wonders, looking for the protection and solitude of her misty hills. Willing to kill to get away from the harsh streets that have only yielded her torment and confusion.

A little boy named Timmy rides his bike to school. He is going early today because he has some make up work for science class. When he grows up he wants to be an astronaut. Had he turned on the television before leaving home this morning he wouldn’t have missed the emergency broadcast telling everyone to remain indoors. If he wasn’t riding on such a bumpy road he might feel the Earth tremble behind him. Had he not been listening to music on his walkman he might hear the sirens of police cruisers pursuing a rampaging abomination, he might have heard the screams.

The carnivore is bombarded with ballistics every time she so much as stops to breath. The assaults have turned her into an unstoppable maniac. She passes a little boy on his bike, a little boy that wouldn’t hurt a fly. In her eyes even he is a threat. She locks the boy in her jaw and crunches. Several disconnected appendages race to the scarlet street, the heavy inanimate skull is the champion of the contest. It bounces on the concrete before remaining still. Twelve years of memories are erased as if consumed by a black hole; the rest of the boy is swallowed. A meal on the go.

Six hours have passed since she entered the small town, six hours of horror. Blood bubbles, frothing from her maroon muzzle, mounds of human flesh fall from her claw as she runs. This isn’t what she was, this is what she has become.

The police force has been cut in half; tranquilizers have proven as useless as shooting out bottle rockets. Every attempt to slow the beast down has brought nothing but the creature’s wrath. Yet the men and woman of the law keep fighting, barely holding on, thinking they are protecting the ones they care for most. Holding on, waiting on an order from the president of the United States of America, the order to deploy his army.

At 10:13 A.M. the order is given, the creature’s fate is sealed. The army, whom has patiently been waiting on the sidelines, suddenly springs into concise action. Tanks roll through the city streets. The tank tread cracks the ancient concrete as it makes it’s way relentlessly over whatever lies in its path. Although small hand held fire arms have proven useless, the massive cannons mounted on the tanks will not yield the creature the same mercy. All it will take now is to get a clear shot in.

Meanwhile, while the army corrals the monster into place, other forces have been at work. Forces that are the beasts only hope for survival, a top military scientist going by the name of Martin Barnhouse. He has been working non-stop since the first news report about the monster was aired. His cause is to save the creature so he can run strange tests on it. His pleading with the president has gummed up the works thus far, but preservation of human life has won out, the order was given, and the creature’s destruction is all but immanent.

Barnhouse, being one of the top minds in the country, saw his plan falling through well in advance and is now in a frantic race against time to reach the town, and the creature before it’s to late.

The army gets the beast tangled deep into its trap. Twenty tank barrels are pointed down the tired creatures throat. The creature somehow has an understanding of the predicament she is in as clear as daylight. She Growls. The sunbeams shine over the cannons. A tank pilot sweats onto the expensive equipment in front of him. The concrete is hot enough to fry a chicken. A four star general raises his arm preparing to order the fire. In the nick of time Barnhouse flies out of his jeep, and past the firing line. Between the cannons and the tired beast. Barnhouse announces his mission of mercy.

He gives an inspiring speech that touches the hearts of the men behind the cannons. This is what he said, “Stop, for the love of god stop! This is not your enemy, this is a miracle of nature. We can’t simply recreate it once it’s gone, this is likely the last of it’s kind, more afraid of you, than you are of it. To kill this creature would be a crime against humanity the size of a million years. This creature’s life is bigger than your lives; it is bigger than me. We can’t simply squelch this species out of existence, we must preserve it, we must study it, and learn from it. To this point the creature was defending itself, let’s put away the weapons, stop the destruction, and we’ll usher in the next era of...Yearrrggggg!”

Using the temporary pause to her advantage, the beast leaps over the old man, and goes for his jugular instinctively. When clashing with such small creatures as human beings, there is very little precision. Barnhouse is ripped in half. His life flies from him. Unfortunately for the men in the tanks he is left with the opportunity to scream. His cry will echo through their unconscious for the rest of their lives, no matter how much they drink to get it out. She smacks the top half of Barnhouse between her jaws tearing him into small enough pieces to swallow. She has a hole in her stomach before she is able to get him down.

A solider by the name of Russell Sinclair makes a rash decision. Russell Sinclair joined the army for the sole purpose of taking the life of an Earthling, and “Blowing shit up.” He stews in his tank, waiting for the creature to mess up. He sweats through his uniform. He gives locomotion to his trigger finger. Every time he sees a gun fired he will be reminded of this moment. His life is changed in an instant. The shell affects his life as much as the targets. He goes home a different man. He is rewarded a hero but throws the medal away, feeling only like a killer. His wife and child don’t recognize him. They will leave him shortly after he comes home. He wakes in the middle of every night screaming and alone.

The beast’s frame is pierced. Pure adrenaline shoves her into a savage lunge towards the misty hills of her birth. She is stopped short surrounded by tanks. Three more cannons burst. The shells tear through her with a splatter, as if she were made of lemon meringue pie. The rest of her life is a series of frozen instances. Deaths dark cloud enshrouds her, everything slowly fades to black. She faces towards the misty hills, and she is there, running through the trees with her mother on a starry night. Hunting with her father again, before he went away. She is born again. She is lying next to her mother looking up at the same moon a thousand years ago. The night lasts forever. The pair look into the stars, into their own futures, it stretches into oblivion. The last of the big red dogs.

The Girl at the Party

2009-05-01T00:55:00.001-06:00

I worked so hard to avoid your gaze,
afraid that if our eyes met
that there would be something there.
A glance, a look, a spark.
I was pulled aside to have a word,
trying my hardest to look at my shoes
but when you finished your question
and I looked up to answer…
It happened.
That glance, that look, that spark.
Your eyes the deep color of chestnut,
a bright and beautiful amber
that glimmered in the light.
I could see into them as we shared
that tender, unspoken moment.
My heart skipped a beat and
my breath was took.
Our eyes had locked
and my worst, best fears were realized.
I brought my eyes down to see
your delicate lips raised in a smile
that matched the smitten flutter in my heart
and the simple grin on my face.
I realized that we were inches apart,
our eyes locked once more,
and then we remembered ourselves.
Sometimes, I’d prefer to forget.

The Missed Opportunities of Days Gone By

2009-04-22T01:13:00.002-06:00

This story took a little bit more work than I thought it would. I hope it doesn't suck.

(FYI: I posted a poem after I posted this, but wanted this to stay on the front page. So click here to read Once in a Dream.)

“Hello?” I said into the phone, accepting the call from a number I didn’t recognize.

“Hey,” the feminine voice on the other replied, as though I should know the sound of her voice.

At a loss, I said, “Can I help you?”

“It’s Brooke.”

Her name stopped me. It couldn’t possibly be her. We hadn’t spoken in years, a decade perhaps. “Brooke?”

“Yeah, Brooke Baker. This is Mark, right?”

Jesus Christ. It was her. “Yeah, it is Mark. Brooke. Wow. How are you? It’s been a long time since… well… since anything.”

“I know.”

“So, how are you doing?”

“Okay, I suppose…” Her voice belied her words, though. Something was up. “I… It’s just been so long and I guess I wanted to hear your voice.”

“I don’t think I had a number for you. Ever. I offered a couple of times, but…”

“I was a brat back then.”

And that’s how a random phone call turned into a two-and-a-half hour catch-up session. We spoke of everything under the sun: people we still knew, how different we were, how the same we were, how everything had changed. We both admitted to each other a long lost desire for one another, a fire that had burned out. It was a heat that was long past.

We spoke of our relationships, where we were now, both married, neither with children, myself divorced.

The conversation ended abruptly in a way that was beyond my comprehension. “Damn it,” she said. “Chris is here. I’ve got to go.”

“Chris?”

“My husband.”

And without so much as a customary goodbye, the line went dead.

At the time, I thought it strange, but after the initial strangeness wore off, I gave it no more thought. I carried on about my business for another week as usual, paying no mind to the call.

I was on my drive home from work the next time she called, unexpectedly. I had my phone on my lap and was startled by its sudden vibrations so much that I dropped it on floor beneath my feet. I swerved a full two feet into the next lane of traffic, trying my hardest to retrieve it. Once I got my hand on it and sat upright once more, I corrected my lane placement, fighting off that split-second of vertigo and panic and finally answering the phone call. “Hello?”

“Mark?”

“Hey,” I said, not recognizing the voice yet. “How’s it going?” I ask, hoping to buy a few more words to figure it out.

“Good,” said the voice on the other end. “This is Brooke,” she said, somehow understanding my confusion.

“Oh, hey, Brooke. How are things?”

“Things are good. Fine. You know. I just wanted to call and say hi.”

“Well, hello there,” I laughed politely at my own joke. When she didn’t respond, I asked, “So, what’s new?”

“I wanted to see how you were. To talk to you. It may sound weird but I think that… you know… I missed talking to you.”

“You missed talking to me?” I was incredulous, but had to focus on the road. I took a sharp right turn toward my house.

“Yeah. It’s odd, but since I talked to you last, I’ve really had a feeling of regret. Like we were some kind of missed opportunity.”

“I’ve kind of felt that, too. But, you know, so it goes. But we can be friends now, right?”

“I hope so. I’ve already had to tell my husband about you. He’s not very… well, let’s just say he’s really jealous.”

Warning sirens were going off in my brain. Jealous husbands were not anything I had any experience and they weren’t anything I wanted any experience with. But some part of me felt like I was thinking like a sissy. Fortune favors the bold, I thought to myself. But what did that even mean in this context? Would I runaway with this girl? Of course I was attracted to her the last time I saw her, but that was a lifetime ago. Though I had to admit feeling flushed by the idea that this girl who I’d been attracted to so long ago was, in fact, attracted to me. It was flattering to think that I’d left a strong enough impression on her that she said she missed me. I could feel my heart and my head walking in different directions on this one. “Jealous? Of little old me?”

“Well, we’ve been having a hard time lately. And it’s just been really stressful for him. And me. I’m not even sure if we’re going to last.”

“Oh.”

“I mean… It’s a long story. It’s complicated.”

“It’s always complicated, but I understand that.”

“You always understand…”

“So, do you want to go out and get some coffee or something sometime?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t trust myself. I have a crush on you, and I don’t want any problems.”

“Problems? Now I don’t understand.”

“I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

I had arrived at my house and had a mountain of work to do, and as much as I wanted to continue talking to her, I had to let her go and told her as much.

“Well, I need to go. We’ll talk again, right?”

“Bet on it.”

And then she hung up and we went our separate ways once more. I tried my hardest to put her out of my mind, but it was impossible. She kept floating back to the top of my thoughts.

It was two days later that I received a text message from her telling me that she was moving unexpectedly. Out of state. Permanently.

WANT TO GO FOR COFFEE BEFORE I LEAVE? She wrote.

YES, I texted back.

THURSDAY MORNING SOUND GOOD? She asked.

After about thirty seconds of wondering, I realized that even if it was a bad time for me, I’d rearrange whatever I had to see her. It was, after all, for the last time. Nothing untoward could happen, right?

Thursday arrived along with a knot of tension in my stomach. I had no idea what to expect. I spent most of the day before trying desperately to find a recent photograph of Brooke on the Internet, but came up with nothing. I didn’t know her married name and her maiden name turned up bupkis.

I didn’t realize it until it was too late that I’d arrived early. I had meant to arrive about five minutes late, just to not seem so interested. My mind must have been preoccupied because I got there with a full twenty minutes to spare.

I ordered a coffee, picked a back corner of the room and spent two hours waiting for her before I realized she probably wasn’t coming.
My heart sank.

I hadn’t been stood up in a long time and I began to wonder if this was some type of elaborate prank that had taken almost a decade to come to fruition.

My coffee was cold by the time I finished it, and it was at that point that I realized I no longer had a reason to be there. I felt a sinking sensation in the bottom of my stomach that blossomed into a bitter taste in my mouth.

Time passed. The bitterness I felt melted away to sadness after a day or two. A day or two after that the sadness melted away into something even less tangible than that. What could have I expected? At best, all I could have expected was a pleasant couple of hours catching up with her. It’s not like we were going to get involved in some torrid love affair. At least I don’t think that would have happened.

My work kept me too busy to think about any missed possibilities and thinking back to being stood up still had a nominal sting that made me disinterested in dwelling on the thought.

I wish I could say that anything that happened to me between then and what happened next was interesting or of at least mild importance, but it wasn’t. My life went on in it’s same old boring and drab style until one evening after work, two weeks after that fateful day at the café, my phone rang again.

Predictably, it was Brooke.

“Brooke?”

“Mark, how’s it going?”

“Fine. Fine, I guess. Better. You know, there’s no… ah… hard feelings or anything.”

“I’m glad. I didn’t mean to stand you up.”

“Well, what did you mean to do?’

“I’ll tell you about it someday. But I really need a favor and you’re the last person I wanted to ask, but you’re the only person to get a hold of.”

“It’s nice to be needed.”

“Well, this is kind of a big thing and I really wouldn’t ask if I weren’t really in a jam.”

“What is it?”

“Well… I’m on the road. I’m on my way out of town and my car broke down…”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the tow truck company said that if they can get out here today, it won’t be till tonight.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I can’t get a hold of anyone who can come help me.”

“Where’s your husband?”

“He’s driving the truck. And I can’t get a hold of him.”

“Oh.”

The bottom fell out from my stomach as soon as I realized the implication of what she was saying.

Slowly and deliberately, I asked her, “Where did you break down?”

She gave me a mile marker number that was about 85 miles down the main highway heading east out of town, perhaps thirty miles from any town in any direction. With a sigh of hesitation, I said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Sit tight.”

I couldn’t just leave her there, could I?

On my way out of town, I stopped at the gas station to fill up for my trip and spent the whole time thinking about what could happen. There’d been a sexual tension on the phone that I doubt either of us could put our finger on.

That mix of shy dread and expectation filled me up like a tall shot of Scotch coursing through me, filling my belly with warmth and causing shortness to my breath.

Being alone in the car, driving each and every one of those lonely miles, stirred inside me that feeling of arousal that seems to take dead aim at men and boys the world over. Inexplicably, there’s something liberating about solitude that, when taken in small doses, makes it hard to control erections. I tried my hardest not to think about her, how she looked all those years ago, but I couldn’t get her out of my mind. My desire burned even brighter when I realized that in an hour or so I’d be alone with her…

…It was then that I knew that I was letting my imagination run away with me. The only word that she would be able to use to describe my behavior would be “gentlemanly.” She was married and anything there might have been between us was obviously something we were fated against years ago.

And so my thinking on this went back and forth the entire drive.

But it was the gentleman who finally came to her rescue.

My first glimpse of her in more than ten years was her profile. She was sitting in the driver’s seat of her car, waiting patiently for me to help her. She’d shortened her hair since last I’d seen her. With the distance between my car and hers it seemed a darker, less natural shade of auburn.

As soon as I shifted into park, she’d noticed I was behind her and we both got out of our cars.

She’d put on weight since the last time I saw her, though not in a bad way. Before, I’d always thought her too skinny, now she was curvy. She was beautiful. We were both lucky it was the gentleman Dr. Jekyll who had arrived and not the adolescently over-stimulated Mr. Hyde.

“Hi,” was all she said before we were locked in a brief and innocent embrace, the kind only old friends were capable of.

The faintest touch of our cheeks as we parted sent a shiver down my back. It got worse when I glanced into her deep brown eyes.

I’d need to stay away from her.

“So,” I asked, “what’s the trouble?”

“I don’t know. I can’t get it started. It was smoking pretty badly before. Don’t worry about it. I’ll have it towed. They know the car is here and where to take it.”

“Where do you want me to take you?”

“They’re towing it into the next town. They said there was a motel there.”

“You’re going to stay until they fix the car?”

“I don’t have much of a choice.”

She giggled when I opened the car door for her. After she got in, I walked around the back of the car, took a deep breath, and got in on my side.

Not knowing what to say, I focused on the road and the street signs. A sigh escaped me when I realized the next town was almost forty miles away.

“Thanks for coming to get me.”

“No, it’s so not a problem.”

“Yes it is. You didn’t have to come all the way out here for little old me.”

I stole a glance of her while I checked my side-view mirror. I could have sworn she was biting her lower lip seductively, but my mind could have been playing tricks on me.

“It’s seriously not a problem. I was probably just going to get drunk at home by myself anyway.”

She laughed. “That’s not true.”

“You never know.” It was true. Completely. I might have watched a movie, too. I don’t know. I hadn’t decided.

“Seriously though, I really can’t thank you enough for doing this. I can’t believe I can’t get a hold of Chris.”

I wonder if she even tried.

“Maybe he’s up in the mountains or something with no reception.”

“Maybe.”

There was a delicate and palpable tension in the air. I could feel it with every breath, pounding in my chest, emanating from the both of us.

We’d go minutes with out talking and have small spurts of exchanges like that. I couldn’t tell which was preventing us from talking more, the fact that we hadn’t seen each other in so long, or the fact that we were both repressing ourselves sexually in this situation.

Hell, maybe I was being too presumptuous. Maybe it wasn’t sexual repression, but emotional frustration. We really didn’t know where we stood on any level.

After a long and agonizing car ride, we arrived at the motel. It was a true motor hotel, borne of some bygone era. It was a single row of bungalows, each with it’s own door and single picture window. Behind each window were sets of miserable, gray drapes.

The whole scene reminded me of a Hitchcock film.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked, innocently enough.

“Ummm…”

“At least hang out with me for a little while.”

Damn it. I didn’t know what to do. “Okay. But I don’t think I can stay for long.”

“Okay. Let me go check in.”

She got out of the car and I watched her walk into the windowless office. Her jeans were tight and so form fitting that they must have been a mold and she must have been poured into them. Her sultry gait was mesmerizing.

I looked away.

As she was occupied in the front office, I tried hard to seem busy, doing something or another. I pulled my phone from my pocket and cycled through my contact list, looking for someone I could text message to occupy my focus. Stopping at each name in my phone, I thought long and hard for a moment about what I could possibly say to them. After my third pass through my phone book, I couldn’t find anyone I’d like to text. I looked up again and she was coming out of the office with the key to a room.

Walking by the front of my car, she cocked her head in her direction with a wink, clearly indicating that I should get out and follow.

And so I did.

I walked into the musty motel room and my head swam as though it was my first walk into a strange girls bedroom. Some small voice trapped in the deep recesses of my being told me that I should be leaving quickly.

But I couldn’t.

Not yet, anyway.

“Thanks again, so much, for coming all the way out here for me. I know you’re busy.” There was a softness to her eyes and face that seemed to indicate that she was just as confused by what was going on as I was.

“It was seriously not a problem.”

Though neither of us seemed to be moving, we were somehow inching closer and closer together.

“It was sweet of you. Especially after what I’d done to you.”

The closer we got, the harder I found it to breath, though I worked as hard as I could to seem calm.

“You’d have done the same for me.”

I’m not sure how we could have been any closer to each other without touching.

“I think we missed an opportunity… all those years ago.”

Even closer. The sun blasting in the window faded to black as my eyes slowly closed shut of their own accord.

“I think so, too…”

Once in a Dream

2009-04-22T01:10:00.000-06:00

You've told me many times before
that we're nothing but "just-friends" anymore
But I dreamt of you last night,
and it was the sweetest thing I've ever seen.
We were running from someone,
arm in arm.
He was after you, your beauty, your virtue, your love,
but you couldn't surrender it,
not to him anyway.
And so there I was, just a friend.
But I loved you anyway and there we were.
He called out to you and we ducked under an outcropping,
thick in the fog.
We were pressed against each other,
keeping from his sight,
trying our hardest to stay quiet.
And I could feel your heart beating so close to mine
that your "just-friend" just had to do something about it.
Softly, on your lips I kissed you,
knowing full well that I shouldn't have.
But you kissed back and for five brief seconds
I was in bliss.
But it was all just an impossible dream.

I woke up and could still feel your lips on mine,
and it broke my heart when I realized
my dream might never come true.

God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut

2009-04-11T00:01:00.004-06:00

In honor Kurt Vonnegut's memory on this, the second anniversary of his untimely death, I wanted to share with you guys a letter I wrote to Vonnegut but regret never sending.

Dated February 18, 2006, it was written just over a year prior to his death. I typed it up on an old Corona typewriter.

I've also submitted this and accompanying column to the Huffington Post. Here's the link to that article. (For other Huffington Post columns of mine, click here.)

Also, It'll only be another day or two for me to be posting a new short story. It's being a little bit more troublesome than I'd like.

Mr. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.,

My name is Bryan Young and this is the second letter I've written you, but only the first I've sent. I read the first letter I wrote to you and crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. What it had to say was this: I'm 25, I've read almost your complete library every year since I was 15 and respect, admire, and cherish you and what you have said in the last 60-plus years, using only idiosyncratic arrangements in horizontal lines, with ink on bleached and flattened wood pulp, of twenty-six phonetic symbols, ten numbers, and about eight punctuation marks. In it, I also mentioned that you, your books, and your overly infectious ideas are what gave me the courage to pursue a career in documentary filmmaking and writing screenplays.

I didn't quit my day job.

The overall point of my first, unsent, letter was to give you some solace in the fact that youth isn't entirely useless. (Not the state of being youthful, merely those of us with less experience and wisdom as you.) There are still those of us who care about history and Abraham Lincoln and reading newspapers and Mark Twain and Sacco and Vanzetti. There are some of us who still type with typewriters and send letters (see, you're holding the proof in your hands!) and care about those around us.

Sadly, my last letter lacked eloquence. So far, I don't feel this one does either, but it's much closer.

The point that I wanted to make with my first letter, but failed to do so, was this: Your work has made a difference. Maybe it didn't change the world, but it certainly changed me (and those whom I force your books upon). Your message will be carried on by those of us courageous (or foolish) enough to carry it.

Before I go, I want to apologize for the familiarity with which I write this letter to you. I've read your novels (and short stories, anthologies, and plays) so often and have for so long, that they're like visits to an old friend (or a late night drunken phone call to old buddies from school.) Although we've never met and never communicated, I feel as though you're sort of a father figure, or a very old friend.

I hope you are well. Perhaps you'll publish another anthology of essays and I'll be able to visit my old writing buddy one more time.

Sincerely and with all the respect in the world,

Bryan Young

GUEST STORY: The Note

2009-03-28T13:43:00.004-06:00

My little brother, Jason, has once again provided some material for the ol' Short Story Corner. This is a short film he wrote, though he doesn't think he wants to film.

I don't know why not, I thought it was pretty funny.

Expect a short from me next week. And I'll have something special for the anniversary of Kurt Vonnegut's death (the 11th, I believe) so watch out for that.

Enjoy:

INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT

A man and woman are lying in bed, they are in pajamas facing each other having a conversation.
Vicky, 20 something typical broad, good looking, she likes having things her way.

Kevin, 20 something, a husk filled with quirks. He looks as if he might deserve the broad lying next to him.

KEVIN
Was it good for you?

VICKY
Can’t you tell?

KEVIN
I don’t know, you could always
be faking for my sake.

VICKY
I wouldn’t do that, I would just tell you
if there was a problem.

Kevin leans over and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

KEVIN
You don’t mind if I stay the night do you?

VICKY
No, but I have to work early tomorrow,
so you might just wake up alone.

KEVIN
To be honest, I’d prefer it.

Vicky smacks his chest.

VICKY
Shut your mouth.

She goes for another strike, he grabs her hand, they are smiling. They ease back into relaxed positions.

VICKY (CONT’D)
Do you know how many calories we just burned?

KEVIN
Just a second ago?

VICKY
No, you dummy, when we had sex.

KEVIN
I don’t know, a hundred?

VICKY
More like two-hundred, I think I’m
going to cancel my gym membership.

KEVIN
Don’t cancel your gym membership.

VICKY
Why not, are you saying I’m fat?

Vicky rolls onto her side away from Kevin.

VICKY (CONT’D)
You don’t find me attractive anymore, do you?

KEVIN
Of course I still find you attractive.

Vicky rolls back facing Kevin.

VICKY
Do you think about me when you masturbate?

KEVIN
I don’t masturbate.

VICKY
I mean when you do masturbate?

KEVIN
I have never masturbated.

VICKY
Yes you have, everyone does.

KEVIN
Not me, I don’t need it that bad.
I vowed to never masturbate.

VICKY
Your serious?

KEVIN
It just seems like such a waste of time.

VICKY
What if I asked you really nice, would you do it for me?

KEVIN
No! I pledged an oath woman.

VICKY
Pfft. Your no fun, I’m going to sleep.

They turn their separate ways and pull the covers up. Kevin closes his eyes, Vicky looks as if she is plotting and then sneers.

INT. VICKY’S BEDROOM - MORNING

Kevin is sleeping by himself. The covers are half way off and he has a note pinned to his crotch.
He is restless in his slumber and moves one of his hands on to the piece of paper. He gropes around with his eyes closed. Fondling the paper, a revelation strikes him “This should not be here.” He sits up and brings the paper to his face.

KEVIN
Fuck me!

Kevin runs to a phone frantic. He dials a number and puts the phone to his ear.

KEVIN (CONT’D)
Pick up, pick up.
(beat)
Mike! I need you to come to Vicky’s place, stat!
(beat)
The Animals got out of the fucking zoo!
(Beat)
Just get the fuck over here!

INT. MIKE’S APARTMENT -MORNING

A close up on the side of Mike’s face dropping the phone.

The Phone is dangling off the cradle.

EXT. MIKE’S CAR -MORNING

A key turning in the ignition.

The tire’s of a car are given locomotion.

INT. VICKY’S LIVING ROOM -MORNING

Kevin is in his PJ’s sitting in a chair. Mike is holding the note pacing.

MIKE
So Vicky poisoned your semen, and if
you don’t ejaculate by noon you’ll die.

KEVIN
Yes.

MIKE
But you vowed to never masturbate.

KEVIN
That is precisely the problem.

MIKE
Alright, It’s 9:45. That gives us exactly two
hours and fifteen minutes to get you laid.
Have you considered going to a hooker?

KEVIN
I would rather die.

MIKE
There is no problem here. This
is going to be easy. Lets get you pimped up.

A short montage with stuff like, hair getting combed back. Spraying really cheap cologne, brushing teeth, Mike using a hair dryer on Kevin, putting slightly nicer clothes on.

KEVIN
Where are we going to go?

MIKE
There aren’t many places to get laid this early
in the morning, but it seems to me that I
know one spot that always has a abundance of bush.

KEVIN
And where is that?

Mike points out the door, as he proclaims where they are going.

MIKE
To the dollar theatre!

EXT. DOLLAR THEATRE

The pair pull up in Mike’s car. There are almost no cars in the parking lot. Deserted with the exception of a young girl standing outside, seemingly waiting for a ride.

MIKE
Kevin, ask her man.

KEVIN
I don’t know she looks a little young.

MIKE
Just do it!

KEVIN
I don’t know if I can.

MIKE
Just roll down the window and say what I say.

KEVIN
Alright, alright.

Kevin rolls down the car window.

MIKE
Say. Do you need a ride.

KEVIN
Do you need a ride?

MIKE
On the pony express.

KEVIN
On the po-
(Whispers)
What does that even mean?

MIKE
Just say it!

KEVIN
I can’t.

MIKE
You are going to die!

The girl walks towards the car.

MIKE (CONT’D)
She’s coming over, don’t fuck this up.

Mike leans back so as to play it cool.

The girl walks to the passenger window.

THE GIRL
My dad dropped me off to watch the
Lion King last night then he forgot to
pick me up. So uh yeah, if that’s cool
I kinda live on the other side of town.

MIKE
Of course we’ll give you a ride.

Mike snickers to himself, and maniacally folds his hands.

She gets in the back and they drive off.

EXT. MIKE’S CAR

Mike is driving, Kevin is looking back talking to the girl.

THE GIRL
So your girlfriend injected poison into your.....
and if you don’t do it in the next hour, you’ll die?

KEVIN
Uh Huh.

THE GIRL
Wait, you don’t mean to.....

Mike locks the doors.

The Girl tries the door handle.

THE GIRL (CONT’D)
Oh god. If you don’t let me out of
this car right now I'm going to scream.

The Girl’s crying.

THE GIRL (CONT’D)
This can’t be happening. I was
waiting for my wedding night.

KEVIN
Relax, Relax, nothing is going to
happen, I don’t want to have sex with you.

The Girl's expression changes from sad to angry. She hits Kevin.

THE GIRL
You asshole, that's a horrible thing to say to a girl.

KEVIN
I just mean that your too young for me.
Your a very pretty girl, I’m sure there are lots
of guys that want to have sex with you.

This relaxes her.

THE GIRL
Well, what are you going to do then?

KEVIN
I’ll think of something.
(beat)
Mike, where else is there to go.

MIKE
I don’t know, it’s 11 A.M., I guess we
could check out the gas station.

KEVIN
The gas station? This is pointless.
I have never even gotten close to scoring
at a gas station before.

MIKE
That’s defeatist, from this moment on
you need to do exactly what I tell you to do.

THE GIRL
I think Kevin’s right.

MIKE
What do you know?

THE GIRL
I know that I wouldn’t wait
around a gas station looking for men.

MIKE
Then what? Just let the poor fool die?

THE GIRL
I was just thinking there is a pool hall
that’s close to my house that seems
to have “desperate woman” written all over it.

MIKE
Of course, the pool hall, why
didn’t I think of it sooner.

Mike steps on the gas.

EXT. POOL HALL -MORNING

The Car parks, all three of them get out.

THE GIRL
I’ll just walk to my house from here, thanks guys.

She walks away, but after a few steps turns around.

THE GIRL (CONT’D)
Oh Kevin, one more thing.
(beat)
Hakuna Matata
(Beat)
It means no worries. Just go in there
and be yourself, you’ll be okay.

Mike and Kevin walk to the pool hall’s entrance pause take a deep breath, fix their hair, then enter.

INT. POOL HALL

It is deserted apart from two trashy ladies in their late thirties wearing cocktail dresses.

KEVIN
Which gas station were you thinking?

MIKE
You have 45 minutes left, this is your
last chance. Now which one do you want?

KEVIN
I don’t want either.

MIKE
In that case, I call the pretty one.

KEVIN
Which ones the pretty one?

MIKE
Lets go!

They walk across the room to the ladies table, joining them in the middle of a conversation.

GINGER
Then I says to him, the problem with
herpes is there is no cure.

Mike clears his throat to get their attention.

MIKE
Hey ladies, mind if we take a seat?

GINGER
Sure thing sweets.

MIKE
You girls come here often?

The girls giggle at this

GINGER
You could say that.

Mike puts his hand on Kevin’s shoulder.

MIKE
This is Kevin, and my names Antonio.

Ginger points to her self.

GINGER
Ginger.

Pointing to her friend.

GINGER (CONT’D)
And Maryanne.

MIKE
How about we get you gir-ladies
another round. What’s your drink?

Mike points to Ginger and then Maryanne.

GINGER
I could go for another fuzzy ass-hole.

MARYANNE
Tequila sunrise.

MIKE
I’ll be back in a split. Keep it classy you three.

Mike walks to the bar, leaving Kevin alone. Both of them are staring at Kevin waiting for him to say something.

KEVIN
Ummm, so uh, you ladies like uh, baseball?

MARYANNE
Is that what they call it now a day’s?

Both Ginger and Maryanne think this is hilarious.

KEVIN
I have a girlfriend.

GINGER
Your secret's safe with us.

KEVIN
I don’t have a secret.

GINGER
What I meant ta say is, me and
Maryanne aren’t going to tell yer girl.

KEVIN
Tell her what?

GINGER
How should I say, the early morning festivities.

Kevin gulps. Ginger and Maryanne continue to find everything funny. Kevin closes his eyes and whispers a mantra to himself.

KEVIN
You can do this.

MARYANNE
What you say, hun?

KEVIN
Nothing, it’s nothing. W-Where’s Mike?

GINGER
Mike?

KEVIN
I-I mean Antonio.

GINGER
You know there’s a perfectly clean bathroom
in this place, the stall doors shut and everything.

Ginger forces her way onto Kevin’s lap.

KEVIN
(Shouts)
Mike!

Kevin turns to see Mike returning with a few drinks.

MIKE
I see you guys started without me.

Mike puts the drinks down, leans into Kevin’s ear and whispers.

MIKE (CONT’D)
What’s the big idea man, I called that one.

Kevin and Mike look over to Maryanne who picks up the tequila sunrise and slams the whole thing.

MIKE (CONT’D)
Never mind.

Mike takes a seat next to Maryanne putting his arm around her.

MIKE (CONT’D)
So what do you do?

Maryanne whispers in Mike’s ear. Mike giggles, and stands up

KEVIN
What’s going on?

MIKE
Have you ever heard the expression,
"it’s on like Donkey Kong?"

KEVIN
I think I ha-

MIKE
Gotta go.

Mike and Maryanne hand in hand walk into the girl’s bathroom. Kevin looks at the clock, 11:15. He wipes the sweat off his forehead.

KEVIN
So, uh, you wanna do something?

GINGER
What type of woman do you think I am,
you didn’t even buy me a drink first.

KEVIN
I’ll pay for that one.

GINGER
Go for the gold sailor.

Kevin and Ginger enter the girls bathroom.

CUT TO:

EXT. POOL HALL -MORNING

Kevin is pulling Mike out the door. Mike’s shirt is unbuttoned, and he is zipping up his pants. As they are making their way back to the car.

MIKE
What the fuck man, Steve Weibe would roll
over in his grave if he saw the way your acting.

KEVIN
This has nothing to do with Donkey Kong!
(beat)
Also, Steve Weibe isn’t dead.

MIKE
Come on man, those ladies were seasoned pros.

KEVIN
Yeah, a little to seasoned if you ask me.

MIKE
What’s that supposed to mean?
Maryanne’s a sweet girl.

KEVIN
Look, I just couldn’t do it,
we gotta find somewhere else fast.

MIKE
Where?

KEVIN
I don’t know.

MIKE
I’m all out of idea’s.

KEVIN
Lets just drive around and see
if there's anyone else to fuck.

EXT. STREET CORNER -MORNING

The pair are driving down the street.

MIKE
Sometimes I wish Jesus could
have died twice for our sins.

KEVIN
What are you saying, are you getting soft on me?

MIKE
No, I was just thinking that one crucifixion
couldn’t have bought an infinite amount
of sins. There has to be a limit.

KEVIN
Christ, are you done?

MIKE
My point is this, if brutally killing Jesus
buys us sins, if he ever comes back again,
I think it would be my duty to pelt
him to death with babies.

An attractive girl is walking down the street.

KEVIN
How much time do I have left?

MIKE
Twenty-five minutes.

KEVIN
Shit.

Kevin Jumps up through the sun roof, and points to the young woman walking down the street.

KEVIN (CONT’D)
Hey you! wanna fuck?

The girl looks around like he couldn’t possibly be talking to her, then she points to herself to make sure.

KEVIN (CONT’D)
Yeah, you.
(Beat)
No, well okay. Have a nice day.
He drops back into the cabin.

Fuck, Just go back to Vicky’s, I have a plan.

INT. VICKY’S LIVING ROOM -DAY

MIKE
Alright, we’ve got fifteen minutes left, what’s the big plan?

KEVIN
Mike, I vowed I would never masturbate.

MIKE
Yeah.

KEVIN
And getting jerked off isn’t masturbating is it?

MIKE
No, I guess not.

KEVIN
There are some dish washing gloves in the kitchen.

The realization of Kevin’s implications suddenly hits Mike at light speed.

MIKE
Oh, fuck!

Mike goes for the door, but Kevin gets in his way.

KEVIN
Come on Mike, you're my best friend.
I wouldn’t ask for this if it weren’t life or death.

MIKE
I just can’t do it.

KEVIN
Remember that time, when you were sick,
and I brought you chicken noodle soup
because no one else would?

MIKE
This is different man.

KEVIN
Remember the time, that girl kicked you in
the nuts, and I drove you to the hospital
because you thought you were dying?

MIKE
It’s just not the same thing.

KEVIN
Remember the time, when your girlfriend
dumped you, and I helped you T-P her house?

MIKE
Alright. You win.

KEVIN
I’ll get the gloves.

MIKE
Fuck!

KEVIN
I don’t like this anymore than you do.

Mike almost in tears.

MIKE
Where are we going to do the deed?

KEVIN
I was thinking, the bathtub.

CUT TO:

INT. VICKY’S APARTMENT -DAY

Camera enters the apartment, then makes it’s way to an open door leading into the bathroom. Strange noises coming from the bathroom, stop the camera from wanting to enter. Mostly whimpering, and the sound of lubricated rubber gloves going to work.

The camera finally walks in. Mike is leaning into the bath tub wearing a rubber glove, apron, hard-hat, and swimming goggles. In his other hand is a bottle of hand lotion.

Mike has his eyes closed, his jaw clenched, and tears running down his cheeks.

Kevin is apparently naked in the tub, but it’s hard to tell with the shower curtain in the way.

Kevin, through tears:

KEVIN
J-just a little faster.

MIKE
Is that better?

KEVIN
Awwwww...yes.

After a moment of this, the camera turns around to a shot of Vicky in the doorway holding a pie with words written in whip cream on the top of it, “Just Kidding”

The pie drops to the ground.

Splat!

Vicky runs away.

A Simpler Time

2009-03-07T03:07:00.004-07:00

There's sort of two stories in one on this post today. Today, a short story of mine called "So Many Nights Ago" was published over at Six Sentences. (You can read that here.)

If you're new here, welcome. Be sure to take a while to look around and read what there is to offer. Everything should be pretty easy to find with the navigation on the side.

And the only thing I'm going to say about this next piece is that kids should play outside more, like I did when I was a kid.

We spent two weeks gathering supplies to build our raft. After our parents would go to sleep, we would sneak into the garbage and withdraw empty milk-jugs and two-liter soda bottles and store them in our secret stash behind a bright blue tarp, our makeshift fort, strung up between fence poles into a sort of lean-to in the backyard. When a stiff wind would come in from the valley, it would blow up and down in the air and make thick, thunderous sounds that scared the neighbor’s children in the middle of the night, but we didn’t care, we were teenagers now.

Once we’d collected an entire garbage bag full of plastic bottles and jugs, we set out to the dollar store with our saved up pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters to purchase six-dollars worth of duct tape and various odds and ends, lengths of rope and the like. Then we raced back home on our bicycles and got to work.

The body of the raft would be an old, hollow door that my dad had put on the side-yard during our last remodeling effort and hadn’t yet had time to take to the city dump. It was deep chestnut in color with a wood grain printed on what seemed to be Formica or balsa-wood, though we couldn’t tell the difference, either way it was perfect for our vessel. We went to task taping all of the bottles shut, airtight, and arranged them on the bottom of the door, taping them in long, neat rows like corn in a field. Then we added another row of bottles and jugs beneath that, leaving us with a solid eight to twelve inches of flotation device below the wooden door.

“Do you really think this’ll float?” Jared asked me, as though somehow I was the ringleader, even though it was his idea all those many days ago.

“Of course it will. I mean, there’s air in the bottles. The bottles float. The door’s made of wood, right? And the duct tape is waterproof. How else are we supposed to make a raft?” Perhaps I adopted his plan with more zeal than he had proposed it with, and in retrospect, my rhetorical question was preposterous. We could have gone up the hill and lashed a dozen dead trees together and sailed along that way, though it would have been much more cumbersome to get to the water and it seemed a bit too old-fashioned. For a pair of modern teenagers, this seemed like the best plan.

We fancied ourselves as a contemporary Tom and Huck, with all the latest materials for a better sailing raft. It was too bad that our Mississippi River was nothing more than a drainage canal running from one end of our town to another through residential neighborhoods, fenced off from each yard so small children and animals wouldn’t drown. The water was as calm and still as a napping cat on a lazy Sunday afternoon and, at it’s deepest, was no more than four feet deep and eight feet wide. It was as brown like mud, so it was like the Mississippi in one way at least. But every time we passed it on our way home from school, we could hear it calling for us.

It doesn’t matter how small a creek or mighty a river (or dingy a canal), it calls to young boys like the sea calls sailors. It beckons them with thoughts of adventure and youth. And the more the season pressed into the heat of summer, the more alluring the siren’s call of the canal became.

It was two blocks to the canal from my house, three from Jared’s, and we decided that once our craft was done, we’d get up before dawn and carry it to the mouth of the waterway when no one would see or stop us. And so, the next morning we arose early and got prepared for our voyage. Hoping we might find fish, we prepared in the early morning for fishing, stealing items from my father’s tackle box: bobs and weights, tackle and bait, plenty of fishing line, etc. We couldn’t carry fishing poles so we decided that we’d make our own rods on the “river” out of sticks.

The morning was cool, which was an early respite from the mid-day blaze of summer. Jared woke me with a tap at my bedroom window that morning and after we’d stuffed our packs with supplies in provisions, we crept out the back door and tip-toed through the grass to our tarp fort which did its best to obscure our raft from the sight of the front yard or my parent’s window.

Jared hefted the front end of the raft and I carried the rear and we walked slowly, as silently as possible, to the edge of the backyard. Getting it through the gate was tricky, but we’d practiced opening the gate as quietly as possible in the last couple of days as we plotted our egress. It didn’t work out too well, so Jared brought a can of WD-40 over to my house the previous day and we worked it into the latch until the only sound that could be made was the sharp TING of the hasp clanging against the metal fence pole. To our great delight Jared was able to manage the gate superbly and, after some angling of our raft, we were able to break it free from the backyard and we were on our way.

The black night soon became gray morning and the birds began their early songs as we marched with singular purpose through the neighborhood, down one block and up another. The water in the canal reflected the dim light of the morrow over the surface of the lazily flowing current. Between the poor light and the clouds of dirt, the bottom was completely obscured except for patches of green that were most likely moss of some type.

We walked around the fence, replete with a “No Trespassing” sign, and we set the raft down on the grassy bank, pulled the packs from our backs and set about getting ready for our journey. Jared toiled through the brush, looking for sticks suitable for fishing with, “Do you really think there’re fish in there?”

“Most likely,” I said, knowing I had no information to base that statement on, one way or the other.

“Oh,” he replied, continuing his hunt.

I tied the length of rope around what was going to be the bow of the ship as though it were the reins of a horse, fully realizing that we had nothing to steer with. At least this way, I thought, we might be able to pull the raft one way or the other in a tight spot.

“Ah-ha,” Jared exclaimed as he found a suitable branch for a pair of fishing rods that he broke in half over his knee. He handed me the shorter half and we went to work fashioning our rods. We tied fishing line to the top of the stick, attached floats, hooks and bait. We then carefully wound the line around the stick and put the rods on the top of our raft.

“This is the moment of truth,” I said, trying to offer gravitas to the occasion.

“Mm-hmm,” Jared replied.

We both stood over the raft, neither wanting to make the first move, both terrified that this would still be a total disaster.

It felt like a standoff and I caved first. “Let’s just get it in there and see what happens,” I said as I grabbed the stern of the boat and pulled it to the edge of the canal. “Grab the line,” I told Jared.

Now that I was the one giving orders, it seemed as though I was the captain.

Slowly, we pushed the raft into the water, cringing. It did indeed float, though it didn’t displace much water at all.

As I stood, Jared and I high-fived for our first major victory in our voyage down the canal. I looked at it, floating in the water; the stern was trying it’s hardest to become the bow in the current and for the first time the sudden worry that it wouldn’t both hold our weight and float struck me.

“Okay, hold it steady,” I ordered Jared. I liked being the captain.

He dug his heels in the dirt and wound the rope around his palms a couple of more times, bracing himself as though he were belaying me down a cliff. With great trepidation, I took one step out onto the raft, paying careful attention to the distribution of my weight. Slowly, I shifted my weight from my foot on the shore to my foot on the raft, praying that it would bear my weight. I could feel it sink beneath my frame, displacing more water until it seemed to remain buoyant with all the weight I was bearing down on it. I could feel my cheeks pull tight from the preposterous grin on my face. “I think this is going to work…”

Confidently, I wobbled my way onto the raft with my other foot and immediately sat down, for fear of losing my balance or tipping the craft.

Sitting in place, I threw my weight around from side to side in an effort to face the raft forward to little avail. It was obvious that it would head in whichever direction it felt like. By now, with my added weight to the vessel, Jared was actually having quite the time keeping it in place.

“You’re going to have to hurry, I’m going to float away as soon as you let go.”

“Okay,” Jared said, “on the count of three…

“One…

“Two...”

Cringing, I closed my eyes, waiting the inevitable impact.

“Three!”

I felt the shockwave of Jared’s landing and opened my eyes as I felt water creep up around the edges of the door-raft. Water was seeping at the edges. With our combined weight on the raft, the top of the door was just about level with the water.

If the broad smile across Jared’s face was any reflection of my elation, then you can imagine how impressed we both were with each other.

So what if it we’d be soaking wet all day? We had the sun to our heads, nothing but time ahead and a long lazy Saturday on river to look forward to.

The current moved at a snails pace.

We could have easily walked the length of the canal in one-sixteenth the time it took us to float down, trying our luck at catching the fish we were pretty sure didn’t exist.

We passed all manner of discarded trash in the canal including an old-rusted tricycle, half out of the water and covered in algae. For some reason it made me sad, though after all these years, I don’t remember why.

I don’t recall ever reaching the end of the canal, nor do I recall catching a fish. What I do remember was enjoying that simple time on the water floating on a homemade raft with a good friend at my side, a homemade fishing rod in my hand and not a care in the world.

Always and Never

2009-03-01T02:19:00.004-07:00

Here's some more verse. Damn Anna for somehow provoking this flood of poetry.

I'll have a short story proper in the next few days and I think we'll see another guest story from Jason before the end of the month, so visit back often.

I cried myself to sleep.
Tears of joy, tears of sorrow.
Bitter, yet sweet and wonderful.
Being with her, close to her, brings joy;
away and apart the bitter.

Conflicting emotion is overwhelming,
floating on air, elated,
but also weighted down with reality.
It's wonderful and maddening all at once.

The most beautiful thing in the world:
to have your heart lift inside your chest,
even if it's breaking all at the same time.

I love it and hate it. I love her,
and she'll be mine...

...always...
...and never...

A Valentines Poem

2009-02-16T21:41:00.008-07:00

This isn't very long or anything, but it struck me suddenly while at the cinema, waiting in line to buy tickets.

I apologize again, as I'm not actually a poet.

When once the wonders of my heart
unlocks its forlorn mind to thee,
Perchance a star-cross'd love may start
and the need inside my soul
--------------may finally come to me...

The Girl With Green Eyes

2009-02-06T02:17:00.001-07:00

I watched my pen etch crooked black letters across the page of my moleskin, making notes about dreams I had and stories I wanted to write. Often when I jot notes in my notebook, they’re in the first person, reminding myself about wisps of stories or moments I want to stuff in a book somewhere if I ever get the wherewithal to write another. When I want to clear my head enough to write like that, I hunker down in the back of one of half a dozen different coffee houses littered through out my normal routes.

For some reason, sitting anonymously in the back corner of a room dripping with the scent of fresh coffee is always the sort of pick me up I need when I’m struggling with new ideas.

The anonymous solitude is always welcome, but there is always the risk of being recognized.

Indeed, it can get annoying when some acquaintance or another who wants to catch up or opine about politics or chat about films recognizes you, but it comes with the territory. It’s worse when you can’t remember their name.

But there I sat, watching my fist work across the paper, leaving behind a trail of my consciousness, pausing every moment or two to look around the room to refuel my head. Once I’d finish my idle gazing about the room, I would restart, with a new line, a new sentence, a new thought.

A man is sitting on the other side of the coffee shop, I find myself writing, with bright and brand new blue jeans, and a flannel shirt that still has the creases from it’s original folding. His gold watch, hip-holstered phone and overly complicated drink, paid for with a wad of cash clipped neatly in his front pocket, give him away as someone not accustomed to dressing down. He’s probably less accustomed to sitting down and enjoying his… well, when it takes two sentences to order, is it still coffee?

I looked up again, hoping for more inspiration but was met with the most vibrant pair of green eyes I’d ever seen. They were like a pair of translucent jade emeralds with a bright, beautiful light shining through them, rimmed around the edges with a dark, crisp pine green. They belonged to a girl at the counter, waiting politely to order her coffee.

Affected, I looked back down to my writing and described her eyes in my book and bobbed back up for another look.

Had I seen those eyes before?

I flipped through the catalogues in my brain, knowing that I’d described eyes such as these exactly in something. Not just once, but a tired cliché. They were eyes I’d inserted sentimentally into a dozen stories, maybe more. Into screenplays and novels. Into any story that played out in my head, they all seemed to have a character with those eyes.

Mesmerized, I couldn’t disguise the fact that I was staring. When her eyes met mine, I looked back down to my pad.

But I couldn’t write anything. I was a like a deer in her headlights.

I thought back to the start of my fascination with green eyes, hoping that that train of thought would offer me some clue. I began to write again: I must have been about 17, she was a year behind me in school, and so she was probably 16. I was a junior in high school and thought I was hot shit on the debate team. I was on the varsity team and she was on the JV squad, but we spent a lot of time together (mostly in groups) doing research and hanging out at tournaments. Her name was Alicia and her eyes were exactly like the ones I described above. I had quite a crush on her but knew so little about the dating habits of creatures my age that I had blown any chance of dating her. To be honest, I hadn’t paid much thought about anything about her but stealing the description of her eyes for my own selfish gain in almost 15 years…

Like a bird bobbing up from a water fountain, my head came back up to take the sight in once more. This time she was sitting at a table right across the way, facing me. Taking the occasional slow sip of her hot coffee, she would stop long enough to draw in her oversized sketch-pad with a charcoal pencil.

The window behind me brought the late afternoon light into the room and cast a hard line against her and, as she looked up and took a sip of her coffee, it hit her eyes the same way I remember had once hit Alicia’s and that image had never left me.

No, it couldn’t be her.

When I knew Alicia, she was attractive, but this girl is… If it was her, the Alicia of my youth would have been a caterpillar, and this would be her as a butterfly. But the only thing that seems the same about her are the eyes… And it’s been so long that hearing her voice or laugh wouldn’t help… God I hate talking to people…

And without warning I found myself clearing my throat and asking from across the tables, “Ummm… Did you, uh, did you go to high school at Timpanogos?”

Her eyes—the eyes—lock with mine and she realizes I’m talking to her. “What?” she asks.

“Did you happen to go to Timpanogos High School?” I repeat with at least a little more confidence.

“Yeah…”

“And your older sister was Amy, and you were both on the debate team?”

“Who are you again?” My God, it was her.

“No one I suppose, I guess I’m pretty forgettable. Tim Jacobs…? I was a year ahead of you. I was in debate. I did policy with Dave Clarke? Ringing any bells?” Instead of giving her a chance to process things, I went on further, putting my foot in my mouth, “I had a huge crush on you, but I think I annoyed you. I think I annoyed your sister, too, but I think that's because she was a year ahead of me and I was an idiot.”

She laughed. “I totally remember you. We’d have to debate each other in class all the time.”

“That’s me.”

“I totally had a crush on you back then.”

“You did?” I couldn’t believe it.

“Yeah, but I didn’t say anything because you were a junior and I was a sophomore and what junior wanted to date a sophomore?”

“I was a total nerd. I wasn’t bent out of shape about the classes of girls I was interested in…”

“Do you mind if I come over there?” she asked.

“No, not at all.”

She stood, though I couldn’t describe her body, I was transfixed on her eyes. I had a sickness.

“How did you recognize me? I can’t remember the last time anyone from high school picked me out like that.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s been so long and I wasn’t exactly grabbing a lot of attention in high school.”

“It was your eyes.”

“The eyes?”

“I’d recognize those eyes today, tomorrow or a hundred years from now. This is going to sound silly, but I think you're the only girl I've ever been interested in in my entire life whose eye color I can still vividly remember.”

She cracked a smile and looked down, so I lost her eyes.

“That’s funny. I’ve always sort of hated my eye color. I’ve never thought it noteworthy.”

“Noteworthy? Are you serious? Do you remember how we’d have to go to the library at the college all the time to do research for files?”

She nodded her head and pushed a lock of dark hair back behind her ears.

“Well,” I continued, “there was this one time where you and I were waiting for a ride on the north side of campus. I can’t be positive, but I’m pretty sure it was in the lobby of that museum close to the library and there was a bench there that faced out the window to the parking lot. It was an oddly romantic view, with the parking lot and a sea of cars off into the horizon and the mountains sprouting up above it and the afternoon sun bouncing off the sea of cars and shining into our faces. And there we sat, side-by-side. What we were talking about I don’t recall and if you don’t either then it couldn’t have been too important. But I looked up at you, and the light hit your eyes a lot like it’s doing now and I looked right into them and it burned that image into my memory forever. That moment was the closest I’d come to telling a girl my feelings for her to that point in my life. This is probably the first time I’ve ever told anyone about that one indelible moment and, until now, I didn’t realize how meaningful a moment it was.”

She blushed and lowered her head. “That’s probably the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Well, maybe one of us should have said something way back then.”

Smirking, she says, “I’m the girl, I don’t do that sort of thing.”

“Well, maybe I should have had a spine back then.”

“My most vivid memory of you isn’t as romantic as yours of me, but I think it’s a good one. Do you remember my debate partner, Eric?”

“Was that the kid with the glasses and the completely monotone voice?”

“Yeah.”

“I think he worshipped the ground Dave and I walked on…”

“He probably did, but before tournaments he would always totally berate me and yell about stupid stuff and it would just make me sick. He was probably the only reason I hated debate. Well, there was a tournament, it was at Jordan High, and I was on the stairs crying because he was a bastard. Well, you happened upon me and did your best to console me, and after I calmed down you, and I don’t remember why, kept offering me Doritos…”

“Doritos?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow, that sounds so not like me now.”

“It was sweet. It meant a lot to me. That might have had a lot to do with the crush I had on you.”

“You know, I really wish I would have known about that.”

“That would have been nice.”

“So,” I asked trying to steal a glance at her left hand, hoping to not see a wedding ring, “what do you do these days?”

“I’m a nurse.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“It’s not, usually, but I like the feeling of taking care of people. It’s pretty stressful, though.”

She grabbed her coffee cup with her left hand and offered me a clear view of her unadorned ring finger. Not that the absence of a ring always meant good news, but it was a start. “Is that why you come here and draw? To unwind?”

“Sometimes. What about you, what do you do?”

“Me? Oh, this and that. I pretend to be a writer.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“It can be.”

As she laughed, the alarm on my phone howled. It was sitting on the table next to my notebook and the word “meeting” flashed on and off until I sheepishly silenced it.

In a way that seemed almost sad to me, she said, “It looks like you’ve got to get going…”

“Yeah. I don’t want to, but…”

“It’s okay. I’ll give you my number…” And with that, she turned my notebook around to face her, causing me to panic, hoping she wouldn’t see everything on the front page referring to her.

I let out a sigh of relief when she turned the page, uncapped my pen and wrote her name, email address and cell phone number slanted across three lines. Next to it, she drew a small, rough caricature of me behind a debate podium. “I feel like I’m signing a yearbook. Didn’t I put my number in yours?”

“I didn’t get a yearbook.”

Handing me back my notebook and popping the lid back on my pen, “Oh. Well, you can explain it to me next time we see each other.”

“Are you asking me out?”

“No. I’m involved.”

“Involved enough to give old crushes your phone number?”

“It’s…complex.”

“Well, I’d love to hear all about it,” I said as I stood, packing my belongings into my bag.

As soon as I slung it over my shoulder, I looked down at her and said, “Boy, am I sure glad I ran into you.”

And with those bright, beautiful green eyes glinting once more in the sun, she looked back up at me and said, “I am, too.”

The Rogue's Poem

2009-01-20T22:40:00.003-07:00

This is a poem I wrote for a character in a screenplay.

I'm no poet.

A rogue as I deserves not
beauty and perfection as she.
Virtue and titles and monies
mean nothing to those as we.
All I've wanted I've fought for,
all I've needed I've swindled,
all I've loved is you.
The love of one Julia is all I ask,
the love of one Julia is all I live for,
and to glance upon her beauty
forevermore...

The Shadow of Dream

2009-01-09T00:01:00.001-07:00

She awoke at about five in the morning to the incoherent shouts of her husband and a firm fist in the face. “Jimmy?” she asked, panicked, stinging still from the blow he landed.

“But… Who… And…” Jimmy was shouting nonsense and flailing his arms about, his face contorted in anger. “It was just… Wha…?”

“Jimmy? Are you okay?” She asked again, shaking him hopes of rousing him from his deeply troubled sleep.

And as though it never happened, his confusing tirade turned to gentle snoring. Unfortunately for Shannon, though, she couldn’t get back to sleep. Her face was hot where the bottom of his fist made contact with her eye and the adrenaline rush of having been aroused from her slumber in that way made it impossible to continue resting. Leaving Jimmy to rest, she got out of bed and wrapped her terry robe around her slender frame and left the bedroom.

Soon enough she found herself in the kitchen, brewing coffee and frying eggs in a skillet. When they were done, she transferred them to a plate and laid them on the table to cool while she got the morning paper.

It was halfway through eating her eggs and toast and reading the opinions section of the news that Jimmy came into the room, bleary eyed and said, “Good morning,” as though nothing had happened.

“Good morning. You okay?”

Pouring himself a cup of coffee, “Sure. Why?”

“Bad dreams…?”

“How’d you know?”

She turned her face to show him the light blue spot on her eye where he’d accidentally bashed her. “You were getting a little violent.”

“Jesus,” he said as he sat down, sipping his steaming coffee, “I did that?”

“Yeah… You were shouting, too, but it was all nonsense.”

He’d chosen a spot across from her and the cracks of golden morning light spilled through the blinds and streaked across the table and up his chest.

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Actually, as it’s coming back to me it was downright horrible.”

“You seemed in a kind of agony.”

“It started out simple enough. We were on a cruise of some type, in the middle of the ocean, which, for some reason that escapes me, was emerald green. I don’t recall seeing you, so much as just knowing you were there, with the kids. Jake and Elizabeth were both there. But we were stranded. The boat couldn’t go anywhere. We had power and provisions, but the boat was anchored. We had no idea how long it would take before we would be getting rescued, only that we were out there indefinitely. Things got weird, but in a civilized sort of way and you had set up some kind of day care in one of the ships holds and there was one kid there that had… I don’t know… some type of communicable disease. It may have been bronchitis, but from the reaction it got, it may as well have been the plague. The kid’s name was Isaac. Not Judy’s Isaac, just an Isaac. He was eight years old.”

Jimmy stopped for a moment to take another sip of coffee. Somberly, he looked out the window, toward the morning light.

“Well, for some reason, him having this sickness bent these two guys completely out of shape. I don’t remember their names or their faces, but they were the sort of guys I just don’t like to be around. They talked with that brash arrogance that kids in high school sports programs seem to. At least the ones I went to school with, they’d drop t’s from words like mountain and g’s from anything that ended in i-n-g. One of them maybe had a black goatee and the other was balding, that’s all I remember about their look. But they were completely incensed about the sickness Isaac carried. There was another part to the dream, I don’t exactly remember what happened, but where things picked up, the two guys so worried about Isaac had decided to kill him.”

Shannon looked on, terrified and rapt at attention.

With a deepening solemnity, Jimmy continued, “I started running through the corridors of the ship, shouting out for Isaac, wanting to protect him. But then I thought he might think I was trying to kill him, too. And I knew that he spent a lot of time hanging around Jake, so I started calling his name out, so as not to draw so much attention. I thought it those guys who wanted to kill him heard me shouting for him, they’d know what I was up to and would find him sooner than I would. It felt like I was running in a corridor without end, passing the same three portholes over and over and over again until finally I was out of breath and found myself in the ships hold that had been turned into a daycare. I found Jake and Elizabeth, but I couldn’t find Isaac. Anxiety washed over me, just like in the worst nightmares.”

He was holding back tears, his voice quivering now and again as he spoke.

“I finally found him, in a closet and they’d cut his head off. I don’t know how they did it, but then I started running after them. I spent what seemed like less time running through the corridors, shouting for them and calling them out. I seemed to know their names in the dream.”

“What happened then?”

“I found them. They were talking to a group of kids, punk rockers it looked like. Dread filled me again when I thought they might have talked these punk rockers into killing me to protect them. But they backed up and, with tears in my eyes, I shouted, ‘They fucking cut an eight-year-olds head off!’ and they started back pedaling. ‘It was for the good of the ship,’ one of them said. ‘He would have killed us all, we had to do it,’ the other one said. They kept walking backwards, holding their hands up like they were innocent. The punks all looked at each other, and then they looked at me. I screamed and the whole group of punks helped me jump them. I just remember punching and kicking, crying the whole time because I kept thinking about that poor little boy with his head off.”

“That must have been when you woke me up.”

A single tear dripped out of each of his eyes and he looked away. “I woke up trying to find Jake to just hold him… I just couldn’t find him and I started to think it was his head they cut off...”

She stood up, came across the table and pulled his head into her chest and held him. “Sssshhhh. It’s okay, baby. Everything’s okay.”

“I know. I know.” But he still kept crying.

The Job

2009-01-05T00:12:00.002-07:00

Here's a short film I was writing for a friend and his step-dad as some type of acting exercise but never finished. It would have been good. I found the beginning I wrote for it, but decided to rewrite it for the ol' short story blog.

I hope it doesn't suck too bad.

(Also, expect another short story proper in the next week or two...)

And lease bear with me on the format, blogger still just doesn't like any semblance of screenplay format.

I/E. CAR - CITY STREETS - DAY

SHADE drives through town, headed to a specific destination. He’s talking on his cellphone, presumably to his mother.

SHADE
...it was just great, I still can’t believe it.
(beat)
Yeah. That’s what I thought, too.
But when he just sort of hit
me with it, he said, this is
what he said, he says, “Son...”

He’s interrupted...

SHADE (CONT’D)
Yeah, totally. He called me “son.”
Can you believe that? Anyways, he says, he
says, uh, “Son, there is no one I would
rather have on the ground in Madrid.”
And then he grabs me, like, by the
shoulder, and he shakes my hand and
says, “In all my years of management,
I have never felt a boy your age was
ready for a position like this until you came along.”
(beat)
Yeah. Then he started going on
about how unprecedented this
was and how happy he was with me.
(beat)
Oh, totally.
(beat)
I know. I mean, I’ve never even
been outside the state, so yeah,
Madrid is certainly going to be a change of pace.

Shade maneuvers his car around a turn and pulls into the parking lot of a mid-sized hotel.

SHADE (CONT’D)
No, I didn’t call him. I kinda
wanted to surprise him.
(beat)
No. I’m at the hotel now.
(beat)
I know. He’s going to be doing flips.
(beat)
Sure. Okay. I love you, too, mom.
(beat)
Yeah, I’ll call and tell you what he says.

Shade hangs up the phone and puts it in his pocket.

Proudly, he exits the car, a new man.

EXT. HOTEL PARKING LOT - CONTINUOUS

Shade crosses the distance between his car and the office.

INT. HOTEL OFFICE - CONTINUOUS

A CLERK stands behind the front desk, watching TV. Apparently business is a little slow this time of day.

Shade comes in and asks:

SHADE
Hey man, is my dad around?

CLERK
I haven’t seen him around in, like... A half an hour?
(beat)
Hold on, let me check it out for you.

The Clerk gets on the phone and turns away from Shade, who is beaming.

CLERK (CONT’D)
(into phone)
Hey, you guys see the manager
down in housekeeping at all?
(beat)
Yeah?
(beat)
Where at?
(beat)
One-twelve? Okay, thanks.

He hangs up the phone and turns back to Shade.

CLERK (CONT’D)
I guess he’s re-training a maid or something.
They said he’s down in one-twelve.

SHADE
Hey, thanks alot, man.

Shade leaves, heading for room 112.

EXT. ROOM 112 - MOMENTS LATER

Shade knocks on the door as a token gesture as he walks right in...

...to see his dad, BOYD, the manager, scrambling to get his pants on while the maid, naked, dives for the bathroom door, locking it behind her.

Shade, in an instant, goes from prideful joy to defeated shock...

SHADE
Dad...?

Boyd gets his pants buckled and under control. He’s wearing slacks, a knit t-shirt and a suit jacket.

Now that he’s dressed, he can address the problem.

He approaches Shade with his hands up slightly, trying to calm Shade as one would talk to an animal.

BOYD
Now listen, son. This isn’t what it looks like?

SHADE
(backing up)
It’s not?

BOYD
No. It’s not what it looks like at all.

SHADE
Then what the hell is it, Dad?

BOYD
It’s... It’s nothing.

SHADE
Nothing?

BOYD
We were... It was...
(beat)
...It’s not that big of a deal.

SHADE
Not that big of a deal?

BOYD
Exactly. Now you’re talking
some sense. It’s not that big of a deal at all.

Shade pulls back further, searching for something to say.

SHADE
This... This just isn’t right...
BOYD
What is right, son? This is as
natural a thing as anything else...

SHADE
But mom...

BOYD
You’ll understand one day, when you
wake up every morning next to a person
you don’t even know anymore. And you
look into their eyes and there’s
nothing left. None of that joy...
It’s all just... Gone.

SHADE
So you fuck the help?

BOYD
It’s not as coarse as all that.

SHADE
Jesus fucking Christ.

BOYD
You’ll understand someday.
You’re just going to have to trust me.

SHADE
(disgusted)
Trust you?

BOYD
I’m still your father, goddamnit.

SHADE
You’re still her husband.

BOYD
I suppose that’s fair.

SHADE
Get fucked. I can't believe you.
I came all the way down
here to tell you I got the job.
(beat)
Now I just...

Shade has trouble finding words. He’s close to tears.

BOYD
Hey, it’s okay...

SHADE
(crying)
Fuck you!

And with that, Shade leaves his father, turning and leaving the room.

Boyd hangs his head. Shamed.

The toilet flushes from the bathroom and the other woman comes out, dressed now.

BOYD
I... I suppose you heard all that.

She nods.

Boyd crashes into a sitting position on the bed, his head buried in his hands.

She places a consoling hand on his back...

The sounds of him crying fade to nothing with the picture.