Planetscape

I call it "Listen Buster!"

Listen Buster is now a t-shirt. Find it here

Johnny stepped off the plane and breathed that sweet Burbank smog. He took a big whiff, just filling his nostrils. A loud, long exhale, poooooooof. “Finally back home,” as he shuffled along with his rolling suitcase. He’d been chatting with some woman in a plane about some such nonsense. His job or something. Making bullshit speak just to pass the time, and make a pass at her. She was this real leggy blonde, a beaut from San Francisco catching a connecting flight in Chicago. She wasn’t lipstick lovely, more of a ponytail pretty, soft eyes and small lips. She wrote in a journal, which had immediately aroused his curiosity.

“You’re a writer?”

“Ha. Never. I like to read though. You?”

“Well. No. I mean, I write sometimes. Poems, back when I was in school I guess.”

“Yea. I like poems, they really make you think. Little puzzles. Poem puzzles!” And she thought this was hilarious. Well, hilarious would have been an overstatement. “Why do you ask?”

“I just saw you writing there and it made me wonder. I’m observant I guess.”

She sat back in her chair and shut her book. “You’re not reading over my shoulder are you?” It was hard to judge whether her eyes were serious.

“I- no.. No never. How could you accuse me of such a thing?” Johnny looked her in the eyes and ran his fingers through his hair until he got to the top of his dome where he scratched his head with his finger tips. A stewardess came by and dropped off a drink. She had reddish brown hair, and blue eyes.

“Here’s your coke.” She smiled at him and handed Johnny’s neighbor a plastic cup filled with ice water. Johnny nodded to the stewardess and snapped the top of his coke can.

“It’s my journal. I’ve kept one since I was five. This is my 37th journal.” She placed her hand on the cover and tapped her fingers over the leather. “I write about things I see, or put newspaper clippings in. Some times I just put pictures in there. And I travel a lot too, so that helps.”

“I don’t like to fly. It’s one of those uncomfortable necessities of life.” Johnny scrunched his toes together inside his shoes. “You can’t just get up and walk around. Going to the restroom doesn’t even feel right. Plus, what if this thing goes down? I’ll just suck down oxygen with the rest of these people until we crash.”

“You’re a real optimist. I bet you are fascinating at parties.” She smiled at this and Johnny snickered.

“Sure. I wouldn’t know. I’m often too busy being the drunken asshole in the corner.” He tried this out on her and waited for a response.

Her eyes widened and she sank back into her chair, but the change of expression lasted not even a second. “You sound like my husband.” Johnny cringed and hoped she didn’t see it. “He was one of those guys, a lot like you I’m sure. A real dickhead at parties. The kind of guy that downs a twelve pack, jumps in the pool, flirts with every woman he sees and drinks another twelve pack. When I first met him I thought he was disgusting.”

Johnny cracked one finger, and grinned. He shifted his gaze out the window and watched the landscape below. “The thing I hate most about a plane is the sound. You hear those engines, that high pitched whine of theirs. I wonder how people do flights to China from here, or any other country for that matter. 16 hour flights with that as my white noise?”
“Yea, but then you figure that it becomes white noise after a while. If you’re tired enough, you’ll sleep through an avalanche.” She glanced into the aisle and sipped at her water.


One night, Johnny lay awake in an apartment he rented with a not-friend, sleeping with a curvy woman pressed against him. He ran his fingers through her orange blonde hair and rubbed her head.

Outside a motor revved, tires screeched and seven shots were fired. They left a loud lingering warped echo. Another seven shots, more tires screeching. Sirens far off, and people screaming. It sounded like it was happening just outside of Johnny’s window.
He nudged his leg with his toe and cleared his throat. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep, but the tires kept him awake.

Jagged Storytelling

For a long time he just sat there listening to her breathe and watching her chest and stomach expand and contract with her rhythm. He looked at her wrist, at her medical bracelet, at the bruises and thought briefly about putting his hand on hers. When he reached his fingers out into the sterile air he withdrew with a sharp inhale. She jumped to his surprise.

“You.” There was strain in her voice, it made her sound soft and broken. Her vocal chords jittered her words into the room, the sound a pitiful weeping that resonated in Johnny’s ears only barely. He strained to hear her and turned to face her after a moment.

“Belinda, wait. I don’t want you to think--” There really wasn’t anything to follow that up with, they were only floating words. In that moment Johnny couldn’t even really figure out what he had been doing there. That whole morning had made zero sense.

“You. You pulled me out?” He furled his hands over his knees, the polyester not really soaking up the sweat from his clammy hands. Johnny sat back in his chair and threw his glance to the ceiling. Listlessly Doctors were being paged and nurses power walked in and out of various bedrooms lining the long hallway near the nurse’s station.

“I did. There were others, another man shattered the window, started to put a whole in it, I just finished his handy work.”

“I saw you Johnny. In that moment when I hit the ground, everything was so loud, the grinding metal and there was glass everywhere, but I saw you…”

“Yea. I saw you too. Only I didn’t know it was really you until I got to your car. Until after I had taken the picture… After I had laid you out on the sidewalk actually.”

“I was so scared. I had no idea why you were pulling me out. I kept asking you what you were doing. When you didn’t hear me and started talking over me, I just lost my patience with you. Those people out there, did they know who you were? Did you tell them?”

“Why should I care what they think?”

“How did I look?”

“Scared.” They looked at each other for what seemed like hours. She licked her lips and broke their stare. “Should I not have grabbed you?”

“It’s not that. It’s just, why you?” She clenched her hands as much as she could and held weakly to the blanket over her body.

“Right place right time?” He smiled and tried to snicker, but she didn’t find him funny. “Fate? Small city? I mean Jesus, I was on my way to work.” He folded his hands over themselves and rubbed his left thumb over the skin of his right thumb.

“I’m thankful. I really am. I need you to leave though.”

Johnny stood up. “Belinda I’m sorry.”

“I just need you to go. Thank you Johnny, but your work is done now. I’ll be fine and so will you. Good bye.” Johnny stood at the front of her bed for a long time staring at her. He wanted her eyes, wanted her to look him in his own and repeat her request. His body, wide and tall, challenged her, but she did not respond.


When Johnny was a kid, he used to have a film camera. It started with a disposable. He was in a drugstore and they had these tiny disposables sitting on a rack for $1.85 a piece. Johnny pleaded with his mother until she caved and bought him one. Of course it had no features to speak of and the flash was barely workable, but Johnny took every picture that camera had to offer by dinner time that day. The strangest thing to his mother was the fact that he never shot people. Johnny’s father knew thing zero about photography but if his son wanted to learn it, damn it he’d buy a book and give it a shot too.

Sometimes on weekends Johnny’s father would take him on trips to the mountains, or around the city. This was when the subway hadn’t really been finalized yet and the city ran on bus lines and taxi cabs. Johnny’s dad bought a 35mm camera and made a deal with Johnny. For every A on every test, his father would buy him a canister of film and help Johnny take the photos he loved shooting.

Johnny shot old, obese ladies wading in Malibu waters; he shot kids building sand castles on Manhattan beach banks; he shot the tall buildings that made up Hollywood Boulevard; he shot the street performers balancing plates on their noses and palms on the pier of Santa Monica; he shot the San Fernando Valley from a noon vigil atop a view point in Topanga Canyon… Through the lens of a camera Johnny learned to love the city of Los Angeles.

When Johnny hit high school, he already had a significant portfolio built up and it wasn’t hard to get recognized at school art shows and amongst friends. A photographer rarely has a problem with ladies and Johnny bagged more than his fair share. Promiscuity and under aged drinking with hopeful soon-to-be art school dropouts. It didn’t hurt that he was a thin, toned young man with a snappy tongue either.

Johnny’s father divorced his mother, but the two remained friends. It never reached a severe point of separation, and Johnny never witnessed them fight, they were simply no longer married. Johnny’s father remarried, and Johnny’s mother moved to Stockton. Johnny grew through his adolescence in the care of his father. He would visit his mother a few times a year, but they spoke frequently via telephone. Johnny would talk with her about his school, and his girl problems and she would gently usher him on from afar.

Johnny’s stepmother once threw a coffee pot at his face and hit him right on the side of his cheek. The two rarely got along, and Johnny had a tendency to mouth off whenever he was told something. Later in life Johnny would decide that he had it coming, and forgive his stepmother for this, even though it hurt like hell.

Johnny’s father liked to play billiards. Johnny would go with his dad to pool halls all over the San Fernando Valley, and even into the city where age permissible. Johnny learned to shoot pool and did a science project involving lasers, smoke and mirrors, which illustrated the trajectory of a cue ball and explained techniques like putting English on the ball in an accurate physics related way.


The night of the party for Johnny in honor of Belinda’s shot becoming Time’s cover, Johnny stood before his framed, enlarged copy of the shot and stared at Belinda. As the night grew and things got loopier, Johnny’s eyes couldn’t meet Belinda’s terrified stare. In the coming days, Johnny would leave a copy of that issue open to the story on his coffee table. At night, when he would grow listless of prime time programming, he would read that story.

“Belinda Price, age 28, was pulled from an overturned vehicle by several men and the photographer whose picture is featured on the cover. Belinda was rushed to the emergency room where she was stabilized and released the subsequent day. Onlookers were amazed that she didn’t suffer broken bones, ‘You could see her car. It like flipped right over a few cars and landed with a metal grinding crash that was so loud. I’ve never heard anything like that in my life.’

Belinda still drives the 101 on an almost daily basis. ‘That’s Los Angeles traffic, these things happen. You just never think they’ll happen to you. It’s weird, one minute you’re flipping radio stations, the next minute you look out your side window and the world has turned crazy. I’m lucky to be alive.’”

The tanker had jackknifed and fell over. The grinding against the freeway concrete caused a small gash in the side of the tank spilling fuel all over the concrete. Belinda’s car stopped about two car lengths ahead of the spinning truck. The driver of the truck was obliterated in the explosion, the cab completely charred and melted. In total Belinda’s car spent an estimated three and a half seconds in the air before landing, rolling twice and sliding about ten feet from where Johnny’s car had been stopped. Though Johnny’s mind felt exhausted and the day seemed to lag for hours, the entire ordeal only lasted about 45 minutes before the paramedics came and carted Belinda off.

Johnny chased the ambulance in his car when he told a sherriff’s officer that he was involved with that woman. Johnny knew how to cause a scene, and rather than dealing with a raving lunatic, the officer let Johnny drive off. “My car can make it officer, look at it.” The truth was that anyone standing on that freeway that day would have been surprised at the near immaculate presentation of Johnny’s hatchback.

It became habitual to reflect on that day after coming home from that snake called 101.


“Johnny, do you take this woman to be your wife so help you god?” They will be married in Los Angeles, a large Church in Encino; a place called St. Cyril’s. The father marrying them will be an Irish Catholic, and when he takes their hands in his own Johnny will cringe at the priest’s soft, freezing cold hands.

After a 7 hour plane ride, Johnny will carry Belinda over the threshold and into their hotel room. They will stay in a Manhattan high rise because both of them love New York. While Johnny watches New York walk around below him he will smile to himself about his bride and his life. “We are going to go back home and get a roomy place, somewhere we can do more than just exist.”


Johnny considered himself moved in to the apartment in North Hollywood after his cat was allowed to scamper free of its carrier and around the studio. Johnny delicately placed his camera and film on the top shelf of a bookcase he bought from Ikea, and ate take out Chinese food with laquered chopsticks.

LA Weakening (Working Title)

(I tried to leave no visual indicator for the reader to figure out where he or she is. While reading this, look for tense shifts to help orient yourself. If you think this tactic is working, let me know. I'd love to get feedback before I get too far into it. For those of you who have been reading this through each of its many incarnations, I appluad and thank you for all of your time and loving support...)

When Johnny wakes up this morning, his biggest fear is that the world will explode. It had never occurred to him that his thoughts might actually cause things to happen, so when he left for work it was with this pit deep in his bowels. Maybe it was an upset stomach. Johnny couldn't really say for one way or another.


Johnny drove his car to work and listened to talk radio while sipping coffee he purchased from a convenience store about five minutes from his apartment in North Hollywood. Johnny had chosen North Hollywood for two reasons, the first being a failed attempt at ditching his car in favor of public transportation, the second being a desire to feel the sensation of living amongst a group of like minded people. Johnny is a photographer for the LA Weekly, and when he says this to people what he really means to say is that he takes what little money he keeps in his pocket and uses it to fuel his car while he runs downtown chasing news stories.

Johnny is submitting shots because he secretly hopes that he will be chosen as a staff photographer. Mr Carroll likes the work Johnny produces but he usually has such a short fuse and so much on his plate that Johnny has never seen a proper time to speak to Mr. Carroll about the proposition. Johnny is well trained, two years at a Junior College, two years at a University. He did not complete his degree because his mother fell ill and he had to take a job to support her.
Johnny has been taking pictures since he was six.

The news came on the radio and Johnny sipped his coffee. He had a sudden urge for a cigarette, but hadn't smoked in years. The morning sun lit everything a glowy Los Angeles white while traffic snaked its way down the 101. Politics prompted Johnny to switch stations as he jittered along. Classic Rock, no... Top 40's? Ew... This new music is garbage. Johnny pulls a Cd case from behind his passenger side chair.

And then Johnny heard a loud crash, his car dipped into the concrete and he was screaming but he couldn't really hear anything. Outside of his window he saw a car flying toward his own and land on his hood. It rolled sideways right over Johnny's roof while he screamed. Glass flew everywhere, some of it into his open mouth and while he screamed he flicked the shards with his tongue trying to get them out of his bleeding mouth. He felt like he was bleeding from every orifice in his body and all of his bones had been shattered.

What had happened? Johnny regained focus and got out of the car. No one was screaming anymore but people had gotten out of their cars. A large boom. “What is that?” Someone shouted this and waited for a response. A gas tanker three or four cars ahead of Johnny tipped and caught fire. It just happened. Then an explosion, the closest car flung backward and spun through the air. Those poor people inside. Where was Johnny's camera? This was bigger than the Weekly.

Battered, he snapped a photo of himself with the carnage of his own car behind him. Someone shouts at him, “You fucking prick! Help someone, how could you be snapping pictures! You God damn Bastard!!” A baby crying. So hot.

“I am helping people! I'm a reporter; I'm going to make sure we figure out what happened here!”

“It's obvious what happened here! Look at that!” A man from the crowd spoke and pointed at the tanker. A sizeable crowd, at least ten people had gathered around the car that had flipped over Johnny's. Johnny moved in to snap photos. It was a miracle he was still alive. He had seen a car flip over him, had seen a woman's face in fact, her hands scraping at the glass.

Johnny snapped more photos. He'd heard her piercing scream over the grinding metal, through her side windows and his windshield. “HELP ME!!” Johnny snapped another photo of the car on its driver's side, the bottom facing the crowd and the tank leaking gas or oil onto the freeway. Johnny noticed that there were so many people in this 101 traffic. More people, some large men, some women even jumped out of their cars and went to the overturned vehicle. Somewhere Johnny could hear sirens, but in this city those could be for any one of a number of things.

It had occurred to him to call the Times or the Daily, but even if everyone else had aerial footage or still frames with paramedic and Fire Department testimonials and eye witness accounts introduced by a fancy news reporter couldn't stack up to that woman’s hands on her glass. “HELP ME!!”

Why had this frame stuck out in Johnny's mind?

Wind laced through the tops of trees and brush lining the hills of North Hollywood. Most, if not all traffic had stopped on the 101/134 interchange, and Johnny was standing in the middle of his lane glancing around the carnage. The large men went to the overturned vehicle with the woman inside. Sound warped into Johnny's ears, “HELP ME!!” Johnny's head snapped toward the overturned vehicle and he dashed toward her.

“I'm coming!” He screamed this at the top of his lungs, loud enough for everyone to hear and they all turned to face him. His veins spurted blood and adrenaline coursing through him, his heart pumping in waves throughout his body. Johnny stepped outside himself for a moment and saw that silly huffy puffy face you make when you run. His was all distorted, his lips puckered and his eyes wide and his brow clenched like the middle of a tense bowel movement. His camera swung around his neck and pounded against his chest. Outside of him, Johnny wondered if his run would affect the lens, maybe knock it out of place or something.

Another whoosh of heat and fire. More babies crying. Helicopters and sirens now, yea, the Times and the Daily already knew. At best he could hope to be front page of the weekly, which wouldn't be so bad considering the size of that spread. He needed a good emotional shot, one of people crying or glass and blood on the concrete, a macro with flames from the truck in the background. Something the people would look at and cringe at the tragedy of it all. The kind of shot that makes coy women cry.

“Hey! We've got her!” The overturned vehicle had been swarmed by large men like ants to a crumb on the ground. Two men stood on one side of the car and put their hands on the bottom. Another man kicked the windshield in while screaming “Watch out! I'm coming for you!” Johnny arrived at her car, but he didn't know what to do.

“I'm coming for you! I'll save you!!” Johnny shouted at her as he clawed at the crowd. They blocked him out, a wall of backs. He slinked through their legs and came out into the middle of their circle staring, as they were, at the overturned car. “I'll save you!!” His first instinct was to jump onto the side of her car, but he refrained for fear of tipping it over.

The large men stood back and watched Johnny assess the situation. No one said much, certainly no suggestions. The woman inside was silent, and Johnny came around to the front of her car. The windshield had caved in where one of the large men had kicked it in, but she was still trapped behind it. Johnny could see the white of her skin through the fractured glass and it drove him mad. He turned to the large men behind him. “What do we do?” They shrugged and the man who had stepped up to kick the glass looked at the floor.

“The police are coming. They are probably bringing the paramedics and the fire department with them. We just wait for the jaws. She’s ok. She’ll be ok. You hear me in there!?” The large man who had kicked the glass said this listlessly, without passion or conviction and Johnny knew that he had given up.

“So we just let the big guys handle it? How long do we wait? And what if the car explodes?” Everyone had been thinking this, though no one had mentioned it until just now. They all went silent except for the collective sound of all of them breathing through their noses. No one smelled gasoline and they all let out a sigh of relief.

“HELP ME!!” Again, louder, more of a shriek! A sense of urgency. Johnny put his fist through the window and it shattered in pieces that Johnny tore and threw behind him like discarded meat. Johnny tore a whole in the glass small enough for him to fit inside, so he got on his knees while the crowd watched. His teeth were grit as the glass beneath his knees shattered and tore up the jeans he was wearing. His camera swung low as a reminder and by the time he looked up from grabbing it, he had found his shot.

Johnny zoomed in on her face, pale and perfect, her blood so dark. Johnny focused on her closed eyes but when the shutter snapped, he captured her looking directly at him through large round blue eyes. Very much alive and very much horrified. The click of the shutter, Johnny let the camera fall to his side and thought he heard someone curse him from the outside. The crowd gathered closer, or didn't but definitely felt like it did. Johnny reached out and undid the woman's seatbelt. She spoke but Johnny was too busy hooking his arms under arm pits to understand or care. He was too overjoyed that she was alive. “You will be ok. I promise you that you will be ok.”

He said this and patted the back of her head. Her blood comes off on his fingertips. He looked at the blood and watched one droplet fall from the tip of his finger to her shoulder. She was looking at him, through full wide round eyes. Very much alive and very much horrified. “YOU!!” And she shrieked loud and long. He pulled her from the car and laid her onto the concrete. She stared up at him, her eyes different, accusatory. “YOU!! YOU!!”


Johnny watches that car roll over and over again when he lays awake at night. Belinda sits with him at times and pats his head. She says that it's ok, but he knows it isn't. Something inside of him never felt right about that accident. It wasn't all that long ago, only about a year, but Johnny keeps that picture of her inside of the car staring back at him all wide eyed and alive locked inside his mind.

Now Johnny does graphic design for the Weekly, a job he ironically went back to since that day. That shot of the woman in the car won him a journalism award. Time did a great feature about the Angelino's that had banded together to save that woman and document everything that happened that morning. Johnny's shot was the cover. You could believe the kind of ego he had for himself after that.

Johnny made decent money doing freelance work after that. He had a lot of credibility, and even started blogging some of his work. Belinda eventually began writing for him. She had graduated from Cal State LA with a Bachelor degree in English, this was after the accident. Johnny had shot her at her graduation. Belinda's family thought Johnny took fine photos of their daughter and they were very thankful for everything Johnny had done.

Johnny moved into one of those high-rise apartments (if you could call it that) in downtown LA. He had this quaint little loft with a room that doubled as his living room and bedroom. It had a view of LA that you couldn't pay enough for though, a grid of light and movement from place to place that Johnny used to watch for house before finally calling it a night and retreating to his futon. Johnny loved most of his new life yet he lacked a sense of fulfillment.

This was why he felt like the world would end today. He had thought about this for some time, an idea of ending it all for the sake of pointlessness. What was he to really do for the next 25 years? How do you top that? Belinda? How do you top her?


Johnny drove to work, down the same 101 he always has, only this time he drove a shorter distance. He had to cover a surprise show for a popular DJ at a tiny venue that had literally spawned over two nights but managed to garner a line that wrapped around two city blocks. He got inside with his press pass; the interior was bathed in light that seemed to give a blood red kind of shadow.

The DJ was spinning music that sounded like noise, but people shook their heads and contorted with the vibrations. The distortion made him twitch and shiver, clearly he had wandered into the intersection of multiple sound waves, each more unpleasant than the last, all thrown together in an orgy of noise. Everything was warbled and the crowd shook with strobe light contortions. Women's breasts glistened in the club light and the bartender kept on shouting at him to order something and “Stop staring at that girl's tits.”

Johnny snapped back, “Whiskey. Neat. And I wasn't staring!”

“Sure buddy. She's a beaut aint she?” He was wearing a black shirt, one of the only colors you could differentiate in this heat lamp like environment. Johnny met his eyes for a moment, long enough to see the bartender was older but skinnier.

“Sure. I suppose. You wanna give me that whiskey?” Johnny rapped his knuckles on the bar counter and splashed a pool of water, vodka or gin that had collected there all over the place. The bartender grabbed a white rag that was slung over his shoulder and with an efficient and broad swipe, the mess was gone.

“You press assholes are a real bunch of dogs. You think the world’s just going to up and cater to you and your fucking stories.” He seemed disgruntled about his job, his obligations to serve.

“Boy you've just about thought of everything haven’t you?” Then the bartender handed Johnny the whiskey. “Pleasure doing business with you.” Johnny walked from the bar leaving a five on the table. Another man passed Johnny on his way to the bar, a white suit jacket, jeans, dark colored shirt and stunner shades. Johnny weaves past him and through the crowd toward the guard rails leading up to the stage. A large chested, broad shouldered man with a crew cut wearing black cargos. He was used to this, warming up to security and shooting the shit.

“You don't see tits like that all day do you?” Johnnie leaned against the guard rail, testing it first to make sure it would support him. He felt the metal of the rail grind against the slick concrete of the club.

“You don’t, but I do!” The man straightened up and stared down at Johnny. Johnny sipped his whiskey and shook a bit.

“Listen bud, I'm here for the Weekly, you mind getting me a good shot?” And the man looked at the women dancing, teetering toward them. One of the women nibbled her finger while they talked and Johnny watched her shake her chest and hips until she caught him. She shot him a smile that said looking was free. Johnny snapped her.

“How’s that?” Security scratched the back of his head with his eyes glued to that shadowed feminine form.

"A shot, you know when the main guy gets up there.”

“Oh. Yea sure bud.” A woman, a blonde, shook her whole body to the music. She was silhouetted in a spot coming from behind the DJ, her hair splayed against the white light. Content that he got what he wanted, Johnny snapped her photo; a clear shot of her jumping from the floor with a very fuzzy DJ spinning her strings from the background. The music continued to play and the crowd was alive and willing to dance. The hallway leading to the patio deafens the roar of the crowd and the music. Johnny recognizes a vinyl tune and snaps his fingers while he pushes his way outside.

Smokers huddled in frosty Los Angeles November weather and exhaled plume after plume of smoke that pillared off into the sky like their own small fires. Everything was glowing street lamp orange. The speakers on the side of the building projected the music amongst the chatter. Johnny watched people arriving fashionably late, huddled together breathing frost from their lips and yelling into cell phones. Johnny took pictures of security checking people coming in, of the crowd snaking around the building, and the buildings over their heads. Johnny loved including his city in shots wherever possible. This place called Los Angeles with its different people, its eclectic music, and varied locations. Johnny had once told his friends, “I love this city, you can drive a half hour in any direction and end up at either the beach, entertainment in the city, mountains and we’ve even got lakes if that’s your thing. You can’t get that kind of thing in New York. Not to this caliber.”

Johnny snapped a photo of a guy wearing a shirt that said “Suckah Free since '73”. Everyone was drinking. Johnny downed his whiskey and got a bit loopy. A lady circulated amongst the crowd, long reddish brown hair. She was short, with small hips but a sly smile. Johnny watched her lift her own camera and shoot pictures. The press badge around her neck hung between her subtle breasts. She wore a dress that flowed below her knees and gave her the appearance of gliding. Everything, but her, stopped and Johnny had to snap a photo of her. She turned to face him, her sly grin catching his eye, her teeth bright behind thin lips. She soaked him in through almond eyes and breathed her hot breath into the air. Someone stole her attention and she pulled her glance from Johnny to accept a cigarette with her lips.

It was then that Johnny noticed the red of her lip stick, that luscious look. His first instinct was to sneak back into the crowd and as far away from her as possible, but he did not. Her badge was within eye shot but at a profile he couldn’t read her name. So Johnny snapped more photographs of party goer's trying not to act like a stalker until the main event came along. A badge meant she was press. Johnny was taught not to mess with industry women, but this one was a fox.
Johnny left the patio after fighting back the urge (several times) for a cigarette. The music pounded on and Johnny ordered another whiskey. There was a light toward the rear of the venue, a single white light sticking out from a pillar that spots whoever dances beneath it. Johnny snapped a photo of a guy who wore sunglasses and a full beard holding a can of Pabst and sporting a goofy smile. The man danced and held his drink up in the air. A few girls danced beside him and Johnny captured them all in the frame.

Johnny was walking amongst this crowd trying to write the story in his mind, how to describe the feeling of being there to someone who wasn't there. The second DJ steps up to the decks and the woman from the patio is on stage with him, taking profiles of him. That fucking cunt! “You think you can take my shot?” Johnny pierced the crowd to the side of the stage where he ran into Security.

So Johnny flashed his press badge and talked the talk but the bouncer shunned him when Johnny tried to walk past. “What the hell buddy? I thought we had a deal! You ought to get out of my way so I can get up there. I'm here from the Weekly damn it! We keep you running strong; we list you and all of your shows.”

“Yea and the Weekly will continue to do so while you fuck off. If you looked like she did I'd let you up there too.” Security crossed his arms and stone faced Johnny right back into the crowd.
“Oh fuck you buddy!” Johnny shook his fist and felt like a fool. He stood against the rail and shot the DJ from that angle. He'd make this work, he was resourceful. She stepped off stage and nudged the bouncer as she walked past. Johnny mumbled and caught her name badge. He read her name and took a step toward her. The crowd closed behind her and presented Johnny with a wall of backs.

Johnny was beginning to feel drastically underappreciated, until he went around the people and saw her sitting at the bar waiting for a beer. Johnny approached her apprehensively. “Your drink is on me!” She turned to face him with that grin of hers.

“What’s your name stranger?” Johnny was focused on her lips, the way they moved in the bloodlight while she spoke.

“Johnny. I’m buying you that drink. Who do you work for?” He still hadn’t gotten a good look at her press badge.

“Me?” Johnny nodded to her press badge. “Oh that… Take a good look at it.” The label said Revolving Door Publishing, Johnny had never heard of that magazine before. “See it works like this. I hear about shows like this and so I figure what better way to enjoy a show then as a press member. So I created this Zine, a blog really. I bring the party to the people.”
Johnny smirked; some no name broad took some of the better shots in the house. “So you just finagle your way in the door? Fancy trick you’ve got there love.”

“Love? What is this England?” She leaned back and laughed a surprisingly low chuckle. Johnny smiled out of jest and looked at her hands. The dress she wore was silk, or at least gave off the appearance, with small flowers patterned into the fabric.

“It’s just one of those things I say. You know. People have them.”

“Yea, I say ‘interfrastic.’ It’s not even a real word, but I find it describes things well, ‘the lighting in this shot is interfrastic at spots.” She chuckled again, louder this time, as though laughter was a battery to be charged.

“I guess so.” Johnny sipped his whiskey and she sipped her beer.

“So do you always buy drinks for women and then just sit there looking all out of place?”

“Yea. It’s part of my charm.” Johnny smiled at her, a genuine attempt at reaching out to her.

“Well, your charm could use a little work. I’d ask you to dance but you look like you’d move with the flexibility of a tree trunk. Thanks for the drink Johnny. See you around then?”

Johnny watched her get up, her hips swayed back and forth and Johnny was compelled to follow her. She went deep into the dance floor and Johnny trailed her. “Wait!” He shouted this after her but she seemed to pay no attention to it. She let her own camera swing between her breasts and she lifted her arms high as she danced. She shook her hips and dipped her knees in rhythm with the music. Johnny subtly slid next to her sliding his own hips back and forth, trying to find the beat, off by only a bit.

When she noticed him she flashed him that grin of hers, the kind that said come here, but not too close, just close enough for me to smell you. Her hair bounced over her shoulders and flowed down her chest and back. She was vivacious, a sight to behold amongst other spot lit beauties. Her badge swung with her camera, Johnny imagined her stomach turning in the light, the flexibility of her body and what her smooth skin would feel like to his hungry fingers.

They danced like this, not talking, for the rest of the DJ’s set. The main event came and the two parted ways for business. Before she left him she pulled him close, “I want you to meet me outside of here when the lights come on. Out front, wait for me. You won’t see me, I’ll be gone for a moment, but I’ll be there, I promise.” Johnny nodded and she left him.

The main event lasted an hour, a composition of records Johnny never thought would go together. Mash up mixes of Pink Floyd with the Temptations, or the Police coupled with beats from old school hip hop jams. Johnny captured that DJ, each of his pictures highlighting a new aspect of the show or the crowd. Promotional posters were everywhere, and you couldn’t circulate yourself amongst the crowd without stepping on glossy note card sized flyers for upcoming events.

Johnny took another whiskey and when the lights finally came up, Johnny stared dizzily at the confused crowd rubbing their eyes as though they had all just woken up. He made his way to the door, scanning the heads for her face, for her eyes. Outside in the frost, Johnny hugged himself and waited for her. Kids in tight jeans walked past him talking about the show, few of them even turning their heads to regard Johnny.

Eventually she came outside, sweat on her brow and a smile on her lips. Johnny reached his hand out to her but she slapped him away. “No gentleman here. I want to know what you taste like Johnny.” Her eyes burned into his own, her blue beautiful eyes. Johnny wanted her.

“My car is close, let’s go somewhere,” he said this with no intention of even moving the car and she could read his lust. The two of them took off down the street, about a half block away until they found Johnny’s hatchback parked next to a house with a stoop that led to a large porch, the kind of architecture you might find in small towns farther east. Her lips were sweet soft pieces of meat that he hungrily devoured. She moaned as he bit her lips and went for her bra under her dress.

Her moans grew more passionate, the kissing stronger and Johnny took that to mean she wanted him. He was already hard, already heavy and willing. She rubbed against him with a small thrust of her hips and he bucked to meet her. They both let out throaty grunts while they adjusted to accommodate two full sized humans in a hatch back. Johnny fumbled at his zipper and removed his length from his pants. Before she recognized what was going on, Johnny slipped himself inside of her. The two of them froze, her above him with her head tilted back.

“Easy bud. We just met tonight.” Johnny grabbed her hips and thrust into her. She moaned louder and hit him on the chest. “Stop it!” It was too late; Johnny was already going, his hips acting on their own. He pulled her hair and kissed her neck. She wrapped her arms around his neck and let him take her. She told him to stop again, but it was only half hearted. She grew damp and dribbled on to his lap.

Coming out of the glow, she realized what Johnny had done and slapped him, hard across the face. “You fucking prick! How dare you! What do you think you just make the Goddamned rules?”

“I wasn’t exactly hearing you complain…” he squinted at her badge, “Belinda.”

“Yea, until you shot off inside me you fucking douche. Who exactly do you think you are?” As she got off of him, he looked down at his penis lying soft over the undone zipper of his pants. “Fuck you Johnny!”


After the accident, Johnny showed up at the hospital where they had taken the girl. That place was disgustingly white; no matter what you did it bled all over you with white that sterilized you. When you get to a hospital via ambulance, especially if you were as messed up as this girl, the healthcare reps don’t normally check for your ID. They figure if it’s life threatening, there’s time for ID later, save the person.

He waited in the lobby for them to call her name. They had three trauma Helen’s listed, according to the front desk rep; two were from car accidents, so he was patient to hear what the Doctor’s had to say about his Helen. Amazingly Johnny’s car had suffered a huge dent on the bumper and the hood where her car had impacted and started its roll, but aside from a windshield fracture on the top right, and some scratches on the roof where her car had barreled over, his little hatchback was still drivable.

Her eyes sat in his mind, staring back at him, blue, alive and very much horrified. Several hours passed and Johnny killed time watching the same twenty news stories repeat on Headline News. A nurse came from the station, a portly African American woman with glasses that faded to a darker shade in the brightness of the lobby. “Family or concerned party for the accident victim?”

Johnny stood up. “Reddish brown hair, blue eyes?”

“Come with me please.” The nurse motioned for Johnny to join her and the two of them walked through a doorway after security buzzed them in. “She’s stable; nothing is broken, a bit of head trauma. Do you know her name?”

“Belinda.”

“Belinda is lucky to be alive. What was your name? What relationship do you have to the patient?”

“Johnny, I’m her boyfriend.” He felt awkward, the last time they had met had not ended well.

“Well Johnny, she’s a bit shaken up and she’s asleep now, but you can visit her if you wish. I’ll give you a few minutes.”

“Thank you.”

Belinda’s room was the largest in ICU. It looked like the kind of place doctors scream for operating instruments while pulling out bullets and subduing screaming patients in. She lay on her bed, her top half propped up. She was cleaner now, no more blood, only her face and arms were bruised badly. With her eyes shut, she looked battered, but still held an element of beauty. Johnny was afraid to speak as he sat down in a chair next to her, afraid even to breathe.

No heart monitor to beep away her pulse, she was fine in most respects, but it seemed strange that they should meet here, after all of these months. “You live in the same city with someone long enough and you’re bound to meet them more than once. You know, especially in our situation.” He said situation, though there really wasn’t one. “And I was thinking about us. You know…like if there could have been an us. I mean—“ Johnny was stuck. He was out of words with no one to say them to any way.

Upon Reflection- Why I write

I've been doing some writing for my company which some of you may or may not know, and it has got me thinking about the whole blogging thing. I got my first subscriber today, she is a woman who runs a blog called "A Personal Finance Guide by Susan Kishner". It's pretty well written and has some good info about repairing your credit, so on and so forth. I am plugging, though unintentionally.

I just find it really validating to know that someone outside of my company thinks something I'm producing is worth reading on a regular basis. Now my friends will say things like, "Dude, seriously duh. You're a good writer." It's just that, as a writer you never really believe in these things. You just sort of take it in stride. Smile, laugh about it and maybe feel good about yourself for about a half hour a minute.

But you never really believe it.

I don't even know if I believe it now. I guess it's nice to know that my technical writing has made leaps and bounds, yet my fiction writing has become static. I want to write something that doesn't involve foreclosures or office jobs or being a writer. I want to take the me out of it so badly.

I ought to craft a living out of this writing thing. It seems like I just might be able to do it.

-R

Winchester’s, Six-Shooters, and Destiny

(This was the story that got Mona Houghton to exclaim "I've never read such unabashedly male texts as yours Richard")

ACT I: The Thrill of the Hunt

The roar of the snowstorm is deafening. It’s the middle of the great blizzard, and Jericho is in the worst of it. He’s bundled up tightly, his duster flailing behind him violently with each gust. Snow falls all over him, tiny banks of it on his shoulders, his moustache frozen stiff. The Winchester rifle is more of a burden now, but it’s all for the girl. At his sides, the familiar weight of his six shooters hangs as a reminder of deeds to come.

His horse had died long ago, and he took some of its meat to survive. The meat was tough, and it came out awfully dry. There were few caves around, so he had a hard time cooking it, and often ate it raw. His stomach churned uneasily, and his hands shivered in the wind. Ahead was a mountain, not too tall, but just enough to be one final burden. Behind were trails of blood, and a tale of revenge.

There will be shooting by nightfall, then he will rest. The girl will be safe, and he will finally sleep. He had slept only a few hours the days leading up to finding the mountain. The Slone brothers will be here, deep in the abandoned mine, waiting for him. There will be bodies, and blood, Jericho set his mind to it.

*

My hand drapes over the woman lying next to me. She’s beautiful and sweet to taste. Our bodies were warm against one another. Outside the snow is merciless, but with her, I feel no cold. She leans into me, nuzzling her head into my chest, and I hold her tight. Susanna Slone, the untouchable sister of the family gang.

I run fingers through her hair, and kiss her forehead. She wraps her arms around me and I find myself wondering whether this is it, can I rest here? Finally I’ll have peace. It doesn’t matter to her who I killed, or for what reasons. She only cares about how I treat her, and as far as I’m concerned, she’s a goddess.

*

Outside Jericho’s room, a trap was being set. When the door to Jericho’s room opened, and he stepped through the doorway, he saw that the bar below had been evacuated, and not a soul remained except for the four Slone brothers, each one holding a shiny colt. They had waited for hours, being as quiet as can be, sipping from whiskey bottles that had been tossed absentmindedly around the saloon. Sirus, the oldest, was scraping the thin blade of his Bowie against his bottom front teeth. Whip sat at a table, while Kenny, the youngest son (a boy of sixteen) spun his colt on his index finger. James spat a wad of tobacco on Kenny’s foot and flipped him off. The brothers grinned.

Jericho’s eyes went wide. He grabbed sweet Susanna and pushed her away; then he dipped at his sides for his six shooters. The Slone brothers whooped and hollered as they fired at him. Jericho leapt to the side, braced one revolver against his forearm for better accuracy and fired. The bullet blasted a whiskey bottle on the table right next to Kenny, who yelped and ducked. Jericho fired a shot at the center of the table; the bullet struck the wood and buried itself. Kenny growled.

Sirus stood up and fired at Jericho’s stomach. The blast tore through Jericho. He fell to his knees, face planted onto the floorboards, and told his mind to focus on breathing.

The Slones made their way up the staircase and kept their guns trained on Jericho’s limp body. His skin was getting pale. He could hear the Slone’s breathing heavy, and smell the thick stench of alcohol on their breath, and grotesquely meshed with the stale smell of old tobacco, and the steely scent of blood. Jericho inhaled it, forced the nausea down his throat. He gulped it even, trying so hard to relish in its taste rather than remain repulsed.

Susanna stared at his cold blue eyes and whimpered.

The eyes laid open, just as dead as the rest of him. It was over; he had nothing left. They’d take her away and kill her. They’d call her useless, tie her down, slit her belly open and leave her for the tundra wolves.

ACT II: The Undead Gunslinger

I cough, and then there is silence. I hear nothing, and see only Susanna. My sweet Susanna. I can’t get back up.

I’m not useless. The pain is deep in my guts, and I feel the bullet rattle around a bit inside me. This is nothing. This is the physical world’s attempt at stopping me. I won’t give up, I won’t abide. I have to wait though, be patient. I watch them grab her through cold dead eyes. Sound drifts farther away, like my consciousness. I’ve lost a lot of blood, my lips feel cold, and for the first time today, I’m tired.

*

“So what do you want to do with her Sirus?” James asked.

“We’ll take her to the mine, Pa will want to hear about this.” Sirus said.

“Hey Sirus, should we put another bullet in him just to be sure?” Whip questioned.
Sirus took a glance at Whip and smiled. Whip returned the smile and showed everyone in the room how he got his nickname. A leather cattle driver lay furled up at his side, and he removed it with an audible crack. He grinned maliciously at Jericho’s limp body. The brothers watched Whip do his work, knives for grins.

Susanna cried.

Jericho passed out.

*

I dust a small bank of snow off of my right shoulder, and blow into my closed hands. I'll have to find her, but they are waiting for me. They must know I’m still alive, and they’ll play this just like a game. They’re the Slone brothers, and you don’t mess with them. That’s what the sheriff told me as I left town. They walk in, flash their guns, and take over. The Sheriff is a goddamn coward.

Still, without him I wouldn’t be here. Give thanks; you’ve got a slaughter to take care of soon. Without the Sheriff, you’d be lying dead on those floorboards, but in a lot of ways you are dead Jericho. There’s no living through this. There’s only seeing it to the end.

The bullet in my guts rattles around again, and the wound throbs in the cold. I bandaged it miles ago, packing snow against it to keep the swelling down. The bandages are soaking wet, and stained a deep crimson.

The mountain is a merciless climb. Often I stop to rest, only to find myself continuing my climb to fend off the frostbite. My body is now a machine, each fundamental action fed on juice from my electric veins. I’m tired and hungry, but none of it matters because I’m dead. There’s only one thing left to do, find the girl.

I find a cave and stop to rest. I roll a smoke and sit on a rock. It’s been awhile since I thought about her. I’ve been so busy pursuing the brothers Slone, I almost forgot why.

She was running away from her brothers when I found her in the rocks above town. She had been up there for a while, she looked exhausted, and she was hungry. I was on the run, and thought she’d slow me down. When I tried to pass her by, she fired a single shot into the air, and stood across from me, clenching a rock in her fist, ready to tussle.

I remember the look on her face when I laughed at her. She must have felt like such a fool. I grabbed her and set her up on my horse. She was the reason I came to that town. The town run by the brothers Slone.

We were set to leave in the morning, just one final nights stay. The Slone’s were quicker than us. Now here I am in the God forsaken wastelands. If Hell is where I’m going after this, then I reckon I should be well acquainted with it.


ACT III: Iron and Lead

Jericho’s eyes opened, and he regained consciousness. The floorboards were hard, and his face and neck strained as he tried to lift himself up. By the time he’d pulled himself off of the ground, he realized he’d been shot and flogged. The pain took a second to catch up, but smacked him in the face like a hammer. He fell backward against a wall, and lay there breathing heavily and groaning in pain.

*

The bullet meanders around my stomach. Remember, remember, where did they take her… Do they know I’m alive still? What did they do to her? Don’t panic. Someone knows, the sheriff would know. And even if he didn’t he’d at least have a bandage to stop this bleeding. Rest for a minute. Gather your thoughts.

I crawl to my room to get myself a smoke, and pour some whiskey on that wound. Consciousness is still mine, I have the upper hand. The whiskey stings, and the wound foams white. I try to stand, but it’s pointless, my legs are jelly. At least my fingers work. I roll myself the greatest cigarette I’ve ever had. I feel the head rush, the pain of the whiskey goes away, and I’m not breathing as heavy anymore. Now I can focus, now I’m ready.

They said something, now I remember… They said the mine. Which mine? How far did they travel? The sheriff would know, his job is to know the area. And if they got to him before I did, I’ll just beat it out of him. I won’t let her die.

The sheriff talked, like everyone else. It took a few minutes, and a bit of “hard” questioning, but he talked. The Sheriff told him a doctor lived in town, but was ridden out when the Slone brothers arrived. He owned a pharmacy down the street.

The pharmacy was freezing because the Slone brothers had shot the window out. They were clever, putting him through hell, trying desperately to discourage him from finding them.

Jericho was sure they knew he wasn’t dead. The mine was ten miles out of town to the east, in the mountains about halfway up the summit. He took off the ragged garment that passed for a shirt, stained red with blood. His skin was pale, white as the snow covering the town. There wouldn’t be anyone here for a while. He grabbed a suture kit, and some bandages and set to work.

The surgery would be painful, and stitching himself up would end up being a lot harder than he thought. He was used to closing up wounds, but this was a hole about the size of three fingers, and it was leaking blood like a faucet.

He dragged his weak body back to the saloon, and patched himself up in the warmth of the room he and Susanna had shared. When it was done, he drank himself to sleep.

The next day was colder than the last. He had set himself to work on finding some clothes to wear, and tried not to wonder why God had let him live. He was on borrowed time now; he had already punched his last ticket. The only thing waiting for him in that mountain was a girl he swore to find, and a death long overdue.

Outside, the blizzard raged mercilessly, snow whipped around so hard it hurt Jericho’s cheeks as the flakes pasted against him. The center of the town was empty, except for a horse tied to a post. It was left for him, but why? Then it hit him, the town wasn’t as empty as he had thought.
A head rose up from a roof to his left. The man was trained on him, and fired a shot with his Winchester.

The bullet landed at Jericho’s feet, and he dashed off to the side, ducking out in an alleyway next to a general store. Another bullet flew at him; it crashed hard into the wooden siding of the general store he used as cover

*

I thumb the hammers back.

Who are these guys? Not the Slones, I’m sure of that. They’re hired help. Cheap cronies sent to kill what they thought was an injured old man.

*

Jericho leapt from behind the corner of the store, and rushed inside the vacant property. He gulped a breath of air as a bullet crashed through the window and shattered the glass. Cold air poured in, and snow began to pile at the base of the window.

*

There’s another bullet against the wood, closer to me this time. There has got to be at least two, but I have a feeling there are three. One up on the roof across from me, the other is at the saloon, perched in one of the rooms taking shots at me. It’s the only smart angle to play here. These guys know how to ambush. The other one, where is the other one? Two above… One below.

*

One of the bandits steps carefully, and quietly toward the general store, his revolver poised, and his eyes tense. He was searching for his pray; one hand clenched the six-shooter, the other held a knife.

Jericho heard the crunch of snow as the sly bandit crept closer. The creak of the floorboards however, was what had really given away his position. Jericho dove through the doorway and fired two well-placed shots into the marauder’s chest and head. He had fallen dead, with open eyes staring bleakly into space. Jericho landed on his side, and felt searing pain from his stomach. He hunkered down behind a barrel and grit his teeth. He grunted, and tossed a shot at the man in the saloon deliberately missing. The bullet crashed through the room just close enough to force his opponent down

Jericho dashed through the square desperately trying to get to the horse. He had shot at the tie that held it to the post, and freed it.

The man that had first fired at him appeared again from the roof. He spat tobacco, and took another turn at him. Jericho rolled out of the way of the blast, balanced himself on one knee, and fired at his opponent. The gunshot had hit the man square in the chest, and he dropped his Winchester, falling like dead weight off the two-story post office that had been his perch.
Jericho ran for the Winchester, collecting it and moving again toward the horse. The other, tried a shot from the saloon, but his angle wasn’t wide enough to get a good one. Jericho had stolen the horse and left town.

ACT IV: Gunpowder and Redemption

He passes through the mine entrance, and walks toward the center. There are cars here, rusted and useless. Jericho raises his guns and comes to a small cliff overlooking the base of the mine. He hears the Slones laughing and screaming. He hears the girl crying. Somewhere in himself a fire is burning. He smiles in the pure lust of the slaughter that is to come.

He finds cover behind a mine car and steadies his borrowed Winchester against the rim of the cart. He finds the shot to take against James. The rap of the gun shattered the Slone’s fun, and they all turned to face James, who grabs at his neck and falls dead to the floor.

“Up on the rim boys, get em!!” Sirus shouts

Shells come from all directions. Jericho grits his teeth in a black smile, and cocks the rifle again. He lifts the gun over the side of the cart once more, and fires a single blast at Whip’s knee. He drops his guns and cries out in pain. Sirus starts to climb a ladder out of the base, and onto the rim shouting at Kenny to keep fire on Jericho.

Jericho ejects another shell casing as he cocks the rifle ready. He puts his cheek against the mine cart trying to feel where the explosions come from. Kenny stops firing, and for the moment there is silence. Faintly the girl cries out for Jericho, but he shuts his hearing off to it. No emotion here, only blood, and lots of it. Whip yelps out and curses Jericho, who fires at his left shoulder, and spits.

Sirus reaches the rim and finds a stick of dynamite. He lights it and tosses it at Jericho’s mine cart. The cart rocks uneasily with the explosion, and he braces himself against it to keep the hunk of metal on its track. Jericho barrel rolls away from the cart and flings a slug at Kenny after steadying himself. The bullet buries itself deep into Kenny’s stomach, and he slumps over onto the ground. When he turns around, he is face to face with Sirus, who has the bead on him. Jericho lunges at him, tackling him to the ground, and the two scuffle. Jericho pastes Sirus across the face, and elbows him in the ribs. Sirus replies with a punch to Jericho’s jaw, and a backhand that breaks his nose. Jericho is thrown from his opponent, but instantly gets back up. Sirus lunges at him, and Jericho lowers himself and throws his foe over his shoulders, off the rim, and onto a pile of lumber twenty feet below. Sirus doesn’t get up.

“Jericho!!” the girl screams. He eases himself down the ladder and into the depth of the center of the mine. He’s close to her, so close he can smell her. He can almost taste Susanna’s lips-
There are two final gunshots, like a climax. Whip shoots the gunslinger in the right breast, and Jericho replies with a blast to Whips back. The gunfighter falls. Susanna goes to him.

*

I smile for her, and cough up a bit of blood. She kisses me and tells me there are horses outside, and a town two miles to the east. She tells me to hang on. She leans over, and I’m looking into her eyes. “Sorry I’m late.” I say.

She forgives me.

She holds onto me, rocking back and forth. She nuzzles my head against her chest and I breathe her scent into my nostrils. A life lived knee deep in lead. I was always so sure I’d end up in hell. Sometimes, it just takes one thing done right for God to take you back.

(So if you never thought I could write a fantasy or Western, chew on this!)

The Unabashed Male

(This is what "Story Time was originally hatched from. You'll notice the female character is a little bit different, their is a gun in play, and I would call the male less than heroic. I was trying to put a spin on the Thelma and Louise. Don't rightly know why I scrapped the project, it wasn't entirely terrible.)

He'd decided to go East staring Los Angeles sunset of purple and orange waves across the horizon. He'd leaned his head back against the upholstery, blowing out his tension from tired smokey lungs. The radio was on, but the dial was between stations. He'd been listening to white noise for, had to have been hours... The .357 laid on the seat next to him in quiet reassurance,

“We'll get there,” it said, “you just wait and see.”

He'd never killed a man before. What would the dead man's eyes look like, staring down the barrel of a .357. The farther from his city he traveled the more weird people seemed, truckers bellowing at each other on their CB's, country types sitting in truck stop diners eating dribbly eggs at 6 AM. He'd started as far south as San Diego, traveling by way of his own divine guidance more than anything else.

He'd been a man of few principles, or routes.

He pulled off the freeway to a small gas station just inside of Cabazon. The gun felt like freedom, and the early evening gave him just the right kind of endorsement. He delicately shut the car door and walked foot in front of foot across the pavement leading up to the tiny convenience shop. While he passed the black and white and red the word “Sheriff,” he reminded himself that the magnum was hooked on his right side belt loop; it'd be easier to blow people away if it came to that.

It was the kind of elevator music that made him wish he had blown his ear drums playing with fire crackers or something. A calming thing that didn't seem to fit his mood at all. Was he really going to do this? There was a surge of adrenaline as he passed the hostess products, and turned the corner toward the register. The sheriff officer paid him little mind, and why would he? In walked this guy dressed prim and proper like, black slacks, a bowler cap atop his head, gritty hands, but otherwise fair complexion, struts right on up to the register and asks for a pack of smokes. What's to doubt?

The tap tap of his rubber soled converse across the tile walkway seemed to stand out above the music, and he was starting to think that all eyes were expectantly on him. The attendant was busy leafing through his newspaper. A disheveled man with a mat of hair behind a prominent forehead. Old wrinkles of stress and alcohol muddled his age. The sheriff was standing over by the cooler, his eye firmly affixed to the chocolate milk behind the glass. The old man never saw the .357 coming. She'd been at the opposite end of the store, behind an aisle, visible, but unnoticed. She'd heard the blast, a deafening kaboom that rattled the attendant's shelves. It left this smoking hole in the newspaper, the clerk doubled over like he was just meant to crack his head on that counter.

He'd turned to face the officer who was standing there jaw agape, fumbling for his own gun stuck in that holster. He'd blasted the officer in the chest, a brutal impact that had sent the man into the cooler of beer behind him. A loud crasg accompanied the fountain of beer that shot up into the air, soaking the pock marked ceiling tiles.

A silence.

“Isn't it a little early to start drinking?” He spat at the officer.

When the job was done, he'd asked the dead clerk, “Can I get a pack of smokes?”

After a while, the 10 freeway just starts to go on straight. It just sort of stretches out for a while, as far as he could see at least. He'd raced down the three, but usually two, lane freeway encased in his rumbling beast, a 1971 black el Camino with wheels anodized red.

She'd watched the whole thing, from start to finish, even told him “I'd love to blow a man that's killed somebody,” like it was some god damned celebrity thing to do. He'd agreed to take her only because he'd gotten tired of the radio stations. Seemed like the farther from a major city you got, the worse off the radio becomes. The country music genre starts taking it's liberties, and ranchero music isn't far behind. He'd grown tired of those fucking horns.

“You got a name?” He was calm.

“Elsie.” She stammered.

He grunted.

“Yours?”

“Don't worry you're pretty little head about it Elsie. We're going on a trip.”

“I aint worried. I just want to know your name.”

“Call me Ben.” That would do.

“Well Ben, you just let me know what you want me to do. We'll see if we can't work something out.”

He didn't want to stop. It was this tiny place called Cactus City and they were so close to Blythe, he'd really just as soon kept going. She'd insisted, promising him a world of pleasure if he'd only just pull over. He was not one to turn down a girl in short shorts that wanted to suck him off.
It was no surprise that, with his cock in her hands, she was able to sweet talk him. She'd had him by the balls after all, and he wasn't about to let her get away with that shit, but a woman has a way of talking. She'd started sucking him before she asked, “So, is this what you do?”

“Get blow jobs?”

“I liked watching you work. Made me get to thinking about my situation.”

“Shut the fuck up and finish. I didn't bring you along so you could flap your gums all about the road. And put a move on it too, I want to be in Blythe before the morning.”

He'd had his head back and was enjoying the sensation of her smooth wet lips all over him. He had let out a moan that was really more air than voice, and lit a cigarette. She pulled away and coughed.

He'd slipped his boots off and propped his feet on the dash just wide enough for her tiny form to sit, on her knees, with her legs by the pedals, and perform. From this vantage point he had this great view, the kind you see in pornos, voyeur nonsense. She was all hair and these tiny tits that poked out between her bangs. He was watching her work him, waiting to fire off. He was lost in bliss, inhaling, exhaling smoke that left its linger on the cloth ceiling cover.

And then, she'd somehow worked a blade in there, he'd felt it poke his sack, his skin just draped over this blade. She was smiling, licking his shaft up and down. She'd said, “Baby, we're going on a trip. Now, don't you try nothin stupid like fuckin me over, there'll be plenty of time for that when I'm through with you. Up on your feet. Come on, pull your pants on up and let's get out of here.”

He'd never wanted to kill a bitch more than when she said those words while she licked him.

Fuck her and her demands, he'd been waiting to shoot his load off, and she was too skinny anyhow, but he figured some cracked out bitch might let him do some crazy shit. So he'd taken her with him, thinking he'd get one hell of a blow job. She slid herself from below him to on top, straddling him with her legs and sitting herself on his lap. She ground her hips against him, those panties wet and damp against his now dry shaft. He thrust against her; grit his teeth and stared up at her, but she did not flinch. She pulled the knife from his sack and buried it into his shoulder. She sunk her teeth into his neck while he grit his teeth and grunted.

“You're fixin to have me choke you, aint you?” He didn't even moan, but there was an alteration in his voice, she'd picked it up, but it's hard to figure out whether it was pure sex, or the violent eroticism of it all.

“You want it don't you, you fucking faggot!” She ground her hips into him while she pushed her thumb into his wound. His hard on got stronger.

He backhanded her off of him, a swift but thorough motion, that left a bruise her mirror couldn't hide. She lay there for a minute, watching it develop, darken. “My face,” did she think it? There was blood everywhere.
No.

There was blood on her.

On her.

On her hands, and her sheets, and her walls, and her celing, and her pussy, and her lips, and she was drooling it, and the bath tub was full of it, and he was oozing it, and she was tasting it, the gun was smoking it, the tv radiated it, the room was filled with it, the darkness became it. “We have to get up and go! If you don't pick up them fuckin pants and leave this place with me, god damned if I don't blast your fucking eyes out the back of your big head you stubborn piece of filth. I said I was going to take you on a journey, now let's get moving!”

And then they'd gotten into his car.

And then they'd hit the freeway.

And then, she'd needed to pee, so he had to stop on the side of the road. She'd popped a squat. He'd smoked a cigarette and laughed at her. She looked up at him all awkward like, pointing that last Derringer at his nuts like she was gonna blast those fuckers off. He'd thought of flicking his smoke at her, nailing her right between the eyes.

And then they'd stopped for the night. She'd handcuffed him, but sucked him off like she'd promised to do. Afterward, he'd laid there with his pants by his ankles panting like it was come down time, watching her take a towel to the baby batter. That night, she'd snuggled up close to his body. They had stopped the car on the shoulder and were camped out in the back. He lay there with his hands cuffed behind his back, his shoulders rigid with the tension of sleeping on them, but she buried her face into his chest. “We'll get there,” she'd said, “you just wait and see.”

“Wake up god damnit.”

And then they were on the road. “I used fifty on gas. Got it from your wallet, but you got it from that gas station. We've got places to be, and we're on a timetable.” He was thinking that she had at least revealed some sense of planning, some sense of thought. She had his gun, and hardly felt it necessary to explain herself, in fact, even thought it comical when he asked her where they were going. She'd remarked, “You're just like a fucking child. You men, you're nothing without a woman to tell you what to do, where to go, and how to get there.”

“I aint never relied on a woman to do nothing for me, and I aint about to start. I'm just trying to figure out where we're going so I know when I should beat the shit out of you and make a run for it. Trying to gauge the reach of the law, and the only way to do that is to know where you're going. You know, routes and shit, a plan b of some sort. Don't you have a plan b?” She'd sat back with her hands folded on his seat between her crotch. He could have killed her.

They had been driving down the ten for a while now, near into New Mexico if Arizona hadn't dragged it's ass across the freeway for so long. They'd both looked out the window for cows, or grass, or people, or houses, but all they saw was that two lane freeway dissapearing into the canyons beyond.


They hit up a head shop in Alamagordo. A small joint on the corner of some street whose sign had been torn away. They'd pulled into the parking lot, gave the store attendant the once over.

“Where can we get some grass.”

The store clerk blinked, once, for amazement, twice in amusment, three times at the gun these two strangers produced. “toss in some powder if you can.”

“What's that city boy?”

“I said some coke. You god damned country bumpkins wouldn't know technical jargon if it bit you in your ass. I reckon that's right?”

“Fuck you.” He'd made some calls and within an hour, the pair was satisfied. They smoked a bowl with the clerk cus they'd put him through a lot to get the hook. The weed was terrible, sour and old. It had those brown hairs that made him immediately reconsider going east over north. She looked like the type that popped acid like candy, so he'd been ok with his eastern voyage after all. He didn't want some crazy bitch with a gun frying right next to him. Who knows what she was capable of doing. So he just sat there baking all stressed out, grabbing at his hair like a mad man. There was this bong, it was like a middle finger, he wanted it.

“Give that to me. I want it.”

“Pay me forty fuckin' dollars.”

“Is that all? It's not worth more?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well the glass work alone. Honey, come here a minute and you just admire that glass work. “

“Well, would you look at that, Carlo, that sure is something.” She smiled at the bong. The clerk stood over their shoulders hunched over using his back not his legs, glaring into the case. They were on their haunches looking at its swirls, different colors shooting up from the bottom of it, the neck ending in this defiant middle finger, fierce and daunting. They just watched it, the three of them, just basked in its glory. “Pretty,” had she thought that?

“That's right baby. Pretty as you Peggy Sue.”

“Carlo, you are as close to trouble as I've ever come.”

“Oh, I somehow doubt that.” She pointed the Derringer at the clerk. “Please honey, would you please just unlock that case there and give us that piece? Please? I'll pay you with your life baby boy. Won't you please just open up that case there and take it out for me?” She was so sweet. He'd smiled while he watched her. Was she going to kill him? He wasn't sure, not entirely, she'd baked, not fried. Who knows what the coke was like. Jesus.

He'd looked at the bag, more gray than white, what the fuck, “Is this?”

“What's that?” The clerk leaned against the wall looking at the bong he had removed from the case and placed on the glass counter tops.

“What is this shit? Here, you snort it.”

“Me? I don't do that shit man. I just know how to get it for you. You made an order man.” It was the truth. So she shot him, and planted the coke. The gun, she left on his chest, right next to his shoulder wound. The whiny fucking bastard-

“...Didn't even try to get up did he? He just laid there screaming at me, 'you bitch! You God damned bitch! I'll fucking kill you with my shotgun!' Could you believe that shit? A god damned small bullet like that. Jesus tap dancing Christ that weed was fucking terrible. Like the Folgers strand or something.”

She'd been blathering on. They were getting set to hit the halfway of New Mexico.

(and then... it just kinda ends... I dunno, looking back on it, maybe it was too violent, pushing the extreme too hard. It's interesting to experiment with sadistic people though. I found those characters were willing to do damn near anything...)

Hard Boiled

The cross, it’s 2 arms in defiance of the late afternoon sun.
It’s shadow separating Hero from Foe,
Hero on one knee, Foe on his back.

The cross their only witness.

Revolver raised. Hero like a conductor poised,
Holding his stomach with one hand, revolver in the other.
Both stood at their ends of the shadow, Hero narrowed his eyes.

The cross their only witness.

Foe raised his Glock.
The music stopped the dance was ending.
Hero pulled the trigger.

The cross their only witness.

The empty revolver was a crescendo to the symphony only moment before.
To the tune of the echo, Hero lowered his eyes. Foe pulled the trigger.
Startled birds flew from the roof of the church.

The cross their only witness.

(This was written during my freshman year of college. I posted it just to be able to have something to look back on. I never did say I was a poet!)

Fake Content

So, I was really trying to avoid any conversational or informative type posts in this blog (seeing as how I have a myspace, AIM, LJ, and several email accounts with which to notify people). The problem is that I recently started writing for my company and I really want you all to be able to see what I'm capable of when it comes to marketing/technical writing. The blog is wordpress and it's for the Jeff Paul program.

I write informative articles and press releases advertising our program, and I also give advice to aspiring internet marketers. It's not what you'd normally associate with me when you think of my writing, but I urge you all to give it a gander and tell me what you think.

Anywho... That link will now be permanently visible under the "places that don't exist" section on the left. Thanks for reading, and I promise I'll have real content soon!

Things I've seen #1

Crusing into Vegas? Cruise in style on Frank Sinatra Dr.

This image was taken in Utah. What was so amazing was the sense of size there. I cannot speak for my companion, but that place was much larger than I ever could be.

I took this image in a little town called Joseph. We met a red headed boy there who was very nice and took our picture.

This Nagging At the Back of My Eyes

Writer's note: This Story was published in the spring 2008 edition of the Northridge Review. It was written after my Father died. Last year, July 10th 2007. This is the one year anniversary, and I present this to you in honor of my Dad, Richard N. Bashara Esq...


Somewhere in time I am driving. I am holding three CD's in my right hand instead of my steering wheel, and I'm eyeing them for the last time. The heat is sweltering, complete with wet tracks of sweat, hot and sticky, and here I am sitting in my undershirt, jeans rolled up to my knees, in an old Honda with no a/c and hardly enough engine power to make it up this hill anyhow. With the windows rolled down, a breeze sifts its way through my faded upholstery carriage, but it's the backhand of some crazy desert devil whipping me across my cheek and wisping through my hair that is far too long for this wretched heat wave.

I decide on one of the discs, mostly because the sun reflecting off those spinners sears my eyes. I am listening to: soothing guitar, background fireworks, children, and laughing saxophone memories. It's a cold thing to hear but I can bear it, I think. The Honda chugs up the hill, leaving a lingering reminder of the cost of transportation with the thirsty sideways smirk of the fuel level gauge.

The hills cap off with a view of a valley paved in semis and the glistening rooftops of miscellaneously dated Camrys.


Somewhere in time I am at a bar. A local joint in the valley, and there is treble blasting out of speakers I cannot see. I am thinking of home in this overcrowded blast of noise, and I must shout directly into my own brain to think. I'm too drunk to drive; condemned to this dank pit of metal headed malarkey.

Maybe it was the ultraviolet red to purple warping through the walls, or perhaps it was the three whiskeys I had between all of those bud lights. Either way, I find myself outside with the world bleeding in on itself and dribbling it's entrails all over me. Someone offers me a smoke, and in a state of self regression I accept it, sucking sweetly at that ashy tit. I become smoke, my eyes betraying their own stare. Somewhere in my pockets there are keys to a car, got to find them. Got to get out of here.


By the grace of God go I.

Arrived at home, drunk as a skunk and about as appreciated, the stumble to my room is a blur of sidle steps I hardly remember as I slip myself in to bed.

During the night, I puke on myself repeatedly.


Somewhere in time I am crying. I am leaning over the casket of my grandfather crying, not because I feel very much, because I feel I ought to. I knew the man, sure, I have sparse memories. I'm eyeing my grandmother, she does not see me, and perhaps never will. My father sits with his head bowed; this is the first time I see him cry. A single tear, then he picks up and walks out.


Somewhere in time I am screaming at my mother because she has taken things too fucking far, and I've about had enough of her insolence. How she enrages me with her blind accusations, and slanderous babbling! She chips away at my beliefs, and my family. I have broken a coffee mug and forcibly removed her from my apartment by way of tossing her bags out into the hallway and telling her to get the fuck out.

She tells me that everything I knew is gone. She tells me that the things I believed about my life are over.


Somewhere in time I am not holding three CD's. I am holding my father, my brother, and my grandfather. Somewhere in those mirrored music makers I am looking back at myself.

The sheen is so bright, it blinds. I look up from the discs in time to see this beautiful collie with patches of black and white hair, so well highlighted by the morning sun, look directly into my eyes as if to ask me why I'd already chosen to keep on going. I say that I am sorry, and I start to cry, even before my car shakes with the force of the impact.

It's ok.

I smoke a cigarette. I haven't done that in a while, but I figure I ought to.


Somewhere in time, I am letting go of those CD's. Some one is listening to them, maybe even now I wonder. Sometimes, what is most beautiful is learning to let go of the tangible in favor of the story.

I sit on my patio and smoke cigarettes.

Sign Your Name Here

I

Go ahead, breathe it in.

No really, smell the new paint. Look at all of that cupboard space! The closets are pretty big to. You can almost see it now. The window faces first light so the bed went in that corner, opposite the window. The kitchen interrupts the living room, but it’s a studio apartment.

You really did well for yourself. Sure, it’s sort of small, but this is your first apartment all by your lonesome. Don’t you feel proud? Fresh out of college, you barely remember those days. Maybe you didn’t do so well then, maybe you did. None of that matters anymore, because you’re off to a brisk start.

You had to have the apartment on the top floor. There is this window just above the kitchen counter that overlooks a beautiful bright green garden, complete with a solemn bench under a terrace. It’s like being on a turret, high above your castle.

The landlord had shown you into the room, unlatched the door, and named his price as you walked in. He sounded less than enthusiastic, but you were excited as hell. It was heaven. You began piecing it together in your head. Posters on the ceiling of your favorite bands, artwork on the walls, and your own photography too. You still have some of those shots from class packed away. You’d been saving them for an occasion just like this. You’ll post those up. Bind them to the wall with putty because you don’t want to have to pay for them to Spackle when you move.

The couch is here, you ought to have a seat, you’ve been moving all day, and you’ve got to rest up for the gathering tonight. You’ve already got three friends confirmed, and two of them are bringing beer and liquor. You tried to keep things balanced between male and female. You like a good mix.

The sun is setting the sky on fire with a thin strip of paper, and everything glows a half-assed orange. The dust particles floating around the room shine an eerie white, like diminutive snowflakes, and you recline on the couch smoking a cigarette, or not. Maybe your head swims, maybe it doesn’t. You breathe it in, take it in actually, you still can’t believe it.

You’re doing it.

After a few minutes, you pry yourself off of the couch and start messing about. You have a lot to do before people get here. You start unpacking your clothes and folding them up. Some will go into the drawers, some on hangers. You take your tops and face them all in the same direction on hangers like grandmother taught you. You slide that aside, and fold your pants and underwear.

Maybe it’s a tad on the small side. Maybe, you could see things possibly becoming problematic. For instance, the way the cabinets jut out two feet from the wall and decrease the size of the kitchen. For some reason a piece of wall protrudes from the west side of your room in the most inopportune of places. Your sink is a dull stainless steel, and the water spigots are rusted at their bases.

You are getting this place for dirt cheap, and it’s only going to be a year. How hard could that possibly be? This is an in-between so you can bring potentials somewhere without fear of them seeing your parents. This is your place to drink. You can smoke inside here, or not, and most importantly no one is around to bitch at you for lighting up in the first place. No roommates, no family.

This is it.

The drawers are built into the closet like a pharaoh’s tomb burrowed into a cliff face. You open the drawers and start placing clothes inside them. The top drawer holds your underwear and socks, and the middle drawer holds your pants. The middle drawer is a canyon, a veritable black hole of space. This place is pretty great.

You get sidetracked folding clothes and look over at your stereo. Look at it, the poor thing, all useless and bound up in the corner. Put it together, you ought to listen to some music; it will help spice things up a bit. Go ahead, put on that really hopeful album you like. The birth and death of the day cycle through, and looking out your window at the garden below, you can think of nothing to fear.

Minutes go by like glorious hours and you float along side a stream of notes and chords thrown together and tossed around like an ocean of color.

You go back to folding clothes again, humming along with sanguinity. When the pants fill up the second drawer you open the third. The third is shallow, much shorter in depth, and apparently already full. Would you look at that?

A composition notebook.

You haven’t seen one of those in a long time. Gosh, since freshman comp, when they made you take notes in one of these and hand them in at the end of the semester. You take it out apprehensively gazing at the nonsensical speckled black and white spots all over the cover. You place it under the coffee table and go back to putting your clothes away.

Just then, your stomach reminds you that you require sustenance. Mom gave you a bunch of stuff suited for moments such as these. Top ramen to the rescue! The sink spews rust-colored water into the washbasin, and you are tempted to gag but it clears quickly. Whatever, you’re hungry. You pop the ramen into the microwave and you can almost smell the MSG you’re about to gulp down. Somewhere around, you have chopsticks for that authentic feel, but in a time of deprivation you go for the closest thing to you, a plastic Spork mom and dad gave you. Part of the plates, cups, and various party supplies designed to have you wash fewer dishes.

The impromptu dinner is over, and your stomach still rumbles. There will be consumption of alcohol this evening. You are out to get hammered. The best course of action is to cease eating, and start consuming water. The fridge isn’t full and nothing is cold, not even lightly chilled. Water is water? Certainly not from that spigot.

There is a forgotten half-full water bottle on the windowsill, looming large and casting muddled rays over the white face next to the stove. They slosh around as you lift the bottle and uncap it. Your stomach slakes that familiar cold casting itself down to quell your creeping craving.

You light another cigarette, or don’t, a victory cigarette, or not. Either way the day fades to a playful grey thinning off into purple mixed to blue, a deep azure.

People start arriving.

Hello Max. How have you been? It’s been a while. Are you still playing guitar? I always liked that one song you used to play.

Frank! It’s been a dog’s age. Gosh, I thought the real world had long consumed you. Funny seeing you here, give me a hug.

Why hello there Karen. Is this your husband? Boyfriend. I’m quite honored to meet you… You live together? How long? Oh how nice.

Susan walks in. She’s wearing jeans, and a sash that have seen the inside of too many shaded jazz clubs, cloth dabbed with the smell of cigarettes and liquor just enough, so that when you get close to her she holds the aromatic essence of jazz. She never says anything to anyone unless they say something to her first. That’s typical Susan. You’ve always liked Susan because it took you time to get to know her. She’s one of those people that you really had to work for. You remember nights with her: drinking beer while suddenly finding everything much more profound, journeying to her house for the first time, and sitting on the hood of your old car with her during the summer months talking about the future, about life, about the sky.

Sure as sunshine, she plays Lady Day and hides herself off in the corner. You two exchange glances, she smiles.

Jenny, Bob, and Gerri trickle in fashionably late, and the party officially kicks. It’s a Holliday affair, music playing second to lingo, and everyone seems to be getting along. You have a few beers, nothing too big, but you’re starting to feel it. Look at the way Max plays air guitar in front of Frank and Jenny, who seem to be awfully close; Susan chats with Karen, the perfect conversation connoisseur, and Karen’s befuddled boyfriend. Do you even remember his name?

Bob and Gerri have been together for years; Bob is as plain as his name, and Gerri is a big shot in real estate. You’ve known Bob for years, you went to grade school with him, and it so happened that the two of you met again in college.

What a party this is. Like a farewell maybe, simultaneous salutations of both hail and adieu. As the host, you walk around providing for the crowd, making jokes, being happy, witty, drunk, and occasionally flirty. You have been waiting for this moment, a chance to really show yourself off. It’s not striking it rich, but perhaps they’ve not much more than you. Well, Bob and Gerri are pretty successful, but they’re boring. You’d never tell them that of course, but it’s true. Always asking about your plans for the future, we’re so happy, we’re so happy! We got a new car last week, a fucking Ford, or Chevy, or Toyota. Looking for a down payment on a condo are they? No, not that, Gerri says condos are such a waste of money. Everybody knows there’s no equity in a condo, a house is where the money is at, not that this isn’t a lovely abode you have. It’s so… Cozy, yes that’s the proper word¾ you contemplate tearing her throat out¾ oh what’s that? Someone needs a drink?

Why yes, you are available. Would you excuse me Bob and Gerri? I have something I need to attend to, I’ll make my way back though, it’s always such a pleasure. Now that you’re rid of those two, it’s time to fix drinks and mingle some more.

Karen’s boyfriend strikes up a conversation with Max as the two share a musical interest. They put on Led Zeppelin. You don’t mind, Led Zeppelin is ok. They set a good mood, everyone is a little more open, better than the blues Susan had on before.

You had managed to bribe mom into releasing some of her threshold of liquor. She supplied the rum, one bottle of clear tequila no one has shot a glance at, and a twelve pack of generic cola; Max brought beer, and ice ¾ resourceful Max had even bought a Styrofoam cooler. Bob and Gerri brought champagne. Bob nurses the bottle buoying next to Gerri atop your midnight blue ocean. You fix a few rum and cokes, and pass them around. Gerri wants a cosmopolitan, but you don’t have the mixers necessary. Instead you offer her coconut rum and pineapple juice, courtesy of Frank. She begrudgingly accepts, but when the alcohol hits her, the levee breaks.

Dim lights cast shadows of furniture, and the moonlight fills them in with speckled white light, you sit on the countertop surrounded by bottles staring at your floor and its “your name here” visage. A few people take to the couch, and with their drinks safely on the face of the simple black coffee table, their dialogue grows. You are floating, everything a blur. No, maybe not. Don’t bother me¾ get your own drink¾ float with me. Look how pretty the garden is. Imagine that table, the moonlight speckling pale white through black shadows cast from trees, on to Susan’s naked flesh. Her body flaunting its “your name here” visage.

You stammer a moan, barely audible. Someone hears you, someone ignores you; who are these people? The party continues, feel it draw a vague impression like a watermark on your soul.

You are getting sleepy, or maybe that is the alcohol. How many have you had? Who knows? You float on the counter, look at how full it is; look at your friends, how they enjoy themselves. You want them to go, so you can be left alone to your thoughts.

Get out of here. Just go.

That’s what you want to tell them, these friends. You love these people. Love them like kindergartners love cupcakes, no, like security blankets. Night sky stars cast luminous tacks on a tack board, a cosmic tack board. Hands move like waves and you flay them, stretch them out, make them faster, don’t hit Karen. Look at Max and his guitar. Do you care? Do you really care?

It drags like cigarette embers tracing down paper, consuming this party. Give me a cigarette.

No one? Give me a goddamned cigarette!

Someone hands you a cigarette. Calm down, they say.

Steal a glance at Susan, snap back; what? Calm yourself douche bag!

Does the counter shake?

Footsteps outside of the door, someone is coming to shut you down, this party is over. It’s only eleven thirty; it’s quiet. The footsteps grow faint as they pass your door. Someone abound at this late hour? How remarkably strange, but surely they would like to meet you. You run, stumbling over the coffee table, toward the door.

Watch yourself now don’t bump into my boyfriend!

Sorry. (No, not really, what’s-his-face was in the way.)

Open the door, out in the hallway there is someone unlocking his door. You flash him a grin, he sees. He glares at your smiling face, nice and bright¾ you’re friendly, he is not¾ he locks his door. You catch a whiff of your own breath. That pickled essence. Taste it, really taste it. You feel it in the pit of your bowels, nascent in your esophagus. As you stammer a belch, you feel fire all over your chest. Clearly, it’s time to sit down.

Take a drag of that cigarette, or let it burn in your fingers, the smell so enchanting, so strong, you breathe heavily, or don’t.

Are you excited? Horny? Yes, that’s it, alcohol always does have that affect, like an enchantment straight to your head. How it feels: hands like palettes thin and wide, scrape shapes sharp shifting hands like paper, thin and wide. Hands open to expression, fire, and passion. Your foot falls asleep but that is far away now. The counter is so hard. Do you feel the way your bony ankle presses against the pressboard surface? It stings at you. Continue to get lost as minutes give way to hours¾ we are here, you think, together for just a bit of time and ours is a wonderful bond¾ melt away time, over the stove the way you light cigarettes when there is no lighter to be found.

Small flecks flake away as everything blurs this feeling, this light-heartedness. In the morning you will feel it creep up your guts with that ugly warble and bubble. Place yourself mentally in front of your porcelain shrine. How beautiful this all looks.

These friends, these marauders; invading, sacking, taking, raking up what they can before shaking off to kick rocks as they stumble and tumble to their cars, home, loved ones, equity, sleep, peace, night outside seeping into the room, its darkness overcoming your own. This party with its dim lights, and dim wits putting you to sleep. Do you force them out?

Leave me be, you want to scream, let me go, give me peace.

They leave. People vanish like water down drains. Rust colored, like disgusting vomit on the bathroom floor.

The shower with its glass doors seems so inviting. Highly aroused, you contemplate climbing into the shower, letting the water wash over your body, and down your waist. You masturbate, or don’t.

You masturbate in that shower. Do you moan, doesn’t matter, but do the neighbors hear?

II

In the morning you feel it. You feel it creeping back up, rumbled from guts churning like soup, some sick witches’ brew burns, tracing itself in lines up and down, up and down.

You masturbate in the shower.

The water feels good, as the water trickles down. The toilet runs, the water turns hot to cold and back again¾ do you moan? Doesn’t matter. Morning’s flow of sunshine rays through shutters flayed over the foggy glass window, frozen with cold, shivering your space.

There are cans everywhere, the ashtray is full, and the trashcan has overflowed onto the linoleum floor. Morning spills onto the carpet, a soft baby blue in its radiance. Your bed, that pitiful thing, like a Siamese twin separated from kings and queens¾ are you too big for it? Maybe not quite so big as to be problematic, but, you could see problems: people scrunching up, swamping corners like posters plastered against walls, trying to chat with bent necks and knees squatting to fit. They had fun. You did a good job. You entertained them, you’re quite proud of yourself. Your mouth tastes of vomit, and your hands are soaked in oil. Water runs through hair. Your thighs quiver, your legs buckle, and waves of morning pleasure through you.

The shrill squeaky creak of metal on metal rings out in a claustrophobic echo as the water drip drips to cessation. The loose bathroom doorknob doesn’t budge at first, and there is a terrible sense of panic, as you fumble the rickety brass piece. Steam surrounds you, and you flush crimson. The knob finally gives.

Outside birds chirp, you hear them through the screen over the window. You never did care for them as alarm clocks, too high, too low, not like the appeasing predictable drone drone drone of your alarm. Wake up! It’s time for work, no time to fuck around! Don’t your hear it screaming at you?

Work…

The simple black coffee table is the centerpiece of this centered place, your room growing from it like a vertex, the couch your own point of origin, the length between you and that table the radius of it all with your arm as the compass needle. Stare at the coffee table for a moment, think of ways to cover up the scratches adorning its face, and ponder pasting pictures from a calendar of 365 sexual positions onto it. You will call it the Kama sutra table, and it will give you many ideas.

You arc out at the air, at the dusty old air. Feel the flakes, how they twist and writhe and wriggle. Look behind you at the closet doors. Those thin paper doors, pressboard like your cupboards and table. This place is cheap.

Damn right it is! How else were you going to get your start? Living here has its white bare walls. You should put posters up, and place photos. You remember things in moments, Max and his guitar, what’s his face and his girlfriend, Gerri’s prattle, moving things up stairs, up creaky forgotten neglected impartial stairs.

After you toss on a set of comfortable gray and black speckled jogging pants, and a white undershirt, begin tacking photos to the walls. Move things around, stand there for a minute, and really review the situation. Stand with one arm folded under your breastbone, and the other hand pointing directly at the wall. Pivot your head like a tank turret, and survey the next bare piece of wall. Blast it with your own personal touch of creativity.

Morning hours fade as coffee bean scent trails with lingering reminiscences of cancer stick smoke, or not. There is much to be done and not nearly enough time before Monday to do it. Begin rearranging things, set up your television¾ never watch your television. Set up your toaster, your tabletop grill, and your microwave oven. Stand wine glasses up on their heads, and wash dishes.

Pace back and forth, and stop every few steps order to document where you are in the room. Follow your footpath, retrace it, now you are in the kitchen, now the living space, now your bed(room). The closets are huge, inviting even, but those pressboard coffins hold clothes dead till the work-week comes again. Sit on the couch and wriggle around while you adjust your back. Prop your feet up on the coffee table, masturbate on the couch. Sweat drips from you. Get up and put on the air conditioner, that little tab on the panel behind you. Flick it, and feel the cool air sweep dust particles like smoke clouds in a cartoon film. Smoke drips from you. Take off your clothes and feel naked on that couch. Recline and get comfy. It’s your room.


You have a nice desk. Sit at it for a second, go on the computer and look things up on the Internet. Read the news, check times for movies you’ll never see. Stare into space, illegally download music, or don’t. Turn the TV on¾ never watch it¾ turn the TV off. Vacuum your room.

The top floor, as it turns out, is pretty quiet. It’s a piercing kind of silence, a loud white noise that you hear in the back of your head. Nervously fidget your foot, feel how you shake the coffee table. Run your feet across the plush blue carpet, and dig your toes in. Smoke a cigarette, or don’t. Walk back and forth, back and forth. Exhale long trails from your nostrils, of cold dusty air, of thick cancer smoke. Reach one end of the room, and then count how many steps it takes to get to the other end. Lose count when you notice the couch is off center. Slide the couch slightly left, no slightly right, now back a little, that’s good. Perfect, dead center with that wall, next to the drywall erection out of nowhere, for no damned reason.

Lie down in bed, close your eyes, and try to dream of dreaming. Fidget some more¾ your leg shakes the bed. Your eyes open, and you can’t hold them closed. Stare at the ceiling, and let your eyes fall naturally from one blank space to another on walls you haven’t decorated yet.

Get used to prowling. Crawl on your hands and knees while you run your face over the plush carpet. Ignore the crap clinging to you. Vacuum your room again, and mop the kitchen floor¾ this is the cleanest you’ll ever be. Clean the bathroom.

Rolling stones, like rolling stones rumble through brick white walls. Paint them black, you want to scream. This will be a trend, Rolling Stones for fucking hours. The sun goes down, and the Stones play on, the concert lasts for hours upon endless hours. Slam your hands against the walls, pound like it’s a prison cell, and someone is bound to hear you. Call the police, you scream, I’m locked in my room! The walls close in. Breathe heavy, smoky lungs. Feel them quiver, struggling to inhale through their dusty lining.

Sit upside down on the couch and let the blood rest in your brain. No homework. That feels strange, doesn’t it? Did you really do it? Is this place really ready to be lived? The room shakes with footsteps and Stones. Windows rattle, and the air-conditioning lacks endurance as it struggles, like your lungs¾ or not to blow air everywhere, clean air, moldy air, air that tastes of something. Smoke, no, the smell your car makes when the AC kicks in before the long drives up North you take to see your grandmother.

The sink is still spotless, maybe you should cook, like Emeril, like Clint Eastwood in the sun while Eli Wallach leads him on, like fried eggs on a grimy car motor. Greasy food slides down your maladjusted throat. Absorb the grease on your taste buds. Smell your shirt, that still stale thing clinging to your sweaty body. Turn the TV on¾ do not watch it, in fact, unplug it. TV rots your brains anyhow. Turn the TV off. Hang photos there, above the bed, over on the broad side of it. Hang a few from the ceiling to, plaster them with museum tack¾ now don’t forget that. Remember your little deposit, they rake in your money¾ where does this go? Hmm, put that one near the window in the kitchen. The room has color now, black and white on white on blue on shit-stained brown, couch next to the erectile dysfunction wall. Horny again? Not really, bored, maybe…

Maybe masturbate on the couch? Already this is problematic, yes, this room is too small.

No, it’s small but it’s yours goddamnit. You paid (are paying) for this shit hole- this room, this oh so peaceful room, no sound but Stones warbled through that erectile dysfunction wall.

Sigh.

Smoke a cigarette, or don’t. Lie down on the shit-stained couch, run your fingers through the plush blue carpet, like hairy water it swishes with your touch. The sunshine is fading again, a Zippo flame stifled out by the steel shield. The night barges in unannounced, but nevertheless welcome. Turn on the lights that shine orange to white to¾ neon green. Catch the green with your eyes, stare directly at the light until you notice a flicker so fast you almost never caught it.

Stare at the cottage cheese ceiling, notice the rusted, water-stained outlines of sewage pipes, and imagine what the room would be like minus your roof. Turn on music, anything to stem off the boredom and the fucking Stones blasting through fucking stones. God this place is ugly, dreary even.

You try to sleep.

When trying fails, you take some sleep aid, to feel drowsy. Smoke some pot, increase this sleepy high. Do you have any? You selfish little prick, why didn’t you share with people last night? What is this… who do they think you are? Hey, nobody asked¾ you inhale sweet smoky sanctification¾ tastes of pine, smells of pine that thin green blow like hookah from the lips of a sultan. Lie back, relax, and get comfy. Don’t watch TV.

Instead, look at that notebook you found yesterday. Funnel through its pages. Thumb them like a book waiting to be read. This is your story, the notebook says. Come, it beckons, write in me.

I’m too tired to write, you give it shallow validation. It sneers back at you through speckled eyes flaunting its “your name here” cover. Personalize me, it begs, come on, it’s your new room, first time on your own, write in me. Remember this with me.

Argue with it some more, and set it down on your bed stand (floor).

III

Alarm drone drone drone’s onward and you are off. Down the home stretch it’s coffee in the lead followed by breakfast and shower. Masturbation coming in at dead last, and then suddenly, a surge, frustration hears you cum. Hop out of the shower and get dressed¾ quickly now, there is not much time. Fry eggs, oops… egg, make toast. Pour coffee, spill coffee, clean up coffee, smell coffee, and breathe.

Breakfast smells so good as your eyes drag themselves awake.

Place the egg on the toast, slice into the toast, and watch the egg bleed its plasmic yellow cholesterol all over your plate. You’re so hungry, you’re practically foaming at the mouth. You dig in, and from first to last bite, it is a five-minute masterpiece. Chug coffee as you race for the door.

Don’t forget your keys.

Drive safe, come home…


Work passes, another boring day at the office. Now you are in the sanctity of your room. Stop lying to yourself and get real. This place is great. (Great… mighty, massive, awesome?) Hardly, this place is a dump. Look around at those whitewashed wasted walls standing there.

It’s evening already, and the Stones roll on. Have they stopped since they started? Never mind that now, turn on something you like. Turn on: blues to rock to dance to classical to new age to atmospheric to death metal to any fucking thing that will blot out the brown sugar ever presently flowing through the mouth of your ear.

The night drags, like eyelids, like cigarettes. Everything’s that sickly orange-to-white-to-green-flicking color from those wretched lights mounted to the rust-stained ceiling. You wait. The music stops, and you wait.

Waiting turns to minutes turns to hours, and the notebook calls.

Or not?

Perhaps you were just hearing things, after all, it couldn’t possibly know your name. You have not even put your mark on its speckled face. You want to though. In point of fact, it’s been the only thing you’ve thought about all day from the moment you walked in until the moment you punched out, your every thought consumed like a cigarette burning. That speckled notebook flaunting its blank cover, blatant with its barefaced pages, that fucking¾ no, that sweet¾ no, that open notebook, so very open, in point of fact, like a hooker’s legs. Just humping full of possibility.

Do you descend into its depths? Open it, go ahead and thumb through its pages. Pick it up, that’s right… It’s like the pages never end. They just keep going and going as you flip through them, thumbing them like that animation book you made in middle school, never-ending rendering of images into thought, you can see them now, these pages filled with your thoughts. Yes, you will do it. You will put pen to paper; this room deserves to be remembered. This is the first time out on your own, you should be so proud. You go for a pen¾ thoughts already flowing through synaptic gaps, toying through your forebrain, employing every method, rhyme, and reason on their perpetual pursuit to paper.


Write in the notebook seated on the floor next to the coffee table. Write this in the notebook¾ write every word of it, because it’s the only way for you to remember your own greatness. Write in the notebook; write well into the night, until the moonlight fills in the shadows cast by your furniture with its speckles through leaves. The whole room seems different now, a little more personal. So easy to get lost, centered in a room. The thing about a room is that it holds everything.

Seriously, look at all that cupboard space. The middle drawer is a veritable black hole. Pressboard closet tombs hold clothes hanging like the condemned, the ragged, bleached with sun and buzzard bites. The coffee table really draws it together, don’t you think? It is the perfect spot, the best possible place to trap you.

It’s always easy to get lost in the center of the room when you really think about it. So many places to go, like being pulled everywhere all at once¾ feel carpet against your face, and ignore the crap clinging to you. It’s quite peaceful in its own way wouldn’t you say? Think about it, your own music, that hopeful album you like¾ anything to block out the fucking Stones. You would go to work, but this room sort of grew on you. Things are not so problematic as to be loathsome, but definitely cramped. Someday, bounce off walls, tear out notebook pages, and scream until your vocal chords taste of blood. The notebook will just keep calling.

Yes. This room holds everything.