Twenty-three pieces of fiction, written between 1990 and 2003 and arranged in the order they were written. There is a nine-year silence in the middle of them; the Army is in that gap.
They are printed as they were written. The fragments are still fragments — one of them stops mid-story — and I have left them that way rather than finish them now on their behalf.
A note before you begin. Several of these are violent, and one is sexually explicit. The earliest was written at eleven and the last at twenty-four, and I have not softened any of them.
The six Eclipse Saga pieces are kept together as a cycle rather than spread through 1993. Three of them exist twice — once here as prose and once as verse on the poems page — the same story told two ways at the same age.
Part I · 1990–1993
Alvos of Tulon
c. 1990 · Story starter — a single paragraph, kept.
Alvos of Tulon
Twenty five years before the End, a boy was born to Teresa and Ben Honing. The baby was missing his right arm and leg, and the flesh on the left side of his body hadn’t formed properly. The Honings’ child was certain to die without the expensive medical aid they could not afford. So, as a last effort to keep the child alive, Teresa gave the baby to one of the miltary’s cybernetics bases to use as an experiment, one that, said Dr. William Kite, might give the child a chance to live. The cybernetics technicians replaced the child’s living heart with a heart of plastic and silicon…
The Thanksgiving Catastrophe
c. 1992 · Short story — written at thirteen.
It was 10:30 AM and the children of the family were sitting at the table talking. James, a boy of nine, had brown hair and bluish green eyes. He started a conversation asking George, the eldest in the family, if he would set up the Sega System. That was a computer designed solely for games. Like Nintendo, it was one of James’ favorite things. George responded, “James, why don’t you just talk to everyone instead of playing games and such. We did not come here to play, we came to be social and celebrate Thanksgiving.” George was about five feet and seven inches tall. His brown eyes matched with his dark brown hair. He was wearing a flannel shirt, covered by a blue jacket. His grey and white jeans did not quite match with the rest, but to him, it looked fine. “C’mon George, you always do computer when you come here,” said James defensively. “At least I do something resourceful instead of clogging my brain with microwaves. I write stories.” James had nothing to say after that. But when Barbara said, “I want to play Sega too.” James perked up a bit and sneered at George. George continued to refuse and went downstairs to type on the computer. Michael and Barbara followed him downstairs nagging at him about the Sega. Linda was just watching them, waiting for a chance to tattle when one of them made trouble. Susan, the children’s mother, came down the stairs saying, “What’s going on? James calm down. What do you want?” James spoke first, “George won’t set up the Sega for me and Barbara.” George knew that he would have to do it sooner or later and said, “Mom, I do not know how to do it.” But his Mom laughed and said, “C’mon George, just set it up. Show James how to do it.” George finally agreed to do it and turned off the computer after he was halfway through a paragraph. He walked upstairs to see that the Sega games were there, but the Sega itself was not there.
“James!” George yelled, “Where is the Sega?” James did not answer, so George went downstairs and began to write another story. About five minutes later, James came down and said, “George, I thought you were going to fix it up for me.” George, who had a bad temper, yelled at him with extreme ferocity. “Damn it! Where is the fucking thing? James, where did you put it? Do you expect me to get it for you? Well if you do, you’re fucking wrong!!” James shut up and ran upstairs and told his mom what George had said. Susan stormed downstairs and said, “Damn it, George. I told you not to cuss.” And George’s face grew red. Half an hour later, George had a couple chapters finished off his new book, “Sega, a Thirteen Year Old’s Nightmare.” He continued writing it. A section went like this: Sega is a thirteen year old’s nightmare, it causes extreme insanity. Sega is a thirteen year old’s nightmare, it breaks families. Sega is a thirteen year old’s nightmare, it destroys brain cells. Sega is a thirteen year old’s nightmare, it costs a lot of money. And the chapter went on for tens of more pages. James was upstairs playing Sega, after George had set it up unconsciously, while he was thinking of something to write about. He then thought of the excerpt, Sega is a thirteen year old’s nightmare, it is hard to set it up.
An hour later, it was 12:53 PM. Nobody had eaten lunch because they wanted to clean out their stomachs before dinner, when they would ravenous chow down on their Grandmother’s juicy turkey. They were going to eat their dinner pretty early, at around 2:30 PM, because dinner would take a couple of hours to eat. James was still being mind controlled by the Sega, and Barbara was playing with him. They were playing a bad came called “Time Soldiers.” Linda was upstairs in the dining room with her family talking about the story George was writing. Linda had been hiding behind the couch and catching parts of his early best-seller. Linda snuck upstairs and started to type it down on her Grandmother’s typewriter. She occasionally ran downstairs to copy what George was writing. And she also made up a few of her own. She finally finished the story at about the time George did. It was almost dinner time, and Barbara was setting up the table. George had run up to his Grandmother to ask her if she wanted to read his story. She refused saying that it was too late for that. George agreed and when Linda came to ask her if she wanted to read it, she said the same. They ate a hearty dinner, and when it was time to finish, a bullet came shooting out of nowhere, hitting Barbara in the back of her head, sending her crashing into the side of the wall. A second shot sent James crashing into the television screen. The doorbell rang and Jackie came in carrying a NATO assault rifle. “Hi, guys. Look what I got for Thanksgiving present.” George ran behind a couch and hid there silently, his stealth incredible. Neither Barbara nor James moved ever again. Jackie held the rest of the family hostage, but she did not see George, who was hiding behind the couch. “Okay, everyone. Give me all your money and I will let you go. I am sorry for the inconvenience.” Everyone gave her their money and she and her boyfriend, a guy by the name of Jaime, escaped. While she left, she shot her mother in the head. George came out and quickly patched up Jackie’s mother who nevertheless dies soon after. Well, none of the family was happy after this.
During the night, a lighting bolt hit the house and caused it to explode into flames. George’s book was burnt to ashes. George was the only one who escaped from the house.
Ten years later, Jackie and Jaime were married and during their honeymoon were arrested. They both got the chair. Even though they were underage, they roasted. George became famous after selling his book, The Thanksgiving Catastrophe!, and became a millionaire.
Gray Wash of Fog
c. 1993 · Vignette — two brothers at a pier, choosing.
As the gray wash of fog rolls in from the pier, two young brothers await the next ship leaving Hennesburge to cross Soland Bay and reach its destination at Sevenna. The elder brother, Emil, has decided to journey to Nomeikia: The Land of Sorcery. Rey, the younger by one year, decides to let his brother go alone, as he would like to learn the Natural Sciences at Vaunestowne.
Seagulls flew overhead, laughing contedly, observing only that they should fly, and otherwise oblivious to the rest of the world. Two young brothers sat at the edge of the pier, legs dangling close to the water. A swarthy boy of maybe sixteen summers picked up a large stone and cast it at a gull who had landed on the beach to rest his wings. A grin spread upon his sun-tanned face as the frightened bird took to the air and sought a safer place of refuge. He turned to the younger boy beside him and said, “Rey, one day Mother will return and bring us to the other side. And then, Rey?…” The other boy, though younger, was much larger. While his older brother reached up to his shoulder, he stood six feet tall, and had a tough frame not uncommon in Rönich. He stared transfixed at the waves washing ashore, ignoring his brother’s intruding voice. “Are you listening to me?” Rey smiled at the question and looked at his brother with hard, dark brown eyes.
“I always listen, Emil.” He answered, and then under his breath, added: “But I do not always choose to hear.” Emil continued speaking.
“And I will be taught the ways of wizards. I will command the forces of fire, direct the waves of rain and wind, and I will create or destroy as I please!” Emil turned to the water and shouted, “I command thee, mighty Triton of the Sea: Part the water that lay before me!” After waiting several expectant minutes, he cursed aloud, “Soon will you suffer; for I will be master!” Rey frowned at his brother’s musing.
“Emil,” said he, “Mother will not return. Do not expect her to return. Nomeikia has nothing to offer us. Your heart lies in Rönich, for, although you do not know it, I can feel it. You do not need the tricks of magicians! Come, let us go to the library. Mr. Turing knows of ways to part the sea without magic. Structures of iron and wood called dams—” Emil hit his brother on the face, stunning him.
“Never! Never speak to me of Mother again! You do not know her as I do! She will return.”
The Eclipse Saga
c. 1993 · A cycle. Alander’s thread first, then a later rewrite of it, then Ronik’s.
The Bridge
c. 1993 · Alander, under a tyrant, looking for a way.
There is a poem of this name, written in the same period: read it in verse.
He had lost hope. There were no answers to his questions, and the only light that shined came from the descending sun, and that would be gone within the next hour. Alander’s soul cried in despair, and while the fire that burned within his soul slowly diminished, his eyes searched the premises for any kind of hope.
He needed a sign. The Tyrant held his strangling authority over the people of Eriad for over one-hundred years. And while the rest of the world was at peace with the Lords, Eriad remained isolated and helpless against the Tyrant’s oppression. Despite all of Alander’s attempts to find a way–any possibility–to overthrow the Tyrant, it always led to the bitter truth that he would inevitably fail.
But he knew there was a way. Even though for three days he had done nothing but ponder for the answer–three days and nights in the comforting reclusion of the forest clearing–he knew that there must be a way. Alander glanced at the sky gain. It was now filled with the bright stars that were servants to the celestial Lords. Sun and Moon: when put together they formed the paradoxical Eclipse. He fathomed the vast emptiness and depth of the heavens and thought of God, the first creator.
He would find God and ask Him for enlightenment. There was a way to succeed, and God would know it. Alander put aside his belongings and lied down on the ground, gazing into the star-lit sky. He imagined the stars as cosmic energy; fuel to feed the power-hungry Lords. He glanced at the argent sphere that was Moon.
Her pale ambience caressed the forest’s canopy, blanketing the wood with a spell of slumber. Alander soon found himself within his dreams.
He looked into the face of God. The golden luminescence of the Most Holy One blinded Alander, sent his mind reeling in the confusion and madness only Lords could control. Alander was thrown backward; sent descending many hundreds of leagues away from the holy kingdom back to his clearing in the forest. The confusion was gone, and he had gained wisdom.
He was awakened by a bear as it searched through Alander’s packs. Alander froze, then relaxed. He didn’t dare attack the great animal as it devoured all of his food. Finishing the last bit of Alander’s rations, the bear lumbered off into the dew-dressed forest, quite content with his morning find. Alander was strangely happy. He had simply survived the encounter by his ability to remain calm. “And the meek shall inherit the earth.” The answer seemed to lie within himself. By being humble, he could finally make the most of what was available to him. He would be content with what he had. Humility was the key! Quickly saying a prayer to God, Alander departed the forest toward Ahrin in Khomad, Eriad’s free neighbor, and toward the sea.
Under the Mountain
c. 1993 · Aveleshar, and what the Druid says must be done.
There is a poem of this name, written in the same period: read it in verse.
After his encounter with God, Alander served as an apprentice to a shepherd, and learned the greater values of humility. Three years later, he bought a small ship from a desperate merchant and set sail toward Aveleshar, the Crown of the World.
Aveleshar was home to the Druids. Earth granted the Druids eternal life and lore for their unending service to the world. It was said that there was nothing unknown to the Druids and Alander needed their knowledge. On the seventh day of his voyage, the sea became restless and a storm rolled in.
Being native to Eriad, seamanship was a talent Alander learned as a child. He lowered the sails and threw down the anchor so that the waves would not throw his ship on its side and therefore sink it. The storm worsened and the winds shred his sails and split the mast. Lightning struck the iron reinforcements of the hull, and with an explosion of wood and iron, his ship descended into the boiling waters.
Alander awoke to find himself on the shore of an unrecognizable beach. Lying on his back, he stared into the sky, and noticed an immense rocky spire reaching to the stars. He stood up and realized he had achieved Aveleshar. Aveleshar seemed to have no limits, climbing from under the sea to far beyond Sun and Moon themselves. Full of both excitement and apprehension, he advanced toward the mountain, and discovered a small path that lead through its side.
He could feel the life and power of the rock surrounding him as he climbed through the passage, and the energy of the ground beneath his feet seemed to give him strength to continue forth at an amazing pace. Within minutes, he entered Druid’s Vale.
He stood atop a ledge overlooking a vast valley of green and brown. The valley was enclosed by the mountain, and inside the valley was a thick circle of trees hiding a mystical grove. He knew that he would find Earth there. While admiring the spirit that dwelled within Aveleshar, he was surprised when a Druid he had not noticed before called for him to approach. Following the Druid’s command, he neared the grove and stopped before him. The Druid wore the colors of nature: green, brown, red, and yellow. His face was wrinkled with age, and his eyes were wells of wisdom. The Druid spoke to Alander,
“My child, do not fear. I have rescued you from the sea. You know not what you must do, and I must tell you, for the sake of all.
“Many aeons ago, I defied Paradox in a great battle. It was not won without cost, though. It is important for me, therefore, to explain to you what you must do to save us all; only you are capable of it.
“Understand that Sun and Moon are opposite in nature. When two opposites combine, the result is nothing. Nothing exists. It is a thing capable of uncreation. Like God can create, Paradox can uncreate. It is worse than destruction. Destruction only causes separation. Uncreation… is something that defies nature. It is evil. It must be stopped. And now Sun and Moon will come together again for the second time. Paradox awaits, and I am helpless to prevent it.
“I say to you, child, ‘Hear me well! Paradox can be defeated only by the same way it is born! An opposite needs to be found—something so potentially moral that instead of being unmade, it too creates nothing, but nothing born of nothing—and thus unmakes Paradox. So as was done in the beginning must be done now.’ Climb to the top of Aveleshar and meet Paradox tonight. You understand goodness—you have virtue!”
Without another word, the Druid passed through the trees and went into the grove. Alander turned away from the enclave and returned to the ledge from where he had entered. He scaled the first part of the mountain, and Earth’s power gave him strength to achieve the summit.
He waited at the crest of Aveleshar, the crown of the World, for the Crossing. Only you are capable of it… Meet Paradox tonight… You understand goodness—you have virtue! But what was he supposed to do then?
Eclipse
c. 1993 · The Crossing.
There is a poem of this name, written in the same period: read it in verse.
He stood at the peak of the mountain, staring at the diminishing gap between the two Lords. Sun was bright, of course, but he was brighter than Alander had ever seen before. Sun’s fiery radiation nearly overwhelmed the pallid glow of Moon. Stars burned like embers around the Lords; coals to fuel their demanding needs. They randomly winked out of existence as Sun and Moon consumed them.
Each Lord had his own aura. Sun’s aura emitted waves of integrity and cognizance that clashed against Moon’s shield of duplicity and bewilderment. Within minutes, Alander witnessed the Crossing.
As Moon first stepped into Sun’s burning glare, a black wave of devastation seeped out from nowhere. Like a vile acid it consumed Sun’s rays; it’s ravenous hunger ending all days. Wherever the unspeakable entity went, it destroyed what was there before it. Large as life and black as death it swallowed Moon and began its aimless path toward Earth.
The Eclipse Saga — compiled
c. 1993–94 · A later, condensed rewrite of the three pieces above. The wording differs.
He stood at the peak of the mountain, staring at the diminishing gap between the two Lords. Sun was bright, of course, but he was brighter than Alander had ever seen. Sun’s fiery emanation nearly overwhelmed the pallid glow of Moon. Stars burned like embers around the Lords; coals to fuel their demanding needs. They randomly winked out of existence as Sun and Moon consumed them.
Each Lord had his own aura. Sun’s aura emitted waves of integrity and cognizance that clashed against Moon’s shielf of duplicity and bewilderment. Within minutes, Alander witnessed the Eclipse.
As Moon first stepped into Sun’s burning glare, a black wave of devastation seeped out from nowhere. Like a vile acid it consumed Sun’s rays; it’s ravenous hunger ending all days. Wherever the unspeakable entity went, it destroyed what was there before it. Large as life and black as death it swallowed Moon and began its aimless path toward Earth.
He had lost hope. There were no answers to his questions, and the only light that shined came from the descending sun, and that would be gone within the next hour. Alander’s soul cried in despair, and while the fires that burned in his soul slowly diminished, his eyes searched the premises for any kind of hope.
He needed a sign. The Tyrant held his strangling authority over the people of Eriad for over one hundred years. And while the rest of the world was at peace with the Lords, Eriad remained isolated and helpless against the Tyrant’s oppression. Despite all of Alander’s attempts to find a way—any possibility—to overthrow the Tyrant, it always led to the bitter truth that he would inevitably fail.
But he knew there was a way. Even though for three days he had done nothing but ponder for the answer—three days and nights in the comforting seclusion of the forest clearing—he knew that there must be a way. Alander glanced at the sky again. It was now filled with the bright stars that were servants to the celestial Lords. Sun and Moon: when put together they formed the paradoxical eclipse. He fathomed the vast emptiness and depth of the heavens and thought of God, the first creator.
He would find God and ask him for enlightenment. There was a way to succeed and God would know it. Alander put aside his belongings and lied down on the ground, gazing into the star-lit sky. He imagined the stars as cosmic energy; fuel to feed the power hungry Lords. He glanced at the argent sphere that was Moon. Her pale ambience caressed the forest’s canopy, blanketing the wood with a spell of slumber. Alander soon found himself within his dreams.
He looked into the face of God. The golden luminescence of the most holy one blinded Alander, sent his mind reeling in the confusion and madness only Lords could handle. Alander was thrown backward, sent descending many hundreds of leagues away from the holy kingdom back to his clearing in the forest. The confusion was gone, and he had gained wisdom.
He was awakened by a bear as it searched through Alander’s packs. Alander froze, then relaxed. He didn’t dare attack the great animal as it devoured all of his food. Finishing the last bit of Alander’s rations, the bear lumbered off into the dew-dressed forest, quite content with its morning find. Alander was strangely happy. He had simply survived the encounter by his ability to remain calm. “And the meek shall inherit the earth.” The answer seemed to lie within himself. By being humble, he could finally make the most of what was available to him. He would be content with what he had. Humility was the key! Quickly saying a prayer to God, Alander departed the forest and made his way toward Ahrin in Khomad, and toward the sea.
After his encounter with God, Alander spent the next three years working as a shepherd and learned the greater values of humility. Three years later, he bought a small ship from a desolate merchant, and set sail toward Aveleshar, the Crown of the World. Aveleshar was home to the Druids. Earth granted the Druids eternal life and lore for their unending service to the world. It was said that there was nothing unknown to the Druids and Alander needed their knowledge. On the seventh day of his voyage, the sea became restless and a storm rolled in.
Being native to Eriad, seamanship was a talent Alander learned as a child. He lowered the sails and threw down the anchor so that the waves would not throw his ship on its side and therefore sink it. The storm worsened and the winds shred his sails and split the mast. Lightning struck the iron reinforcements of the hull, and with an explosion of wood and iron, his ship descended into the boiling waters.
Alander awoke to find himself on the shore of an unrecognizable beach. Lying on his back, he stared into the sky, and noticed an immense rocky spire reaching to the stars. He stood up and realized he had achieved Aveleshar. Aveleshar seems to have no limits, climbing from under the sea to far beyond Sun and moon themselves. Full of both excitement and apprehension, he advanced toward the mountain, and discovered a path that lead through its side.
He could feel the life and power of the rock surrounding him as he climbed through the passage, and the energy of the ground beneath his feet seemed to give him strength to continue forth at an amazing pace. Within minutes, he entered Druid’s Vale.
He stood atop a ledge overlooking a vast valley of green and brown. The valley was enclosed by the mountain, and inside the valley was a thick circle of trees hiding a mystical grove. He knew that he would find Earth there. While admiring the spirit that dwelled within Aveleshar, he was surprised when a Druid he had not noticed before called for him to approach. Following the Druid’s command, he neared the grove and stopped before him. The Druid wore the colors of nature: green, brown, red, and yellow. His face was wrinkled with age, and his eyes were wells of wisdom. The Druid spoke to Alander, “My child, do not fear. I have rescued you from the sea. You know not what you must do, and I must tell you, for the sake of everything. Many aeons ago, I defied Paradox in a great battle. It was not won without cost, though. It is important to me, therefore, to explain to you what you must do to save us all. Only you are capable of it. Understand that the Sun and Moon are opposite in nature. When two opposites combine, they result in nothing. Nothing exists. It is something capable of uncreation. Like God can create, this paradox can uncreate. It is worse than destruction. Destruction only causes separation. Uncreation…is something that defies nature. It is evil. It must be stopped. And now Sun and Moon will come together again for the second time. Paradox awaits, and I am helpless to prevent it. I say to you, child, ‘hear me well!’ Paradox can be defeated only by the same way it is born. An opposite needs to be found—something so potentially moral that instead of being unmade, it to creates nothing, but nothing born of nothing—and thus unmakes Paradox. So as was done in the beginning must be done now. Climb to the top of Aveleshar and meet Paradox tonight. You understand goodness—you have virtue!”
Without another word, the Druid passed through the trees and went into the grove. Alander turned away from the enclave and returned to the ledge from where he had entered. He scaled the first part of the mountain, and Earth’s power gave him strength to achieve the summit.
He waited at the crest of Aveleshar, the Crown of the World, for the Eclipse. Only you are capable of it… Meet Paradox tonight… You understand goodness—you have virtue! But what was he supposed to do then?
Ronik Origins
c. 1993 · Two scenes — a birth, and a lesson.
Ulundul paced outside the door to the birthing tent. Sweat dripped for his forehead, and he crushed his hands between each other. Kierin was having their baby! It had seemed like a dream come true when she became pregnant, and when Marisse the Druid disclosed to them that the baby was a boy, the dream became a miracle.
He would name his son Ronik. His father’s name had been Ulm, and his father before him was named Onik. It was only proper to associate his boy’s name with that of his father’s line. He returned to stark reality when he heard the screams of an infant come from the tent. He could hear Kierin’s voice softly, painfully try to shout, “Come in, Ulundul! Our boy is born!” Ronik slipped inside the tent, the flap-doors billowing with the wind caused by his entrance.
The boy looked just like him. He had a lot of hair for an infant; thick dark hair that came from his father. Kierin’s own hair was golden-brown, as was her eyes. Ulundul’s eyes were a darker brown, but Ronik’s eyes reflected shiny silver, a nice contrast to the tanned hue of his skin. Marisse and Kierin looked at Ulundul expectantly. Smiling hugely and giving Kierin a kiss on the forehead, he shouted so that everyone around the tent could hear, “Ronik son of Ulundul and Kierin is born on this nineteenth day of June! Set up the dining hall–we will celebrate!”
RONIK’S TRAINING
Elliot countered Ronik’s stab with his main-gauche, nearly sending his sword to go skittering off across the training hall. Perspiring because of the weight of Ronik’s broadsword, he feinted another stab at Elliot, and then reversed his attack and swept low, attempting to break Elliot’s balance. Instead, Elliot leapt into the air and knocked Ronik on the side of his head with the powerful club. Dizzy and unsteady, Ronik lunged forward, breathing a curse, and with all his weight being thrown into his attack, he succeeded into throwing Elliot’s club to the ground. Ready to complement his first attack, he prepared to finish the battle by sending the flat of his sword against Elliot’s head. He made the swing…
And was thrown backward as his father tackled him to the ground. “Always give your foe a chance to surrender, boy! It is dishonorable to attack a disarmed enemy. Play with honor and you will win respect.” His father’s commanding voice brought him to immediant conformity. He walked over to where Elliot lay on the ground, bent over his club, and helped him up.
“Yes, sir. Is my training finished for the day, Master Elliot?” Ronik asked his teacher.
“Your training here is finished forever. You have grown very fast in your skills of war. You have made me proud, and your father, too, I’m sure. Take your skills and be sure to use them to advance the ways of Sun. You need not ever fail. Be true.” Ronik remembered those words as a rule; they would serve as his maxim for the years to come.
Ronik & Gordon
c. 1993 · A hunt, and a capture.
As the magical sensation left his body he felt weak, as if his muscles had stopped working and his body had suddenly become very heavy. Ronik walked tiredly to a nearby tree and, carefully putting his sword beside him on the ground, fell into a deep sleep.
When he awoke, it was nearing dusk, and he was very hungry. The sky was clear and he could already see the Wanderer’s Star ahead. He knew that he would be travelling west when the Star was at his right while the sun fell behind the horizon. He ran across the green meadows with the Star at his right and soon came across a wide stream that flowed toward the north. He checked for tracks and to his good fortune, discovered the prints of a large deer. Hiding in the bushes for nearly an hour paid off when a grand buck strode to the creek and drank of the clear water. Removing the long-bow from his back, he notched an arrow, aimed, and fired. The arrow sped home and hit the buck in the breast, near its heart. Without even a cry of pain, the buck sprang up and bound into the trees at the opposite bank of the creek.
Ronik followed the animal’s blood and tracks and ten minutes later found it resting by a large oak. He again took aim and fired. This time the arrow hit the animal’s head and bounced off the skull. The impact of the arrow stunned the buck long enough for Ronik to finish the animal off with his broadsword.
He set up a small camp and formed a ring of stones to build a fire in. Cutting strips of meat from the dead animal, he cooked them over the fire and ate. After finishing his meal, he put six more pieces of flesh in is sack to eat later, and removed the buck’s head, which had a 16-point prize rack! The head would win him great respect when he returned. He slept under the stars and awoke with the advent of the sun. He got his belongings together, and followed the sun west.
As a new dusk approached, he noticed a horse’s tracks leading into a clearing. He furtively moved into the clearing, his sword ready for anything. What he saw came as a great surprise; he hadn’t expected to find him for many days to come. Gordon d’ Willintor lay partially hidden underneath a pile of brambles. His horse was tethered to a maple, and his fire had just recently burnt out. “Awake, thief!” he said to Gordon. The outlaw threw the brambles off him and stared in horror at the young warrior. Ronik commanded without waver, “Stand against the tree yonder. You may come peacefully–otherwise I will have to kill you.”
“Surrender to a young fool like yourself?! Never!” Gordon rolled over and reached for his sword. With unprecedented speed, Ronik swept his sword downward, cleanly severing Gordon’s hand from his wrist. “My hand!” he screamed. “I surrender, let me be!”
“Treat your wounds, mercenary-scum. If you make another move I will make sure your head follows your hand’s example.”
After repressing the flow of blood in his wrist, Gordon was bound and forced to walk behind Ronik as he rode Gordon’s horse back to Gavin.
Sol Story
22 November 1993 · Fragment — dated to the day.
Sol looked down at the desk. A lap-top carrying case stood open on its side, and it’s lap-top lay in two pieces on the floor, the monitor shattered in it’s plaster case and dismembered from the steel locks that had previously fastened it in place.
Sol brushed his arm across the desk, knocking papers and other paraphernalia onto the blue carpeted floor. He picked up the desk lamp and threw it against the opposite wall. The lamp’s electric cord ripped off the lamp and the lamp shattered against the wall.
After knocking over the desk, he searched the drawers, one of which were locked. He pulled out his pistol and blew the lock. He ripped the drawer out of the desk, sure he’d find what he’d been searching for.
“God damn it! Where the fuck is it?” he said to himself when the drawer proved to hold only paperwork and a Playboy magazine.
Sol was about to leave when he suddenly noticed the outline of a rectangle on the drywall wall. He pulled out one of the three throwing knives he carried around for good luck and pried the rectangle out.
Inside the dark cubicle, nothing was to be seen, but after meticulously examining the portal he noticed the glossy luster of glass.
Sol retrieved the object from the cache and examined it. At last! he thought, I’ve finally found it! And Sol began to laugh in joy.
The object was a cylindrical disc, made of a translucent glassy material. It was tinted black and etched onto it were the words:
X-32 PROTOTYPE AUTHORIZED PERSONELL ONLY 30B1596 AB [Symbols: III ≡ J ↳ ≈ Δ ≈] INTERTECH
Part II · 2000–2003
An Evening at Gordy’s
late 2000 · Short story — a bar, a proprietor, and a customer.
The smoke filled the bar like an evil spirit spawned from the throats of drunken men and women. There wasn’t a seat left untaken at the bar, and most tables were occupied. But for all the patronage the club received, there was only the bartender—a man named Gordy Hammersmith—and three waitresses to manage the crowd. There he stood, behind the bar. His bowtie was fastened neatly at the base of his throat, complimenting his retro-style 1930s fashioned suit. He watched the show before him with glittering eyes. It was all about the money: all the shit he had to deal with, the drunks, the stiffs, the assholes… …but in the end it was all worth it. Gordy took in a damned good profit every week, and especially Friday nights.
It was happy hour, and the smell of beer, smoke, vomit, sweat, and sex permeated the thick still air. He could still see faint traces of red in some of his ladies’ cheeks. He grinned. Yep, in a few years he would be set. He’d be off to his hometown in Wisconsin where he’d take his nest egg and settle down with some pretty girl, of whom he was sure would be half his age or younger, and why not, he mused. With every dollar earned he took one more step in getting what he wanted, and he wasn’t picky. Oh no. A nice house, with a Jacuzzi in the main bathroom, one out back next to the heated pool, and some fresh young skin to share his bed was all he wanted.
The young man stood at the entrance to Gordy’s. Bright neon lights promised great beer, gambling tables, and the best time any young man with money could have. And he had money, oh yeah he did. Just the other night he’d finished a project at the Graysteele place. After staking the fucking place for two months it was about time it had paid off. He and his buddies Joey and Chris split the money three ways, but of course he, Jackson Hyatt, received the biggest cut; after all, it was his plan. But his grand designs were yet to be executed. It was here at Gordy’s that he’d win his real jackpot. He grinned ferally as he paid the cover charge and entered the club. As Jackson approached the bar he caught the smells of the place and chuckled. Yes, this was the smell of success—the smell of opportunity begging to be exploited. He couldn’t wait until he was part of it.
Gordy watched the young man enter his club. He could tell by the man’s confident look and greedy eyes that he intended to spend money, and a lot of it. So as he walked over to Jackson, he fronted his seediest smile and affably slapped him on the back. “What do you think of my club?” Jackson blinked at the question, and after recognizing Gordy as the owner, grinned hugely. “Hey, it’s a really nice place. I expect I’m going to really enjoy myself.” Gordy nodded in genuine approval and offered Jackson a drink: “Say, you look dry. How about a drink on me to start your night? What would you like?” “Sounds like a plan, Mr. H. A screwdriver would be fine, and I’d appreciate a shot of Cuervo to chase it.” Gordy’s eyebrows rose in good humor and produced the beverages.
Three shots, five beers, and two lines later, Jackson was ready to do what he’d come for. He pulled out his Uzi and tore everyone to bloody, sticky, crimson shreds. The display was psychedelic, he mused. Red and blue, or was it black—it was hard to tell in the myriad muted lights of the club—splattered the walls. Pieces of bone and skull sometimes slid down the wall like gristle off a roasted pig’s back, and it was all so quiet—just the sound of a woman still finishing her death throes. Tsk, tsk, tsk. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and shook his head in mock disappointment as he perused the club for Gordy’s private office…
Sex, Blood and Misunderstanding
c. 2000–2001 · Short story — a dream, and what it turns out to have been. Explicit.
There I lay, on the bed, my legs akimbo, and my arms tied down to the bedposts by red scarves. A blindfold obstructed my vision, and everything I saw was blacker than a moonless night. Simone straddled me with her legs, and I could feel her hands softly stroking my erect knob. Her lips came down on my chest, her tongue brushing aside the hair to get to the skin beneath. I could feel her breath against me, hot and wet, and although I wanted to touch her hard nipples that danced across my own, I couldn’t because the scarves prohibited me. I could hear her whispering into my ear, but just as I thought I understood what she was saying, she bit into my earlobe, and her tongue darted in and around my ear. The hand stroking my cock became more forceful, and even violent, as I could feel her heart beating faster and faster through her chest, and she inserted my staff into her gaping hole, and I felt the flames of passion around me as she let out a soft whine and dropped all of her weight upon my body. Then, just as quickly as it began, she turned her body around, and still straddling me, began to suck my cock. Just as her tongue was about to drive me to ecstasy, she bit into my meat like a ravenous wolf, and with her teeth clenched around me, jerked her head to the left, and then to the right, tearing off a large portion of my penis. I screamed out in shock and agony, as blood sprayed over our bodies and onto the sheets. She tore off my blindfold, and while her eyes radiated with a horrifying mix of sexual delight and evil, she rubbed her clit with the bloody fingers of one hand and used the other to viciously masturbate with the shorn half of my penis. I gagged on the sight, and passed out.
When I awoke, she was gone, but a pool of blood lay on the sheets beside me. Finding that I was no longer tied down to the bed, I jumped up, and ran into the bathroom, to find Simone inserting a tampon. She looked at me and smiled, embarrassed, and apologized for the mess. My first reaction was to grab the scissors from the countertop and plunge it into her chest. And her screams reverberated in my skull as I looked down to find my body whole, and that what I’d experienced last night had been nothing but a dream, and the pool of blood, simply one of mother nature’s little disasters.
Q — The Man… The Legend
February 2001 · Vignette — written to make a friend laugh.
In the beginning there was spaghetti. But as time wore on, the delectable faces of manicotti and calzone made their way into the spotlight. That was then. Now we have over five hundred different types of Italian cuisine that have worked their way into the hearts of every god-fearing man and woman in the universe.
Anyway, that’s all fine and good, but the real reason-the whole point of everything working the way it does-all things in the end owe their very existence to one man…Q! I know that you are trembling right now as you read the letters before your eyes, as comprehension and acceptance slowly burrow their soft heads into your stony heart… Bow down! Bow down before your god… Lick the honey that drips from his feet!
An Evening Shift at Spaghetti Works
February 2001 · Narrative vignette — a shift, walked through as it happened.
The people in this one were real. Their names have been changed.
It was a brisk afternoon, one of those days when the wind seemed to blow through one’s body, stealing away the heat along with it. The walk was nothing unusual for Tony—a routine commute to work from his downtown efficiency that stood only five blocks to the west of the restaurant where he worked as a waiter. His roommate, a twenty-six year old man named Oscar walked alongside him. Both men smoked their cigarettes like an act of defiance against the weather, striding purposefully toward the The Spaghetti Works. As Tony carried on a conversation with Oscar—something concerning Oscar’s latest escapades at the clubs—his eyes darted all around, absorbing everything. His thoughts were always on a million different things at once, and since he was about to go to work, he tried to remember who was working that evening, what section of tables would he wait on, who was managing, were there any parties, how many people were going to call in tonight?
It was Friday, and Fridays and Saturdays were the busiest of days for the restaurant, but also the most profitable. While not an upscale, high-class place, The Spaghetti Works was a high-volume restaurant, and waiters in good sections were apt to make a worthwhile bit of cash by the end of the night. The two men stepped up to the side entrance, which was actually the door between the patio and lounge, and walked inside. From their first glances, they could see that two servers had already arrived, and although not yet working, had donned their aprons and name tags.
“Hey, Fred, Frank. How’s it going?” asked Tony as he shuffled past the two servers who sat at the bar and turned the corner to clock in. Oscar threw off his jacket, (recently acquired from Tony during a trip to Washington, DC) and joined Frank and Fred at the bar, lighting a new cigarette. With ten minutes remaining until four o’clock, Tony decided to run upstairs into the manager’s office and get a glimpse at the schedule, to see which servers would be allocated to which tables. A man of medium stature sat behind his desk, upon which a cigarette filled the room with smoke as it sat in an ashtray.
“Hi George. How’re you doin’ today? Gonna be busy? Lemme see where I’m at tonight?” Tony asked as walked around the desk to glance at the schedule in progress. “I’m in C, huh? Good money, anyway! Off to work, I guess,” he said as he darted down the stairs and threw on his apron and name tag.
Charlie Gallagher
c. 2000–2002 · Fragment — breaks off mid-story.
He stared down the corridor. The walls were slightly sticky, yet sickly slick and the air smelt sweet with sweat. The sounds of sex seeped beneath doors and through walls, reminding the detective of an all too familiar situation that had happened three years before…
Only then he had been twenty-two. Still somewhat a fresh face within the force, Fred impressed even the older and more experienced officers, and so he had been hand-picked for this assignment. Charlie Gallagher was a notorious pimp, drug dealer, and all-around piece of shit. Fred and his partner Ned (who had been in the force for fifteen years) were supposed to get a little concrete evidence of some of the more heinous activities Charlie was involved in so as to ensure a long sentence when the punk was finally brought in. It was a big assignment, and Fred’s glands were pumping out adrenaline at a feverish rate. Nervous energy carrying him on, he half-listened to Ned’s instructions. I want you to go up to the bitch that runs the desk, ok? Stay cool and tell her you’re interested in a little action. You know, you’re lookin’ for a dirty woman—someone who can satisfy your primal needs. Tell her that you’ve got some cash, but that you ain’t spending any money on some trashy crack-whore. Tell her you’ve got standards, and that a friend said this is the place to have ’em fulfilled. Hey, Freddie, you listenin’ to me? He was listening, oh yeah… But he knew what to do already, and besides, who the fuck was going to get hurt if he screwed it all up anyway? The way he looked at it, this was his show, and he was going to be sure it ended with a big bang. Hopefully he’d end up with a nice piece of ass to boot… …
Ultimately he ended up with a dead partner, a demolished tenement in the deep of Hell’s Kitchen, and a vengeful Charlie Gallagher on the loose racking up with a bunch of his arms dealer buddies. So that was why he was where he was now… Hand-picked this time only because the Captain didn’t have anyone else in the department to allocate to the assignment.
Barbarella’s Lounge
c. 2001–2002 · Short story — a bartender, his room, and his regulars.
I’m standing here in this alternate universe—the one I call home when I get in my car and leave the place where I sleep. The sun is about to go down, meaning it’s nearly six o’clock. Of course, in this alternate universe, six o’clock is really thirty past six. Where I stand now I am God. This is my universe, this twelve by six foot corner of Barbarella’s Lounge. For the next eight hours I am total salvation for those who seek put their dreams through booze and beer. I tend the bar here, and that makes me this ship’s captain. My name is John Duncan, and I’ve worked this joint for the last seven years. I’ve got no real family, not really. You see, the only people that really matter to me are the ones who frequent these sacred walls. I never would have thought I’d be here this long, but this place has become my home.
Across from where I stand, four circular tables sit along the far wall, each with its own burgundy velvet sofa hugging the half closest to the wall in a crescent shape. Candles burn brightly on each table, providing most of the illumination for Barbarella’s Lounge. I always prefer to keep the place dimly lit, since I feel that it complements the mood most people are trying to achieve. Farther along the wall, to my right, a railing separates the main area from the game room, where two pool tables offer patrons a way to gamble for money, booze, or to simply sharpen their skills. Across from those pool tables stand yet three more circular bar-tables, each of which has its own two stools.
The walls of Barbarella’s Lounge are made of solid concrete, originally painted gray. However, when I took the bar over, I had them painted black, so that when I looked out from behind the bar the room seemed to continue on without boundary, almost as if the tables were standing against a great void. If it weren’t for the myriad posters that I tacked on the walls—placards that depicted nostalgic black and white movies, as well as paraphernalia of the music industry, especially those that looked best under black light—then I might actually believe that this place stood against the void. Sadly, for some people, this place really did.
As I make sure everything is ready for tonight, I flip the switches to the lights, and immediately several black lights along the walls flicker on. Track lighting along the ceiling and around the pool tables illuminates their vicinities in tight little beams of white light. Of course, at my bar, I’ve got my trusty Marilyn Monroe lamp standing next to my old-style antiquated cash-machine, complete with its brass closure lever. And above the bar itself are dim incandescent lights that give the bar’s surface a warm glow. “Barbarella’s Lounge” is written in fancy cursive behind the bar in bright red neon lighting, and between that and the bar itself stands old John Duncan.
It’s that time again, and I turn on the backlit signs that advertise my presence and unlock the front door. As usual, Joe Hardy is waiting outside the door with a cigarette in hand. Hi Joe, I say and hold the door open for him. Joe walks in and takes his seat at the end of the bar closest to the entrance. He’s been coming here for five years, longer than anyone else that I can remember. He still works at the post office, sorting people’s mail, and since his sister died last year, receiving none of it himself. Joe had lived a hard-luck life. He was born and raised in Colorado—dropped out of high school when he was sixteen and worked in the steel factories until he was twenty two. Then he met his future wife Barbara and moved to Philadelphia when she accepted a position teaching at Philadelphia Regional High School, right outside of Chinatown. She had died in her classroom four years ago; an aneurism kept her from concluding her lesson on photosynthesis. She had been a biology teacher. He and Barbara never had any kids, and the only family Joe had after Barbara died was his sister Kate, and just last November she had done herself in with a handful of sleeping pills. She had never been able to reconcile herself for being the only survivor in the house fire that had consumed her parents and her two younger brothers Mike and John.
I walk from the entrance to my position behind the bar and fill a tall one with the stout brew Joe favors. I was reading in the paper that they’re going to be picking up pieces of the World Trade Center Buildings for the next ten years, says Joe. I acknowledge him by shaking my head morosely, and wipe down the bartop, as is my habit when I’m not pouring drinks. The counter’s surface is worn and smooth. No carpenter, no matter how patient, could have smoothed its surface the way seven years of moisture and the superfine sanding properties of a terry cloth have. I watch the clock turn over to five past seven. In walks Paul Harris, another man who has patronized Barbarella’s Lounge for over four years. Paul is a diabetic addicted to Diet Coke. He lives off the government and royalties earned off his patent on a utensil-dispensing device. Hi, Paul, I say. Joe swallows from his glass and mutters they’re gonna be picking up pieces of the World Trade Center Buildings for the next ten years. Paul clicks his tongue and accepts the glass of Diet Coke I offer him. I can feel it in my bones, you know my knees. These old knees of mine never lie. Paul amuses me with his bantering, and I find myself wiping down the counter again.
Claire’s First Album
c. 2002 · An invented review of an album that does not exist.
My sister is real. Her name has been changed.
I would like to dedicate today’s Say to my sister Claire. Her first CD was produced today, after her band, Seliquini, was signed by Mercury Records three months ago. The band’s music is a lively but surreal casserole of The Scorpions and Rush, with a little Joe Satriani on the side. No one can accuse Seliquini of attacking soft, sappy issues on their self-titled debut album. Just listen to drummer and lyricist Harris North explain one of the ten songs on the fifty minute album, most of which are scheduled to be heard in concert tonight at the Capital Center.
“I started out thinking of an overall theme,” said Mr. North, 25, in a lengthy telephone interview earlier this month. “I broke that down in sub themes–instinct or temperament–or a combination of the two.” For example, he cites his song “Nailed Down,” which pleads, “So far from right, I ended up left, alone/Carry on into this night, is there no end to this fight/Nailed down like the son, only here I am his father/I give you my hand, so that you may give me yours.” “We,” he explains, “should be facing life in an instinctive sort of way. The approach to life should be in harmony with the world, the way people behave. This song attempts to draw a line between my native sense of idealism and a growing sense of realism.” The song, he said, attempts to “reconcile my idealism with the real world.”
This explanation is representative of the various inner conflicts that permeate the songs on “Seliquini” a moody, introspective work that certainly will puzzle most people for the first ten or twenty times they listen to the album. Claire Seliquini, who modestly avoids the limelight by allowing Julian Rivitz (vocals) to take center stage. His shrieking high but, at times, melodiously tranquil, falsetto singing ability takes the songs to a transcendent level. Ms. Seliquini’s virtuoso and often flashy guitar playing sounds good on record and looks even better on stage.
Matty Briggs plays rhythm guitars and also plays the Mellotron on the songs “Abacus” and “Medallion. Meanwhile, the 6'4 260 pound gorilla George Sinela (who played in Grassy Umbrella) hammers out steady bass punches and tricky chops that seem impossible to perform, especially as played on “Don Seliquini,” the first track on the album. The band makes a point of expressing their gratitude to Scorpions band members Klaus Meine and Rudolf Schenker, to whom Claire Seliquini claims were idols and mentors.
“Seliquini” is a welcome album and fresh take on a music genre that seemed to be running out of gas…until now.
The Barista
c. 2002–2003 · Short story — a shift, told through the previous night’s napkins.
It was just another day for the barista, just another hell. He had to compartmentalize his mind into categories, into two realities: One was work, the other a sorry excuse for a life. What time wasn’t spent soiling his clothes with the tenacious residue of coffee was spent in bars, drinking off the pain of such pointless existence. As he jumped into a pair of coffee-stained pants and strapped on a belt, he glanced down at the crumped napkins he’d been writing on the previous night. These are the lethal silences, the ones that quench one’s soul, when the spirit feels empty, and there’s no change for the next toll. Jesus, the barista thought as he shook his head. Must have been a crazy night. In fact, he couldn’t remember last night at all, not a cloudy memory, or even a hint to how he got home. He pulled a shirt over his head and took another look at the napkins. You’ve run out of tears—no time for your brother’s pain. You’re just a second among the years who stands alone in the rain. The barista could only laugh. He stuffed the napkins in his pocket so he could peruse them later.
He left the apartment he called home, the apartment that cost him two thirds of what he earned at the coffeehouse. He slammed the door behind him and spit on the door knob, in case his bitch of a girlfriend decided to come back and get her stuff. Shaking his head in disgust at the world around him, he ran down the stairs making as much noise as he could. Hell, if he had to be awake thirty minutes before five then the rest of the people in his building could wake their asses up too.
It had snowed again. Muttering a curse as he stuck his hands in his pockets, he ran to his car, which was about a quarter of a mile away from his building because the other residents who owned two, sometimes even three, kept their extra vehicles parked in front of the building. What a fucking joke, he thought. His disgust for the human race grew every day. As he approached his car, he slipped on the icy pavement and pulled his hands from his pockets to catch his fall, tearing his pants and cutting a bloody although superficial gash in his left hand. One of the napkins from the previous night stared up at him from where it had escaped from his pocket when he fell. He picked it up with his freshly-cut hand and read it with a murderous grin. The world watches: a detached judge who records your failures. (It’s all one smeared smudge—a run-on sentence that says nothing but loss.) Yeah, that’s right, he thought. Nothing but bloody loss. After wiping the cut with the napkin, he let it fall to the ground. That’s my life all right: a fucking smear. Boy, I did some thinking last night, didn’t I?
He checked his pockets for his keys and finally found them with numb fingers. He climbed into the car and turned the ignition. After a miserable five minutes waiting for the engine to start idling warm, he pulled onto the main street and began the commute to work. It seemed there was a bloody red light at each intersection, and during one interminable stop he read another of his napkins. This one was stained with what looked like beer—or vomit, he thought. Happiness is an illusion, you’ve seen that for sure. Love is only intrusion, a disease in need of cure. The light turned green and he stepped on the gas with more pressure than the law permitted. He reached for his cigarettes and opened the pack only to find it empty. Fuck! he cried. He took a treacherous U-turn and stopped at a gas station. Might as well fill ’er up while I’m here, he thought. He glanced up at the prices. Holy shit! $2.25 a gallon? Doing business with rag-heads is like having your dick sucked by a cobra, Christ! He read another napkin while fueling his car. The air we breathe pollutes our lungs. The songs we hear corrupt our hearts. Better to leave such evils unsung than deal with the shit it all starts. He grimaced as he felt a migraine coming on. Paying for his gas and another pack of cigarettes (reds this time because he needed more than his usual dose of nicotine), he entered his car and turned onto the highway.
He looked at his watch. Shit! It was already five and he had the keys to the store. He accelerated. Suddenly, he remembered last night. He remembered just sitting there as a shotgun shell ripped the bartender’s heart out of his chest and took a piece of the bar with it. He just sat there and downed his shot, even while one of the thugs brutally raped one of the waitresses, her screams simultaneously pleading and condemning the barista for his inaction. He remembered sitting there, completely apart from the world, unaffected, neither caring nor dismissive, just writing on those goddamn napkins, mouthing the words he scrawled: I drown my sorrows in these bottles of piss, dreaming of a life I somehow missed. Did I look at her and even think that I was maybe going to…that we could…and I ask why…and I ask if only…I mean, how…and I hang my head. Where’s the balance? They see white and black, but I see red. Red! I’m about to crack. I’m starved for love, thirsting for it, and the hour is night, try…try…try not to sigh…goodbye…
The end was too quick for the barista to notice. As his car slammed into the coffeehouse at 80 miles per hour, his body was thrown full-force through his windshield. The bloodied and torn body sat crumpled in the shattered glass of a display case, crimson syrup from the lacerations on his face decorating the cinnamon-walnut coffee cake that lay in his lap. As the police arrived in response to the alarm, the female barista waiting outside for Tony (who had the keys) to unlock the door could only stand there, her mouth hanging open in disbelief, and her head pounding with the hangover brought by too many drinks the previous night…
Cody — The Drug
c. 2003 · Short story — two men waiting on a dealer.
The two men knelt in the alleyway, waiting for the drop. A pile of trash blocked one end, and the thick humid harbor air left nothing untouched by its tired wetness. The walls of the alley oozed with the slimy sweat of years of the city’s filth. Puddles reflected the distant streetlights in opalescent swirls of unnamed contaminants as the men’s breath left their mouths in tendrils of vapor. One of the men, this one dressed in faded blue jeans and a black hat, kicked the wall impatiently. He scowled and muttered to his companion, “What time is it, anyway?” The other man glanced at his watch indifferently and responded, “Five till. Twenty minutes late now.” “Fuck this shit. I’m tired of waiting for his ass. I’m calling him on my cell. I don’t give a fuck.” “Nahh, give him another five minutes. If he isn’t here by three, call him and find out what’s up. If you don’t get an answer, let’s roll.” A glossy wave of light moved its way along the surface of the street perpendicular to the alleyway. “Hold up,” said the man in the hat, “this might be the fucker now.” They waited in the alley as a car drove toward and then past them. “Damn. Make that call.” “Damn straight.” The man in the hat dialed the dealers’ number on his cell phone but received no answer. After fifteen interminable seconds, he terminated the call. “Screw this shit, stuff ain’t that good anyway.” The other man laughed in agreement and then sighed. “No, you’re right: it isn’t that good; but you wanna know what is?” The man in the hat looked curiously at his companion, who now seemed lost in a pleasant memory. He began: “I had the amazing good fortune of sampling it years ago. Likely the best thing that ever happened to me in my entire life, to be honest—the perfect high. Completely mellow yet so thoroughly satisfying. Try to imagine winning the heart of the most beautiful woman in the world—” he hesitated, “—no, more than that: the woman of your dreams; and her desires worked to satisfy your own and vice versa.” The man in the hat grinned and said, “Sounds amazing. What was it?” “It was Cody. Once sampled, even the mere suggestion of Cody would make my blood boil with desire and my flesh burn with fierce need. Cody is so addictive that once enjoyed, you never cease to want more. Cody has permanently marked my soul.” The man sighed and his head hung sadly from his shoulders. The man in the hat playfully hit his friend in the arm and said, “So how can I get Cody?” His friend laughed. “I don’t know. If you ever find yourself with Cody, don’t make the same mistakes I and so many others have, or you, like we did, will lose your chance to have Cody forever. Cody must be respected and I mean treated with the utmost deference, pal. I was a moron.” Suddenly, the man stiffened—the memory of Cody was too great—and then his body was tourtuously wracked by wrenching spasms that left the man dead on the grimy asphalt. The man in the hat screamed and ran from his dead friend into the moonless night.
Ghost Writer
c. 2003 · Short story — a writer, a driver, and what transfers.
The writer sat at the desk, frowning at the blank screen before him. How many hours had been spent at this desk, in front of the same screen, with the same lack of progress reflecting back at him? Too many, he thought. With a decision as wrenching as initiating divorce, he tore himself from his chair and departed his city home. What I really need is to get out some… Experience a little life. The reason I can’t write right now is because I’ve got nothing to write about! He shrugged his shoulders against the brisk wind and ambled on toward the city library.
The streets were busy with traffic. Cars sped along the roads with a sense of impatience, their drivers focused on getting to their destinations as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, one man’s attention wasn’t focused on the writer crossing the road and hit the brakes far too late to make a difference in the pedestrian’s life.
After the paperwork had been completed, the questions answered, and countless apologies emphasized by the way his lips mouthed the words, “I can’t believe it,” James Culligan collapsed on his bed…his head reeling with the reality that he had crushed a man beneath the wheels of his Ford Bronco… Trampled would be more like it, my vehicle’s name be damned. The thought startled him, since it was so alien to him to think along those lines. He wasn’t a morbid man, or one with any particular streak of creativity, yet it seemed that he was absorbing his surroundings with a new kind of passion, like someone who really wanted to experience life. Weird. He closed his eyes…and opened them wider than he thought possible as he clenched his teeth and turned the steering wheel to the right, simultaneously slamming on the brakes. Oh my god! All he’d done was make a point of smearing the man’s body across two lanes. He leapt from his bed and poured some scotch into a glass of ice. His hand shaking like an invalid’s he carried the glass to a table beside his favorite chair, and sat down. Picking up the remote, he switched the television on.
“And earlier today on Chicago’s Superior Street, accomplished writer William Cunningham, 36 years old, was hit by a Ford Bronco, resulting in a tragic accident that delayed traffic for several hours while police forensics teams investigated the scene. The driver of the Bronco, a James Culligan, 23 years old, claimed Cunningham had ‘come from nowhere.’ Sandy Morris reporting from the Windy City, with NCR News.” He shut off the television did his best to sink in his chair. If only he could fall asleep to wake to a reality where he hadn’t just killed someone. He sat there in silence for an hour, but it only seemed to fatigue him more.
Picking Up the Pieces
c. 2003 · Short story — a man drops something.
Alex walked to the elevator, holding something in his hand. Whatever it was he was carrying was illuminating the area around him, as if it were emitting some kind of eerie light. His eyes were blank as he lifted his free hand and pressed the down button. He stood there for several interminable seconds while the elevator made its way to the sixth floor of the building—the floor Alex now waited with seemingly not a care in the world.
He wore a baseball cap backward. The cap voiced support for the Houston Astros, and as he pulled it off so as to scratch his head he exposed a small patch on his scalp that was completely bald. Whether hair had never grown there, it had fallen out, or that it had been shaven could not be distinguished. The man’s eyes remained mysteriously unfocused as the elevator shaft opened itself. In his frenzied stride to get to the office, a hurried businessman in a twill jacket bumped into Alex, causing him to drop the object he was holding.
A small golden bauble slipped from his fingers, and Alex’s eyes suddenly became animated. With a look of total horror, he tried to catch the item, but was not fast enough to stop the glasslike object from impacting the floor and shattering into a zillion tiny shards of orange-red slivers.
Alex suddenly stiffened. He shrieked silently, his face turned up to the ceiling. His mouth was open in a look of utter dismay, and slowly the very flesh on his face began to bubble and steam. His fingers started twitching spasmodically; he clawed at his eyes, which had begun to sizzle and pop, as if they were being fried in grease, and ended up with slimy glop all over his hands: something that resembled a blend of melted plastic and hot wax. Still inaudible, the hole in his face that was his mouth slowly grew as the skin around his lips liquefied and hung loosely in wet glistening strands that, if not hitting the floor in damp little splashes, then teetered inches from the ground like a hanged convict, still moving after the last of his death throes.
In a flash of crimson radiance, the myriad slivers of orange-red Lucite that laid caught between the thick shag of gray nylon and silver acrylic carpet burst into flame, and the flame retardant carpeting failed miserably to justify its nomenclature, as it also ignited, and a wave of flame streaked through the hall, like an angry tide…
The last thing the little boy at the water fountain would see was Alex crawling on all fours, using the molten stumps of flesh that were once his hands to beat at the flames and try to move the broken pieces into a pile…
Dying Love
c. 2003 · Short story — a deathbed, and the women around it.
Death came slowly for the young man who lay against the perpendicular walls that formed the corner of the room. His eyes were open, as they always were. Even in sleep, his eyes were never totally shut. His breath was extremely shallow, and what blood remained in his veins gave what life it could to his dying brain—the source of so much genius, so much creativity, insight, and vision.
His mouth stirred—the smallest movement—but the women in the room could hear the chilling laugh that emitted from within. It was gravelly and wet, a hoarse gurgling, but nothing the women didn’t expect, considering what they had done to the man. The source of the dying man’s humor originated from the ironic fact that the heart and the mind were inseparable, without one the other could not live, and how he had striven to maintain balance for both, abstractly and physically, and how ultimately, abstractly and physically, it had brought him to his doom.
Love and life… Will and wit… The pen is mightier than the sword, and to follow your heart is to find true happiness… Well, someone took that pen and shoved it through my heart, damn it… It’d been this way since the beginning! Why had he had to endure a life that beset him with such terrible obstacles and events, to overcome one only to be plagued by another, and to maintain a life with such a pattern until his death? He recalled the poem Eldorado, written by Edgar Allen Poe, whom the dying man had always admired. Ride, boldly ride indeed…
His vision had already begun to fail. Everything he looked at seemed veiled by a translucent, almost milky, grayness. To think the last things I will see are the women I had loved…do love. Is not love blind? How quaint it all seemed to him. There they were, just standing there watching him. He’d always wanted their attention, but never like this. He had written a poem in his youth…he’d called it “Mortal Love,” and the last stanza went: “When my love leaves, she takes a piece of my heart. I have one last piece, and give it to you. Please don’t leave, I beg you, don’t.” And thus he had somehow gone on to give his next love another last piece, until there were twenty or so last pieces of his heart being carried around by lost loves… Oh damn, he’d never asked them to give those pieces back! Were his eyes closing? Were they really closing?
The women watched silently as his breathing stopped…looked at his dead face, with eyes that were shut against the world that had dealt him a hand that couldn’t win. Then, each of the women, who had never felt a tear for the man they had each in their own way betrayed, suddenly felt a heart-gripping blanket of grief come falling upon them. What had they done? What had they done!? To join that good man in his eternal sleep would be the only answer, but would he turn them away, just as they had him? If so, then it was only as they deserved. And one by one, they died, just like him; only their eyes remained open, staring at the man who refused to look back, finally.
Happy Endings
c. 2003 · Short story — three endings, told flat.
“Come here, child.” The old man’s voice was solemn and grave. She walked closer to him. The candlelight did little to illuminate the room, and the shadows of the two people flickered ominously across the barren stone. She was more afraid than she had ever been before. He took another drink from the bottle of scotch. “Don’t be afraid unless it’s own my death you fear. If that’s so, then your fears have merit, for I shall die very soon.” He set the bottle down on the floor carefully, almost lovingly, as if he had found nothing else with which to place his affectations. Her mouth opened in a wide rictus of horror as he lifted the pistol from the floor and pressed the barrel firmly against his left temple. “Such is life. As the samurai once said, ‘A man is born crying. When he’s cried enough, he dies.’” He blinked the last of his tears from his eyes and wiped them tenderly with his free hand while he pulled the trigger so slowly it seemed an eternity to the young lady. The blast from the pistol echoed for an even longer amount of time in her ears, and the blood that sprayed from his shattered skull onto the wall spilled wetly to the floor and angrily flowed toward her…
Meanwhile, in another city, his son rose from his chair and walked into the kitchenette to pour himself a glass of water. With the weight of neglected responsibilities and indecision making itself felt in the pressure of the pulse at his right temple, he tilted his head back and laughed at the ceiling. His humorless chortling was obnoxiously and ominously loud in the apartment, and the man began to pace along the pattern of one of his Oriental rugs. Yes, no, maybe, sure, why not, definitely, absolutely not! What am I: sad, happy, angry, lonely, exhausted, unmotivated, afraid, suicidal, or what? A monkey escaped from his cage at the zoo and convinced an elephant to howl at the moon. The elephant did howl, and that was the end of the monk, the monk, the monk. But we always expected it to act that way, like it was always on some kind of trip. Whatever happened to convalescence? Did venom so easily reclaim its station? He craved a cigarette. I don’t really want one, you know. I don’t even want a drink. The smoke will just agitate my throat, and the drink will taste like crap and leave me wasted for the next eight hours. I just want to… I want to die. I want to turn myself off. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to drink. I don’t want to read. I don’t want to be. So he picked up the syringe and injected its poison into his thigh. Twenty three days passed before the three corpses were discovered: the tenant’s and his two cats’. The cats had survived for two days on the man’s body but ultimately perished from dehydration.
Six teen-age friends left school one afternoon to go swimming at a local pool. They each died of electrocution when one of the underwater pool lights shattered and the fuseless circuit was exposed to the water. The only witness spent the evening at her favorite bar and eradicated the memory with booze.