Friday, February 4, 2022

2 Minutes. Go!

Man, don't tell me you don't like money because I can smell it on you. You got the stink of it, like old dimes and tit-sweat bills. You got that look in your eye like you taste blood - like you're working the gristle out of your teeth with that forked tongue of yours. Speaking of which, I saw your bitch barking down by the bowling alley, chasing spares and looking for a dick to suck. Don't worry, she didn't suck mine. I don't dig on horse teeth.

You're the kind of guy gets a hard-on when his cousin sits on his lap. I know you got magazines under your bed that I ain't even heard of. Four-eyed-tit-fucker Weekly. Drunk, Horny Dwarves. You're probably half-chubbed right now looking for a tree to go rub yourself on. Scratch that itch. Before you even go home, which is probably good cause you know your bitch is tired. Throat worn straight out. Sperm in her teeth.

That car you bought is a woman's car. Got them soft leather seats so your vagina won't chafe. You got pinstripes, and you probably got a box of tissues in there, too. Air freshener making that shit smell like strawberry bubble gum. You got one of them little trash cans that hangs off the back seat, and you got Mardis Gras beads dangling off the mirror like you're hoping to throw 'em at the first pair of tits you see. Four cylinders of tepid bullshit, boy. Might be a tricycle would do you better, if I'm honest. 

It was good seeing you, though. Good to chew the fat and whatnot. Life ain't been kind to you; that much is obvious. Keep your eyes on the mediocrity prize, kid. Keep humping, and you'll get somewhere eventually. And when you do, write me a letter. Sign it Shitface, so's I'll know who sent it. 

55 comments:

  1. I feel this. It fits too many people who are not only happy to go along with the old program, but desperate for it. I love how well you capture people.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yeah, I've been reading lots of noir, and this has the clarity of noir, the balance of incisive language and despair.

      Delete
    2. At the same time, it's got this cool thing going on, where you can read it two different ways. Like the old "three sides to every story" thing. Evocative and insightful, as always.

      Delete
    3. Whoa! His disgust for the guy really comes out here. It's full of loathing. Is he jealous cos the guy has money and he doesn't?

      Delete
    4. I don't know how Dan does it every week. He's so full of bile and fire and never fails to snarl it out in his words. I'm so glad he's not aiming his venom my way!

      Delete
    5. You know reading this Dan kinda made me want to have an ex that I can get you to write a screed to on my behalf. Writing with deadly precision as you do is a gift.

      Delete
  2. They fed me on bullshit and corn. Mom and Dad told me that I could be anything I wanted to be. The rest of the world laughed at that notion. My guidance counselor suggested trade school when I wanted to talk about colleges. She made sure to ad that it should be s short-term program that wasn't too taxing.

    My teachers all but called me a dumb-fuck. The "good" kids shit on me or ignored me. My folks just kept saying that I needed to get good grades, be polite, and dream big.

    Mom was a secretary. Dad drove a bus. Guess I should have known that they were delusional, because they dreamed big, too. He was going to be an entrepreneur. His bus fleet would put those crooked people he worked for out of business. Mom wanted to be a nurse more than anything in the world. Her application to nursing school got turned down eight times before she gave up. Both died early. Both wore their lived on their faces.

    But I should dream big. I was going to make it. I'd be the great white hope of the Williams family. If they could see me now.

    Dead. Shot by cops. No-knock warrant. I perpetrated the horrendous crime of sleeping with a gun close to protect myself. Man, I'm so glad they can't see my fate. It's enough to make me cry, 'cept I'm dead, so I have no tears to give.

    How many men and women have to die for sleeping while black before you morons get it? We're in danger. My skin is like a red flag to a bull. My smile was beat out of me young, not by fists. Just by words and actions of the hateful people who don't get why I insist on continuing to live, breathe, and dream.

    I guess they win, because now I ain't doing any of those things.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. And for anyone who thinks this is only fiction, one word: Breonna. This captures the tragic toll of a racist system.

      Delete
    2. Exactly what David said. This is a great piece.

      Delete
    3. Love the opening line, and the contrast between dreaming big and reality. What's the use of dreaming big if society won't let you do anything, never mind have huge dreams.

      Delete
    4. An amazing piece of real life, written as fiction. I can tell that you're mining your own experiences here and inhabiting the character. It's awesome and you should be very proud of this.

      Delete
    5. Loved the first line. Also the irony of the "great whice hope" reference. Truth is often bleak isn't it?

      Delete
    6. I hate to be a ditto, but I agree. The first line is awesome, and it sets a definite tone.

      Delete
  3. The plane started its descent, spiraling down to the tarmac and causing Steele’s ears to pop. It was the only relief he’d had in days from the constant ringing he normally dealt with. Visions of ticker tape parades or scores of welcoming women ready to shower kisses on him danced in his head while the soldiers on either side of him slept.
    Grandpa had delighted in telling all of his grandkids about the overwhelming welcome he’d experienced when he got back from World War II. He swore he was the soldier in that famous picture and Grandma was the girl he’d planted one on. Steele had often laughed with his brother and cousins at that tall tale, but now he got it. Steele was coming home. He wanted the fanfare. He wanted tons of people around to welcome him back to his old life. A life he was terrified of walking back into. He knew he wouldn’t get the big deal, but he was hoping for something. Maybe a choir of kids, or a dorky politician who was up for re-election.
    The Sandbox had defied his expectations, both more horrible and not as apocalyptic as he’d imagined. He’d become accustomed to the constant danger. He’d adjusted to losing people he’d come to care about. He’d learned to live with the back pain, hearing loss, and sleeping wherever and whenever he could. Now it was all gone. He was supposed to go back to the way things were, but at least he and his brothers in arms would get a proper welcome back and a thank you before they were asked to do the impossible.
    Or so he thought.
    Men and women rushed past him while Steele strolled along, savoring the anticipation of what was to come. Soon he stood in the open mouth of the gate and found…no one.
    No politicians. No USO women. No kids ready to sing their praises. No one. Nothing. Plenty of family members welcoming home their heroic sons and daughters, wives, husbands, mothers, fathers. But nothing for the group. If you didn’t have people in your life who gave a shit you were just out of luck.
    Steele looked around the airport and shook his head. He should have known better. He had known better, but he’d hoped for something no matter how small. He’d never understood what his friends were talking about when they said they felt like they were living a song until that moment. Right then, walking to the baggage claim, unnoticed, he felt like he was in Steve Earle’s “Johnny Come Lately”. Steele swung his duffle over his shoulder and forced his disappointed, tired feet to carry him away from the lack of celebration and appreciation…and into his worst nightmare.
    Steve Conner, his father’s favorite lacky stood waiting for him by the doors that should have led to freedom. The asshole even had a sign with Steele’s “real” name on it, Connor O’Flannery. The first time they’d met, Steve had been tickled that his last name and Steele’s last name “matched”. Nine-year-old Steele had kicked him in the shin with steel-toed boots and called him a kiss-ass as he ran out the door to hang with Crow, who’d lived next door. If Steve got mad, Steele hadn’t heard about it. He’d had to deal with the shithead a lot since then and every time the guy was obsequious but efficient. Just like his father liked ‘em.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Connor,” Steve said as soon as Steele was close enough to talk to. “Your parents are expecting us in Santa Fe promptly at eight, so we had best get a move on.”
    “I ain’t going with you to Santa Fe or anywhere else,” Steele said. “Dad still has a brain in his head, he’ll know it.”

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. That Steve Earle song was perfect placement here. He even mentions his own grandad in the lyrics! I love Easter eggs like that. Speaking of which, the Flannery O'Connor reference too!

      Delete
    2. I like the opening detail of his tinnitus (you wonder if it's due to war) and the plane popping his ears, almost like a wake-up call, as it gives him some relief. I like the big build-up and the contrasting experience of WW2 vets and then how there is no one there. You can feel his desolation and disappointment. And then the little act of rebellion at the end.

      Delete
    3. Many of us remember the stories our fathers (and mothers) used to tell, the realism of war being markedly different to the stories the movies glamorized. The real world was filled with disappointment and damaged soldiers finding that the world they were returned to was different from the one they'd left. This is one of those stories and it feels as real as many of the others we've heard from our parents.

      Delete
  4. Bianca Gomez turned on her turn signal and carefully eased into the slow lane. She couldn’t handle one more person cutting her off, the day had been long enough, and it wasn’t half over. Seconds after she’d switched lanes some utter jerk in a blue minivan moved to the fast lane, barely passed her car, and swerved into the lane right in front of her. Heck, he was just barely not on top of her. She knew this man’s bumper better than her gynecologist knew that private part of her anatomy. That was when she knew she had to be done, so when she saw a way off the road from Hades, she took it, praying that she could find a parking lot where she could pull over soon. This last guy had officially flipped the “I can’t keep pretending to be fine” switch in her heart.
    She skipped the parking lots of two chain restaurants and a bar, then saw the infamous Pale Face Auto Repair shop and made a split-second decision to pull in and park for a few minutes. Bianca’s brothers and dad had warned her about several car repair places between their town and Albuquerque, because they were supposedly run by small-town biker gangs. This particular shop was run by the Native American gang that called themselves Trail of Tears. Bianca’s dad hated them more than most of the biker gangs in the area, but Bianca’s dad had also decided he didn’t like her very much, so she wasn’t in the mood to listen to his racist, purist, elitist garbage.
    Besides, she wasn’t going to patronize the place past maybe getting a bottle of water. She just needed a quiet place to have a meltdown before trying to get the rest of the way to Albuquerque. All she had to do was go another twenty miles or so without killing herself or someone else, throwing up, or getting arrested. Nothing could be easier. Right?
    Right. Sure. Bianca had never felt more like a cyclops in her whole life. One eyed, dumb, clumsy, and so very hopeless.
    She was legally blind, along with a host of other physical issues brought on by a birth defect that had only shown up in her and her big sister, the las two of Margarita Gomez’s five kids. Being Hispanic and having a physical disability was hard enough. Being Sanchez and Margarita’s daughter on top of her other disadvantages felt like a real handicap, sometimes.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I love this and can barely explain why. I just know I wanted to know what happens to her. This line is so on point: "This last guy had officially flipped the 'I can’t keep pretending to be fine' switch in her heart." So relatable.

      Delete
    2. I like the character of Bianca. She's very likeable. And I like the slow, meandering narrative. With the reference to the gynaecologist, I don't think you need "that private part of her anatomy" - you could just have 'better than her G knew her' cos everyone knows what the job is. You do want to know what happens to her and why she's heading to her destination - why does she have to go another 20 miles?

      Delete
    3. Yup, Bianca had me at hello or the really the line David pointed out. We've all had that switch flipped haven't we.I want to know more about her too. Also interested in the "Trail of Tears" biker gang. It's the kind of name that makes you wonder how they meant it-- to scare the heck out of everybody or to accept their own fate in the long view. Could be both.

      Delete
    4. I was also struck by the line DA pulled out. Really cool unfolding of character here.

      Delete
  5. It wasn’t as if what they had in common was readily available to any stray onlookers. Most couples you could see the attraction a mile away but in them, even that wasn’t easily noticeable like a grown man wearing a billboard sign. If you looked close enough you knew everything simmering between them was usually way under the surface and only became clearer the more you examined them together. There were commonalities too; they were just harder to find.

    If you started at the beginning you’d find out they were both winter babies. Born in the Northeast where you don’t just feel the cold snap at you, you hear it too. She’d been born during a blizzard. The night before the morning she was born, it had snowed so hard the sidewalk drifts the sanitation companies made when they cleared the roads were already five feet high on 125th Street. When her dad had to look for a cab to the hospital, it took him an hour to find one.

    On her birthday every year after, the weather was unusually foul. The few years the weather wasn’t inclement on her special day, she felt distinctly unwell for no reason at all, as if the weather gods had betrayed her, leaving her lonely and depressed when she wasn’t expecting it.

    There wasn't even a hint of snow when he was born, but it was colder than a witch’s tit, whatever the hell that means. He’d always thought it a weird saying because he’d never met a tit that wasn’t warm. He often theorized that a true witch would generally have more control over her internal body temperature than most women, even if it was 15 below.

    At 29 inches, he’d been the longest baby ever born in the now defunct Albany hospital. His mother would always pull the blanket up to his neck figuring if anybody saw this particular baby with his large forceps misshapen head and his long skinny body they’d assume he was disabled in some way instead of the daedal boy she knew him to be.

    There were other things they shared before they shared a home and a bed. They both loved animals almost as much as their independence. Though she had only managed a year of college that he hadn’t bothered with, they were both autodidacts who read voraciously. They both wore glasses, though he’d had them longer. She been so consumed with getting rid of her lisp she hadn’t noticed she had a vision problem until high school. They both smoked cigarettes although he did that much longer and a little more manically than she did, which is why it surprised no one when they eventually killed him. They were both creatively inclined and felt perfectly at home in New York City where they met.

    Their differences far outweighed their similarities but the gravitational pull was undeniable. Love is many things after all, but unpredictable is its most consistent trait.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. You pack so much detail in to your flash pieces. Makes the immersion more full. His musings on witches tits made me laugh. Also, I discovered a new word thanks to this: daedal. Wonderful last sentence.

      Delete
    2. The whole paragraph about the weather being foul on her birthday and her being unwell during the exceptions - I've lived that. It was interesting seeing it out into words.

      I loved his thinking about witches; these are the kinds of odd, pseudophilosophical conversations I often have with certain friends and family members. :D

      You did a great job of sketching these characters and bringing life to the vignette. And that last line is pure gold.

      Delete
    3. There's a lot in here. You've packed a lot in, but it doesn't read heavy or laden down. It's light. I light the comparisons of the weather when they were born, and how his mother thought he had an odd-shaped head and body, plus I love the references to her not noticing she had a sight problem cos she was focused on trying to get rid of her lisp! Really interesting details. The characters become very real.

      Delete
    4. You've a light touch with the detail, but you're precise when you use it. You've outlined these people in broad strokes but made them stand out as though they're drawing breath and standing beside us. You've done a great job here and I can imagine this developing wonderfully.

      Delete
    5. I also learned a new word. Thanks! I love all stories that explain or don't explain love. And this one is no exception.

      Delete
  6. I love this. The descriptions are on point. I feel like I know these people already.

    ReplyDelete
  7. After you discovered the body, you drove ardent, rode hell to breakfast, regaled by the eternal winds.

    Who so much knows vengeance from justice, and when the injury is deep whosoever cares?

    I wait. Through a dry season I wait. Through heat domes and then torrents. This tiny cabin is my world. The planet moves smooth the way the planet always moves; how does it never creak? Its birth in fire is imprinted on its bones. Mostly we don’t see the horror… only its sigil.

    The rewards in this world commensurate with our toil are sometimes scant. Three decades of bestowal on hard lands mocked in an instant of a dike breach, an oversight. Livestock drowned. Homesteads sunken. All trust ruined. Hard deities beseeched to no avail. The ears of the gods are stone.

    Gone from here the breath of fall. Approaching the arctic throat of a new season. Written on the air like wispy staves, tiny murmurations, the melodic winter breath of birds.

    Ravens gather rowdy and drink of the air. The little wolves sing high and lonesome under the spilled paint of stars, songs about crags and ridges, the memory of mountains, of how the world once was.

    I live on mushrooms and sundry gifts of a generous forest.

    Your voice becomes the discourse of my dreams. I hear you every night as you close in on me. Sometimes these dreams arouse more than fear—a frisson, a dark thrill.

    “I will claim you. There is no escape. My hunger and thirst are to balance the ledger.”

    I answer you.

    “If you’re gonna unmake me unmake me special. You about to eat me make it memorable.”

    Out there, today, the sounds of apocalypse ramp up in the dusk; ozone scours my sinuses. You are almost here. I have forgotten who I am. Friend or stranger? Son or lover?

    I wonder: did I commit my terrible act to make of me your prey? Does the prey dream of the predator less in in fear than anticipation? Are birth and death the very same, spooled and unspooled by time?

    The hour is now. All falls still in the world, a stillness you fill completely. The door bursts inward and all I see are clustered teeth in an endless maw.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. The language makes everything so much more powerful. I feel Fall turn to Winter. I feel the fear and the longing of the prey. I flinched when the door burst inward. Great piece.

      Delete
    2. You write with such authority and grab us by the scruffs of our necks, pulling us into your world. I barely took a breath while I read this; you made me pay attention and then left me gasping when you showed me your teeth at the end.

      Delete
    3. It's very eerie, building up to that image of the clustered teeth in an endless maw, which is horrid. He's wondering if he's going to be eaten. I'm wondering what his 'terrible act' was - what did he do? How did he end up here? He seems like a prisoner. It's all very mysterious. I like the little details of nature - they're very picturesque.

      Delete
    4. Pure, suspenseful, and beautifully written as always. The scary tension is rhythmic and totally validated in the last sentence. Fave lines: "...the planet always moves; how does it never creak?" and Approaching the arctic throat of a new season.

      Delete
    5. This line: I live on mushrooms and sundry gifts of a generous forest. So nice.

      Man, the cadence and word choices are on point brother. A lyrical pull in effect here.

      "Your voice becomes the discourse of my dreams. I hear you every night as you close in on me."

      Delete
  8. Wow. This is such a powerfully evocative piece. I've always loved your ability to make language dance, and there are plenty of beautiful phrases here. My favorite might be, "Ravens dance rowdy and drink the air." Love all the twists and turns of thought, too.

    ReplyDelete
  9. Feline

    He came in and curled around my legs,
    his warmth creating a seamless hug,
    echoes of fog spiralling out
    from his grey fur. Lounging. Left
    to his own devices he purred,
    oblivious to the human in his space.

    In the morning his nose would meet mine
    seconds before my alarm clock sounded.
    It was his unique wake-up call, ensuring I
    was up and serving his Highness promptly.

    He brought me mice in the spring,
    arranged in artful poses around his bowl.
    In the summer it was delicate birds,
    still and beautiful, imitating sleep.

    The garden was his wild domain
    and he guarded it like a dog.
    He jumped the fence as deftly
    as his arthritic legs allowed
    to survey his kingdom, rain or shine,
    tail twitching like a snake.




    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. This is beautiful. You've conveyed such a clear picture of this little guy's personality. I can see the imagery, too. Love everything about this.

      Delete
    2. This is funny and sweet, and it makes me want to move to the middle of nowhere and plant a garden so I can give this life to my kitties.

      Delete
    3. I read this as a heartfelt tribute and it's a refreshing comfort after some of the stark pieces that preceded it. It's delightful and warm and makes me feel fondly of the small furries I've shared my life with. Well done!

      Delete
    4. A sweet reflection on an obviously singular creature. Lovely, just love.

      Delete
    5. Makes me wish we had a cat around the house. :)

      Delete
  10. Just warming up:

    You sit in the quiet of your unpowered home, in anything but silence. Ice scatters from windswept trees, shaking their branches like a dog coming in from the rain. The porch beams groan and buckle from the rapid chill, and in the distance—sirens. You imagine cars in ditches, smashed together, just had to go out and get a look at the storm, buy cigarettes, booze. You imagine house fires from improvised heat sources. Kerosene. Open gas ranges. Candles near the drapes. Stupid. You put on another layer and huddle in your unheated, not-going-anywhere smugness, as the thermostat falls.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I read this as a snapshot of your real life, almost as though I was sitting with you, sharing a flask of coffee and the dim light cast by the kerosene lamp's mantle. This is both romantic and real, at least as I read it, although it's also showing a hint of its teeth and suggesting how it could get worse. Great writing, Laurie.

      Delete
    2. It's like a postcard of a scene. You can see all the details. Very emotive. Lots of layers, like the layers he's putting on to keep warm. I like the image of the windswept trees shaking their branches like a wet dog.

      Delete
    3. You obviously also have your mind to keep you warm Laurie and a fine, first-rate and creative mind it is. Mark's right, I felt like I was there as I read it.

      Delete
    4. The irony of the line at the end is amazing. I love this. I hope you posting means that the power is back on.

      Delete
    5. I love this little glimpse. Like looking through a keyhole.

      Delete
  11. Donovan eased his scarf away from his mouth. “I’d suggest we make a move. We’ve only a few hours of daylight left, and I’d rather not be caught in the dark.” He covered his face again and began to pack, checking his canteen for water before secreting it within the folds of spare clothing he carried.

    “Donnie’s right.” Newson agreed. “We’ve already wasted too much time. There’s little we can achieve by staying here. Sentimentality’s a luxury for another time. Maybe we can say a prayer after we’ve strike camp, after we’re finished for the day.”

    Timothy’s remains had been scattered but I recognised his hand, knowing it from the rings he wore. Some of his other parts were still being eaten; the reavers fighting among themselves for the choicest treats.

    I didn’t know where his head had gone. It had probably been taken for a trophy; the alpha male determined to establish its primacy over the pack.

    The two men nodded to one another, shouldering their packs. They began to walk to the west, following the sun, the furrowing of the field slowing them.

    I let them get ahead, before I left the hollow where we’d stopped to rest. I was torn between my loyalty for the man I’d just begun to get to know and the others. Of the three of them, Timothy was probably the one most like me; the one who could still see hope for us all. He’d been inquisitive and open to new ideas; the others were just survivors, grim-faced and already dead to life.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I'm wondering how Timothy came to be dead, his remains scattered. With the mention of the alpha male and the pack, was it wolves? Are the men hunting the wolves? There's a mystery here to solve.

      Delete
    2. "the reavers" is a good name for things I'd rather not meet on the road or in an alley whether it was lit or dark. Very nice and intriguing set piece Mark, I definitely want to know more about this journey and why it's so deadly.

      Delete
    3. I love your description of his hand. The whole thing leads to sooooo many questions. It's awesome.

      Delete
    4. Reavers is such a great, evocative word. I want to know what's going on, and if it kept going, I would most certainly keep reading.

      Delete
  12. This comment has been removed by the author.

    ReplyDelete

Please leave comments. Good, bad or ugly. Especially ugly.