There's nothing better than than the beach with my boys
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
3WW for July 28
the word prompts are: abuse, cramp, hatred
It was Hell Week and the abuse was coming strong, heaped on by that bastard Coach Johnston in those oh-so-out-of-style gray nylon shorts, Pierson Pirates T-shirt and his goddamn whistle.
25 up-downs. 30 sit ups. 20 push ups.
"Not fast enough, ladies," the coach screamed. "On your faces, sweethearts. Let's do it again and get it right. We can do this all night.
"Jesus H. Christ, Franklin, that's pathetic," Coach Johnston screamed. "Your granddaddy's right over there. You want me to have him come over and show you how to do a proper up-down? Shit, he's 85 years old and I'll be he could give me a better set than you just did."
"No, coach," screamed Taylor Franklin, a 6-foot-7, 285 pound junior right tackle hoping to get the starting nod this season and looks from more schools than Iowa State.
"Steve, bring me some water," the coach called mockingly to his assistant, Steve Neylor. "My mouth's getting dry from blowing my whistle so much. This is wearing me out."
"Not good enough," Coach Johnston yelled. "Again."
A collective groan, soft enough to not be traceable to any one player, but loud enough to be audible, rose from the turf.
"Fuck this shit," Steve Crawford, last year's second-string tailback, muttered under his breath as the whistle blew, marking the start of the second set of push ups.
"This is child abuse," thought Johnny Stevenson, the stereotypical fat kid always languishing in the back row. A cramp, a side-stitch made him vomit next to the space he was doing up-downs. He'd hated the first three years of football and openly questioned why he was back for a fourth.
But he knew the answer. Hell Week was a rite of passing in Pierson, Iowa, a pissant community not unlike the many one-stoplight towns many dotting the fabric of rural America. Make it through Hell Week and you were golden. You were on the team, free to run the school, chase all the pussy you could and, of course, play some football.
It's what your brothers did, what your dad and granddad did and what you were expected to do.
Drop from the team during Hell Week and you may as well pull off your red and black jersey off, pop the shoulder pads over your head, drop your girdle and walk naked down Main Street to Maryanne's Fabric Shop -- to buy the material your mom would need to make your skirt. Drop from Hell Week and you were no longer John or Jim or Shane; you were "Little Bitch." Through the years, only a handful of kids became "Little Bitch." It was a Scarlet Letter and a name openly used, even among polite company.
A Little Bitch was ridiculed, tormented and punked. It was one of the deepest shames you could bring on your family, short of becoming one of "them-there emo-faggots."
No, you didn't dare drop during Hell Week. Football was, after all, the lifeblood of the community. It was the dawn of the year, as if everyone in town went into a deep sleep from December to July, awakening in the heat of the summer for Hell Week's two-a-days.
Generations lined the fences lining Reardon Field that first day of practice, a muggy afternoon with the hint of thunderstorms off to the east, to catch a glimpse of this year's town.
The town was so interested in the football team that you probably could rob the bank, grocery store, mini mart, the one of the outskirts of town, and get a two-hour head start on the sheriff if practice was in session. Hell, they probably wouldn't care either, as long as Tim Reynolds, the senior linebacker who flattened fools like a steamroller, had his on straight and had mended the fence with Wes Slight, the start running back a mere 988 yards from becoming the fourth back from Pierson in the past 35 years to break the state rushing mark.
Reynolds and Slight spent all spring and most of the summer fighting for the affection of Tiffani Prowl, a lithe junior blond dick tease who craved attention and got her jollies off playing both boys. She knew neither boy was getting a piece of ass, and until they figured that out, she was content to play both sides of the line of scrimmage.
Tiffany knew she was a tease, but didn't care. She knew many in town disapproved of her antics. Hell, even her brother, Spencer, the latest quarterback to lead Pierson to a state title four years ago, despised Tiffany and her bullshit. He knew Tim and Wes, and knew they were the ones who could help bring home another banner for Pierson. If his bitch of a sister didn't ruin things. Coach Johnston had confided in Spencer and his dad, Henry, that Tiffany would be the undoing of a team poised for state unless. The three had concocted a plan, but would wait until Hell Week was over to see if things corrected themselves naturally.
And as the sweat dripped off the nose of the players, lined neatly in those goddamn rows, so straight and perfect, Coach Johnston wondered what was greater, the hatred of him or the hatred of Hell Week itself.
Paul Johnston, Coach Johnston to his players, both past and present, knew he was a bastard. He knew that fatass in the back row probably wanted to walk up and kick him in the nuts -- that is if tubby could lift his foot that high, but he didn't care.
There was a method to the madness. When you win 10 small school state titles in 20 years, you can do what you want, be as big a dick as you care to.
"That's better," the coach said smugly. "And it only took us four tries. Shit, we might just make football players out of you yet."
Friday, July 23, 2010
Surf City
This is a work in progress ~Aaron
Dante didn't need an alarm clock. The hum of the crashing surf and the thud of the slamming porch door -- the unmistakable sound of last night's dalliance leaving -- usually did the trick. If not, the rising sun was more than enough incentive for Dante to slide out of bed. The combination of the sun and surf were too great a lure to sit around and sleep, as if the sun was telling him "Get your lazy ass up, man" while the surf beckoned "Come and play, Dante."
Dante rubbed his eyes as his feet hit the floor. He shuffled into the bathroom, trying to remember her name.
"Mary?" he thought. "No, that was Monday.
"Oh, wait. Sonya. Sonya from Chicago," he remembered, smiling at the thought of the mattress gymnastics she performed last night.
Dante splashed some water on his face, took a leak and walked back toward the bed. As he passed the mussed up queen-size bed, he stuck out his foot, grabbed his shorts with his right big toe and flipped them up into his hand. He lifted his left leg and stuck his foot through the hole and repeated. Zipping up, he ambled into the kitchen. He dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, reached into the pantry for the Nutella and grabbed a knife waiting for the toast to pop.
A creature of habit, Dante's life read like the back of a bottle of conditioner: Wet, lather, rinse, repeat. Only Dante's world was rise, surf, siesta, serve, sex and repeat.
Dante was a little groggy this morning after a long night at the bar -- no, he didn't imbibe, but owned a tiny cantina that catered to the locals and tourists on the Pacific coast of Mexico -- and an equally long night with ... oh, yeah, Sonya.
He opened the screen door off his bedroom and onto the patio overlooking the beach and stared out at the surf. He laughed that he couldn't remember her name, but it didn't surprise him. Last night it was Sonya. Last week it was Celia. Next week, who knows? An American expatriate in Mexico was a safe bet, a sure thing, for the hotties, Cougars and MILFs looking for a little unencumbered vacation action south of the border. It was a given down here that he was there for her pleasure, a vacation story to tell her friends back home, and he didn't mind extracting a little pleasure out of the tryst himself.
Dante's life was exactly what he'd envisioned 10 years ago. Stuck in a go-nowhere job, swearing he wouldn't die a human gopher in a maze of gray carpeted cubicles, he vowed that the day the rugrats were gone, so was he.
"I'm going to find me a beach, a bar to run, live simply and simply live," was Dante's oft-repeated refrain; so much so that his friends always knew when it was coming and learned to serenade him on cue right as he was getting ready for the chorus.
"Surf all morning, an afternoon siesta, get people drunk all night and find a little senorita to curl up with. That's the life," Dante -- and his friends -- would repeat.
He thought about his old life from time to time, usually when the ex called to complain about something or another. There were always too many decisions; too many quandaries; too much unhappiness. Being a corporate clone usually meant someone was unhappy. Too many hours at work took away from his home life. Too much time with his boys took away from his pocketbook. Too many decisions to make took away from his peace of mind.
But that was done and gone. Today, a Thursday he thought, was much like yesterday . . . and the day before.
Nowadays, his big decisions were which honey to flirt with, how long a siesta he would take and the day's first, and always important decision -- which surfboard to use.
He looked down the sand-covered patio at the surfboards, brightly colored fiberglass models of varying sizes and purposes, lined along the patio railing, trying to decide if today was a longboard day or if the tri-fin shredder was the stick for today.
Dante plopped down on the step, his feet finding the cool morning sand and watched the waves.
"Same as yesterday," he said to himself. "Left to right break starting at the channel."
After watching the sets roll in -- 5 feet high, sets of four 25 seconds apart -- Dante decided for the shredder today. He wanted to get the ole ticker humming and hanging 10 just wouldn't do today.
Dante watched the waves for a few more minutes, taking mental notes of the conditions and an internal inventory.
As a kid, he had learned to surfed. As an adult, he'd unlearned all the things he'd enjoyed as a boy. But that happens, he often thought. "You've got to do what you've got to do," he rationalized.
And he did do what he had to as an adult. He'd raised three boys, sending them all off to college and into their own lives. He was proud of the way they'd turned out and proud of his hand in it. And, he concluded, he'd done his job.
Not that he was abandoning his fatherly duties now Nathan, the youngest, was out of the house.
He'd just returned from Nathan's Georgetown graduation. The youngest of the three, Nathan had turned into quite the man, graduating as valedictorian with a law degree. Actually, Nathan, always the cautious one, passed on a chance to strike out on the PGA Tour, opting instead for the No. 1 spot on the Hoyas' golf team. He dallied in a few mini tours, but in the end took the sure-fire way, clerking his final summer at Georgetown for Smith, Jensen and Browing, one of D.C.'s most prestigious law firms. Nathan would begin working there after his three-week trip to Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego.
Dante spent the week in Northern Virginia, hanging with Nathan and his brothers, Brandon and Tyler, along with various aunts, uncles and cousins that lived in the metro D.C. area. They took in baseball games, made their way up to New York for a day and then sat up as close as allowed as Nathan talked about the future, the past, the struggles, the opportunities and then teared up as he thanked Dante for all he'd done in turning him into the man he'd become.
Yep, he was still engaged, still up to date, still connected.
Which was more than he could say for his ex-wife, who called the morning of graduation to ask Dante to let Nathan know something had come up and she wouldn't be there. Actually, Dellane had never planned on coming and was banking on Dante covering for her. She had checked out of the family life years ago -- about the same time Dante's Mexican dream hatched -- opting instead for the Quixotic quest of finding a man to adore her.
Dante's boys knew the depths of their mother's selfishness, learning a long time ago to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised if something was actually given.
No, Dellane was more concerned about herself and her own life. She's married Stan when the boys were in middle school, hoping to "be a family" again. Stan was a good guy, hell, even Dante liked him. But the family Dellane sought to create was a fabrication, a facade for her low self-esteem and a bridge to have someone next to her in her old age.
When Stan died, during Brandon's senior year of high school, Dellane fell apart. She was older -- if you call 50 old -- and just knew she would never find someone to love her again. So, instead of pouring herself into her boys' life, she retreated into herself.
Dante felt bad for her from time to time. But he also didn't need her bullshit. He'd had enough of that in the 10 years they were married. Dante still cared for Dellane, but that sentiment only went so far.
And so when Nathan graduated high school, Dante knew he was free. Not that he regretted being the stable parent -- quite the contrary. He loved that his boys had grown up to be fine men. He prided himself that his house was the start and end point of so many of their high school adventures. He wore their success and failures as a badge of honor.
But he also knew it was time to be free. Not free to run away and ignore his boys. But free to finally chase his whims, his dreams, his desires.
And that's what led him to Puerto Escondido. One of the untapped gems of Mexico, it boasted one of the best surf spots and a growing population of tourists looking to avoid the meat-markets like Cabo. Puerto Escondido offered a simplistic, throwback lifestyle, like Mexico used to be in the "Endless Summer" days.
But the dream didn't come easy -- or cheap. Aaron knew he'd need a nice chunk of change to buy something down south, probably more than normal, being a gringo and all.
So he worked, moonlighted, freelanced and something totally out of character, and honestly more like his dad, saved.
Half of what he made with his second, third and, sometimes, fourth jobs, went into the Elliott Ness account -- it was untouchable.
Two months after Nathan's high school graduation, Dante plopped $70,000 cash down on a cantina with an adjoining house.
Ten years after devising an escape to surf and sun, Dante was the proud owner of the Playa Cantina.
Dante picked up his board, rubbed more Sex Wax on it and tied the green leash to his right ankle. He walked across the sand and was greeted by the feel of bath-water warm ocean spreading around his feet and up to his knees.
Dante ran five or six steps away from the shore and flopped on his board as it slid across the next set of shorebreak waves.
He paddled out through the channel and took his spot in the lineup with the three other early risers, one of whom Dante knew. The other two looked like surf-trekkers, guys who roamed the globe in search of the dream wave.
Dante nodded to his company, spun his board and paddled to catch a promising swell.
Three hours and countless tube rides later, Dante was back on dry land. Sated, he sat on the beach, watched a few tourist girls frolic in the surf and made mental notes of items he needed to restock in the bar.
He would send Maria, his longest-tenured waitress and second in command, into town to replenish the the low stock while he took his siesta.
Dante didn't need an alarm clock. The hum of the crashing surf and the thud of the slamming porch door -- the unmistakable sound of last night's dalliance leaving -- usually did the trick. If not, the rising sun was more than enough incentive for Dante to slide out of bed. The combination of the sun and surf were too great a lure to sit around and sleep, as if the sun was telling him "Get your lazy ass up, man" while the surf beckoned "Come and play, Dante."
Dante rubbed his eyes as his feet hit the floor. He shuffled into the bathroom, trying to remember her name.
"Mary?" he thought. "No, that was Monday.
"Oh, wait. Sonya. Sonya from Chicago," he remembered, smiling at the thought of the mattress gymnastics she performed last night.
Dante splashed some water on his face, took a leak and walked back toward the bed. As he passed the mussed up queen-size bed, he stuck out his foot, grabbed his shorts with his right big toe and flipped them up into his hand. He lifted his left leg and stuck his foot through the hole and repeated. Zipping up, he ambled into the kitchen. He dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, reached into the pantry for the Nutella and grabbed a knife waiting for the toast to pop.
A creature of habit, Dante's life read like the back of a bottle of conditioner: Wet, lather, rinse, repeat. Only Dante's world was rise, surf, siesta, serve, sex and repeat.
Dante was a little groggy this morning after a long night at the bar -- no, he didn't imbibe, but owned a tiny cantina that catered to the locals and tourists on the Pacific coast of Mexico -- and an equally long night with ... oh, yeah, Sonya.
He opened the screen door off his bedroom and onto the patio overlooking the beach and stared out at the surf. He laughed that he couldn't remember her name, but it didn't surprise him. Last night it was Sonya. Last week it was Celia. Next week, who knows? An American expatriate in Mexico was a safe bet, a sure thing, for the hotties, Cougars and MILFs looking for a little unencumbered vacation action south of the border. It was a given down here that he was there for her pleasure, a vacation story to tell her friends back home, and he didn't mind extracting a little pleasure out of the tryst himself.
Dante's life was exactly what he'd envisioned 10 years ago. Stuck in a go-nowhere job, swearing he wouldn't die a human gopher in a maze of gray carpeted cubicles, he vowed that the day the rugrats were gone, so was he.
"I'm going to find me a beach, a bar to run, live simply and simply live," was Dante's oft-repeated refrain; so much so that his friends always knew when it was coming and learned to serenade him on cue right as he was getting ready for the chorus.
"Surf all morning, an afternoon siesta, get people drunk all night and find a little senorita to curl up with. That's the life," Dante -- and his friends -- would repeat.
He thought about his old life from time to time, usually when the ex called to complain about something or another. There were always too many decisions; too many quandaries; too much unhappiness. Being a corporate clone usually meant someone was unhappy. Too many hours at work took away from his home life. Too much time with his boys took away from his pocketbook. Too many decisions to make took away from his peace of mind.
But that was done and gone. Today, a Thursday he thought, was much like yesterday . . . and the day before.
Nowadays, his big decisions were which honey to flirt with, how long a siesta he would take and the day's first, and always important decision -- which surfboard to use.
He looked down the sand-covered patio at the surfboards, brightly colored fiberglass models of varying sizes and purposes, lined along the patio railing, trying to decide if today was a longboard day or if the tri-fin shredder was the stick for today.
Dante plopped down on the step, his feet finding the cool morning sand and watched the waves.
"Same as yesterday," he said to himself. "Left to right break starting at the channel."
After watching the sets roll in -- 5 feet high, sets of four 25 seconds apart -- Dante decided for the shredder today. He wanted to get the ole ticker humming and hanging 10 just wouldn't do today.
Dante watched the waves for a few more minutes, taking mental notes of the conditions and an internal inventory.
As a kid, he had learned to surfed. As an adult, he'd unlearned all the things he'd enjoyed as a boy. But that happens, he often thought. "You've got to do what you've got to do," he rationalized.
And he did do what he had to as an adult. He'd raised three boys, sending them all off to college and into their own lives. He was proud of the way they'd turned out and proud of his hand in it. And, he concluded, he'd done his job.
Not that he was abandoning his fatherly duties now Nathan, the youngest, was out of the house.
He'd just returned from Nathan's Georgetown graduation. The youngest of the three, Nathan had turned into quite the man, graduating as valedictorian with a law degree. Actually, Nathan, always the cautious one, passed on a chance to strike out on the PGA Tour, opting instead for the No. 1 spot on the Hoyas' golf team. He dallied in a few mini tours, but in the end took the sure-fire way, clerking his final summer at Georgetown for Smith, Jensen and Browing, one of D.C.'s most prestigious law firms. Nathan would begin working there after his three-week trip to Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego.
Dante spent the week in Northern Virginia, hanging with Nathan and his brothers, Brandon and Tyler, along with various aunts, uncles and cousins that lived in the metro D.C. area. They took in baseball games, made their way up to New York for a day and then sat up as close as allowed as Nathan talked about the future, the past, the struggles, the opportunities and then teared up as he thanked Dante for all he'd done in turning him into the man he'd become.
Yep, he was still engaged, still up to date, still connected.
Which was more than he could say for his ex-wife, who called the morning of graduation to ask Dante to let Nathan know something had come up and she wouldn't be there. Actually, Dellane had never planned on coming and was banking on Dante covering for her. She had checked out of the family life years ago -- about the same time Dante's Mexican dream hatched -- opting instead for the Quixotic quest of finding a man to adore her.
Dante's boys knew the depths of their mother's selfishness, learning a long time ago to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised if something was actually given.
No, Dellane was more concerned about herself and her own life. She's married Stan when the boys were in middle school, hoping to "be a family" again. Stan was a good guy, hell, even Dante liked him. But the family Dellane sought to create was a fabrication, a facade for her low self-esteem and a bridge to have someone next to her in her old age.
When Stan died, during Brandon's senior year of high school, Dellane fell apart. She was older -- if you call 50 old -- and just knew she would never find someone to love her again. So, instead of pouring herself into her boys' life, she retreated into herself.
Dante felt bad for her from time to time. But he also didn't need her bullshit. He'd had enough of that in the 10 years they were married. Dante still cared for Dellane, but that sentiment only went so far.
And so when Nathan graduated high school, Dante knew he was free. Not that he regretted being the stable parent -- quite the contrary. He loved that his boys had grown up to be fine men. He prided himself that his house was the start and end point of so many of their high school adventures. He wore their success and failures as a badge of honor.
But he also knew it was time to be free. Not free to run away and ignore his boys. But free to finally chase his whims, his dreams, his desires.
And that's what led him to Puerto Escondido. One of the untapped gems of Mexico, it boasted one of the best surf spots and a growing population of tourists looking to avoid the meat-markets like Cabo. Puerto Escondido offered a simplistic, throwback lifestyle, like Mexico used to be in the "Endless Summer" days.
But the dream didn't come easy -- or cheap. Aaron knew he'd need a nice chunk of change to buy something down south, probably more than normal, being a gringo and all.
So he worked, moonlighted, freelanced and something totally out of character, and honestly more like his dad, saved.
Half of what he made with his second, third and, sometimes, fourth jobs, went into the Elliott Ness account -- it was untouchable.
Two months after Nathan's high school graduation, Dante plopped $70,000 cash down on a cantina with an adjoining house.
Ten years after devising an escape to surf and sun, Dante was the proud owner of the Playa Cantina.
Dante picked up his board, rubbed more Sex Wax on it and tied the green leash to his right ankle. He walked across the sand and was greeted by the feel of bath-water warm ocean spreading around his feet and up to his knees.
Dante ran five or six steps away from the shore and flopped on his board as it slid across the next set of shorebreak waves.
He paddled out through the channel and took his spot in the lineup with the three other early risers, one of whom Dante knew. The other two looked like surf-trekkers, guys who roamed the globe in search of the dream wave.
Dante nodded to his company, spun his board and paddled to catch a promising swell.
Three hours and countless tube rides later, Dante was back on dry land. Sated, he sat on the beach, watched a few tourist girls frolic in the surf and made mental notes of items he needed to restock in the bar.
He would send Maria, his longest-tenured waitress and second in command, into town to replenish the the low stock while he took his siesta.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Dead again
The parking lot sang
Songs of old echoed
Remnants of a past life
Suddenly rekindled
Glowing bright
The corners of his mouth upturned
And he was reminded of a time long ago
When life was full of promise and gratefully dead
Songs of old echoed
Remnants of a past life
Suddenly rekindled
Glowing bright
The corners of his mouth upturned
And he was reminded of a time long ago
When life was full of promise and gratefully dead
Victim or the crime
3 Word Wednesday prompts are: bait, jump, victim
Shane reached for his pistol. He steadied the Glock 9mm and aimed it right between the fucker's eyes.
"Move away from the woman," Shane yelled. "Now, scumbag."
The tattooed teen was defiant.
Her purse in one hand, a blade against her throat, Jason had pegged her as the perfect victim.
She was blond, pretty, a little chunky with a nice rack and, most importantly, she wasn't paying attention. God, how Jason loved dumb people listening to iPods. The world could end and they wouldn't know until their playlist was over.
He didn't know her faux Gucci handbag was bait.
He also didn't count on being confronted.
But then again, he didn't care. He knew no chickenshit fucker wouldn't shoot him with this blond human-shield in front of him. Most people wanted this shit to be over as quickly as possible.
"Take my wallet."
"Here's my purse."
"This is all I have, please take it and go, just don't hurt me."
Those were the refrains. No one wanted confrontation. No one wanted any trouble. No one wanted to be a hero.
Jason knew the station was quickly approaching. He would wait for the doors to open, toss the bitch toward Johnny Law and jump off the train and into the crowded platform. No one would dare fire at him as he ran away, not even a limp-dick cop.
"Fuck you, bitch," the vato spat. "I'll kill this cunt."
Shane had the shot, but missed. Right as his finger squeezed the trigger, the subway train lurched. He lunged, fired and grazed the kid's left ear.
"Motherfucker," Jason screamed.
It wasn't the first time Jason had been shot, but, still, it's something you never get used to.
"I told you, asshole," he screamed as Jason slid the blade across the woman's throat. He held the bitch up tight to him so that fucker couldn't squeeze off another shot. Jason shuffled toward the door, dropped the woman and bolted.
He got two steps off the train before a gunshot ripped through his spine, dropping him instantly.
Shane looked to see where the shot came from only to see the blond, with blood spurting down her chest, holding her own pistol.
He ran to her, leaned down and whispered, "I'm sorry, baby. I didn't think he would cut you."
She looked up and smiled through the pain.
"Just get me out of here before the cops show up. They arrest vigilantes, you know."
Shane reached for his pistol. He steadied the Glock 9mm and aimed it right between the fucker's eyes.
"Move away from the woman," Shane yelled. "Now, scumbag."
The tattooed teen was defiant.
Her purse in one hand, a blade against her throat, Jason had pegged her as the perfect victim.
She was blond, pretty, a little chunky with a nice rack and, most importantly, she wasn't paying attention. God, how Jason loved dumb people listening to iPods. The world could end and they wouldn't know until their playlist was over.
He didn't know her faux Gucci handbag was bait.
He also didn't count on being confronted.
But then again, he didn't care. He knew no chickenshit fucker wouldn't shoot him with this blond human-shield in front of him. Most people wanted this shit to be over as quickly as possible.
"Take my wallet."
"Here's my purse."
"This is all I have, please take it and go, just don't hurt me."
Those were the refrains. No one wanted confrontation. No one wanted any trouble. No one wanted to be a hero.
Jason knew the station was quickly approaching. He would wait for the doors to open, toss the bitch toward Johnny Law and jump off the train and into the crowded platform. No one would dare fire at him as he ran away, not even a limp-dick cop.
"Fuck you, bitch," the vato spat. "I'll kill this cunt."
Shane had the shot, but missed. Right as his finger squeezed the trigger, the subway train lurched. He lunged, fired and grazed the kid's left ear.
"Motherfucker," Jason screamed.
It wasn't the first time Jason had been shot, but, still, it's something you never get used to.
"I told you, asshole," he screamed as Jason slid the blade across the woman's throat. He held the bitch up tight to him so that fucker couldn't squeeze off another shot. Jason shuffled toward the door, dropped the woman and bolted.
He got two steps off the train before a gunshot ripped through his spine, dropping him instantly.
Shane looked to see where the shot came from only to see the blond, with blood spurting down her chest, holding her own pistol.
He ran to her, leaned down and whispered, "I'm sorry, baby. I didn't think he would cut you."
She looked up and smiled through the pain.
"Just get me out of here before the cops show up. They arrest vigilantes, you know."
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
what a wreck
sunset fades to dusk
dusk morphs to black
black becomes sunrise
sunrise climbs into daylight
daylight fizzles into sunset
life spins on a never-ending axis
tossing us around for its own pleasure
watching us bump into things
and people as
sunrise, daylight, sunset dusk and black
mark the time those collisions occur
dusk morphs to black
black becomes sunrise
sunrise climbs into daylight
daylight fizzles into sunset
life spins on a never-ending axis
tossing us around for its own pleasure
watching us bump into things
and people as
sunrise, daylight, sunset dusk and black
mark the time those collisions occur
Friday, July 16, 2010
Chance
The end of the day brings relief and reflection
The beginning offers redemption
The middle gives opportunity, a chance to succeed or fail.
Life puts forth time to master one, the other or all.
The beginning offers redemption
The middle gives opportunity, a chance to succeed or fail.
Life puts forth time to master one, the other or all.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
12 lines
The sun still rise
it still shines
no matter what happens
Good or bad,
life keeps moving
happy, sad
doesn't matter
to the ticking clock of life
our devestating problems
our smile-enducing triumphs
our life-altering decisions
are merely part of the fabric of existence
it still shines
no matter what happens
Good or bad,
life keeps moving
happy, sad
doesn't matter
to the ticking clock of life
our devestating problems
our smile-enducing triumphs
our life-altering decisions
are merely part of the fabric of existence
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Friday night, home and horny (3WW)
3 Word Wednesday about six days late.
The prompts are:
acrid, bane, tepid
Fuck, he was horny. Fuck, he was pissed.
"Fuck them," the perpetually pissed off and horny teenager spat as he sat alone in his bedroom on Friday night.
Sixteen and stuck on restriction for breaking curfew -- again. He couldn't say it was worth it, but he couldn't deny it wasn't.
After all, he'd gotten laid the night before; by the lake, on a blanket beneath a full moon next to the shore. Twice, in fact, which was made him late.
"The smell of acrid smoke and horse's breath," Iron Maiden's Bruce Dickinson sang into the Bose headphones he'd slammed on trying to drown out the world.
She was good. Beautiful and willing, but mostly willing. Oh, he had standards, but the incessant search for carnal knowledge dulled those standards somewhat. His latest conquest wouldn't ever win homecoming queen -- for one, she didn't roll in that social circle -- but, hey, she was a solid 8.
And that was good enough. He'd tired of chasing little Ms. Perfect. He was beginning to realize that OK was good enough, especially when it came to girls, or women, or
No, she wasn't like the tepid girls he'd "dated" in the past, the kind of cocktease he'd wasted many a weekend chasing. The kind who only wanted a boyfriend to drag around school. He'd had enough of those bitches, the kind who clung to him when their friends were around, acting all attentive and loving, but who turned into an ice princess in the backseat after the football game.
As he cranked the music up even louder in an effort to punish his asshole parents, he thought "Which is a bigger bane? My lust for nubile female flesh or my parents' persistent insistence on rules and shit?"
"Defintely, the 'rents," he concluded.
Oh, how great life would be to come and go as he pleased, to stay out till all hours of the night getting nut after nut with his "8."
Fuck, he was horny. Fuck, he was pissed.
The prompts are:
acrid, bane, tepid
Fuck, he was horny. Fuck, he was pissed.
"Fuck them," the perpetually pissed off and horny teenager spat as he sat alone in his bedroom on Friday night.
Sixteen and stuck on restriction for breaking curfew -- again. He couldn't say it was worth it, but he couldn't deny it wasn't.
After all, he'd gotten laid the night before; by the lake, on a blanket beneath a full moon next to the shore. Twice, in fact, which was made him late.
"The smell of acrid smoke and horse's breath," Iron Maiden's Bruce Dickinson sang into the Bose headphones he'd slammed on trying to drown out the world.
She was good. Beautiful and willing, but mostly willing. Oh, he had standards, but the incessant search for carnal knowledge dulled those standards somewhat. His latest conquest wouldn't ever win homecoming queen -- for one, she didn't roll in that social circle -- but, hey, she was a solid 8.
And that was good enough. He'd tired of chasing little Ms. Perfect. He was beginning to realize that OK was good enough, especially when it came to girls, or women, or
No, she wasn't like the tepid girls he'd "dated" in the past, the kind of cocktease he'd wasted many a weekend chasing. The kind who only wanted a boyfriend to drag around school. He'd had enough of those bitches, the kind who clung to him when their friends were around, acting all attentive and loving, but who turned into an ice princess in the backseat after the football game.
As he cranked the music up even louder in an effort to punish his asshole parents, he thought "Which is a bigger bane? My lust for nubile female flesh or my parents' persistent insistence on rules and shit?"
"Defintely, the 'rents," he concluded.
Oh, how great life would be to come and go as he pleased, to stay out till all hours of the night getting nut after nut with his "8."
Fuck, he was horny. Fuck, he was pissed.
The sound of silence
It's quietness is deafening
It's tranquilty maddening
Silence is golden
until you crave the din of life
The chatter of children
the musings of friends
the sounds of sweetness
Yet, for all the noise around us
it's only when things fall silent
can we truly learn to listen.
It's tranquilty maddening
Silence is golden
until you crave the din of life
The chatter of children
the musings of friends
the sounds of sweetness
Yet, for all the noise around us
it's only when things fall silent
can we truly learn to listen.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Fear
This isn't my work, but that of a long, lost friend named Geoffrey, a person who helped me in my initial stages of sobriety. He and I were in rehab together. I lost contact with him about 3 years into my sobriety, but his words, written in my AA book, have always been a reference.
Fear
I'm scared. I've been scared all of my memorable life ... Fear! Born out of rational and irrational thoughts. Like angry dogs, inside, clawing at my ego, my sanity, my soul ... Fear ... Sickening Fear ... uncertaintity. What will happen? Can I trust you? Will you lie to me? Leave me? Hit me, hurt me? Why should I trust you? Trust you? ... I'm scared to. ... Fear ... Terror. Am I nice enough, tough enough, brave enough ... NO ... I'm scared ... What will you say? Will you tell someone else? betray me? Questions ... unanswered questions... uncertaintity ... Fear! I'm scared of fear ... Full of fear ... Fearful. Will I be good enough? Am I what you expected? Did I disappoint you? Did I measure up? What is the standard? Where did I go wrong? I feel defeated already. I know you won't like me ... Fear ... Am I normal? Am I going crazy? Did I get the job? Did I say the right thing? Was I impressive? How was your dinner? Did you like it? Too much salt? Pepper? Not the way it should be? Not done right? Am I even in the right profession? Maybe I'm not even cut out for this! Doubt .. Full of Doubt ... Doubtful ... Dear .. Tell Me .. I'm scared. What will she think? How do I look? Teeth brushed? Smell good? Did I go too fast? Too slow? How were the kisses? The embraces? My touches? Will she like my approach? My execution? Will she cum? Will I cum too fast? Was I better than her last lover? Will she talk? Giggle to her friends? Oh, fuck! I think I'm going to die! Those dogs! Those fear dogs! ... Uncertaintity ... Insecurity .. I'm not secure! ... Will I get the money? Will I score teh drugs? Will I get ripped off? ... Questions ... Fear! ... The Police! They're coming! I know they're out there! ... Panic! ... Terror! ... will I get arrested? Go to jail? Jail! Oh, God, not jail. Will my prayers be answered? Is God listening? Is he there at all? If he is, will be listen to me? Fear! Real Fear! What will become of me? Die? Is there a heaven? Will I go there? Fear! ... Can I trust you? ... Fear!
Yes ... I can trust you, Aaron.
Fear
I'm scared. I've been scared all of my memorable life ... Fear! Born out of rational and irrational thoughts. Like angry dogs, inside, clawing at my ego, my sanity, my soul ... Fear ... Sickening Fear ... uncertaintity. What will happen? Can I trust you? Will you lie to me? Leave me? Hit me, hurt me? Why should I trust you? Trust you? ... I'm scared to. ... Fear ... Terror. Am I nice enough, tough enough, brave enough ... NO ... I'm scared ... What will you say? Will you tell someone else? betray me? Questions ... unanswered questions... uncertaintity ... Fear! I'm scared of fear ... Full of fear ... Fearful. Will I be good enough? Am I what you expected? Did I disappoint you? Did I measure up? What is the standard? Where did I go wrong? I feel defeated already. I know you won't like me ... Fear ... Am I normal? Am I going crazy? Did I get the job? Did I say the right thing? Was I impressive? How was your dinner? Did you like it? Too much salt? Pepper? Not the way it should be? Not done right? Am I even in the right profession? Maybe I'm not even cut out for this! Doubt .. Full of Doubt ... Doubtful ... Dear .. Tell Me .. I'm scared. What will she think? How do I look? Teeth brushed? Smell good? Did I go too fast? Too slow? How were the kisses? The embraces? My touches? Will she like my approach? My execution? Will she cum? Will I cum too fast? Was I better than her last lover? Will she talk? Giggle to her friends? Oh, fuck! I think I'm going to die! Those dogs! Those fear dogs! ... Uncertaintity ... Insecurity .. I'm not secure! ... Will I get the money? Will I score teh drugs? Will I get ripped off? ... Questions ... Fear! ... The Police! They're coming! I know they're out there! ... Panic! ... Terror! ... will I get arrested? Go to jail? Jail! Oh, God, not jail. Will my prayers be answered? Is God listening? Is he there at all? If he is, will be listen to me? Fear! Real Fear! What will become of me? Die? Is there a heaven? Will I go there? Fear! ... Can I trust you? ... Fear!
Yes ... I can trust you, Aaron.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Don't forget
Absence dulls the senses
The memory quickly moves on to the next thing
So don't forget
Remember the two-hour phone calls
Remember the ease of our conversations
Don't forget the spark
the looks, the longing
Remember things we planned to do
places we could see, adventures we could take
So don't forget
The feeling of new love
The excitment
The butterflies
The fear
And remember
how I told you our first kiss would be magical
The memory quickly moves on to the next thing
So don't forget
Remember the two-hour phone calls
Remember the ease of our conversations
Don't forget the spark
the looks, the longing
Remember things we planned to do
places we could see, adventures we could take
So don't forget
The feeling of new love
The excitment
The butterflies
The fear
And remember
how I told you our first kiss would be magical
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Keep beating
Keep beating
Keep seeking
Don't stop
No matter what
False starts
Empty promises
Delayed gratification
None of those matter when it's real
So embrace the heartace
Relish the pain
For when the heart finally finds a match it will be heavenly
But until then
Keep beating
Keep seeking
Keep seeking
Don't stop
No matter what
False starts
Empty promises
Delayed gratification
None of those matter when it's real
So embrace the heartace
Relish the pain
For when the heart finally finds a match it will be heavenly
But until then
Keep beating
Keep seeking
A bit of Thursday fun
"FML," he thought as the phone rang for the umpteenth time.
He slid the right side of his headphones off his ear, interrupting the Smiths streaming on the interweb, and picked up the phone. Not another asshole, he hoped.
"Hello," he said.
No reply.
"Of course," he said into the mouthpiece.
He hung up and resumed what he'd been doing before the latest interruption.
But, sadly, the words had vanished from his head, as though they'd been sucked into the vacuum of the phone call.
He'd been making good progress before the latest annoyance -- he'd gotten two pages nailed with some witty dialogue -- but suddenly it was gone.
He was new to writing, at least this style of writing. After 10 years at a newspaper, he knew how to put words on paper, or computer screen. But this, creative writing was something he felt like he was learning anew. It was his dream; one shared by his mother. And it was a promise made close to her death. He would write his novel. He would give it a shot, even though he knew that every two-bit hack who can string four or five sentences together has the same dream.
"Oh, I can write. I'm funny. People would like to read what I have to say," the refrain goes.
He didn't have that opinion of himself. His mother did, but she was biased, he thought.
Sure, he has stories to tell. But who would want to read them? Who would be interested in his childhood, his troubled teen years or even his tumultous 20s?
And then he realized, he would. A lot of the good stuff he'd read in the past three years -- after his committment to always have a book, or two, in the reading rotation -- was real stuff about real people. His stories were no less funny, poignant than some of the crap he'd poured through.
So, he stood up, walked to the refridgerator, poured a glass of water and walked outside. Sitting on the front step, he thought of the all that he'd been through. Growing up, getting older and finally trying to pass all the lessons, all the don't-do-these-mistakes on to his children.
And then he remembered where he'd been before the phone call.
He slid the right side of his headphones off his ear, interrupting the Smiths streaming on the interweb, and picked up the phone. Not another asshole, he hoped.
"Hello," he said.
No reply.
"Of course," he said into the mouthpiece.
He hung up and resumed what he'd been doing before the latest interruption.
But, sadly, the words had vanished from his head, as though they'd been sucked into the vacuum of the phone call.
He'd been making good progress before the latest annoyance -- he'd gotten two pages nailed with some witty dialogue -- but suddenly it was gone.
He was new to writing, at least this style of writing. After 10 years at a newspaper, he knew how to put words on paper, or computer screen. But this, creative writing was something he felt like he was learning anew. It was his dream; one shared by his mother. And it was a promise made close to her death. He would write his novel. He would give it a shot, even though he knew that every two-bit hack who can string four or five sentences together has the same dream.
"Oh, I can write. I'm funny. People would like to read what I have to say," the refrain goes.
He didn't have that opinion of himself. His mother did, but she was biased, he thought.
Sure, he has stories to tell. But who would want to read them? Who would be interested in his childhood, his troubled teen years or even his tumultous 20s?
And then he realized, he would. A lot of the good stuff he'd read in the past three years -- after his committment to always have a book, or two, in the reading rotation -- was real stuff about real people. His stories were no less funny, poignant than some of the crap he'd poured through.
So, he stood up, walked to the refridgerator, poured a glass of water and walked outside. Sitting on the front step, he thought of the all that he'd been through. Growing up, getting older and finally trying to pass all the lessons, all the don't-do-these-mistakes on to his children.
And then he remembered where he'd been before the phone call.
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