notebook expansion.

this is a scene that would be in the first story I wrote about the egotistical writer. it would take place years before the part I wrote.

She threw the papers at my face. It should have been a strong gesture of rage, but well, you know what happens when you throw paper. As it drifted slowly to the floor I thought about how it as a visual representation of her emotions. Like a headstrong ship that gets the wind taken right out of its sails. After years of fighting I knew the pattern, and I admit I used her submissiveness to get away with more than I should. I was gazing at the papers, a little in awe of the poetry of the universe, when she hit me in the stomach with the fire poker.
“Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”
“You tell me not to be dramatic and then you tell me you have a son,” she yells.
I’m on the ground sobbing. My whole body feels sick. I’m facing the oriental carpet and I wrench and vomit all over it. The next blow land across my back but I don’t really feel it. All I can do is think that the vomit looks like an abstract version of the patterns on the carpet. Thanks to the sherry I had ingested earlier that night the colors are almost an exact match. It’s like someone took part of the carpet and put it in a blender then poured it back onto the carpet. As she hits me on the head I’m thinking, so this is what they mean by your body detaching during trauma. I almost want to laugh, she thinks she’s hurting me. She can’t see that my essence has retreated, slinking out of my mouth as regurgitated pie and sherry. And I am safe now, a pile of chameleon stench hidden from the fire poker. Eventually she stops hitting me.
She slumps into the armchair. I roll over and lie on my back panting. There seems to be something sticky on the side of my head. I feel nothing but pounding pain throughout most of my body. We stay like this for maybe ten minutes, not talking or moving then she gets up and goes to the kitchen. I groan and start to check for broken limbs. There is a cut in my head but the skull isn’t fractured. I’m sitting on the carpet when she comes back with a tray, a bottle of whiskey two glasses and an ice pack.
“I think I should go to the emergency room.” I tell her.
“I think we should talk.” She kneels beside me and holds the icepack to my head.
“You tried to kill me.”
“Here, have a whiskey,” She tenderly pours a little into my open mouth, “you have a son?”
“Yes, he’s six months old.”
“Why did you marry me?”

I had a date with Ben it was bad but not as bad as this writing.

I was looking really good, My lips were just perfect. I opened the door and stepped into the restaurant. He was sitting there and the first thing I noticed was beard, gross. Where did that come from? I mean I almost didn’t want to go sit down, but I figured what the hell, at least it will be a story. I mean I’m already here, At least I can make this guys night for him right? I go over to the table.
“Hi, I’m Sharon.”
He looks up at me and smiles, gross beard smile. “Nice to meet you Sharon, I’m Ben.” He doesn’t get up to pull out my chair for me, it’s probably better, I don’t want him getting too close to me. He’s not saying anything, great, a guy who doesn’t know how to talk and has a beard.
“How are you doing?” I ask. Let’s see the wine list, at least I can get my moneys worth.
“I’m pretty good,” he says, “you?”
“I’m ok, I had a terrible time getting here, I was going to drive but then I remembered I hate parking down town. Right? So I took a cab, and oh my god, let me tell you.” I wave a perfectly manicured hand in front of my face.
“It smelled?”
“And I should have seen it coming, but I forget what their like.” I’m probably going to get the merlot, and the salmon, I heard from Suzie that the salmon here is amazing.
“What?”
“Well, they don’t have the same standards that we do.”
“Who don’t?” He sounds like he’s getting worked up for some reason, it’s probably the beard, it must irritate his face.
“Cabbies,” I think I’ll probably skip desert, he seems kind of boring.
“Yes, filthy folks cabbies, we should have them all shot.” Did I just hear him right? I replay the sentence in my head and lower the wine list to look at him. He’s just looking at me. Is he some sort of crazy person? Is he joking?
“Are you joking?”
“ Oh no,” he says, “ I really want to shoot anybody who drives a cab.” So he’s one of those assholes who thinks he’s funny, great. This is going to be a long night.
“In fact I’m going to go look for some cabbies right now.” He gets up. “It wasn’t that nice to meet you.” and he walks out the door. People with beards are so weird. Gross.

Dialogue, the worst thing you've ever done, without the worst thing youve ever done

The kid lives three houses away. Tom and Mary live in the house on the corner. Tom calls it her corner office but she doesn’t think that’s funny anymore. He doesn’t think its funny anymore either.
Tom walks down the stairs in pajamas.
“I made eggs,” Mary says. She is sitting at the kitchen table in a floral print dress. Her skin is pale. Her hair is completely gray but the rest of her looks young.
“Breakfast of champions,” he says
“I thought that was Wheaties.”
“I thought it was a shitty book.”
She laughs a little, not like she used to. “Anyway, they’re in the fridge.”
He grabs a cup of coffee and opens the kitchen shades. The light hits the sink; it’s been polished over night. He sits at the table with his coffee. “Where’s the paper?”
“They left it around back this morning.”
“Did they?”
“Do you want some toast to go with your eggs?”
“Sure,” he says, “thanks.”
He brings the paper back and Mary’s standing over the toaster watching it. “I don’t know why you want to read about corn prices anyway.”
“It’s where we are now,” he says
“Yah, well, the eggs are in the fridge.”
He puts down the paper and grabs the plates from the cupboard. He opens the fridge, there are seventeen boiled eggs lined up there.
“The ones on the left were in eight minutes, the ones in the middle were in ten, and the ones on the right are twelve.”
“Yah, I can see the numbers on them.”
“He was blinking his light again last night.”
“I figured,” he said.
“It’s not Morse code,” she said
“No?”
“No.”
“Look, I’m going to go to work,” he said.
“Ok.”
“You should get some sleep.”
“Pack some eggs for lunch,” she said.
“Yah. How’s your chest?”
“It’s tight but it’s almost clean, I got it almost clean last night.”
“I can tell.” He looked at the sink.
“Don’t get worked up Tom.”
Tom laughed, “Yah, I wouldn’t want to over react or anything would I.”
“And don’t get mean,” she said this in a quieter voice, looking down into her coffee.
I know, sorry.” Tom looked out the window at the hills of cornfields. “Look, I’m sorry about it all. Maybe we should move back.”
“You know we shouldn’t,” she said
“Yah, I know.”
They were silent for a minute, sitting. Tom blew at the steam coming off his coffee cup. Then he looked at her. “No, I don’t know, why shouldn’t we leave.”
“It won’t change anything,” she said. “It will still all be here, he’ll still be here.”
Tom stood up and stepped around behind his chair. He rested his hands on the top of it and looked at the table. “Yah, but we won’t be here and that’s got to count for something.”
“I think I can do something here,” she said. “I just need a little time.”
“Jesus, it’s eating you up, you don’t sleep, you don’t eat, your labeling the god damn eggs based on how long they were cooked, you see that? I’m walking around on eggshells around here because I don’t want to tell you you’re really flipping your shit on this one.” His knuckles are white as he grips the top of the chair.
“Do you feel better now?” She looks at him and smiles, “how long have been waiting to say that to me?”
“Look, I didn’t mean that.”
She made eye contact with him. “Yes, you did. I need you to say things like that to me, can you see that?”
“I didn’t just want to move here for peace and quite, you know that.” He said
“I know, and I wanted it too, maybe not forever, but for a while. We were getting worn down.”
“I was so worried about you.” he said
She laughed, “I love how you don’t even see what it does to you.”
“Hey, I’m not the one painting rooms and polishing sinks over and over.”
“Maybe you should try it.”
He laughed, “Maybe I should.”

Explosian

It is, to be sure, a matter not to be discussed even in the most discreet of company. I had an intimate appreciation of this fact, being the esteemed sir’s confidant. Knowing this you can imagine how my cheeks flushed red with a kind of shock as I heard myself revealing his secret to his wife.
That we were in bed together at the time is no excuse. It is an unspoken agreement of people of a certain distinction that one won’t reveal these little embarrassments under any circumstances, sober or no, especially not to the mans wife for God sakes.
That she did not have a prior knowledge, that she showed no giggles of comprehension when I hinted at the good sir’s peculiarity, this is what made me do it. She must know, I thought. When it became apparent she did not I had an overwhelming desire to tell, to watch her high arched eyebrows rise perhaps even higher and see her thoroughbred nose flair in a high spirited sign of surprise.
I did not expect her high pitched shriek, her distorted and mad facial expressions. These things transformed her into a kind of ogre hyena lady. She howled like a she-banshee shattering the glass face on the clock. She jerked her head back violently and let her tongue protrude, gagging her and pointing straight up at the ceiling. She lurched and clutched and convulsed and spat. Her hair turned gray, then white, then fell out. Her gleaming bald head shook with rage and her eyes went bright red and dripped blood. She began to frantically gnaw on her hands.
“Calm yourself my dear,” I implored her. “You are making yourself unseemly”
………..I have no idea where to go with this………………..

wanting

I have wanted. It rips me inside. When I look into eyes and their bodies two step back from me. It rips me from wanting. I have felt the unwanted specks of spit, fickle on my lips. I see my hunched posture, bent apart; I am a shape that should not be. I need, like you need to breathe. I need like ointment over a burn. I need to be different.
I sit in front of the home, wheeled out like a bag of garbage. I sit in the sunlight. I have been dressed in a dull gray sweater by an orderly who doesn’t talk to me. I have a bright red hat pulled over my ears. My head hangs to the side. They line us up in a row. We sit. The only look I get is pity. Everyone is so sorry I am not as good as them. Everyone is so embarrassed I am not as good as them.
All the time she walks by, she is my wanting. She of the sandy brown hair cut to her shoulders, thick as the sunlight I sit in. Her red wool jacket down past her knees. Her jacket will hold her in and warm from the world. She looks at me without repulsion. She looks at me without fear. She looks at me like I am a helpless baby, something to be held and cooed to, like I a drowning beetle she would swoop from a lake with her too perfect hand.
I love her like a real man would. I want to love her like a real man would. My wanting is maggots eating little bloody holes into my stomach. She has made me small with her smile. I need to rise up powerful, like Poseidon from the ocean. I need, like you need to breathe, I need to rise up from this chair and tower whole over her.
I would pull the red wool jacket from her, the buttons popping off. With one downward motion of my arm I would tare her silk undershirt in half. She would gasp in pleasure as her breasts rolled free. I would take her on the sidewalk. I would be all control and all man. I would take her to a home I had built with my too perfect hands. I would cook her dinner and I would wash the dishes and I would take her on the dining room table like a man does.
I try to hurl myself out of my chair. I need for my atrophied husk to summon one miracle and pitch itself at the sidewalk just hard enough to split my skull and let this mistake leek out from me. I need them to come out and know I have moved myself. I have moved myself to a place where no more applesauce will spooned through my lips.
Everyday at nine fifteen she walks by. Every day I try to tip towards freedom until they roll me inside at ten thirty.
I am wanting. It rips me inside.

bear at the door

"Harold, My brakes don't work," she said. They were riding rented bicycles on their honeymoon in Ireland.
"Those bastards," said Harold, "I knew they hated us because were American."
"Harold, My brakes don't work."
"just pull onto the grass up there where it flattens out."
"where, where?
"there, there, right there, you missed it."
They were on a hill. On one side were cliff that dropped down two hundred feet to the ocean. On the other side there were cliffs going up fifty feet.
"Harold." The hill was getting steeper.
"Stay calm, we just have to think. Maybe there will be another place to pull off." Harold wasn't braking in order to keep up with her. His face was bright red.
"There isn't one, Harold there's a corner down there."
"Harold, I don't think I can make the turn going this fast"
"Harold, I'm scared." Her hat blew off and her hair was streaming behind her. her fingers were white with bright red knuckles where she gripped the handle bars.
"I think you might have to tip over before the cliff," Harold said.
"What?"
"Put you feet down, try to scrape your feet along the ground."
"I'm going too fast to."
"Do it, do it anyway." The cliff was one hundred feet away. they we thirty miles an hour.
"I'll scrape myself really bad."
"Tip over, tip over." Harold yelled at her.
He was still yelling it as they sailed off the cliff together. She was silent, a look of chock on her face.

Dialogue 3.

He has been back from Iraq for a week. He’s sitting in the bed smoking. His legs are crossed and his shirt is off. His eyes are closed.
“You’re there again,” she says.
He opens one eye and looks at her. She is standing by the window in a thin white nightgown. He can see the outline of her body through it.
“I’m here now,” he says.
“Is it bad there, does it hurt to be there?” She walks to the bedside table to pick up the pack of cigarettes. She moves like a dancer.
“Maybe it’s sad,” he says.
“What do you remember the most?”
“It’s more of a feeling,” he says.
“But what do you picture in your head, what do you see when you close your eyes like that?” she sits on the bed next to him. Her legs hang off and do not touch the floor. She points her toes down and moves her ankles in circles as they talk. She is holding an unlit cigarette.
“You know how you feel right when a good soprano starts to sing Ave Maria?” He stands up and reaches into his jean pockets. “The feeling right at the beginning, after the first line, but before anything else, right in that first pause.” He hands her the lighter.
“So you don’t see anything?”
“Of course I see things,” He says.
“What do you see?” She lights the cigarette and inhales. He watches the smoke come out of her mouth before he answers.
“But I never hear anything.” He bends over and leans the pillows up against the bed board so he can sit against them.
“What do you see?” she says.
“All the moments you remember are in silence,” he says. “Like when you take a shot in a basketball game and time slows down. You can see it all, the crowd, the ball, the hoop. You can never hear a god damn thing.”
“I don’t play basketball.” She says.
They both laugh.
“Like when you dance.” He says
“I don’t see a thing when I dance,” she says. “I only hear music.”
“And does it feel good?” He reaches over to the table and puts out the cigarette.”
“The best,” she says.
“Then where I go is the exact opposite of when you dance.”
“But the Ave Maria is beautiful.” She says.
“I’m talking about the feeling, he says.” When the hair is up on the back of your neck, right after that first pause. You don’t feel beautiful.”
“What do you feel?” She hands him her cigarette to put out.
“You feel too awake. All the time there you have that too awake feeling, and you can never hear anything.”
“Let’s go to bed,” she says.
“I would like that,” he says.

Story of map

Every night the old people gathered at the church. It was an old brick building at the very top of the hill. the bricks were leaching out minerals, decomposing, this gave them a scaly white surface. Boston Ivy covered one side of the building. the side that had windows. Because the town was next to the ocean sand was everywhere; sweeping was a full time job. the church floor, large enough to seat only forty people, was covered in sand. the pews were stained so dark one might think they were painted black. It was dark inside, lit only by huge white candles that gave off the smell of old onions while they burned.
The preacher would start from his house at the bottom of the hill at five o'clock every day. He was a tall and stooped man in a ratty black suit. In the dim light of the candles he resembled a giant spider. He would close the door of his house and lock it. he was the only one in town who locked his door. His house looked like all the other houses in town. Once painted white it had been polished by time and sand to a dull gray. the color of the exposed wood siding blending into the ground, blending even into the dead grasses that sprouted in tall clumps in lieu of lawns. little work had gotten done since the disease had come.
It had come five years ago. the Crawford's baby had been the first one to start coughing. then a day later his fever peaked and he started to bleed out of his nose and ears. he was dead by the third day. some people tried to run, but you couldn't outrun it. Tom Nathon, the town doctor, was out of morphine in a week. people were dying in severe pain. Tom was dead in two weeks. In three weeks everyone under sixty five was dead. No one over sixty had been effected.
the preacher would start up main street, one of three streets in the town, walking with his cane. he move slow. He shuffled and clutched a bible in his claw hand. Behind him the old people would slide silently out of there houses. They lurched and sputtered and coughed up the hill. Main street may have been paved before the disease, who could remember. Now it was covered with a good half foot of sand. The sand was filled not with footsteps but with lines, as body's too stubborn to die dragged themselves upwards. As the silent procession passed the shops, kept open more out of habit than necessity, the shop keepers would close for the day. they would pull the door and shutters closed, having to fight against the salty sea winds. they would wrap shawls and scarves tight. They would lean on each other, drag each other, will each other towards the church.

map

http://www.fmft.net/Wiltshire%20old%20maps.bmp

MSF Visitation

Stan was dozing in his favorite armchair, (that lime green one Myrtal had alway hated,) when the phone rang. people had no right to be calling Stan at this hour, what hour was it? Oh dear, only 2 pm. he humphed and harumphed and let his glasses drop down to the bridge of his rather bulbous nose. He picked up the phone, "Hello?"
"Listen, I've lost a box and it had some rather important materials in it. I need your help to get it back."
"Hello?"
"I think you heard me, look, it's a very rotten way to start off a working relationship, pretending you can't hear you partner. Now, where was I, ah yes, If you could meet me at the back of, Bag of Bones Books and Bargains, we can get started."
Stan pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it. He raised his eyebrows. "I think you have the wrong number."
"Is this Stan Mcgumphy, 72 year old retired plumber who's wife recently died and ever since that happened the days seem grayer and you nap a lot more and find yourself not caring if the vikings win the game?"
"Who is this, how do you know all that?"
"Why my word in heaven, I do believe I have failed to introduce myself, what atrocious manners. My name was Menchkin, but that was before the box was stolen, I haven't decided what I should be called now that we are detectives."
"I'm not a detective," Stan told him. He was standing up and looking for his slippers as if the phone call would make sense if he just knew where they were.
"Well, no, I mean technically speaking not yet, you're not on the case yet, and I don't mean to seem rude, but, have I already said are very important materials in the box?"
"You did mention it."
"Well then I think the quicker we get on the case the better, don't you."
"I'm not on any cases."
"Oh dear me, I really don't have the time to go in circles with you on this. Tell you what, I'm going to hang up the phone and get our, what do they say, our case files in order, see you when you get here."
The line went dead.

lists

Lists

Things I have thought of posting as my face book status but haven’t:
I miss you
Is wholesome like lentil soup, comforting like a fireplace, and as sexy as a sailor on meth.
I love bad Swedish techno.
Run!! This is turning us all into voyeurs and narcissists.
Stop taking all those stupid tests, you could be doing something with your life and nobody cares what the hell your results were so DON”T JUST DON”T
BEN MILLER!!!!

Things I have lied about recently:
A list of things I have never posted as a face book status.

Things I have quit doing in the past year:
Smoking
Getting drunk
You
Purchasing shampoo
Playing pool
Rationalizing
Repressing

Blue things in my bedroom:
Sheets
Pillow cases
Tall glass filled with coffee
Blue jeans on floor
Lid to a jar of peanuts
Book covers

Numbers from today
2 seconds left when Farve completed winning pass
2 miles jogged
3 pieces of pita bread eaten with hummus
1unfinished cup of coffee
4 bags of garbage taken off the back porch
6 phone calls
2 unanswered
1shower
1time asking myself where my day off went, and that time is right now, seriously, it’s five?
5the time it was when I realized Sunday was largely squandered.

a day in the life of unemployment.

The alarm went off at 5:30 same as it had every day for the last four and a half years. Dan rolls away from his wife and slaps it off. His wife shifts and murmurs, “Mmmmm, good day at the office honey.” Dan showers, shaves, and puts on a five thousand dollar suit. He is out the door by six.
He drives an hour out of town to a roadside diner. Over a breakfast of an egg white and tomato omelet and a pot of coffee he browses the wanted adds. There seemed to be less in them every day. He finds himself circling jobs offering less than a tenth of what he used to make. The coffee was eating a hole in his stomach. He steps outside to have a cigarette. Six months unemployed, two college funds eliminated, one luxury ski trip taken, one BMW purchased, one wife and two children kept from knowing anything was wrong. He smokes quick, strong drags helping his chest loosen instead of tighten. He finishes one and lights another. Pulls out his cell phone and looks at his brother’s number as he does every day. Looks at it, shakes his head and puts the phone away.
The afternoon is spent cold calling. Begging. Chain smoking.
At three he looks at his watch, shakes his head and gets in the car. You tried, he tells him self, his stomach sick. He feels like he is going to throw up. The world seems far away and unreal. He looks at the buildings as he drive by. Forty two miles of road back into the city. Thirty five steps from where he parks his car to the front door of the bar. Six dollars for the first gin and tonic. Two drinks until he can acknowledge the bartender. Three drinks until he smiles and lets out a deep breath.
“Hi honey.”
He winks at the bar tender.
“I have to pull another late one.”
He takes another sip of his drink
“I know, I wish I could be.”
“I miss them, but there’s nothing I can do.”
“Yup, we should be wrapping the project in a few.”
“Tell them I love them, I love you too, don’t wait up.”

the barn as it looks to the father who's son has just died in a war

The barn is bright and sharp. The red paint shines like the surface is metal. It looks close, detailed, as if through a microscope. On the other hand, maybe it isn’t there at all, maybe it just looks like silence. There are shingles on the roof, big cedar ones in strait rows. They are ready to march. The lines seem to recede into the distance. It is a trick of perspective; all lines coming together at one point on the horizon. The barn door is rolled half way open. It looks dark inside. If you walked into the barn you would see slats of light coming through the cracks. You would see the dust dancing in the light. If you closed the door you would never know the dust was alive inside. These things are for another time. Right now you only look at chipped paint.

what's in a name part 3, inspired by Terry's love of smurple

Tina flounced into the beauty salon, dragging three poodles behind her. They yipped and back peddled at the overwhelming smells of perfumes and shampoos. Andre looked up from the nest of hair he was doing an Edward Scissors—hands impression on.
“honey, those dogs are just too cute, now get them outside, get get get. We have standards here at Vibrant Colors, stop looking at me with your jaw on the floor and go, go go go girl.
Tina tied the dogs to a parking meter and came back inside. “I’ll be with you in just five minutes darling, take a magazine, entertain yourself” Tina nodded and picked up a coppy of Rolling Stone. There was a giant picture of the Smurple Bandits on the cover. Tina sighed contentedly.
“Smurpule,” she murmured softly to herself.
“Tina, girl, get your head out of the clouds and get in this chair, it’s hair time, now what color do we want our highlights today.?”
The looked at each other for a moment then they both burst out laughing. “SMURPLE!” they shouted in unison and started jumping up an down and clapping their hands. Andre got to work on her hair
“Did you hear smurple creek is polluted?”
“Oh no?”
“Ya, Eddie was talking about it down at Smurples Pub, I guess he caught a fish that was barely smurple.”
“Smurple,” they both said emotionally.
The door opened and a large women in a green track suit entered. She was huffing and grabbing anything for support, her face was bright red. “Do you do highlights?” she yelled at Andre.
“Girl, you know I do, calm yourself. What color are we looking for.”
“Green, I need green highlights right now.”
Andre and Tina both froze, looks of horror on their faces.
“Is that, is that, some sort of joke?” Tina asked.
The Women looked confused, “No, I need green highlights.”
Tina stood up. Andre handed her a pair of scissors. “Smurple,” they said together.
“What?”
They locked hands, “Smurple,” they started walking towards the women, “Smurple,” they raised there scissors, “Smurple!”

Trauma

“How can I help you, sir, SIR, how can I help you? Sir are you ok? Oh god, help, somebody help! I think he’s having a heart attack. Myrtal struggles to pull her three hundred fifty pounds over the counter at the D.M.V. her floral print pant suit is bunching up around her giant calves.
The old man had claspes on the ground. His fishing hat skidds into the corner by the door disturbing dust that had not moved in months. His head bounces off of the black and white tiled floor like his neck is made out of elastic. Down, up, and down again. There is a dull thunk and a line of blood appears trickling down the old mans ear.
A line of heads is turning in unison to watch, eyes wide, mouths hanging open. A child drops a red Lego from his hand instead of placing it into his mouth.
Myrtal rolls over the top of the counter. Ripples of fat in motion move up and down her body. All she can think about is her baby. That one night when her brother in law had a little to much to drink but you couldn’t tell, every body said afterwards they couldn’t tell, they didn’t know. He was tossing her little baby up and down, her little Trina, and Trina was laughing, and oh god.
The blood is flowing out of the olds man ear and collecting in his thin white hair. The man is laying flat out on his back. His eyes are wide open.
John Hughes jumps up thinking of the women sitting three seats to his left and how he could impress her. He had noticed her as soon as he walked in, she reminded him of a coworker he had always had a crush on. He had been looking at her legs while pretending to read a Grisham novel. She is gagging. The sight of blood has always made her gag, except in vampire movies for some reason. She doesn’t care that he is jumping to help. Neither does the old man. He is dead.

“Birth of a Story in an Hour or Less” (way longer than an hour)

A disco ball is set up in the high school gymnasium. Abba is blasting over the speakers, “dancing queen, only seventeen.” The gym is filled with freshmen, a few of them dancing, most of them segregated by gender and looking at the other groups suspiciously. Tom and Shane are by the punch bowl.
“She’s looking at you.”
“Nah uh, really?”
“Ya, she wants to have your babies.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious. She was telling me at lunch, she wants you to make her pregnant.”
Shane tried to Punch tom in the arm but Tom jumped back in time. They laughed loud and spared back and forth. They looked at the girls in quick undercover glances.
“Look at Billy and Sue.” Tom nodded his curly ginger head at the middle of the gym. Billy and sue were locked together in that way only young teenagers can seem to do. They swayed back and forth like desperate automatons. Shane and Tom watched with admiration.
“Did he just, did he just, um, he just asked her to dance?” Shane looked over at Lisa nelson. Lisa was wearing a Robbins Egg blue dress, strapless. It went down just past her knees. She was tossing her head around and laughing with Kara.
“Ya numb nuts, that’s how it works.”
“So go do it then, if it’s so easy.”
“I don’t feel like it now, I might later.”
“Wuss.”
“So you do it.”
Shane looked at Lisa again. Lisa looked at Shane and smiled. Shane raised his arm half way like he was going to waive but he didn’t and it just kind of hung there. Lisa turned to Kara and giggled. Shane turned red.
“I’m going to.” He clenched his jaw and stood very straight. He was six feet tall and looked like a stork in a baggy suit. He tried to swagger a little as he walked towards the girls. He gulped. Tom gulped. Tom took of after him.
“Yo.”
Shane turned and waited.
“I’m coming too, I’m going to ask Kara.
The girls pretended not to watch them walking over.
***

“Are you sure it was him though?”
“Ya, I mean, who else would it be?”
“But did you see him do it?” Tom asked. He and Shane were sitting at Shane’s kitchen table. The kitchen lights are dimmed and the other lights in the apartment are off. You can barely see the orange shag carpeting in the living room or the scar face poster that hangs above the T.V. they lean in across the table and speak softly.
“No.”
“So you’re not sure it was him.”
“Who else would it be?” Shane takes a swig off a bottle of Canadian Club, grimaces, and takes a sip of his beer. The table is littered with empty cans of Pabst. Shane has a beard and is dressed in jeans and a flannel work shirt. Tom’s orange hair is cut short. He wears the remnants of a suit. The jacket is tossed over the couch; the tie is hanging off the kitchen faucet.
“I don’t know, I’m just saying we don’t have conclusive proof.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t, you have circumstantial evidence and a personal bias influencing you.” Tom leans back as he says this and starts to roll up his sleeves, he has put on seventy five pounds since high school and his face is round and red.
“What are you, on law and order? I got the proof I need, what more do you want?”
“Look I can think of at least three other people it could have been.”
“Oh ya, who?”
“Well James could have done it-“
“James didn’t do it.” Shane cuts him off.
“He could have.”
“No he couldn’t, he doesn’t have the balls.”
“I’m saying he had opportunity.”
“And I’m saying it doesn’t matter.” Shane’s voice is getting louder. He takes another swig of whiskey. Tom takes the bottle from him and has a sip.
“Look, I’m trying to think about this logically, you’re getting all worked up and you’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’d like to break his face.”
“I know.”
“I’d like to go all hulk on his ass and just fucking rage stomp him.”
Tom laughs a little, “Dude, just chill, we’re gonna think this one through.”
“Oh, I’m thinking.”
“First we get a list of everybody who had opportunity”
“That’s dumb”
“Dude, just shut up for a second, then we figure out who had motive.”
“We know who had motive, and when I see that fucker I’m gonna go all wolverine and freaking claws are gonna pop outa my fists and I’m gonna slice his face off.”
They both start laughing uproariously.
“Oh my god dude, you are wasted.” Tom is sweating; there is a bead of moisture hanging off the end of his nose. Shane has been watching it without paying any attention to it for most of the night. He looks Tom in the eye and grins.
“You’re wasted”
“No dude, you are really trashed.” Shane tosses and empty can at Tom who tries to catch it. He misses and it lands with a clank on the wood floor. He laughs. Shane doesn’t.
“I just can’t believe she’s gone.”
“I’m sorry dude.” Tom has instantly stopped laughing.
“I’m gonna kill that fucker.”
“I know you are, I got your back man.”
“Ya you do, I fuckin love you man, who needs that bitch, right?”
“You don’t need her.”
“I love her dude.”
“You don’t need her, she was a bitch, remember that, you’re better off without her.”
“Don’t talk about her that way, I’ll punch you goddamn face in, she was a classy lady, and I love her dude, I really do”.
“I know man, I know you do.”
“Lets go to her house, I gotta tell her, I gotta tell her right now.” Shane stands up, he sways, then grabs the kitchen counter for balance. Tom is blinking slowly.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I love her so much.”
“I know you do.”
“I gotta call her, dude, let me barrow you’re phone.”
“You’re drunk.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“You’ll regret it in the morning.”
“I regret everything in the morning.”
“Jesus.” Tom looks morose.
“I mean when she was there it didn’t matter how much everything else sucked, yunno?”
“You’re just drunk, you always get depressed when you get too drunk.” Tom glares at Shane as if he blames him for this.
“No man, I always get too drunk when I get depressed.”
“Oh man, that is so true.”
“Right? let me barrow your phone.”
“No, I mean that is really true.”
“let me use your phone.”
“Dude, did you hear what I said, I’m trying to tell what you said.” Tom starts laughing.
“Would you just give me your god damn phone?”
“Not a good idea.”
Shane nods, “Ok tell me what I’m gonna do when I see him.”
“You are gonna go all Darth Vader on him, fucking start choking him from across the room, and then, bzzzzzzzzzt, you pull out the light saber and you tell that fucker you’re his father.”
“Ya I do, wait, what, why the fuck would I tell him I’m his father?”
“Oh man, I am drunk.” Tom closes one eye.
“You are wasted dude.”
“I gotta pass out.”
“I gotta call her.”
“Dude, just shut up with that, I feel Ill.” Tom pushes bear cans out of the way and lays his head on the table.
“You gonna puke?”
“Don’t say that.”
“I’d like to puke all over his face.”
“Oh god.”
“I’d like to puke all over his face and then tell him I’m his fucking father, right man?”
“I am way to drunk.”
“Blaaaggggghhhhhh, how you like that, oh, and by the way, I AM YOUR FATHER.”
“Don’t make that noise.”
“You feel alright dude?”
“I gotta pass out”
“You should drink some water first man, your gonna have a hangover.”
“I know.”
“Hey dude?”
“Ya?”
“Thanks for coming over.”
“Anytime dude.” Tom stands up to hug Shane, pukes on his shoes, and passes out on the kitchen floor.
***
A tall women in a black jacket walks up the hill in the cemetery holding a baby. A stocky man with red hair walks beside her. He has an umbrella and is trying to keep any of the drizzle from touching his four month old child. He is trying to stay slightly in front of his wife and is doing an awkward step and turn to see where he is going and see the baby’s face at the same time.
“Tom, cut it out, a little rain isn’t going to kill her.’
Tom doesn’t answer but slows down to walk beside her.
“Oh god, Tom, I didn’t mean to say that today.”
“No, it’s fine.”
There is a group of about thirty mourners gathered at a grave at the top of the hill. The grave is under a tree and Tom briefly wonders if trees have a hard time surviving in cemeteries with all their roots under attack. He scans the faces intently. There are dark circles under his eyes; his face is thinner than it was five years ago.
“Is he here?” His wife asks.
“No, but he will be.”
“Tom, maybe he won’t be.”
“No, he wouldn’t miss this.”
“He wasn’t at the funeral.”
“No.”
“No one’s heard from him in years.”
“He’ll be back for this, he left because of her, he’ll be back because of her.”
“What was she like?”
“Beautiful, I guess.”
“No, what was she like?”
Tom thought about it. “Manipulative, insecure, sad, she really fucked him up.”
“Ya, you said.”
“I still can’t believe he married her.”
They got quite as they joined the group of mourners. Lisa’s parent stood by the minister. They were stooped and subdued. The minister was smiling that patented smile that says I’m empathizing one hundred percent; there is nothing happy or humorous about this. There was a wreath of roses on the casket, looking bright and shiney because of the drizzle. Tom watched tiny rivers of water run off the pile of dirt and into grave. His wife wondered about the food at funerals, people will spend twelve grand on a casket but serve plastic ham just to save a few bucks, something about that’s not right. Something about tom wasn’t right today either. She squeezed his arm.
There was the sound of a motorcycle approaching. Everyone turned to look. Tom didn’t, he smiled.

week three. the begining of a quest

Billy was awake before the sun came up. He looked out of his new bedroom window at the barn. It was huge, peeling red paint and a sagging roof. He looked at the tree branches, cracked spider legs scraping against the side of it. He hated the country. Why did his parents have to move? There were noises all the time out here. Not like the soothing drone of traffic in the city that put him to sleep at night. These were weird noises, quite bleating and scrapings, Creepy bleating and scrapings.
The first day of school would start in a few hours. A new school, with new kids. He would never tell his mom this, no matter how many times she asked, but Billy missed Sam. Sam had lived across the street since before Billy could remember. Sam had three older sisters and two fat parents who laughed a lot. Chris and Jill, they had said, call us by our first names ‘cause we aint no mister or missus. Billy would go over to there white stucco house with vines on the walls every day after school. They would trade baseball cards; they would build forts in the back yard.
Billy looked out of the window and swallowed. He didn’t want to cry. He was in fifth grade, fifth grade boys don’t cry, even if they really really want to. 6:45. Mom will be awake soon. Then breakfast, then, Billy swallowed again.
The barn had one window. It was centered right above the big double door and it didn’t have any shutters. It looked a little like there was a greenish light coming from it. Billy looked a little closer. Yes, there was definitely a greenish light coming from it. Probably some weird piece of farming equipment had been left on in there. Billy went to slip on his tennis shoes. Then he stopped. He just had a feeling. He dug out a box from under the bed and tore it open. Inside the box there was a signed picture of Kirby Pucket, a bag full of small stones, three pieces of leather string, and a ratty looking pair of shoes. They were Sam’s pair of luck shoes, he had given them to Billy the day Billy moved.
Billy tied the shoes and put on his baseball cap. He tiptoed down the stairs, walking on the very edge of them, right next to the wall so they wouldn’t creek. He wondered what he would find out in the barn. Probably something old and dumb….

True story combined with urban legend

Robert is sculpting the wax under a heat lamp. I’m crouching behind the half walls of the booth smoking.
“You suck at it ‘cause you’re shy,” Robert says.
I take a long pull so I don’t have to answer.
“You’re shy ‘cause you’re self conscious.”
“I’m self conscious because this costume makes me look like a dork.”
“Yeah, you look ridiculous.”
“So do you.”
“Exactly, so does everybody here--you have to think of it like wearing a bright pink shirt.”
“What?”
“Shut up, I’m not done. A bright pink shirt on a dude says, I’m secure enough in my manhood to wear a bright pink shirt. This is like that, but with tights and swords and shit. Look, you want to know what the secret is other than having a pair?” I nod, he doesn’t notice or care. “Middle aged chicks and kids, that’s how we push product, middle aged fuckin’ chicks and kids. Kids are easy, you just yell like, hey little dude, check out this rockin’ dragon candle, and they do ‘cause kids fuckin’ love dragons. Then they whine like little bitches until their parents buy the product. Easy dude, easy. Middle aged chicks you just tell them they’re hot, but you gotta work it. Can you work it, you got a girlfriend?”
I nod.
“I bet she’s hot too, so you can work it, and if they’re with a dude it’s even easier. Then when you tell them they are smokin’ babes it pisses the dude off, right? I mean this dude hates you, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, so then you just imply―you know what imply means?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, you just imply this dude doesn’t care about his girl enough to buy her a candle and he’s fucked. I mean your makin’ on his chick and she’s diggin’ it ‘cause they all do, right, so now he’s challenged, he’s got to show her he is still a man and he still loves her, right?”
“Okay.”
“And so you put it in terms of candles, you make it so that buying the candle is the only way he can win, do you get it?”
“Yeah, I get it.”
I hate him, I hate selling candles, I hate the fucking Renaissance Festival, I hate the desert, I hate hate hate. Mostly I hate this guy named Crow. He makes hand drums. He has dreadlocks. He is older and more confident than me. He sure is talking to my girlfriend an awful lot and she sure is laughing.
I finish out the day and get back to the trailer. I have made more money than yesterday, a lot more. I would feel good but I did it using Robert’s tricks so I just feel like an asshole.
Crow is in the trailer. He is cooking, Jesus Christ, he may as well be massaging her feet. He smiles at me. “Hey, Ben, we were just making a little tofu stir fry—you hungry?”
“Ummmm, I just ate. I think I’m gonna go for a walk.”
“Are you sure, Ben? Crow is a really good cook.”
I’ll bet he fucking is. “I just feel like getting some air.” Like there is air in the desert.
“Will you do me a solid and walk my dog? She’s real friendly, she’s tied right around back.”
No Crow, I will not walk your dog while you try to seduce the woman I might love, I will punch you in your stupid pierced nose.”Sure, no problem.”
I go out back to get the dog. I love dogs. As the dog is licking my face I’m thinking how straightforward they are.
The sun is setting in the desert and me and the dog, I’m calling her Shelly in my head, walk brooding into the cactus filled distance. Actually Shelly is doing a bad job brooding. Bouncing, grinning, peeing, no brooding. “What is so great, Shelly?”
When I get like this I just go inside myself. I don’t notice where I’m walking and I don’t notice how far I’ve walked. I’ll go for hours. So will Shelly it seems, probably wants to get as far away from those assholes as I do. Eventually I notice it’s cold, it’s really cold and I have no idea where I am. Shit shit shit.
Its dark and I’m starting to freak out a little. “Do you know where we are Shelly? I thought dogs had great noses, Shelly. Come on, make me proud.” I follow her, talking so I won’t know I’m scared. “I took his bitch and he took my bitch, huh Shelly? You know what they say, better to have never loved because you don’t have to lose, what? Oh you are good, can’t slip one past you, can I?”
I stop. Shelly has stopped. There is a cabin in front of us. I have no idea where I am. But I have a pretty good idea I am very far from where I should be. “It’s cold Shelly, we could freeze out here. Whoever owns this will understand.” I knock on the door. No answer. All the lights are out, probably no one lives here. I knock again just to be sure, Shelly whines a little and licks my hand.
The door isn’t even locked. It creaks open and I feel around the edge of the frame for the light switch. I find it but the light is burnt. “Fuck it Shelly, we don’t need light, just a bed and some blankets. We are men after all--well, some of us anyway.”
I pull my lighter out and flick it on as I step inside. It smells sweet and sick. A little like onions that have been left out on the counter. The lighter reveals one room. A bed, a table, a bookshelf. The bed and table are covered in thick maroon sheets.
“Well Shelly, beggars can’t be choosers.” But Shelly hasn’t followed me inside. She whines at the door. “Come on, we’ll freeze.” She whines but doesn’t budge. I put the lighter away and grab her collar. “Just chill you weirdo, there’s nothing in here. I drag her in and together we jump under those thick sheets. She licks my face. “Night girl,” I tell her. “I mean you’re not the right girl, but beggars can’t be choosers.” I fall asleep.
In get up in the night and have to pee real bad. Where the hell am I? Oh, ya. “Shelly? You have to pee girl, where’d you go?” I hear her whine under the bed. I put my hand down and she licks it. “Well I have to pee, see you when I get back girlfriend” I stumble outside and let loose. Ahhhhhhhhh. As I’m zipping up I see something on the ground about ten feet in front of me. It’s Shelly dead on the ground with a knife in her chest. I start to run.

20 min of "free writing" inspired by Charles Johnson

“Me and my brother Loftis came in by the old lady’s window.”
--Charles Johnson

Me and Daley is hiding in the bushes by the lake. You can hear them coming and Daley is getting scared like he does and starting to shake. “Hush that.” I tell him, cause you can see bushes move and me and Daley don’t want to be back in the slammer. I hear the dogs bark and I know I got to do some quick thinking. Dogs will smell you, sure as shit they will. “We got to get in the water, Daley, get in the water.” I pull him along cause when he’s scared he don’t hear to well.
It’s cold, but if you know a better way to loose them dogs I’ll eat my hat. I go upstream, it just seems like the backwards tricky way to go. Me an Daley are famous robbers, just like Robin Hood, well, cept, we don’t give to the poor, we is the poor. When you’re famous robbers you gotta act backwards and tricky or they’ll put you in the slammer.
I don’t mind the slammer much but Daley gets real crazy stuck in there. Last time we was in he started saying, “I gotta breath, I gotta breath.” He was saying it over and over and then all of a sudden, bam, he just smashes his head into the wall. You should have seen the blood. He don’t think so good so it’s my job to keep him out.
Them dogs is barking up a storm behind us. I always thought they should muzzle um, yunno, so you wouldn’t know they was coming. Were running up the stream and Daley’s got the bag over his shoulder…

101 word story that is 103 words

The kid lives three houses away. Me and Mary, we got the house on the corner. I call it her corner office but she doesn’t think that’s funny anymore. I don’t think its funny anymore either.
“I made eggs.”
“Breakfast of champions.”
“I thought that was Wheaties.”
“I thought it was a shitty book.”
She laughs a little, not like she used to. “Anyway, they’re in the fridge.”
I grab a cup of coffee and open the kitchen shades while I’m at it. The light hits the sink and I can see its been polished over night. Why can’t she forget that kid?