This is mine.

This is mine. I own this shit, and I'll do what I want with it. I figure it's an electronic shovel, and I'm gonna sweat more than John Henry. I want to be down deep in it, farther than six feet in it, down in the dark, moist heat of it. I want to compost myself.

Composting is important, but maybe you don't care about the earth, you fucking dick. Not that I compost, or care about anything, but you're still a dick. That's undeniable. You smell like Nixon, I'd imagine. He's dead now, so he probably doesn't smell as slick. Splitting hairs.

So, like I said, this is mine. You can try to take it from me, I don't care. It'll be nice to get some fresh air.

We're all on the same team! You can keep saying it and we can keep smiling about it, but I gotta say - sounds like the makings of a very damn boring game.

I keep a knife beside me when I write. It is for cuticles and apples and bits of string. It is to hold and caress. It is there to slice through epidermal armor, into the slop and meat of myself. I've got to put my hands in there and get the feel of it. I want to feel the wet squish through my fingers, hold my heart and feel the thump.

Or I'll move on down the line, handful of dimes. Bagging. Sack the village. Burn it. The bridges, too. There is no going back.

Wind

You are in it, caught up, red-handed, dust-devil drawn - light sketch lines. There is so much above you, but you don't look up. You do not see the swift-winged swallows tear the sky to ribbons. You are aware of clouds, but you do not look to see them - you take their shade and ignore the beauty they sculpt into the opal sky. You promised. The words echo in your head - the echoes are loud and frantic and you picture her face. You think: well, yeah... You promised, but there is something childlike about her disappointment - you have lived too long in the world where promises are like sunny-day popsicles, overly sweet and easily broken.

She steps out of the crowd at the bus station and it breaks your heart, truly. There is an ache inside so acute it frightens you - you wonder what a heart attack feels like. You want to run, but before you know it there are air kisses and she still wears the same perfume and the wind won't scatter it fast enough, and you're angry. You didn't ask for this. This taste of perfume thick in your mouth.

She talks so much and you wonder if it's natural. It sure doesn't seem like it. Seems like dexedrine. But that's not your business. Everyone has their secret crushes. Their secret crutches. Yours makes you quiet, withdrawn. It works out well. You stare at the space between her eyebrows and let the words soak you to the bone, not understanding. There is nothing to be understood.

Do you want to talk about it?

Your mind closes, and you feel loathing like syrup in your lungs. Of course. She called because of the funeral. It must have been in the paper. For a brief second you are back, standing in a raucous patch of sunlight wondering why. Why? And now it is all too clear. She felt obligated. That's all. It makes you feel lost and selfish and sad.

You shrug your jacket on. She's still saying things and the things are still too fast. She grabs your arm and you shake it away with a ferocity that is surprising to both of you. It turns her face large, smooth. She is still yelling after you, shrieks of guilt, slick along the broken buildings. It doesn't matter. You don't want to talk anymore.

Four and Twenty Blackbirds

He shifts his head slowly to better hear the train, a low whistle on a black-out track. He breathes deeply and lets the sound of the train fill him. It trips his other senses, and soon he is following smaller sounds. He hears the scuttling of feet on the roof. He hears the gentle breath from her soft lips. She is sleeping, her breath smells like mussmelon.

He shifts in the bed slowly, for her slumber is a monument. Her slumber is peace and serenity and beauty. He will not take it from her. He is on his back, now, mind wide awake. He traces a finger down the soft skin between her armpit and her hip. She makes quiet sounds in her sleep, nudges her face forward like a cat. Crickets own the night.

His pants are in a ball at the bottom of the bed, and he retrieves them with a monkey-grip foot. Slowly. She does not move.

Flipping the top of the pack, he pulls a smoke out with his lips, lights it on the candle that sits by the window, its flame dancing upon a stuttering wick. He pulls deeply, drawing the smoke down into his lungs, releasing it in a thin, fast stream from his red nose.

He does not want to sleep. He reaches into his pants again, retrieving a small plastic bag with lightning bolts on it. The bag is the size of a matchbook. He opens the bag and dumps the contents onto the glass of a picture frame. Her kids. Irony. Brilliant. Fuck 'em.

The little shards of glass wink up at him and he rolls his Bic over them, crushing the crystals to a fine white powder. He kills the line in four goes, his body spasms. He lights another cigarette and lets his mind run.

Stacey. Girl at the mall. Could have been any girl. Up and talking. Being funny. She's a pretty girl and she's tired. Got kids at home. Tired? Hell, that's easy to fix. Her face, horrified. Then, his voice. He tells her about fighter pilots and athletes and JFK and hypocrisy. She's too tired to argue.

Outside the mall, Stacey changes. It's OK. Deal. God, those fucking kids. Whatever. She's hot and she has money and it all don't matter when you got money. You can turn it off.

It is late and very dark. The orange tip of the cigarette dances to a lurid beat, something that needs jungle drums. He pulls the flame to the filter and flicks it out the open window,  drops of a light rain tickling. He is out of the bed now. She sleeps on. He goes first to the boy's room. He stands above him and watches him sleep for several minutes. Next, the girl. She is asleep, too, but her eyelashes quiver.

He walks to the kitchen and pours himself some warm vodka from the plastic bottle under the sink. He drinks it in one shot, sucking spit. It barely dents the crystal, but it changes it, shades it a little darker. He looks at the green numbers on the microwave: 3:23. It is his time. He can do anything he wants to do. The world is alseep, his brain, afire.

He pulls the large butcher's knife from the knife block. It isn't a good knife, but it will do the trick. He pours more vodka.

The skinning is easy. The flesh ripe and soft, he feels the warm liquids on his hands. He kneads and pulls and tears at them. The knife removes distinguishing features. Skinless, they lay on the table. He works hard, and he is done when the sun peaks over the ridge. He climbs the stairs slowly.

She wakes when he sets the pie down, canting one eye, shaking her head.

"You made pie?"

"Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie ..."

"You don't know anything, do you?"

"I don't, Stacey. I don't know anything. I fucked up. I'm sorry. I promise -"

"You promise what? What exactly do you promise? You'll stop? You'll change? Please. This is so fucking -"

She smiles and he knows the children are behind him. He twists his face, feet rooted. His eyes bore into her until she sighs, nods. He walks over and kisses her on the cheek. Whispers. I swear to God, I'll get it right. I'll fix it. He can feel the giving in. It shames him, but he releases the breath he has been holding. He fixes a bright smile to his face and turns. Their faces are small, worried.

"Kids, I'm sorry. I just want you to know it won't happen again. I don't want to be an embarrassment. I don't expect forgiveness, but give me one more chance ..."

The small faces are set hard, but the nose-twitches are involuntary. He smiles.

"Yeah, I figured today was a 'fresh apple pie for breakfast' kind of day. Wonderful things, apples. Despite what the good book says. Hell, I don't even know what it says. All I know is there is one goddamn important apple in there somewhere."

The kids smile and Stacey chuckles. He's winning again, he can feel it. He's got them. This time he has to follow through. Or there won't be enough apples in the world. He smiles because, in this moment, pie steaming and fogging the windows, he actually believes. He is shielded from the alleys and compromises and sadness that await him.

Stacey stretches and he jumps on her. The kids follow. They tussle until hunger takes over. They look at the pie and the large knife beside it.

"No plates? Forks?"

"Didn't want to wake y'all up running water. Everything is dirty. Here, I'll show you how they do it in France."

He reaches a hand in, scoops the warm pie into his mouth, trying not to laugh, juice down his chin. Stacey starts to speak, but both kids are already elbow deep and she just smiles. They eat the whole pie before Stacey sends the kids off to get ready for school.

"I only got one more time in me, you know that, right?"

"I know, baby. I told you. I got my mind right. Easy as pie."

He even winks.

She is laughing as he slips the knife down beside the bed, snug against the wall. He tells himself that it is all silliness, a joke. The whole thing. Pie for breakfast? Who does that? He listens to the shower run and licks his sticky fingers.

Deeper

The water is cool against his skin, it balances out the hot rage that has been building. Why? That's the fuck all of it. Why? There is no easy answer, so he dives deeper, pressure building, wondering if he can hold his breath long enough to go as deep as he needs to go. Until the pressure crushes him like an old, faded beer can.

The depth is important because he is not a shallow man and his problems are like tiny buds that flower into giant, florid disasters.

He looks up and sees sunlight pushing against the water, the water pushes back - it is always like this. Briefly, he wonders if it has always been this way. If everything is just a result of the friction between opposing forces.

The rip-tear of depleted oxygen causes a brief panic, but it passes quickly. He sees images now. Flashes of light. The why is not as important. It has been eclipsed by thoughts and memories long abandoned - they rise now, filling his head with a dim slide show of his life. He had always hoped it wouldn't end with a cliche, but there is no longer a choice. There is nothing to do but watch the show.

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. No reason. Just ending the week in style.

You can write whatever you want in the comments section. You have two minutes. Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

Have a good weekend!

It's like a caricature of disaster. My eyes won't cooperate, the bastards - or maybe they know more than me? Maybe there is more humanity in those two little orbs than there is in the whole rest of this fucked up world. What a load of crap. I'll punch myself later.

Me? I just want to look. Just for a second. I want to watch the slow fall that took you so long to build up to. America, you filled my head with bullshit lies and false optimism. Now, the piper gets paid. I may get screwed in the process, but at least now I can see you for what you really are. And no, I don't mean anything crazy - rest easy, CIA. I just mean that we're about to reap what we sowed. I'm afraid it's gonna be rather ugly. You get what you pay for, feel me? I'm just an observer, though. I don't pick sides because every side is populated by sycophants and assholes.

It's a battle, see. The fat, slick, suit and tie bastards have their own agenda and you're part of it, but you don't want to know what part - trust me. The poor folks are too worried about silly things like food and phone bills and getting shot. The people in the middle are just worried about how many brambles they will catch on the way down. They inch their way up, but it's like one of those horrible math problems. A snail climbs a wall 4.3 inches every five minutes, but every 1.3 hours he slips back one inch and loses ground and the world turns and who gives a fuck anyway. I mean, I like snails. Not so much when they crunch under my bare feet. I like them, though. I just don't like their ecosystem.

Headphones

He dove into the darkness, tethered by wires from his headphones. They were old and huge and looked like they should be atop a crew cut, directing airplanes. They blocked out everything. Fast drum beats drilled into his skull. Carefully, he dipped a safety pin in ink and continued the permanent doodle he was adding to his arm.

Jake had never been poor. He felt poor, but he wasn't. Poor is lack of potable water. Poor is digging through dumpsters. Rich made enough money to live. When he wasn't inside the valet booth, he was inside his headphones, and he was happy.

The other valets wore short sleeved shirts in the tropical heat. Jake wore a long sleeve shirt to hide the scribbling and notes and reminders he had spent years giving himself. The scars and the tattoos wouldn't fly at work.

Being a valet was cool. Jake liked it. He had found some interesting things in cars he parked. Money. A watch. Necklaces and earrings. He took them. All the valets did. No one could ever prove anything and his manager didn't care. He knew he'd be fired eventually. The only thing he ever found and didn't take was an envelope.

It was one of those big envelopes that people call "vanilla" when talking to people who are too embarrassed to correct them. Inside, there was a .38 and a bag of white powder. Jake had thought for a second, and then he'd put everything back the way he'd found it. Heart in his throat. That night he had listened to The Velvet Underground and wondered who was waiting for their man. And he smiled when he thought how pissed they would have been if he'd taken the stuff.

The room was still dark, but Rich was stoned and the cherry on the end of his blunt was fire orange. He stared at it and waved it lightly, writing his name like he had done with a thousand sparklers. In his former life.

On the cusp of sleep (and between songs), Jake heard a pounding on his apartment door. He'd been waiting for it. He smiled and didn't move. They could break the door in. He thumbed his phone and put on an old GBH album. He turned up the volume.

When the cops splintered into his apartment, knocking the door to pieces, Jake was still in his room, lost in the music. The first cop he saw was holding a flashlight and his gun. Jake laughed. The cop was yelling, but he couldn't hear a word he said. He tried to picture the other cops in the living room, the blood on the walls. The cop with the flashlight was joined by two more officers. Jake smiled at their purple faces.

He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he knew. In a flash, he grabbed the phone and pointed it through the murky light and lingering pot smoke. The first bullet took half his face. The rest were for good measure, he supposed. He closed his eyes and listened to the music and waited to die. It did not take long.

Want

Crystal clutched her shoulder, blood seeping through slender spaces her fingers left on the soft, sanguine skin. She could not look away from the blood, but her periphery revealed much. George had put the gun down and was pacing. Her ears still rang from the shot, but she could hear him muttering to himself. Something about justice. He kept using the word "fair". She wondered momentarily if he knew what it meant. She almost chuckled, but the smell of blood and gunpowder dictated 'smirk' instead.

"George, you fucking asshole. I'm gonna die."

"Oh, shut the fuck up. I shot you in the shoulder."

Crystal took a deep breath and tried to move. No way.

"George, listen to me. It doesn't matter where you shot me if I bleed to death. You gotta take me to the hospital. Just drop me at the ER. I won't say shit."

He cocked his head to the side. It was a habit he had. Crystal had always called him 'the parrot' behind his back.

"Why the fuck would I take you to the hospital?"

"'Cause you fucking shot me! Because they can stop me from dying. Are you fucking mental?"

"I'm not taking you to the hospital."

"Why, George? What the fuck are you doing? What do you want?"

He cocked his head again and scratched his chin thoughtfully. Crystal was beginning to feel faint. None of it mattered anymore.

"What do I want? I wanted to fucking love you, bitch!"

"Then why didn't you?"

"I tried."

"You didn't try hard enough."

George walked into the kitchen and she could hear the ice cubes kiss the glass before he drowned them in gin. Fucking think, Crystal! She was fading, but there was time. But that was the joke. It had always been fading, and there had never been enough time. She could no longer see, but she could hear him. He was right in front of her.

"How could I have tried harder? Tell me..."

"Fuck you, George."

"How...?"

She felt a slight surge of energy, followed by a pain so immense that it had a color. Deep, opaque.

"You want to know how? You could have stopped thinking about yourself for five minutes. You could have not fucking shot me. You could have been a decent person. But you're not. You're an asshole. And a stupid one at that."

"Call me an asshole again..."

"And what, asshole, you'll kill me? I'm dying, motherfucker. You failed. You didn't want to kill me, but you fucked up. Like you fucked up our relationship. Like you've fucked everything up for your whole life. You want to know why I married you? I felt sorry for you. And I felt worthless. I felt like I deserved your pathetic ass. Maybe I did."

There was silence for a minute or so. Enough time for Crystal to reflect. She would never pick up her dry cleaning. They would never know why. She could feel her mind shutting off.

"Pick up my dry cleaning?"

"Huh?"

"My fucking dry cleaning, can you pick it up after I die?"

"You're not going to die."

"I am dying, you idiot. You can see the blood, right?"

"Don't die...please...I..."

"Don't say you're sorry. Whatever you do, don't say you're sorry."

"But I love you."

"Then pick up the fucking dry cleaning."

"Crystal..."

"You don't know what love is, George. You think it's about possession and absolute loyalty. You never wanted a wife. You wanted a female reflection of yourself. But I'm not like you. I never was."

"Tell me. Tell me what to do."

There was no response, and he grabbed her shoulders, slumped her against the wall. Her mouth gaped open and her eyes were opalescent. Beautiful eyes. She'd always had such beautiful eyes. He realized that she would never speak again, but he knew what she would have wanted.

His hands shook as he tried to hold the gun backwards, thumb awkward on the trigger. He could see her side of it. She had never seen his. He was willing to give it all up. So they could be together. He heard a pounding on the door as he worked the barrel between his gritty teeth.

The evening paper...

The sound of soft classical music and the flumping of the evening newspaper leaked under the doorway, subtle, omniscient, haunting. She could picture him in his leather chair. She could see the highball glass in his hand. She wondered if it was full. She wondered if he was still holding it at a proper angle or if drops of scotch were staining her carpet. She tried to picture his eyes, dark circles, flecks of purple and green. She wondered if they were still open. If they were drooping. She did not open the door until she heard the distinctive thump of thick glass on thicker carpet.

He was out cold. The glass rested where she knew it would be. The paper still hung from one hand. His other hand was on his gut. She said his name, but he did not move. She shook him, but the only reward was a loosening of vapors. Body odor and scotch and the stench of the newsroom. She slapped him, hard, and he glamped onward, eyelids fluttering.

"I fucking hate you."

She whispered it. Like you would whisper into a lover's ear. She didn't want anyone to hear. She didn't understand it herself. It wasn't anything he did. It was the things he didn't do. The things he'd promised and never delivered.

She felt a wave of rage overtake her. She grasped the bottle of scotch by the neck and had her first drink in years ... as much as she could choke down - liquid fire...cleansing fire. It was electric. Her brain smirked. She poured the rest of the bottle over his head, matting the grey hair to his swollen skull. She was starting to feel it. She felt cold, calm. She'd forgotten how good it was.

"You piece of shit. Big man. You may be a big man at work, but you're nothing here. You're fucking furniture."

She laughed. She stepped forward and slapped him again. Harder, this time. He stirred briefly, but then his head settled, cheek mottled red against his starched white oxford. She laughed. She went into the kitchen to look for something. A marker. Ketchup. Tin foil. Something. Something she could use to fuck with the big, sleeping bear.

She did not realize she had been looking for the butcher's knife until it was in her hand.

12:53 AM

I'm so sick and tired of the same old thing. And yet I crave routine's complicity. I live in the dark, but it's a murky kind of dark...like wearing your sunglasses into a bar. Everything is smeared in Vaseline. Time drips from the ceiling like blood onto a clean linoleum floor. There's some citrus scent you can never quite place and the air moves weird. I wonder if I'll ever get over the feeling that my mom's just worried about me getting blood on the rug. I wonder why I cared then, and I wonder even more why I give a shit now. But I do.

Lost at sea...

The man sat on the rock, motionless. It was as if he was part of the rock, but every few minutes he would shift, resettle. The gulls around him would pretend at flying before settling. It gave a very distinct and disconcerting impression of anthropomorphism. My eyes blurred with tears and the rock just looked like a large animal, hunched over, breathing.

The man was staring out to sea. I was staring at him because I could not look inward. The gremlins. Usually, my mind was filled with frivolous notions and bits of prose. Not old voices. Not the smell of vanilla in a warm kitchen when I was so small the world seemed destined to eat me up. Or to go on forever. In those days of homemade bread and sanguine meanderings, well, I never saw the truth coming until it hit me right in the face.

The truth was that I was failing. Instead of one notable success, I had collection of soft, mauve, failures. Bland shortcomings. My mouth tasted of tooth decay. I tried to smile at women and frightened them. Or I spoke and couldn't even compose words. People talked to me and I said things like, "yurp erm." And they never looked surprised. They weren't listening.

The sky was a raincloud grey mass. Like the sky was falling slowly. Or the ocean was making an ascent into the heavens. Or like the world were one great bowl of porridge. No cream. No sugar. No raisins. Just a bowl of sludge that will, at most, keep you alive and wanting more. Even though it will always taste the same. A warm, cardboard dryness. A paste.

The man stood up and the gulls scattered and then returned, like they were pulled on elastic strings. He began to walk towards me. An old man, he was. Grey of hair and beard. He had a queer smile on his face. A smirk. It was not until he was almost on top of me, frozen in place, that I saw the resemblance. The same eyes. He smiled again, and I understood.

The Promise

"So, the guy's just fucking staring. You know? You know how their eyes get. All wide and scared and wet. Deer in the headlights or whatever the fuck. I don't know. I ain't never seen a real deer. He's not saying anything, just kind of whimperin' a little. Like a puppy. Then, I get this idea. I'm supposed to kill him, right? Not like I got a problem with it, but I just didn't feel like killing anyone that day. I don't know why. Anyway, I'm standing there watching this dude shake, and I take my gun out. Dude jerks back, but I slowly put the gun on the ground. 'Stand up,' I tell him. He does...maybe that was part of it. He wasn't beggin' or bitchin' or any of that usual shit. Kind of had a little respect for him, you know? I mean, it's not like we don't know the guy. Shit, he was in my class until I dropped out.

"So, he's standing up, and I tell him I'm giving him a chance. We fight. Fists only. If I win, he dies. Simple, right? Motherfucker weighs like a buck fifty. I'm smiling, and I start to take my jacket off and he fucking hits me. Hard. So, I drop the jacket and get ready to knock his head off, but he hits me again. I swing and he hits me again. Same place, every time. Right in the fucking mouth. I can taste the blood...and get this, he's smiling. Now, I know I fucked up. I don't know what kind of Jap shit that guy studied, but he moved so fast I couldn't even block a punch. He's just destroying me. And, you know me...I ain't no chump...dude was fast. And strong. So, I'm trying to just get him off me. He does some kind of turnaround kick thing. Next thing I know, I'm waking up on my back and he's holding the gun? I know! I couldn't fucking believe it. So, he's holding the gun, but he's not pointing it at me. He tells me that he's not gonna shoot me. Says it's all a big misunderstanding. I can't fucking believe it. He tells me he doesn't blame me. He understands. Blah, blah, blah. I'm just hoping he keeps talking, so I agree with him. Thank him. All that shit..."

"So, what the fuck happened?"

"What you mean, 'what happened?' I acted like I was tying my shoe and he's still doing one of those...the fuck they called those things in school...in the plays...solilisomething. He's pacing and talking all loud. I had the .38 in my ankle holster. I pull it, but I stay down low. He looks at me and he sees the gun and he stops...like freezes...and he starts giving me this line of shit about how he didn't shoot me and we had a deal. I can't shoot him...wouldn't be fair."

"Ha! Fair? That's hilarious."

"I know. He's all pissed that I didn't 'keep my word'. I'm all, 'Brother, killing people is my job, you really think we're gonna shake hands and go get a beer?"

"That's a good one. So, what happened."

"The fuck you mean? I shot him. Then I took my gun back."

The Earth

The dirt was brown, but he didn't call it dirt. Earth, he called it. And that was the way he thought about it. Up until the very end. Even as the pains grew in his chest. As he scraped at it, tearing his fingernails backwards, bloody, knowing that if he dug, he would find light. But was he digging in the right direction? Who had brought him here? No time to even think.

The dirt won. It was no contest. He died, filled with it. He consumed it, breathed it deep into his lungs. Choked on it. Died in it. Tasted it's richness. That was years ago and the grass still doesn't grow over that patch. Folks talk about it, but they talk about it the way you talk about something that happened to someone else. In some other town. In a place where people grow up without ever thinking what it would feel like to die like that. Without wondering what kind of person would do that to another human being. Without sampling the earth once or twice to get a taste of mortality.

The Bullet

         "How the fuck I'm 'posed to tell you when you never fuckin' listen anyway...?"
         "Because I was..."
         "You what? Because you fuckin' what?!?!"
         "I didn't..."
         "The hell you didn't, motherfucker. The hell you fucking didn't. And now you callin' me a liar?"
         "Look, man..."

         The slap was like a firecracker. He was instantly back there, fingers tingling from the M-80s and worms and hearing that bang as loud as all creation. He shook his head.

         "Now, tell me again how I'm a fuckin' liar."
         "You're not a li..."
         "Goddamn right, I ain't no motherfuckin' liar. I gave it to you straight, motherfucker. I fronted your ass. Cause you's 'family'. Now you got it twisted? That ain't my fuckin' fault. You can't get your shit together? Ain't my fucking fault. You ain't never got no money and your woman does you wrong. Ain't. My. Fuckin'. Fault. I don't care if she is my sister, she's your fuckin' problem. And we ain't 'family'."

         He rung his hands nervously. Cleared his throat. Reached down into the hard place where he hoped his courage lived, blind and groping, a deep sea creature.

         "Brother, I will get the money!"

         The second slap was louder. Antoine spit blood and looked at the face in front of him. Where it had been twisted in fury, it was now resigned. This was just part of the job now. It wasn't personal. He might live.

         "Man, I promise on my Momma's life, I'ma get you that money..."
         "What the fuck I care about your momma, bitch? Fuck yo momma. And fuck you. I'm fixin' to put a boot so far up your ass you can tie the laces with your teeth. You get that money. I'm coming back here at this same time tomorrow. You better be here smilin' with five large in your pocket...on top what you already owe. You feel me?"
         "I do. I will. I..."

         But he was already walking away. Antoine waited until the Escalade rounded the corner, and then he started shoving his things into bags and boxes. He threw as much of his wardrobe as he could into the trunk and dumped the rest in the back seat. He was in Reno, days later, drunk and losing money, when he was slipped a piece of paper by a beautiful Latina. He smiled, groggily, and read the note. 'Meet me outside, I have something for you' - cute with a little heart and everything. Antoine slid off his stool and walked to the neon door. He stepped out into the evening heat. He squinted into the darkness. And then he knew. The voice came from behind him.

         "And yo' fool ass comes outside. Just like that. This is too fuckin' easy. Hey, Antoine, you stupid motherfucker..."
         Antoine felt his eyes burn. Tears. He reached inward for the words that could stop this. But he knew there were none.
         "Yeah?"
         "You can't outrun a bullet, bitch."

Lost

He didn't come back that night, and Sam sat in total concentration while he worked on the poster. Working on the poster was keeping him from going crazy. Going crazy was the only option that sounded appealing if Hank didn't come back.

Hank was a mutt of dubious lineage. Seemed people always saw their favorite breed in him, and Sam never really got the mind to correct them. His folks called Hank a chameleon, which is a lizard that changes colors. Sam had seen one at the county fair.

Hank had gotten out before, but he'd always make a few charges at the squirrels that lived up in the big pines and then tire out. Then he'd come home and get scolded. Then he'd get a treat. Sam never got mad at Hank, and that was because there was nothing about the dog that he didn't love.

They'd been together since before either or them remembered it. The dog followed Sam everywhere. When he was inside, his eyes followed Sam's every movement. The boy belonged to him. You could see that. Folks said it was strange, but it was the truth. Sam didn't own that dog. That dog owned Sam.

Sam was brushing his teeth when he heard a long, low whine from outside. He knew the sound. He'd only heard it once before when Hank had surprised a porcupine. Now, his heart stopped.

Hank was sitting at the backdoor and, if you didn't know him, you might just think he was hungry. Tired. He was hungry and tired, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was the crushed hind legs that had carved a smooth swath through the fall leaves. Sam fell to his knees and hugged the dog, whose tongue wiped away the thick tears. Sam knew his dad was behind him, and his head sank. He could smell gun oil and, turning, he saw the face of a man whose heart was broken.

"No, Dad...we can take him...to town..."

Sam's Dad swallowed hard and wondered how you explain to a young boy that his best friend isn't going to be around anymore.

"Son, you know I hate to do anything to hurt you. This is going to break your heart and don't think I don't know it. Hell, I loved that dog, too. Not like you, but he was a good goddamn dog. Excuse my French...son, we can't let him suffer like this..."

Sam stared at the ground until he could slow down the tears.

"Dad..."

"Yes, Son."

"I don't want to shoot him, Dad."

"Son, you don't have to."

"He's my damn dog."

Sam took the revolver from his father's hand. He pressed his forehead against Hanks strong brow and hoped that dogs could read minds. Hank had always seemed like a mind-reader. Buddy, I know you understand. And I know you know I hate to do this more than anything. But the doc can't fix your legs, and we both know it. I love you. I won't ever forget you. I promise.

Slowly, he stood and led the dog by its collar, hind legs limp dragging. When they reached the trash pile at the edge of the ridge, Sam stopped.

From the back steps, the old man could see it all. Silhouettes in the moonlight. A broken dog, thumping his tail and whimpering each time it hit the hard-pack dirt. The boy got on his knees and pulled the dog to his chest. He was crying so hard it looked like he was vibrating, and the old man let the tears come.

The dog sat still. He faced the boy and nosed the barrel of the gun. He licked the boy's hand and then there was an explosion in the night. The dog crumpled and Sam dropped the gun. He was still for a good minute, chin on his chest. He looked up into the sky and the old man was glad he couldn't see his face. He walked away from the house into the dense, green woods.

Hits

The girl in the black fishnets is crying. She is swatting her hands around her body as if she has been caught in a swarm of bees, not a swarm of mind. You try not to look at her. Her eyes...it was just a second, but they saw. You know she knows. You know you can't help her.

The guy with the glow-sticks is such a canker-sore of a fucking cliche, you want to hit him. But you are too busy watching the glow. You wish you had something that looked so pretty.

You close your eyes tight and realize that the world inside is even more terrifying. Blood drips off sodden statues, monuments to the moments you repressed, saving them for just the right moment. I guess this is the right moment.

You rub your jaw and your skin feels slick and cold. You can't tell where the sensation leaves your face and transfers to your fingers. In a second, you become aware that you are in a roomful of people and they all look like fucking lunatics. They are in clusters giggling, staring stupefied into the lights, clutching something tight to their chests. They hate you, but you can't figure out why. You wrack your brain to find something. It has to be. They know. Somehow, in this warehouse, the truth was plucked without your knowing.

A girl grabs your hand and you snatch it away from her like she is fire. She smiles at you gently. She passes you the joint she's smoking and says something, grinning. You can't fucking hear and you don't trust the girl, but she grabs your arm and resistance proves too confusing.

Outside, the black sky morning is falling over the dreams of the civilian masses. Outside, the strobe light can't hurt you. Outside, you can hear the girl, and she has a lovely voice that speaks in emotion, words lost to the drone of reassurance. You lean your head on her shoulder and let the voice wash over you.

The cigarette is your connection to everything. You can't explain it, you just know. It is an anchor, a talisman, it is your life's breath painted white for your amusement. In a few hours, your lower back will ache. You will try to remember where you got the little locket in your pocket. You open it and there is a small square of paper inside. There is a picture of a flower on the paper. Alice never questioned it and you don't either.

The Game

She had been gone for months, and he still found her shit everywhere. A brush behind the sofa, a jacket wedged into the trunk of his car, a letter - he burned it all. Fuck it. He was in a state of suspended animation. His mind was lost in a labyrinth of whys and whatifs. And the big questions. When had she decided? How many times had he told her he loved her? How many times had she said it back without meaning it?

The emptiness of the apartment was crushing. Silence and solitude pressed down upon him. Old memories crept along his spine, plucking the vertebrae like harp strings. His phone rang sometimes, but he never answered it. He knew it wouldn't be her. He didn't want to talk to anyone.

He played albums he didn't hear. He watched movies he didn't see. He swam in half-memory and coerced confusion. Somewhere, he knew, people were smiling. Children played on slides and sent cries of happiness into the liquid sky. He did not belong anymore. He was no longer playing the game.

Deeper

It felt like an overwhelming warmth, suffocating. It cut like a torn pop can. You tinkered with it and it got worse. They told you to leave it alone, but you didn't listen. That was always the problem, wasn't it? You don't fucking listen.

There is regret coursing through your veins, opalescent spheres that taint the blood. You clench and unclench your hand and, all these years later, you can still feel it. The bones that didn't knit right. Take it back farther. You can feel the impact of the punch. Even further back...you look for anger and find a frightened confusion that makes you feel peeled open.

You hit the fucking guy because he deserved it. That's what you tell yourself. It's not true. At least not completely. It is falser than most everything else, which is half-truth anyway.

There are times in everyones' lives when they have to choose. Often, they choose wrong. More often, there is no way of knowing. You buy your ticket, you take your chance.

From the top of a tall pine, a blue jay sits squawking. He is so far above you. You pick up a pine cone and start tearing it apart. You don't realize you are doing it. You are drowning in the sanguine mind. You don't know what's going to happen. The jay may squall forever. You may never be brave enough to talk to Becky down the street, and that might not even mean anything anyway.

None of it matters. You have told yourself this so many times that you now believe it. It's all slight of hand and bullshit. You groan and your friend is looking down at you, curled on the old thrift store couch. You want him to punch you. You want a hug. You're fucking mixed up. It's like the way that bark strips off a tree. Layers gone, you are down to the meat and there is nothing to do but keep cutting.

Just like that...

And if it wasn't enough that Bobby had in fact ruined her life by dumping her in the cafeteria, Stephanie still would have done what she did. The breakup was bad, though. No one is trying to say that it wasn't. It was...fucking epic...like those old western movies, muskets at dawn or whatever. She would have done it because Bobby fucked Jenny Woodson at the Sadie Hawkins and never even apologized. Everyone knew. So, she fucking killed him. It was brutal, hatchet to the face shit. Crazy. Happened one night after a party out at Guster's. Fucking killer party and everyone is having a good time and then it's fucking blood and everybody's pushing everybody else. I never seen anything like it, you want to know the truth. Hope to God I never see anything like it again. Partying and there's good molly, and I'm high and rolling and then...fuckin' A, dude. Just like that. That's how it happened. Just like that.

Inert

Remember as much as you can; soon it will be lost. Inertia is a short con. Drag the tinsel from the ceiling fan, the holidays are over. Look at the sky and pretend you can fly. Fall into the couch, spiraling down until nothing means anything anymore. Or everything means everything. Soft-tongued sycophants guide the way. Deeper.

It is a golden sphere, and it hangs on the regret you feel. You want to hold it, but it is cold...too cold for your smooth hands. He said that everything would turn out great. He lied to you, and you are trying to figure out how you could have ever been so foolish. But the foolishness was innocence and, really, you just want it back.

Maybe you can manage it. Control it. Some people can't. Some people wake up with cigarette burns on their pale chests, caved in. They are chasing something different.

You lie to yourself and you hate yourself and, fuck, I think that's the way our forefathers wanted it. All this nonsense. 98% of the shit you are surrounded by is worthless. But that 98% is loud, brother. It's persistent. And the 2% of life that is beautiful just can't compete.

Run until you can't run for the gasping. Reach until your arms are numb from grasping. Clutch your hands around its throat and wait for the sparkle lights to illuminate the night. Run, motherfucker, run.

I don't know all that much about it. It's a sham. It's a greased pig. It's fucking huge. You can't understand it. You can't wrap your arms around it. You nod your head and run your smooth hands over your face, press your eyes until the fun starts...explosions.

It was a long time ago, but the aftertaste lingers. It is bitter, but you roll it on your tongue, waiting for some kind of payback. Some kind of payoff. You feel sorry for yourself when you shouldn't. In your mind, there is a cage full of budgerigars singing, paint splashes and primping.

Close your eyes and kill your brain if that's what you need. I understand, man. I really do. I'm waiting for the call. I have my black suit cleaned and pressed and ready to go. I am prepared to see her there, pointed eyes casting blame that we know is unwarranted. But let it be. She needs it. She needs to think it was our fault, not hers. So, let it be.

Your life has been a hair shirt. I get it. I can't say I'll forgive because I won't. But I'll understand, and that's more than you probably deserve. More than any of us do. Step into the darkness, tepid, dipping a toe into oblivion. Smile as you go...don't let it hurt. You're smart enough to make it painless, and there will be plenty of pain, regardless. Some sharks die if they stop moving. Maybe you've been dead for years. I'll tell your story; I have the ink in my skin. And it will fade like the memories, but it will always be there, like a kid in the back of the class scribbling for all he's worth.

Ain't it pretty?

Well? Ain't it? You got yourself all gussied up, and that smirk looks good on you. Give em what they want. It's a cheap pop tune, but the beat is catchy. I'm not talking about music. I'm talking about that corner of the room you like to stare at, eyes blurring into focus. I'm talking about that way you cock your hip to the side like you got a six gun there. It's no skin off my ass, and I probably should leave it alone, but I can't help but feel scorn for a clone.

Let's all pretend we're what we want to be. I want to be the one who makes the world whirl, eyes open to the fire. You? It's all about the yes-men, the yes-women. They are programmable, automatonic disasters. I have no use for them. I've always been more intrigued by the ones who say 'no'.

It's just so doggone simple, but you don't get it. I won't be your huckleberry. You can ride this train alone 'cause I don't like where it's going. I don't like the scenery and I don't enjoy the company. I'll settle my limbs across the tracks and wait for the first glimpse of pure white bone.

Your supposition and superstition glow like magma. You stare at the customers who come by, wondering which ones will buy the lie. Not me. I like honesty.

But it was lovely wasn't it? It's almost over now, so make sure you're taking notes. You think I'm arrogant? Not much. Sometimes, I reckon. Sometimes I just tell it like I see it, and I see a sack of insecure bullshit. So, I'm calling it. Heads or tails?

Wouldn't it be great to just get on the horses and joust. To get in the arena with the lions. To actually live something worthwhile and true instead of hiding behind these good folks you bow down to...the ones you mock once they're out of earshot. They came for a show. Sell it to them. I'll be behind the wagon whittling this stick.

I see you when I close my eyes, adjustments made for accuracy's sake. The pretty face is gone, replaced by yellowed, sallow mailbox coupons. It doesn't matter as long as you can keep telling yourself that you're important. And as long as they believe it. It don't matter a warm shit what I think.

It is pretty, though. The long, drawn out wail that escapes your falling lips. The realization that the world's all bumpy and you tried to make it flat. The train's slowing down, but you won't jump off. I know you well enough to know that. You'll prop it all up with false bravado and popsicle sticks and, somehow, you'll still hook a few.

I wonder what they'll say at your funeral. Probably a bunch of nice stuff. Vacant platitudes and fluff. Don't worry, I'll be there to set the record straight. I ain't proud of it, but I can't wait.