Sorry about my lack of posts, I lost a few parts of the story in the back. I'll try to dig them up for ya. In the meantime, here's a short I wrote not too long ago.
He gets alot of strange looks on the subway on the ride downtown. It's not too often that the other passengers on the 5:00 AM see a man in a skirt. But he wears his kilt proudly, his ancestry as his support. After all, William Wallace wore one of those skirts. The cold doesn't bother him as he walks down the empty city square to the fountain in the main park. This is, of course, non-functional in the winter. He opens his case, removes the violin and begins to tune.
Alot of people don't know the difference between a fiddle and a violin. In actuality, they are very much the same instrument, with subtle differences. A violin meant for fiddling tends to be smaller than a regular violin, but can be played as such. The fiddler also grips his bow slightly higher than a violinist, reducing the amount of space on the bow, but giving him more control over the area he uses. There are also differences in technique. All very subtle differences.
He plays for those on their way to work in the offices and businesses around him. They all smile and leave some change for his time. He smiles and nods in a silent "thank you". He likes to think he brightened their day just a little bit. Likes to think that the's making the city a slightly better place. Some ask him why he doesn't get a real job. He tells them that he enjoys this too much.
In the afternoon, more street musicians turn up. The fiddler asks if he can join in, and some allow him to play for a few minutes. They enjoy that sense of comradery. Occasionally a car drives by with pop, rock, or hip-hop blaring out the windows. He will play along with some he deems appropriate. Sometimes the outcome sounds good, sometimes it does not. But he doesn't mind. He knows that trial and error is sometimes the best method. Sometimes he draws a crowd with his playing and enthusiastic dancing. He asks that the crowd keeps time with their hands, so he can keep in time. It is difficult to dance and play at the same time.
At the end of the day, he puts his take in his pockets and rides the subway back to his apartment on the dingier side of town. He opens the door to his slightly disorganised apartment to see his two daughters. The eldest is doing her homework, the youngest playing with cheap toys. They run to the door to give their father a hug after not seeing him all day. He then lets them count his collection from the day and begins to make a simple dinner for them. After dinner, they continue with their work. The eldtest continues her schoolwork. The youngest plays with cheap toys, her father occasionally playing with her. At 9:00, his children go to bed, leaving him to reflect on his day while watching their small tv/radio. At around 12:00, he falls asleep but not before kissing the picture of the mother of his children, who passed away a few years earlier from a congenital heart defect.
The fiddler carries a deep secret. He is illiterate and as such, never recieved a proper education and cannot obtain proper employment. He lives on welfare cheques and the money he recieves from busking. And nobody but his daughters will ever know. Why? Because he is content with his life. He enjoys what he does.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Part 8
I jumo out of the wildly swerving convertable and into the hard sand, hurting my arm and giving me a terrible case of whiplash. I stand to see Mr.Duke and Oscar speeding off into the darkness, followed by the troopers. A gunshot rings out. The great red convertable swirves to a halt. The troopers can't break in time, and they ram into the Imapala. If things are as I suspected, Oscar is dead behind the wheel and Mr. Duke is injured from the crash. I'd stay around to witness the aftermath, but I'd risk arrest.I run the other way on Highway 95 untill I reach what looks like an on-ramp, and head towards town.
I wander aimlessly in the small town of Quartzsite, Arizona untill I decide to enter a coffee shop. Sitting down for a coffee seemed like a good idea. I need to gather my thoughts. I reach for my wallet, to see if I can pay for the drink. Surprised to see that it's still there, I soon discover that It is empty, save for a peice of paper. No money. No bank card. No ID. I'm fucked.
I remove this peice of paper to find that it is, in fact, a note. A note from my shooter?
"Sorry, Ed. I had to do this. Didn't want you getting in the way of progress.- Bill"
Bill? Bill Szatkowski? BACKWARDS BILL? It can't be. I knew he was a little messed up, but not insane enough to...
"I guess you're shit outta luck", a familiar voice interrupts my thoughts. I look up to see the girl from the room. This time without the big cloak. Now with a clever t-shirt and jeans.
"Looks like you aren't healing up as well as I thought.", she remarked at my bandaged chest. "lucky I got to you before that bullet worked it's way in too deep.", she informs me."Bullet?" I ask. "I thought it was a poison dart." I'm met with a quick reply, "No, I got you with a poison dart. I found you with the bullet wound."
"Why the hell would you shoot me with a poison dart?" I yell, attracting the attention of the other coffee shop regulars. "I'm crazy that way", she says. The burning question comes out. "Who are you, anyway?" "Kosovo. What's it to ya?""Kosovo?...like The Republic of Kosovo?""Yeah"
She didn't look like a Kosovo...but, then again, I don't know what a Kosovo looks like, apart from it's geographical shape. I doubt that's her real name, but at least I can refer to her as something other than "weird girl".
"So, Kosovo...you saw the guy who shot me, right?"
"yeah, why?"
"Think you can help me track him down?"
I get a strange answer.
"Maby...maby not"
"Great...now what am I going to do?", I think to myself as I look around the room. I look back to see that Kosovo is gone, a few $5 bills in her place.
I wander aimlessly in the small town of Quartzsite, Arizona untill I decide to enter a coffee shop. Sitting down for a coffee seemed like a good idea. I need to gather my thoughts. I reach for my wallet, to see if I can pay for the drink. Surprised to see that it's still there, I soon discover that It is empty, save for a peice of paper. No money. No bank card. No ID. I'm fucked.
I remove this peice of paper to find that it is, in fact, a note. A note from my shooter?
"Sorry, Ed. I had to do this. Didn't want you getting in the way of progress.- Bill"
Bill? Bill Szatkowski? BACKWARDS BILL? It can't be. I knew he was a little messed up, but not insane enough to...
"I guess you're shit outta luck", a familiar voice interrupts my thoughts. I look up to see the girl from the room. This time without the big cloak. Now with a clever t-shirt and jeans.
"Looks like you aren't healing up as well as I thought.", she remarked at my bandaged chest. "lucky I got to you before that bullet worked it's way in too deep.", she informs me."Bullet?" I ask. "I thought it was a poison dart." I'm met with a quick reply, "No, I got you with a poison dart. I found you with the bullet wound."
"Why the hell would you shoot me with a poison dart?" I yell, attracting the attention of the other coffee shop regulars. "I'm crazy that way", she says. The burning question comes out. "Who are you, anyway?" "Kosovo. What's it to ya?""Kosovo?...like The Republic of Kosovo?""Yeah"
She didn't look like a Kosovo...but, then again, I don't know what a Kosovo looks like, apart from it's geographical shape. I doubt that's her real name, but at least I can refer to her as something other than "weird girl".
"So, Kosovo...you saw the guy who shot me, right?"
"yeah, why?"
"Think you can help me track him down?"
I get a strange answer.
"Maby...maby not"
"Great...now what am I going to do?", I think to myself as I look around the room. I look back to see that Kosovo is gone, a few $5 bills in her place.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
part 7
So, this project was kinda put on hiatus because of http://jamesmarr.blogspot.com, which is another project of mine which I wrote during a short period of depression. Anyway, here's part 7.
We've been on the road for ten minutes, and I haven't said a word. I just sit back and enjoy the wind after so much time in the desert heat. I try to listen to the music, but Mr. Duke makes it difficult with his rambling on about bats. After a while he looks back at me and yells, "You thirsty, boy?". I nod, my tongue too dry to speak. The little man in the bucket hat jumps from the passenger seat to the seat beside me, and pulls a cooler out from under his seat. He opens it and removes two frosty cans of beer from the ice-filled box. Bud Light. Gross, but beggars can't be choosers. It's cold. It's liquid. It'll keep me from having conversations with lizards.
"Don't talk much, do ya boy?", Mr. Duke yells in my right ear. I speak up. "Not much, Mr. Duke.", I say. "Where are you guys going?", I ask. "Las Vegas.", Oscar tells me. "We're journalists, writing an expose on the dangers of Las Vegas.", Mr. Duke says, seemingly finishing Oscar's thought. "Well, I'm a doctor of journalism. Oscar over there is my attorney. My name is James, by the way. James Duke." He says, offering a handshake. The last friendly words I'll hear over the course of the ride.
All the time we were driving, Mr. Duke had been swiping at bugs with a flyswatter. I hadn't thought much of it until I heard this part of the conversation: "How can you concentrate on the road with all these bats around?", Mr. Duke yelled at Oscar. "What bats, man. I don't see no bats." Oscar responds. "Goddamn, they're surrounding us, you lazy bastard!" Mr. Duke yells, much louder than anything he said before. "They're all in your head, man." Oscar says. "What do you mean, they're all in his head?" I ask Oscar. "I told him not to take so much acid" Oscar tells me. "But he didn't listen to me. Now he has to deal with bats". "ACID?", I scream, "Why the fuck is he on acid?". "Man, we picked up a whole bunch of psychadelic stuff, man. It's all in the trunk. Hell, I just finished some grass before you got here." I'd tell him to pull over and let me drive, but I've had a bit to drink. Say what you will about my upbringing, but I don't intend on becoming like my parents.
"Goddamnit, I'm sick of these motherfucking bats!" Mr. Duke screams as he opens the glove compartment. He removes a strange looking pistol. The overall design looks normal. The scope looks out of place. Mr. Duke takes aim at an imaginary bat over the side of the car and takes a shot. Then he aims a little closer to me. "What the fuck are you doing?", I scream. "Don't worry, boy.", Mr. Duke says, "I'm just protecting you from those nasty little blood-sucking bastards". I move under the seat as he takes his shot. Swing and a miss. At least he didn't hit me.
After my ears stop ringing from the shot, I hear police sirens. I look up to see an Arizona state trooper's car. "Keep going, Oscar. Can't let the fucking pigs get us." Mr. Duke screams, "How the fuck did they find us." "This is a stolen car, man", Oscar answers, "They would have found us sooner or later". "Who tipped them off?...Was it you, boy?", Mr. Duke says, pointing his gun at me, again. "No, I'm just a hitchhiker. I'm not a snitch, I swear." I ramble, feeling my heart in my throat. "You sure, you're not a snitch?" Mr. Duke asks. "Yes, I swear on my mother's eyes. I am not a snitch." I say through tears. "Would you say that if another man's life depended on it?" He says, pointing his gun at Oscar. "Don't fuck with me man, I'm a doctor of journalism.""Don't kill him man, I'm not a snitch. Just pull over, and we'll deal with this." I suggest in an attempt to sort out this situation. "We aren't pulling over, boy." Oscar says, "We don't want to get arrested."
I think about my current situation. I can either stay in this car, where the only options are get shot or get arrested, Or I can jump out and risk bodily injury.
I think I'll jump.
We've been on the road for ten minutes, and I haven't said a word. I just sit back and enjoy the wind after so much time in the desert heat. I try to listen to the music, but Mr. Duke makes it difficult with his rambling on about bats. After a while he looks back at me and yells, "You thirsty, boy?". I nod, my tongue too dry to speak. The little man in the bucket hat jumps from the passenger seat to the seat beside me, and pulls a cooler out from under his seat. He opens it and removes two frosty cans of beer from the ice-filled box. Bud Light. Gross, but beggars can't be choosers. It's cold. It's liquid. It'll keep me from having conversations with lizards.
"Don't talk much, do ya boy?", Mr. Duke yells in my right ear. I speak up. "Not much, Mr. Duke.", I say. "Where are you guys going?", I ask. "Las Vegas.", Oscar tells me. "We're journalists, writing an expose on the dangers of Las Vegas.", Mr. Duke says, seemingly finishing Oscar's thought. "Well, I'm a doctor of journalism. Oscar over there is my attorney. My name is James, by the way. James Duke." He says, offering a handshake. The last friendly words I'll hear over the course of the ride.
All the time we were driving, Mr. Duke had been swiping at bugs with a flyswatter. I hadn't thought much of it until I heard this part of the conversation: "How can you concentrate on the road with all these bats around?", Mr. Duke yelled at Oscar. "What bats, man. I don't see no bats." Oscar responds. "Goddamn, they're surrounding us, you lazy bastard!" Mr. Duke yells, much louder than anything he said before. "They're all in your head, man." Oscar says. "What do you mean, they're all in his head?" I ask Oscar. "I told him not to take so much acid" Oscar tells me. "But he didn't listen to me. Now he has to deal with bats". "ACID?", I scream, "Why the fuck is he on acid?". "Man, we picked up a whole bunch of psychadelic stuff, man. It's all in the trunk. Hell, I just finished some grass before you got here." I'd tell him to pull over and let me drive, but I've had a bit to drink. Say what you will about my upbringing, but I don't intend on becoming like my parents.
"Goddamnit, I'm sick of these motherfucking bats!" Mr. Duke screams as he opens the glove compartment. He removes a strange looking pistol. The overall design looks normal. The scope looks out of place. Mr. Duke takes aim at an imaginary bat over the side of the car and takes a shot. Then he aims a little closer to me. "What the fuck are you doing?", I scream. "Don't worry, boy.", Mr. Duke says, "I'm just protecting you from those nasty little blood-sucking bastards". I move under the seat as he takes his shot. Swing and a miss. At least he didn't hit me.
After my ears stop ringing from the shot, I hear police sirens. I look up to see an Arizona state trooper's car. "Keep going, Oscar. Can't let the fucking pigs get us." Mr. Duke screams, "How the fuck did they find us." "This is a stolen car, man", Oscar answers, "They would have found us sooner or later". "Who tipped them off?...Was it you, boy?", Mr. Duke says, pointing his gun at me, again. "No, I'm just a hitchhiker. I'm not a snitch, I swear." I ramble, feeling my heart in my throat. "You sure, you're not a snitch?" Mr. Duke asks. "Yes, I swear on my mother's eyes. I am not a snitch." I say through tears. "Would you say that if another man's life depended on it?" He says, pointing his gun at Oscar. "Don't fuck with me man, I'm a doctor of journalism.""Don't kill him man, I'm not a snitch. Just pull over, and we'll deal with this." I suggest in an attempt to sort out this situation. "We aren't pulling over, boy." Oscar says, "We don't want to get arrested."
I think about my current situation. I can either stay in this car, where the only options are get shot or get arrested, Or I can jump out and risk bodily injury.
I think I'll jump.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Parts 5 and 6
I decided not to alter part 5...as terrible as it is. I make up for it with part 6, though.
I wake up. I don't know where I am or how long I've been out. Not even sure if I'm alive or if this is some messed up version of the afterlife. I'm in a small, poorly lit room. Just wide enough to let me lay down, and long enough to keep someone in captivity go insane. Flourecent-lit concrete walls that have a sticky-looking substance covering the lower parts. I say sticky-looking because I don't know if it's actually sticky or not. Haven't had the chance to touch it yet. It's also rather cold.
I check my pulse to see if I'm still alive. It seems normal, but then again I don't know if we would have a pulse in the afterlife or not. I check the area on my chest where I was shot. No bullet hole. No scars. No patches. What was it that hit me?
I look for a way out. This room has no windows and no doors. At least none that I can see. I notice that it is connected to a hallway. I sit up and notice the trenchcoat hanging on the wall. I'm guessing the trenchcoat worn by whoever shot me. Now I know that this isn't the afterlife.
"He's up.", I hear a voice say. I look over to see a person in a cloak, their face obscured by the hood. "Thought you'd never get up". "Did you shoot me?", I ask this person. "No, but I saw it happen". The hood is removed to reveal a feminin face. A young face. Younger than I. Her big green eyes sparkle in the...well, The lighting in here isn't that great, but you get the point. "I manage to pull the dart out and administer an antidote.", she said through full lips.
"You're a doctor?" I ask. "I might be. What's it to ya?" she responds. "I'd rather have a professional deal with me than someone who read something on the internet."
"She didn't learn it on the internet.", a faceless voice tells me. "Contrary to popular belief, some things are better of taught by a living thing instead of the cold, faceless internet." I look around the room, trying to find the source of this voice. The girl laughs as if she planned this earlier. The laugh seems jarring, yet charming.
Excuse my curiosity, but where is the voice coming from?" I ask the anonymous face slightly to the left of mine. "From me." the voice claims. "Who are you?" I ask the deep voice. "I am me." It sarcastically replys. "Allow me to ask another question: Where are you?", "Why, I'm right in front of you." It says. "I don't see anythng.", I say. "Look again.", the voice instructs.
Then the strangest thing appeared.
6
A grin. Just a grin. Floating in mid air. I can't explain it. The girl won't explain it. She just laughs. The more confused I look, the more she laughs. Throwing her head back every time in childish laughter, her brown hair falling back with it. What do I do in this situation? I do what any red blooded citizen of reality would do. I faint.
I wake up in another strange place...the desert. Just in time, too. The buzzards were beginning to gather around me. I'm wearing the same clothes I was the day I was shot, Which makes me wonder if I what happened in that room actually happened, or if it was some strange dream I had while I was unconcious. I check all my vital signs to see if I'm alive. Something I wasn't planning on doing, but when you wake up in strange places, you never know which one might be the afterlife. I notice the bandage around my chest, with dried, soaked through blood around the right side. Was I hit with a bullet, or a dart, as I was told earlier? Also, who fixed me up? And most importantly WHO SHOT ME?
I'd ask someone where I am, but it's the middle of the desert at what feels like midday. I look around to get my bearings, and perhaps figure out where I am. Judging by the vultures and cacti, I'd say I'm still in America. Likely in the southwest. Bravo. I've just deduced something any halfwit from Mississippi could figure out. Now I just have to figure out how far from home I am.
I scan the horizon for any signs of civilization. Highways, water towers, powerlines, anything that indicates the presence of people. I see something that looks like powerlines to the northwest, and walk in that general direction. I want to find any form of civilization for two reasons:
One, I don't want to die in the desert. I haven't been aware of my body for a while. In other words, I don't know how well hydrated or well fed I am. I seem rather thirsty, but no hunger pains have kicked in yet, but I'm not trusting that. I need food and drink.Two, I don't want to die without knowing for certain where I am. I'm guessing anyone around here would know where they are. If not...well I guess I'm shit out of luck.
Hours later it dawns on me. It's hot, I'm dehydrated, and the desert is famous for mirages. The power lines I see may not actually be there. This sudden realisation brings me to my knees. A lizard darts past my side to catch a bug. It devours it's prey, then stares at me. "What are you doing out here, man?", It asks me. "You're going to die". In the weirdest move of my life, I reply. "What do you know? You're a lizard". "I'm the lizard king, Mr.Dead Man I've seen things bigger than you die out here." This Jim Morrison lizard answers. "Like what?"
"Gila monsters, man."
"Gila monsters? They aren't bigger than me."
"I'm a talking lizard from your messed up hallucination. How should I know what's bigger than you?".
He had a good point.
"Those power lines. Are they real?" I ask Jim the Lizard, who also might not exist. I seem to be making many strange decisions today.
"They are."
"Are there any roads near it?"
"Yeah, man."
"Want to come with me?"
"Sure"
Jim crawls onto my shoulder and so begins the strangest 4 hours of my life.
I walk towards the power lines, talking with Jim about desert life, and insects, and death. I wonder if I'm going crazy. First the shooting, then the girl in the room, then the floating grin. Now a talking lizard who sounds like Jim Morrison. Yeah. I'm going crazy. Here's hoping I don't lose it on whoever I come across in the nearest town.
I get to the highway and start walking north. The sun is setting and the temperature is dropping drastically. Jim is perched on my left shoulder, getting the last amount of warmth he can get from the setting sun. I hear a rhythm from coming from behind. Rhythm from a car stereo. The rumbling gets louder, as well as the music. I hear the bass, followed by guitar, followed by vocals. "Nicotine, valium, vicoden, marijuana, ecstasy, and alcohol". It's Queens Of The Stone Age.I hear another voice scream "Pull over! Let's give the boy a lift."
The tires of the red 1971 Impala convertable screech as what was once moving like a slug from a .45 comes to an abrupt halt infront of me. I look over to Jim who has left my shoulder. Wether he was there to begin with is mystery. I run towards the car, to get in before my saviours change their mind.
The driver is a large Mexican man with an open tropical shirt and sunglasses. His passenger is also wearing a tropical shirt and sunglasses. He's a smaller, older, white man with a bucket hat and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Get in, boy, before the bats get you!" He yells at me. "Are you sure you want to do this, Mr.Duke?", the Mexican asks. "Of course I do, Oscar." Mr.Duke replys. "Now shut up, you're scaring the boy away."
I jump in. Oscar floors it. Where we stop, nobody knows.
I wake up. I don't know where I am or how long I've been out. Not even sure if I'm alive or if this is some messed up version of the afterlife. I'm in a small, poorly lit room. Just wide enough to let me lay down, and long enough to keep someone in captivity go insane. Flourecent-lit concrete walls that have a sticky-looking substance covering the lower parts. I say sticky-looking because I don't know if it's actually sticky or not. Haven't had the chance to touch it yet. It's also rather cold.
I check my pulse to see if I'm still alive. It seems normal, but then again I don't know if we would have a pulse in the afterlife or not. I check the area on my chest where I was shot. No bullet hole. No scars. No patches. What was it that hit me?
I look for a way out. This room has no windows and no doors. At least none that I can see. I notice that it is connected to a hallway. I sit up and notice the trenchcoat hanging on the wall. I'm guessing the trenchcoat worn by whoever shot me. Now I know that this isn't the afterlife.
"He's up.", I hear a voice say. I look over to see a person in a cloak, their face obscured by the hood. "Thought you'd never get up". "Did you shoot me?", I ask this person. "No, but I saw it happen". The hood is removed to reveal a feminin face. A young face. Younger than I. Her big green eyes sparkle in the...well, The lighting in here isn't that great, but you get the point. "I manage to pull the dart out and administer an antidote.", she said through full lips.
"You're a doctor?" I ask. "I might be. What's it to ya?" she responds. "I'd rather have a professional deal with me than someone who read something on the internet."
"She didn't learn it on the internet.", a faceless voice tells me. "Contrary to popular belief, some things are better of taught by a living thing instead of the cold, faceless internet." I look around the room, trying to find the source of this voice. The girl laughs as if she planned this earlier. The laugh seems jarring, yet charming.
Excuse my curiosity, but where is the voice coming from?" I ask the anonymous face slightly to the left of mine. "From me." the voice claims. "Who are you?" I ask the deep voice. "I am me." It sarcastically replys. "Allow me to ask another question: Where are you?", "Why, I'm right in front of you." It says. "I don't see anythng.", I say. "Look again.", the voice instructs.
Then the strangest thing appeared.
6
A grin. Just a grin. Floating in mid air. I can't explain it. The girl won't explain it. She just laughs. The more confused I look, the more she laughs. Throwing her head back every time in childish laughter, her brown hair falling back with it. What do I do in this situation? I do what any red blooded citizen of reality would do. I faint.
I wake up in another strange place...the desert. Just in time, too. The buzzards were beginning to gather around me. I'm wearing the same clothes I was the day I was shot, Which makes me wonder if I what happened in that room actually happened, or if it was some strange dream I had while I was unconcious. I check all my vital signs to see if I'm alive. Something I wasn't planning on doing, but when you wake up in strange places, you never know which one might be the afterlife. I notice the bandage around my chest, with dried, soaked through blood around the right side. Was I hit with a bullet, or a dart, as I was told earlier? Also, who fixed me up? And most importantly WHO SHOT ME?
I'd ask someone where I am, but it's the middle of the desert at what feels like midday. I look around to get my bearings, and perhaps figure out where I am. Judging by the vultures and cacti, I'd say I'm still in America. Likely in the southwest. Bravo. I've just deduced something any halfwit from Mississippi could figure out. Now I just have to figure out how far from home I am.
I scan the horizon for any signs of civilization. Highways, water towers, powerlines, anything that indicates the presence of people. I see something that looks like powerlines to the northwest, and walk in that general direction. I want to find any form of civilization for two reasons:
One, I don't want to die in the desert. I haven't been aware of my body for a while. In other words, I don't know how well hydrated or well fed I am. I seem rather thirsty, but no hunger pains have kicked in yet, but I'm not trusting that. I need food and drink.Two, I don't want to die without knowing for certain where I am. I'm guessing anyone around here would know where they are. If not...well I guess I'm shit out of luck.
Hours later it dawns on me. It's hot, I'm dehydrated, and the desert is famous for mirages. The power lines I see may not actually be there. This sudden realisation brings me to my knees. A lizard darts past my side to catch a bug. It devours it's prey, then stares at me. "What are you doing out here, man?", It asks me. "You're going to die". In the weirdest move of my life, I reply. "What do you know? You're a lizard". "I'm the lizard king, Mr.Dead Man I've seen things bigger than you die out here." This Jim Morrison lizard answers. "Like what?"
"Gila monsters, man."
"Gila monsters? They aren't bigger than me."
"I'm a talking lizard from your messed up hallucination. How should I know what's bigger than you?".
He had a good point.
"Those power lines. Are they real?" I ask Jim the Lizard, who also might not exist. I seem to be making many strange decisions today.
"They are."
"Are there any roads near it?"
"Yeah, man."
"Want to come with me?"
"Sure"
Jim crawls onto my shoulder and so begins the strangest 4 hours of my life.
I walk towards the power lines, talking with Jim about desert life, and insects, and death. I wonder if I'm going crazy. First the shooting, then the girl in the room, then the floating grin. Now a talking lizard who sounds like Jim Morrison. Yeah. I'm going crazy. Here's hoping I don't lose it on whoever I come across in the nearest town.
I get to the highway and start walking north. The sun is setting and the temperature is dropping drastically. Jim is perched on my left shoulder, getting the last amount of warmth he can get from the setting sun. I hear a rhythm from coming from behind. Rhythm from a car stereo. The rumbling gets louder, as well as the music. I hear the bass, followed by guitar, followed by vocals. "Nicotine, valium, vicoden, marijuana, ecstasy, and alcohol". It's Queens Of The Stone Age.I hear another voice scream "Pull over! Let's give the boy a lift."
The tires of the red 1971 Impala convertable screech as what was once moving like a slug from a .45 comes to an abrupt halt infront of me. I look over to Jim who has left my shoulder. Wether he was there to begin with is mystery. I run towards the car, to get in before my saviours change their mind.
The driver is a large Mexican man with an open tropical shirt and sunglasses. His passenger is also wearing a tropical shirt and sunglasses. He's a smaller, older, white man with a bucket hat and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Get in, boy, before the bats get you!" He yells at me. "Are you sure you want to do this, Mr.Duke?", the Mexican asks. "Of course I do, Oscar." Mr.Duke replys. "Now shut up, you're scaring the boy away."
I jump in. Oscar floors it. Where we stop, nobody knows.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Minimalism (not mine, but something I'd like to share)
Sorry for the lack of content. Part 5 is being re-worked.
In the meantime, something that isn't mine but I feel that I should share it with my reader(s)
It's titled Minimalism, and I don't know who wrote it.
I looked at a picture, painted white with a dot
White with that black dot, and I thought
Why bother painting that black dot in the middle
The white all around it makes it seem so little
Just a little black dot all surrounded by white
And I look at this painting and think that I might
Punch a hole through the painting with the fist of my hand
And show that painting that I was a man
And It looked like it was made by a child
Who was given a paintbrush and told to go wild
But the child was challenged
and only managed to poke
the brush with the canvas with the black with the stroke.
I was going to do it when the artist walked by
Looked at my fist and the painting and asked why
I would want to destroy the dot made of paint
Saying: It's so essential, an essentially quaint expression
of essential potential in all of the people
who have a potentially small dot of their own
painted on their soul.
You see, on the white, there was a small hole
so I covered the hole with paint, which was black.
Then he turned away, and I turned back
I stared, stared, stared till the janitor came along
He saw, stopped mopping, stopped whistling his song
stopped to ask: Hey sonny, been here long? You ok?
This is rubbish, this painting. Just rubbish, I say
I talked to the artist, didn't help in the least
So i stared for a while and my anger increased
This isn't art, this white paint with a dot
It's a picture of a dot, but art it is not
The janitor nodded his head up and down
Cleared his throat, and uttered a sound
that was like an agreement, but more like a laugh
He said: sonny, you've looked at this more than I have
When I look, I don't see the white
and with that he leaned over and turned out the light
And with the light off, the dot grew and grew
Till it covered the canvas, and he said: Who knew
That in the dark, every painting looks exactly the same
Same portrait, same landscape, same romance, same shame
Could be reddish or yellowed or purpley or blue
Could be anything, cause sonny, that's what the dot turns into
He went off and he mopped, and he whistled his tune
And I left, went outside and looked at the moon
Which looked vaguely and oddly familiar that night
So familiar...a black canvas....with a dot that was white
In the meantime, something that isn't mine but I feel that I should share it with my reader(s)
It's titled Minimalism, and I don't know who wrote it.
I looked at a picture, painted white with a dot
White with that black dot, and I thought
Why bother painting that black dot in the middle
The white all around it makes it seem so little
Just a little black dot all surrounded by white
And I look at this painting and think that I might
Punch a hole through the painting with the fist of my hand
And show that painting that I was a man
And It looked like it was made by a child
Who was given a paintbrush and told to go wild
But the child was challenged
and only managed to poke
the brush with the canvas with the black with the stroke.
I was going to do it when the artist walked by
Looked at my fist and the painting and asked why
I would want to destroy the dot made of paint
Saying: It's so essential, an essentially quaint expression
of essential potential in all of the people
who have a potentially small dot of their own
painted on their soul.
You see, on the white, there was a small hole
so I covered the hole with paint, which was black.
Then he turned away, and I turned back
I stared, stared, stared till the janitor came along
He saw, stopped mopping, stopped whistling his song
stopped to ask: Hey sonny, been here long? You ok?
This is rubbish, this painting. Just rubbish, I say
I talked to the artist, didn't help in the least
So i stared for a while and my anger increased
This isn't art, this white paint with a dot
It's a picture of a dot, but art it is not
The janitor nodded his head up and down
Cleared his throat, and uttered a sound
that was like an agreement, but more like a laugh
He said: sonny, you've looked at this more than I have
When I look, I don't see the white
and with that he leaned over and turned out the light
And with the light off, the dot grew and grew
Till it covered the canvas, and he said: Who knew
That in the dark, every painting looks exactly the same
Same portrait, same landscape, same romance, same shame
Could be reddish or yellowed or purpley or blue
Could be anything, cause sonny, that's what the dot turns into
He went off and he mopped, and he whistled his tune
And I left, went outside and looked at the moon
Which looked vaguely and oddly familiar that night
So familiar...a black canvas....with a dot that was white
Thursday, July 30, 2009
part 4
My Mother is almost breaking down. She just got the call from Marcus, my older brother, saying that he hasn't seen me in a week. None of my relatives have. The phone is still off its cradle from when Ma dropped it 15 minutes ago. Dad isn't home yet. He's still working at his pawn shop. Ma is sitting on the floor, almost in tears. She doesn't know how to cope with the death of her child. She'd get up to call Dad and tell him the news, but he wouldn't understand her through the sobbing. Tears roll down her face, which looks older from the years of drugs. Her hair, brown and grey, is frizzed out from running her fingers through her hair so many times in sadness. Far from the hippy dreadlocks they used to be. She picks up the phone. Punches in the numbers. Waits for someone to pick up.
Dad hears the news, and rushes home, his wrinkled face holding back tears, his beard soaking up the ones that fall. He tries to comfort ma, but it doesn't work. She's still frantic. Dad calls in the rest of the family. They drop what they're doing and come as quickly as they can. Marcus(rain), Jesse (cosmo), Alice (fern), Alan (ziggy), Mira (daydream), Chris (moonlight), and Abby (marigold) gather around to hear the news, and comfort our mother. Dad calls my apartment, Chris talks to my co-workers, and Marcus talks to the police. Nothing is found.
The police search for days. They bring in countless people, search everywhere I could have been, and even look in the bay. They don't find me. My parents get by on the assumption that I was kidnapped, and I'll show up soon. The siblings start to think I'm already dead, but nobody knows for sure. Mom and Dad try to calm down with the old standby: drugs. The rest of the family mourn. Samuel drinks away his pain.
Another week, and I'll be pronounced dead. They'll hold a funeral ceremony with an empty casket. My stuff will be divided among the family. My apartment will be put up for rent, and someone else will ponder about putting up a famous P.I.'s name on the door. Someone else will take a position selling photocopiers to people who don't need them. Someone else will start drinking at The King's Head. Someone else will start playing SOCOM online. Someone else will have to learn Sam's code.
Isn't it strange how easily I can be replaced.
Dad hears the news, and rushes home, his wrinkled face holding back tears, his beard soaking up the ones that fall. He tries to comfort ma, but it doesn't work. She's still frantic. Dad calls in the rest of the family. They drop what they're doing and come as quickly as they can. Marcus(rain), Jesse (cosmo), Alice (fern), Alan (ziggy), Mira (daydream), Chris (moonlight), and Abby (marigold) gather around to hear the news, and comfort our mother. Dad calls my apartment, Chris talks to my co-workers, and Marcus talks to the police. Nothing is found.
The police search for days. They bring in countless people, search everywhere I could have been, and even look in the bay. They don't find me. My parents get by on the assumption that I was kidnapped, and I'll show up soon. The siblings start to think I'm already dead, but nobody knows for sure. Mom and Dad try to calm down with the old standby: drugs. The rest of the family mourn. Samuel drinks away his pain.
Another week, and I'll be pronounced dead. They'll hold a funeral ceremony with an empty casket. My stuff will be divided among the family. My apartment will be put up for rent, and someone else will ponder about putting up a famous P.I.'s name on the door. Someone else will take a position selling photocopiers to people who don't need them. Someone else will start drinking at The King's Head. Someone else will start playing SOCOM online. Someone else will have to learn Sam's code.
Isn't it strange how easily I can be replaced.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Part 3
I walk into the bar to see the same faces I've seen since I started here 4 years ago. Ted, the bartender from small town Iowa who wanted to become a psychologist, but never had enough money to attend university.
Jane, the former pornstar who was fired once she got knocked up. Put a c-section birth ontop of that, and she'll only be doing work for the niche work. Fetishes and whatnot. Apparently they don't pay that well.
There's Jerry, the Nam veteran who tells the horror stories of his long dead military friends, because all he did was verify the news that was coming in.
People I've come to know from 4 years of drinking here, and having to put up with co-workers I can't stand.The people I try not to talk to. Sam doesn't come around alot. Him and Ted don't get along.
The average night of Sam and I drinking at our preferred watering hole, The King's Head, goes like so: Sam drinks. I drink. We debate something stupid...like time travel, or Superman v.s. Harvey Birdman. I get bored. When I'm drunk and bored I decide to do some stupid things. I once woke up in Sam's bathtub with some girl I didn't know on top of me and a box of dragonfruit on the floor. How the hell I found or could even afford a box of dragonfruit is beyond me. So, Sam and I decide to do something dumb, like go over to the jukebox and put on some Pink Floyd. Probably end up screaming the lyrics to "Have A Cigar". Ted cuts us off. Sam gets pissed. Sam gets into a fight with Ted. Ted gets Jim, the closest thing The King's Head has to a bouncer, to throw Sam and I out. Sam and I spend the rest of the night going to other bars, trying to convince the bartenders to give us more booze.
But Sam isn't here tonight.
I drink with my insufferable co-workers....have I told you how much I hate them? They chat about the minor annoyances of the day. They talk about their kids. They boast their homes and cottages. I sit quietly. I don't have the lcd TV's, the expensive cars, or the soundsystems that they have. I don't want those things. I don't want to live the American Dream, having 2.5 children, living in Barbie and Ken's dreamhouse, and driving a fine American automobile. I'm happy with the simple things I have. The most expensive object in my house is my computer, and I only bought it so I play SOCOM without having to be in Sam's apartment. In retrospect it was a terrible idea. With the ability to play video games over the internet, I can barely pull myself away from the computer.
I stay later than most of the people I came with. Ted asks me why I didn't say much. I tell him that I really don't have much to say. Tell him about how little I relate to the peolple that surround me. Nothing he hasn't heard before. I ask for a scotch before I go. He grabs the dusty, brown bottle of vile liquid from the shelf and pours a shot. I slam it back and ignore the taste of wood and the burning sensation in my throat. I watch the recaps of Baseball from earlier. The Cubs lose to Boston, 8-1. No surprises. As Eddie Vedder wrote "Someday we'll go all the way."
I leave the pub through the back door, into the alleyway. It's closer to my apartment, so Ted lets me leave out the back. There's a dumpster that hasn't been emptied in a while. It smells of rotting fish and potatoes. I walk by, with my hand over my mouth and nose to keep the putrid smell out of my system. Once I'm out of the smell zone, I'm able to open my eyes. The first thing I see is my shoes, as I inhale to get the smell out. The next thing I see is a figure in a trenchcoat with a can of spraypaint, tagging the wall. I yell at him to stop. He doesn't listen. I yell again. Nothing. I move closer. He pulls out a gun. I freeze.
I expect to see my whole life flash before my eyes. It doesn't. Why? Because I'm too fucking scared to think. I freeze, with a stupid face waiting for the few seconds, that seem like an eternity.
I see him pull the trigger. I hear the sound of the small explosion, propelling the projectile out of the barrell. I feel the impact it makes in my chest. I cock my head to the side. My brain registers that I've been shot. I pass out.
Jane, the former pornstar who was fired once she got knocked up. Put a c-section birth ontop of that, and she'll only be doing work for the niche work. Fetishes and whatnot. Apparently they don't pay that well.
There's Jerry, the Nam veteran who tells the horror stories of his long dead military friends, because all he did was verify the news that was coming in.
People I've come to know from 4 years of drinking here, and having to put up with co-workers I can't stand.The people I try not to talk to. Sam doesn't come around alot. Him and Ted don't get along.
The average night of Sam and I drinking at our preferred watering hole, The King's Head, goes like so: Sam drinks. I drink. We debate something stupid...like time travel, or Superman v.s. Harvey Birdman. I get bored. When I'm drunk and bored I decide to do some stupid things. I once woke up in Sam's bathtub with some girl I didn't know on top of me and a box of dragonfruit on the floor. How the hell I found or could even afford a box of dragonfruit is beyond me. So, Sam and I decide to do something dumb, like go over to the jukebox and put on some Pink Floyd. Probably end up screaming the lyrics to "Have A Cigar". Ted cuts us off. Sam gets pissed. Sam gets into a fight with Ted. Ted gets Jim, the closest thing The King's Head has to a bouncer, to throw Sam and I out. Sam and I spend the rest of the night going to other bars, trying to convince the bartenders to give us more booze.
But Sam isn't here tonight.
I drink with my insufferable co-workers....have I told you how much I hate them? They chat about the minor annoyances of the day. They talk about their kids. They boast their homes and cottages. I sit quietly. I don't have the lcd TV's, the expensive cars, or the soundsystems that they have. I don't want those things. I don't want to live the American Dream, having 2.5 children, living in Barbie and Ken's dreamhouse, and driving a fine American automobile. I'm happy with the simple things I have. The most expensive object in my house is my computer, and I only bought it so I play SOCOM without having to be in Sam's apartment. In retrospect it was a terrible idea. With the ability to play video games over the internet, I can barely pull myself away from the computer.
I stay later than most of the people I came with. Ted asks me why I didn't say much. I tell him that I really don't have much to say. Tell him about how little I relate to the peolple that surround me. Nothing he hasn't heard before. I ask for a scotch before I go. He grabs the dusty, brown bottle of vile liquid from the shelf and pours a shot. I slam it back and ignore the taste of wood and the burning sensation in my throat. I watch the recaps of Baseball from earlier. The Cubs lose to Boston, 8-1. No surprises. As Eddie Vedder wrote "Someday we'll go all the way."
I leave the pub through the back door, into the alleyway. It's closer to my apartment, so Ted lets me leave out the back. There's a dumpster that hasn't been emptied in a while. It smells of rotting fish and potatoes. I walk by, with my hand over my mouth and nose to keep the putrid smell out of my system. Once I'm out of the smell zone, I'm able to open my eyes. The first thing I see is my shoes, as I inhale to get the smell out. The next thing I see is a figure in a trenchcoat with a can of spraypaint, tagging the wall. I yell at him to stop. He doesn't listen. I yell again. Nothing. I move closer. He pulls out a gun. I freeze.
I expect to see my whole life flash before my eyes. It doesn't. Why? Because I'm too fucking scared to think. I freeze, with a stupid face waiting for the few seconds, that seem like an eternity.
I see him pull the trigger. I hear the sound of the small explosion, propelling the projectile out of the barrell. I feel the impact it makes in my chest. I cock my head to the side. My brain registers that I've been shot. I pass out.
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