Short Story Fragment

This is something that popped into my head after a phone conversation this morning. I need to finish it but would rather let y'all see some of what I've written so far and then come back to it when I have a bit more energy. Right now it is nap time.

---

Stan still remembered the first time he saw her. Through the years, the pungent smoke, the booze, the brain damage, the occasional bouts of insanity and the general directive he instilled in himself to forget the worst parts of his life, that moment still shone through. He considered it a beacon from the lighthouse perched upon the rocky coast of his life. As the waves of misfortune and his foolish choices pulled him out to sea and then threw him back against the rough shore, she was there, his only female friend. The understanding she silently radiated, the concern for those she loved, and a joie de vivre that could inspire any artist to create a masterpiece made him ever grateful she was a part of his life.

Monique's almond shaped eyes had the slightest upward tilt, sometimes hiding the upper part of the beautiful cafe au lait rings that were her irises. Her mouth contrasted against against her high cheekbones and Eurasian eyes, the smallest frown could be perceived in her normal expression if one did not know her. Even though her ancestry was a mixture of Black and White her lips were thin but always held the potential for a mischievous grin and her hair was relatively straight. Unlike the models in magazines that looked to be constructed from chopsticks and sinew, Monique had graceful curves. Long legs led to wide hips, her thin waist then narrowed to a small chest that would be fitting on a more petite woman but did not detract from her allure. The tattoos on her upper arms had turned into keloidal scars, slightly raised, and the artwork had blended with the discoloration so it appeared as if she had been branded. The expertly manicured nails she kept perfectly painted adorned the long pianist's fingers she used to play saxophone. Nearly six feet tall, she had almost four inches of height on Stan and seemed to tower above him when she wore heels. Her height led many men to ogle her longer than they should, she noticed these leers and countered with aggressive disdain apparent on her face. Thanks to her genetics and boundless personal energy her thirty years looked like twenty.

Stan had fallen hard for Monique. As they came to know each other a bitter seed of regret slowly germinated within his chest. Quietly he sat on the sidelines, watching her choose men that could not fathom her brilliance and occasional but brief sparks of mania. Nor could her chosen beaus relate to the furrows of depression into which she sometimes fell suddenly but gradually had to pull herself out. Sure that his own failings would prevent anything from ever happening between them, Stan resigned himself to loneliness and had recently started considering an imported wife. Other women had never shown much interest in Stan, at least not women he also found attractive. Pedantry was his main vernacular and he used it like a mobster wields an ice pick, jabbing holes into his perceived enemies until they bled out and finally left the conversation. He found himself repeatedly sabotaging dates by falling into this habit of attacking with knowledge when silence was more appopriate.

Shorter than average, his extreme slenderness led some to believe he was younger than his age. A hollow chest and the hours in front of the monitor made Stan slouch like a disappointed child. At twenty-eight years old his appearance was closer to an urchin than his peers, his flaxen hair was usually unstyled and his clothes were cheap and ragged. The small jutting chin, full pink lips, narrow jaw, and thin nose were set into his wide and prominent cheeks all of which were topped by his "fivehead." The sharp features and broad expansive face framed his round, bright, seafoam green eyes which held a mirthful quality not often seen outside of juvenile delinquents. His voice was thick and his North Carolina accent made people underestimate his intelligence. Stan enjoyed quickly and thoroughly disabusing those he encountered of that notion, he had surely earned his reputation as an asshole.

The concert was only four hours away. Today was his twenty-eighth birthday and Monique was going to meet him at the Chinese place near the venue before the show started. The night's musical performance was certainly outside what most of their peers enjoyed. The booking was for a progressive bluegrass band featuring the best banjo player Stan had ever heard. The banjo prodigy was accompanied by various other musicians whose instruments were more apropos to a world music group than traditional bluegrass, one of the artists played the Chinese dulcimer and had a didgeridoo behind her on stage for the occasional blast of sound in their more upbeat songs. It was a unique sound that he was sure they would both revel in.

Stan showered then set up his shaving accoutrements around the sink. The badger fur brush and stand on the left side of the faucet, his Merkur open combed razor on the right. Made from quality Solingen steel, the razor had belonged to his father who had been a barber before multiple sclerosis rendered the man crippled and blind. After fetching a red rag from the linen closet he filled the sink with steaming water. The mirror was too fogged to shave yet so he filled the sink and dropped the washcloth in to warm. Stan wrapped a towel around his waist and went into his bedroom, taking small, quick steps to keep the towel secured. 

After popping his pipe tobacco jar open he probed through the ribbon cut English blend leaf to find the plastic bag underneath. The aromas of molasses and soil wafted to his nostrils and tickled his sinuses with a slightly spicy sting. Pinched between his right hand's index and middle fingers he slowly took the bag of pungent buds from the bottom of the ceramic vessel so as not to spill tobacco all over the bookshelf. His left hand covered the top of the container such that it almost appeared as if he were pulling the bag from a drug mule's rectum, it emerged between the cleft formed between his left hand's thumb and index finger. Stan thought of cannabis as the panacea for his general malaise, anxiety, and fibromyalgia. The desert's lack of humidity had turned the once soft, springy feeling reefer into dry and sticky dust once the flower had been ground in the four stage contraption he purchased a little while back. He then sprinkled the pot into the tube injector's slot and filled the rest with pipe tobacco. While he tamped the tobacco and ganja down the thin man hummed to himself. He tried to fit a cigarette paper tube to the nozzle, ruining it by trying to slide it forward too quickly. Two more ruined paper cylinders later he finally made his left handed cigarette in one pulling motion. He tapped the bottom of the filter repeatedly against his bookshelf and then twisted the paper at the foot of his smoke so nothing fell out. The spliff finally constructed, Stan set it on his dresser and hurried back to the bathroom.

The mirror had finally cleared up enough to shave by and the water had cooled so that it was no longer steaming but still warm enough to open his pores. Stan pulled the red rag from the water and folded it in half, the cloth now a red triangle. He pulled the two ends of the hypotenuse up to his ears resembling an Old West outlaw with a bandana over his mouth. Thirty seconds later he removed the warm, wet rag from his face and tossed it toward the splash guard where his sink abutted the wall. The pink skin of his pale face shone through the dirty blond stubble. Pushing the razor's comb against his skin so that it was slightly taut, Stan then angled the blade toward his face and slowly drew the razor from the top of his ear down to the bottom of his jaw. Rinse, repeat, scrape, the razor's slight rustling sound traveled through his jawbone as each whisker was harvested from his face like wheat harvested in the Fall. At last Stan completed the bothersome and time consuming chore of shaving. Only two cuts near his Adam's apple oozed blood. Stan ran cold water over the rag and again looked like an outlaw for thirty seconds. A splash of spicy after shave his grandmother had given him for Christmas stung his face.

The nicest comfortable clothes Stan had were a pair of straight cut Levi's and a black dress shirt that was a size too large. He quickly pulled the jeans over his thin legs and let the shirt drape around his shoulders unbuttoned. He grabbed the jay he made earlier and held it between his lips while he searched for

An authentic Cantonese restaurant, the owners were from Hong Kong. The Chinglish 

Those Same Knives

There was no glory in it, pride, yes. Vanity? Check. Were they adolescent White boys you may have thought they were about to play hacky sack. As the old man put it, "In the old days it was all us good ol' boys but now it's been overtaken by Spics, Flips, and us Whites are stuck on the outside of the circle." Most of the men were Mexican with a few Filipinos and White boys thrown in for some variety. Papa Carl hobbled up to the circle to talk shit and look over the competition. I headed away from the ring, around the shack and back to the truck.

Carl's little brown pickup was a Mazda that had seen better days. The paint had been scratched away by use and oxidated by the sun. Dust and mud caked the tires and its rear wheels were somewhat low from the load of crap he constantly hauled around. Topped by a white camper shell, no one could tell what was inside by looking through the scratched and encrusted tinted window. Standing against the cornfield, it imprinted an agricultural scene that will never leave my mind. A sweet and grassy aroma from white corn was light in the air as the dust cloud from our trip into the middle of the farm settled. Gravel crunched beneath my feet as the summer's wet heat made sweat drip from my brow, into my eyes and then down to soak my shirt even more. The cocks were restless and in anticipation they slowly sighed like a quiet siren singing to Death himself. The men's banter was just under the volume for speech to be understood. Sunlight shot the dust cloud through and through with diamonds. Each ray highlighted the spinning air as if each eddy was a dervish slowly descending from paradise. Farm life was never something I enjoyed but I could see its beauty in those small, quiet moments.

Up went the hatch to the camper and I pulled down the gate, pinched a finger in the latch and cursed ineptly. Each rooster had its own A-frame enclosure tacked together from plywood. We were only going to enter two into the ring, Old Man Davis had heard that some of the bettors had some high quality fighters with them and like any boxer knows: you win some, you lose some. According to modern science, many dinosaurs had feathers and birds are just an evolution of the more quickly developing species. This evolutionary lineage was not lost on me and their ferocity was astounding. The razor sharp blades strapped to their feet made them deadly. Training the birds had been long and hard work, this made them winners.

Every time the weather allowed in the spring or summer and if we had birds of the right age they sparred. Trimmed combs and wings made each rooster look streamlined as we strapped on a chicken's equivalent of a boxing glove to each foot. A friend of Carl's would usually help us when it was time to spar. Lucero would bring his little boy who was about my age to help. After strapping the "gloves" on to each cockerel the little brown boy and I faced each other in anticipation as we carefully released the birds and backed away. They fought in a flurry of feathers and dust. Screams escaped their craws and their necks were frilled out with feathers from top to bottom like metal Christmas trees. After a few minutes of the two birds abusing each other viciously, Lucero would grab them by the neck to stop the fighting. Carefully removing the "gloves" so we could return them to their respective rooster teepees was the scariest part of the process for Lucero's boy and me.

Today was different from those training sessions, instead of the "gloves" we had tied the knives to their feet. Those same knives were ordered special from magazine ads and were sharpened, polished, and stored in a place of honor. Those same knives made the blood bubble, the feathers fly, and the occasional head flop to the floor of the ring. Those same knives still shine in my mind's eye whenever I think of a blade well made. I can easily recall the anticipation I felt every time I would sneak into Papa Carl's spare bedroom to look at those same knives.

The men there called to me as I slowly brought the enclosures to the ring. They would speak to each other en Español and the only reason I knew they were talking about me was because of the words cuarto, poquito and guero. My father was Mexican but you never would have known it. My Germanic heritage showed through, every summer gave me the same appearance: sunburned bright red with blue and silver eyes shining through the red. Since he left when I was very young I only picked up whatever Spanish I knew from the other kids in town. The hubbub died down as the birds were matched up.

Carl conferred with Old Man Davis. Old Man Davis was nearly senile but he stood up straight as a rod and hooked his thumbs through his overalls as if this were the most entertaining thing he had done in a long time. A huge smile overtook his face as he recognized some of the men in the circle. The two old men leaned in toward each other. Papa Carl had to adjust his crutches to get closer to Old Man Davis. Finally they made their bets.

Betting always turned out the same in these circles. Everyone wanted to know how Carl would bet. Some bet in line with his opinions and others bet against him as a matter of spite. He wasn't known as the premiere rooster breeder in the region for nothing. I knew our match was coming up shortly. I watched the first two fights before I went behind the shed to stare off into the sky and tried to attain a state of no-mind. When Papa finally bellowed out my name I ran back to the ring, ignorant of how much time had passed.

I picked up the first enclosure and opened it slowly. The Filipino man across the circle was only slightly taller than my prepubescent self. He stared fiery hate into my eyes and cursed under his breath in Tagalog. I removed the hood from our bird almost simultaneously as he did. Both his bird and the one in my hands were pulling for the fight. Once the count was finished we released both roosters and backed out of the ring quickly. Feathers and blood already lay in the dust all around the ring, there were scratches on the ground where they had launched themselves at each other. The two birds for this fight were well matched.

Still the brunt of the Pinoy's hateful gaze, he would occasionally flick his eyes back to the ring. Jumping, clawing, pecking, screaming, a flopping carcass that didn't know its own demise and at last, it was over. "Look at your chicken's head Flip! It's limped over to the right and it ain't ever coming back up. Just like your tiny dick ya shit licker," Papa Carl continued to bellow his victory in ever ebullient torrents of filth for a few minutes until the short islander cleaned up his bird and left altogether. Looking back, that gaze during the fight was probably directed at Papa. I saw the money change hands and Carl handed me one of his sticks as he shoved a wad of cash into his sweatpants pocket. The second fight was coming any moment and I was ready to go home. Stuffing the winning rooster back into his box was always a matter of agility and avoiding those same knives. Blood from the match was all over my hands and pants by the time I got the first cock contained.

Our second fight was with a Mexican fellow's bird, he was a friend of Lucero's and greeted us warmly. My grandfather understood him easily enough and let out a "bway-nose dee-ass" in his thick Arkansas accent. I looked at the man's son, a few years older than me, he was more nervous than a Chihuahua on coke. The two birds played out their danza de espada much like the last time. Our second bird was also victorious, the other bird lost a foot and its wing was hanging from its body. The stump of its leg kicked spasmodically as the blood pooled under it. The second rooster we fought that day was much easier to coax back into its box.

Papa Carl and Old Man Davis were happier than pigs in shit to have won and were debating on further matches. After a few more fights the men implored us to leave, a phone call had been received and apparently the Filipino was angry because of the match. Word was he had gathered his sticks and was coming. The fellow was a well known practitioner of Eskrima. We left that day, our fortunes determined by fate, the roosters, and those same knives.

Found these recently.

Yet more fragments from my mind. Here is a short story I found that I had started in an untitled document.

The man stumbled through the thick undergrowth of the rainforest. The slick mud and rotting foliage made traction nearly impossible. The bullet in his left hamstring burned with every step and fire shot through his leg. Infection was a surety, the moist air, the pained nights of restless sleep, and lack of medical supplies made it an eventuality which he did not relish.

Rick knew he was finished. The operation went to hell in a hand basket before his team landed. The discjet had barely touched down when a rocket screamed into their staging area. The aircraft was a complete loss. Ambushed, the surviving commandos fought with everything they had. Rick had been shot in the leg, when he fell he was knocked unconscious after his head collided with a stone on the ground. The lone survivor of his team, the guerreros must have thought him dead when they left the remains of the discjet and the corpses of his comrades behind them.

There was wildlife that defied comprehension in this jungle. The genetic engineering projects of the past three decades had made creatures that were incredibly well adapted to survive. The most bothersome of these were the hunter moles. Their sharp digging claws and incredibly powerful jaws made them gruesome to contend with. It was rumored that the moles were hybridized with wolverine and mongoose stock to create a half blind predator with little regard for the size of its intended victims. Rick had knifed three his first day in the rainforest. They were quick and his pants were shredded around his shins and calves.

Hour after aching hour he trudged through the jungle. It had been at least a week since the discjet was lost.

Here is a first draft poem fragment I found in my Google Docs.

Do not be obsessed with death

It is unknown and unknowable

Rather be concerned with life

Live fully, happily, and waste no breath

We are not strangers

Death and I are well acquainted

Our first meeting I was five

Still unaware of the dangers

Of my own body, attacking

Itself on many levels

It is varied and ever causing strife

And compassion it is certainly lacking

Do what you love, there is little time

Follow it thoroughly, do not quit

Of pleasure, yourself do not deprive

Every incursion on your enjoyment

Fredly Adventures

Fred sat at his desk and hanged his head sadly, his hands rested palms down on the surface of his worktable, as the sigh escaped from his gullet. The scorching summer sun he saw through the window contrasted bleakly with the bluish hue and low hum of the T8 fluorescent tubes above his head. The conflicting parts of the light spectrum made Fred nervous. The reddening light of the stretched out sunset and the blue tubes were battling the energy drink, the jay he smoked at lunch, the craving for nicotine, and his antidepressant: he felt like a dreidel on an uneven table. The constant air conditioning made the call center smell stale and the air dried out the back of the throat.

The man had dirty blond hair, a florid complexion, drab brown eyes, and pale skin. His wardrobe tended toward khaki with an accent of brown and his unkempt appearance was a combination of an aversion to razors, allergies to laundry fragrances, and laziness. The bulk on his short, wide frame gave the impression of a barrel that had grown skinny cartoon legs and arms. Not one for floral scents, the cologne that effected his personal space was spicy and some might have said it smelled somewhat angry. Fred looked to his right and saw Rudi two rows down, This whole place would be better without Rudi.


Fred thought this little refrain at least once a day. Two weeks ago when she asked which ocean New Mexico was closest to he smashed his forehead into the wall by his desk repeatedly. Every time she spoke with the customers and asked them to hold while she had to speak to a supervisor Fred cringed. Even though he was no where near a supervisor's pay grade she would always ask the taciturn man for confirmation of details or even for information that had been communicated to the rest of the team weeks ago. Reading comprehension seemed to be beyond her capabilities. At first Fred wondered if she was interested in him because she constantly assaulted him with stupidity. Hopeful that she was using her questions as segues into deeper conversation he tried to coax her into talking about herself. Rudi was on a completely different wavelength though and after a few weeks of her ignoring his awkward attempts at banter and small talk Fred concluded that she was mentally deficient.

"Hey Freeed?" Rudi asked after she gophered above her cubicle. The beautiful brunette intoned the last part of his name to such a high pitch that Fred ripped a paper off his cube wall and crumpled it into a very small ball. If her visual appearance were not so attractive Fred may have murdered her months ago as a favor to the general population. Rudi was a petite Italian woman in her early 30s, with a long patrician nose, almond shaped chocolate eyes, olive skin, an hourglass figure that made every straight man's heart in the building race, a chest that was not too big for her frame, and a butt that could only have been described by a word that rhymes with rubble. Unfortunately for our hero's taste this combination of physical beauty and a skull filled to 40 psi placed her on a special area of the womanly number line. She had exceeded the scale and sat firmly at both 0 and 10 simultaneously. Some of the nerdier fellows called it the Rudi quantum state of hotness.

Fred gritted his teeth and stood up. He was so short in comparison to his coworkers that he was only slightly visible below the shoulders when standing at his cube. "What do you need Rudi?" the man let the words grind out of his throat like grist being turned to dust. After she had outlined an issue that newer employees typically mastered within 3 weeks of training's end Fred dolorously responded and provided her with a full and correct answer. He then assumed an almost identical position of despair that he had assumed before Rudi had asked her question. What a wonderful existence for 9 hours a day. Fred pondered that tomorrow will be Friday or "Monday plus four" as he called it when he grumbled on his walk to the bus stop after work and on Fridays we dance.

Some Stuff I've Done In The Past, Perhaps Worth Revising.

Most of this is poetry I wrote when I was very young. Some of it not so young. Mainly here so I have a place to look at it and try to make something new.

Bound by many cords

The heart is pulled in five directions

Each rope is held by loved ones

These are important strings

Made of silver, they shine balefully

As the moon's cold light

East, west, south and north

These ties will spin your limbs

The rope made of gold 

Is reserved for the beloved
Give it freely, this one will grow back

Shorter, it is harder to extend

And if severed, it is painful

Even worse to put forth again

Choose its holder carefully

Finally there is line made of diamond

Carbon crystals formed, the rope held by none

This flies to the Divine

Sometimes you cannot see or feel it

Do not doubt its existence

Pull with all your might

Ascend!

--

Today I saw the sky 
Like never seen before 
The giant rolling clouds 
Like some far off distant shore 
The blue vast like the rolling sea 
Such a sight was never meant for me 
The sands and the seas 
Make beautiful harmonies 
Sights and sounds--Nature's song 
All this beauty was never meant for me 
God's beautiful creations 
Objects I don't deserve 
These beautiful creations 
These we must preserve

--

She walks in the night 
Beauty her right 
Tiger's eyes 
Much like fire 
To the left 
To the right 
Something in sight 
In harmony of the night 
Sparks fly 
Tongues lie 
Eyes flash 
Lives crash 
Deception her name 
The lying game 
Beauty's impression 
Leads to depression 
The pit deepens 
A child weeping 

--

A flaming arrow 
Flying 
Piercing flesh 
Eyes like fire 
\Slowly scorched 
The fire spreads 
Through my soul 
Eyes like fire 
\Sparked by words 
Truth quickly ignites 
Yet some will not take it 
Eyes like fire 
\I look 
Surrounded by flames 
Darkness 
Eyes on fire 

Today's Written Shiat

Drowning in his own sputum he looks around at the people lying in the beds next to him. The rows of beds and their patients remind him of the garden he tended as a young boy. Each person a rotting carrot, their taproot bodies eaten from within like burrowing rabbits below. The consumption is slow and agonizing. The man looks up and sees the city of shining quartz. The city has been calling to him for some time. His neighbor in the bed not an arm's length away coughs loudly. The spasms racking his body from expelling the tiny bits of pink lung and mucus shakes the whole bed and nearly jitters the bedpan from the night stand. The other patient examines the product of his efforts that have been deposited on the hand towel. The city fades away as the man fades back into a laudanum induced oblivion. Some day...

Brain Blurbs

Erm... another miscarriage of a poem or one that just needs some time in the prenatal care unit? Can't tell yet.

It's the same old you
The same old me
Just the rise of technology
Distract the man on the street
Keep him blind
To the hand of the elite

Something that hit me, perhaps as the start of a spoken word piece.

Do some women think of their children like I think of the results of dinner at Del Taco? Do they think to themselves, "Well that was marginally satisfying. What is this brewing in my gut? Oh no not the cramps!" Perhaps they look down and stare at the product of their efforts and repeat something similar to my thoughts, I put in all this work for such a small result? You'd think it would have turned out a little bigger. I pushed and sweated for all this time and now I have this. Do these same women wish that they could have flushed their children away like a Macho burrito?