"The Unbelievable Day of Grant Brooks"
a jovial take on the life of the surfer poet Grant,
if it was hastily written by Kurt Vonnegut.
by Jake Kilroy
Grant shifted his toes in the sand like drunk soldiers on sloppy patrol. In fact, Grant looked like a squadron leader with his mustache. A boastful brute napped above his lip. Grant could keep quiet for hours, and passers-by would listen to what his mustache had to say, if it came down to it.
It hadn't (not yet at least!), but that's the kind of respect Grant's mustache commanded. The ample forest above his smirk caught the wind that jogged up the coastline with its fat, heavy breaths. He sucked in the sweet air of the world and then he pushed it out. Grant was talented, but this was basic breathing. You, delightful reader, are too easily impressed.
The beach was quiet. It was the afternoon and only three were on the beach: Grant, his dog, and that trifling wind. The locals were asleep and the tourists weren't there yet. It was Heavenly. Or if you're the type to hate sand in your shoes, it was Hell.
Grant was the first type. The good type. He was a man with a plan, and that plan was to sit on a beach on a beautiful day. There's no better type, really.
That's why bad men are given prisons and good men are given beaches.
God made it this way so men would value the sun and the moon, so that it would become a universal understanding that to lose time is to lose life, and then where would a living man be? Up a creek! But still to this day, nobody's discovered the creek that gives everyone so much damn trouble.
Benson, the dashing rogue that was half dog and half dog, bonked his way through wave after wave. The sun poured over him like lemonade. He was also the good type.
The bad types of dogs are hard to spot. They aren't the ones that bark at the mailman. Those are also the good types, since they make it clear they don't trust government messengers. Actually, the bad types of dogs might just be cats. Cats are mercenaries. And then hamsters are hippies, ferrets are junkies, and so on. People aren't the only ones with society. That's their biggest problem—they think they are.
In a pile next to the lone star of the dune was enough Batmans to form the world's greatest army. It was grand. A pile of comic books is the closest thing a civilian can have to a harem.
Grant's shirt said Big Tits, Small Government, and he had more to say on top of that.
"Benson!"
The dog bounded out of the ocean. He looked like the world's only furry sea creature, the way his tongue flapped around like a tentacle. Benson made it to the man he called dad in a language only canines have the determination to speak.
And then there came a rumbling.
It was the only thing to ever quiet the damn gulls.
Grant looked up. The sky was as bright as it was when he arrived, and then the sun disappeared. In its place was a spaceship. An unpolished junkyard piece. A bluish-gray disc that had either come from another dimension or from being kicked down the whole of an astroid field. Campbell's Soup could've sponsored its launch.
It floated down with the grace of a paper airplane filled with thumbtacks. It did everything post-WWII Americans expected it to: hummed, beeped, blooped, jabbered, the whole deep-space nine yards.
Grant, who had never seen a spaceship before, wasn't having any of it. It was dirty and noisy. He stood up and brushed himself off.
"Now what's this shit?"
Blue lights swirled. The ship coughed up a few measured exhales. The door dropped as slow as a half-hearted apology. In its frame stood two dark green aliens—one tall, one short. They waited for applause. Or maybe horderves. Neither came. It was only Grant, Earth's most respected and only host, and he still wasn't having it.
The two aliens scurried down. They moved like octopuses who dabbed all their puckers in some bad speed. They looked tired, but they forced confidence. It was the only time in history anyone had ever hoped for a nosey photographer.
"Now, listen," said Grant gently, "before you launch into some wild spiel about me taking you to our leader, it's my day off and I don't know the guy. He lives on the other side of this country, and I'm not even sure he follows me on Twitter. Besides, he's only got this country under his belt and maybe a good number under his shoe. The rest have their own leaders. I don't know them either. They live even farther, and I know they don't follow me on Twitter. Now...what can I do you for?"
"We're here for the dog," said the taller alien.
What a thing to say!
"This dog?" said Grant, pointing at Benson, who rolled around in the sand, taking just enough notice of the aliens to pass the final.
"Yes, that dog," said the shorter alien.
Grant's eyes wobbled. He clicked his tongue and crooked his neck and put his hands on his hips and then he said this: "Well, you can't have him."
And that was that.
The aliens were confused. "But we've come from so far, and we aren't even invading," said the taller one.
"Listen, I don't care if you came from Timbuktu or Mars," said Grant.
"It wasn't Mars," said the shorter one.
"And it sure as hell wasn't Timbuktu! Let me finish, little man."
"We aren't men," said the shorter one.
"Dude. On your planet, is it customary to interrupt another human being?" asked Grant.
"We don't have human beings on our planet," answered the shorter alien.
This made Grant laugh. His laughter was the good kind. It sounded like a flute that could dance. They don't have those kinds of flutes on Earth. They might not even have them where the aliens came from. His laugh was unique. It tickled the air, and it could make a girl go weak in the knees. Hell, it could make a skeleton go from wallflower to prom king too.
"Alright, well, you got me there," said Grant. "But you still can't have Benson."
So the aliens' shoulders sagged. It was a sad day for them. They'd have to slump into their spaceship (a lonely deal, no matter what species you are) and get in trouble at their jobs back on their planet, once called Smeenok, now known as Hyperbase. They changed the name because it was flashier. No matter where you travel, someone has something to sell.
"But do you not wonder why we want this dog and—"
"No, I don't wonder why you want Benson. Of course you want him. He's Benson! He's been with me through four houses and a dozen couches. I finally taught him how to play NBA2k, and Bridget's got him on Pinterest now. He's perfect."
"But he's destined for—"
"Destiny's the universe's way making it look like it has 20/20 vision. I'm not buying that philosophy, and I sure as shit ain't selling this dog."
"But—"
"Look, you seem like nice enough dudes, but...you can't always get what you want. I mean, come on...right?"
Grant and the aliens shook hands (were they hands?). He wanted them to be happy. He also didn't want to start a galactic war on account of bad manners.
"Good luck though."
The aliens nodded. Their shoulders sagged (were they shoulders?). Disappointment is a universal language because math is a universal language. It's just always a ratio of 0 for 1.
The spaceship drifted into the wild west of stars, sluggish in its exit. Grant understood. Who would want to leave Earth? It has dogs, Dylan, hip hop, and slow-motion videos of cheetahs running.
Oh. And breakfast burritos.
Grant picked up his belongings and turned to Benson. "You earned a burrito for once. Thanks for not leaving the planet."
They walked toward the parking lot. Benson nuzzled his face into Grant as he trotted.
"But don't forget," said Grant. "I could always decide to eat you one day."
And so the story ends here. Or at least this particular one. Master-commander and destined dog have other adventures, don't worry. But we don't have time. This is just the one about the beach and the aliens. Have a good day. How could you not? You're on Earth!
Showing posts with label Short Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Fiction. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Monday, December 2, 2013
Manboy & Boss: An Excerpt
Author's Note: The characters of Manboy and Boss were created by Chase Menen ("Manboy") and Chase Ruiz ("Boss"). This piece was intended for a radio show interview with Jake Kilroy and Scott Barman that never materialized.
The following is an excerpt from "Chapter 14: The Mean Ol' Jungles Of India," from the soon-to-be-published autobiography Manboy & Boss.
“Boss, I think I have jungle fever,” Manboy croaked.
Now, in my heyday, I was quite a ladies man, often bopping with the best of the players, so I naturally assumed he meant he was after the chocolate babes. As it turns out, jungle fever is what the locals called getting a fever in the jungle, which, granted, makes more sense.
After several confusing moments of Manboy making choking motions and me bustling through my mental rolodex in the game of what I presumed to be charades (“Halle Berry? Beyonce? Rosario Dawson?" I bellowed, though, to be fair, the latter is a halfie), I finally realized my beautiful mocha man was dying beneath a canopy of birds that truly, no matter how many rocks I hit them with, wouldn’t shut the fuck up.
“Manboy!” I cried, hoping my face wouldn't become the waterfall I knew it could be, though, honestly, I hadn't cried since the ending of Hellboy.
My dear assistant, who had come to save my life on several occasions (including repeated instances of me falling overboard), was now asking – nay, begging – for me to return the favor. His face darkened as he made frantic motions that I believed to be obscene. As I considered fulfilling Manboy’s strange last request of indecently pleasing him, it became quite obvious that he was, in fact, mimicking the action of a hypodermic needle in his satchel.
In his bag, I found the needle, but not after rooting through Manboy’s other belongings, which included several bananas, a pouch of opiates, two severed yet preserved monkey hand-wands, and a surprisingly pristine copy of the novella Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
Taking the medical instruction I received from that one Pulp Fiction scene, I jammed the needle into Manboy’s chest, a move that he later explained nearly killed him, since I was only supposed to treat it like a vaccine shot. He gave me a book of medicine the following Christmas, an item I’ve come to cherish but have never so much as glanced at. Sorry, Manboy, those Dan Brown epics aren’t going to reread themselves.
Once the medicine coursed through his lanky, dark body, Manboy sprung up, alive and excited. He hugged me, visibly grateful for my saving his life, though, due to the manner that I injected him with the medicine, he immediately complained of chest pains and collapsed.
When he awoke a day later in what I thought was a dilapidated hospital but turned out to be an upscale roadside café, Manboy said, “Boss, you are good man.”
To which, I answered, “And you are a good Manboy,” and then patted him on the head.
The following is an excerpt from "Chapter 14: The Mean Ol' Jungles Of India," from the soon-to-be-published autobiography Manboy & Boss.
“Boss, I think I have jungle fever,” Manboy croaked.
Now, in my heyday, I was quite a ladies man, often bopping with the best of the players, so I naturally assumed he meant he was after the chocolate babes. As it turns out, jungle fever is what the locals called getting a fever in the jungle, which, granted, makes more sense.
After several confusing moments of Manboy making choking motions and me bustling through my mental rolodex in the game of what I presumed to be charades (“Halle Berry? Beyonce? Rosario Dawson?" I bellowed, though, to be fair, the latter is a halfie), I finally realized my beautiful mocha man was dying beneath a canopy of birds that truly, no matter how many rocks I hit them with, wouldn’t shut the fuck up.
“Manboy!” I cried, hoping my face wouldn't become the waterfall I knew it could be, though, honestly, I hadn't cried since the ending of Hellboy.
My dear assistant, who had come to save my life on several occasions (including repeated instances of me falling overboard), was now asking – nay, begging – for me to return the favor. His face darkened as he made frantic motions that I believed to be obscene. As I considered fulfilling Manboy’s strange last request of indecently pleasing him, it became quite obvious that he was, in fact, mimicking the action of a hypodermic needle in his satchel.
In his bag, I found the needle, but not after rooting through Manboy’s other belongings, which included several bananas, a pouch of opiates, two severed yet preserved monkey hand-wands, and a surprisingly pristine copy of the novella Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
Taking the medical instruction I received from that one Pulp Fiction scene, I jammed the needle into Manboy’s chest, a move that he later explained nearly killed him, since I was only supposed to treat it like a vaccine shot. He gave me a book of medicine the following Christmas, an item I’ve come to cherish but have never so much as glanced at. Sorry, Manboy, those Dan Brown epics aren’t going to reread themselves.
Once the medicine coursed through his lanky, dark body, Manboy sprung up, alive and excited. He hugged me, visibly grateful for my saving his life, though, due to the manner that I injected him with the medicine, he immediately complained of chest pains and collapsed.
When he awoke a day later in what I thought was a dilapidated hospital but turned out to be an upscale roadside café, Manboy said, “Boss, you are good man.”
To which, I answered, “And you are a good Manboy,” and then patted him on the head.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
The Mysterious Ride of Chase Menen
"The Mysterious Ride of Chase Menen"
the crucial account of the curious jack-of-all-trades Chase,
if it were hastily written by Neil Gaiman.
by Jake Kilroy
In the old country of Mexico, there is an older country still. It twists and crawls at night, and it cannot be found in the day. Any traveler would have to focus to see the shadows within the darkness, but, even then, that would not be enough to give the land an honorable name.
Somewhere beyond the reach of the locals, but close enough to hear each child sleeping in bed, there are creatures of colors from dreams and nightmares. They growl, they gnarl and, worst of all, they laugh.
The land, divine and broken, has an oral history that has only ever been recited in the jungle of shadows that are only seen out the corner of an eye, while the most truthful poems are only to be found in ancient cemeteries. And, yet, the roadside shops of La Misión open and close each day without terror or notice.
Most had been locked up at sunset, with the shopkeepers going home to their families, taking the dirt paths that would always lead to them to a hearty supper and cold ale.
A thick scoop of black pressed itself against the hills and over the town, as night didn't fall as much as it splashed like a cannonball across the long, anomalous valley. The lamps of the living rooms were kept aglow, this was true, but the only shops left with life in them were the liquor store and the restaurant of choice, Maganas.
The sounds of the valley were atmospheric and quaint. Dogs barking, mariachi on a radio, and the symphony of crickets giving up on harmony. But a new sound slathered its greasy, beautiful noise across the only paved road leading into the small, moonless town of La Misión.
A motorcycle.
Chase Menen rode his motorcycle through the curves of the country. It was the only sound between the graves and the heavens for him. White stars and yellow lights dotted the bruised landscape, and his figure, pattering coolly along the slow carving of the hillside, was the only thing that moved. The silhouette of curious men and women watched him from behind the pale curtains and iron bars of their houses.
But no one spoke or hailed his arrival.
He pulled up to Maganas, greeted the employees warmly, especially the bartender David, and ordered his meal. After a few strong laughs, Chase stepped into the cool wind of the valley.
Chase lit a Marlboro Red, snuck a drag, and, in an instant, the world went black. Well, not exactly. He at least had the stars. Behind him, the inky details of the restaurant whispered not a word. There was not a soul, not a sound, not a thing. He withdrew the cigarette and watched the town with a thin tickle in his throat. The town was there, just as it had always been. But the air now tasted stagnant, as if he were taking deep gulps of an old house's damp attic. The windows of every home were dark, and not even a dog barked in the emptiness of the blackout.
His eyes adjusted, and the earth came back to him in purples and blues. His glare moved from one end of the road and to the other. There was no breeze in the fresh pelt of midnight. The nothing was complete.
"Huh," he said.
A boom erupted in the distance, and it came to echo throughout the valley. The splattering of an engine, one that belonged to another motorcycle, coughed a death so loud that Chase touch his ears to check for a wound.
The motorcycle rolled into town like slow lightning. It materialized from Chase's right, from the bridge he had driven over since he had been old enough to speed. The brutal racket of the motorcycle seized his nerves, as the vehicle barely made it to the front lot of the restaurant.
Then the stranger stepped off and undid his helmet, hurriedly dropping it to his side. A long top hat popped out from underneath it, along with shaggy hair the color of ash and soot. The rider's skin swirled in the light of the stars, moving even, as if snakes of melted seaweed and pasty white soap coursed through out his rangy limbs.
Chase blinked and corrected his eyes, and the skin looked ghostly yet ordinary in the fresh beat of his pupils. The stranger dressed in peculiar clothes that looked formal and ill-fitting. He was a long pile of scarlets and ebonies.
"In my haste, I must confess, I am without guidance," said the stranger excitedly. "Am I correct to assume you have been charged with the title of town mechanic?"
The phrasing had rattled Chase's head for a moment, but his wits returned with a swing.
"Oh, no, I'm just cruising through, picking up some food," said Chase. "That's a gorgeous bike though."
The stranger seemed confused. His eyes idled.
"What trade has claimed you as its own?" asked the stranger.
"I'm an engineer," said Chase.
"Ah! Splendid, splendid," said the stranger. "And that is your conveyance over yonder?"
Chase turned to see his motorcycle still parked in the dirt.
"Yep," said Chase, "that one's all mine."
"And it is a grand contrivance at that! So you have crafted your fingers as tools then," said the stranger. "I could use that toolbox of a hand, you see, as this perilous machine has lost its livelihood."
"What's the matter?" asked Chase.
"The matter is that it runs on knowledge," answered the stranger, "and I am too tired to teach it anything, lessons or otherwise."
"Right on," said Chase.
Chase took a long drag of the cigarette in his mouth, and put it out, stepping toward the unfamiliar motorcycle. As he approached the wheeled machine, the metal changed in each of his steps. It was a red that he had only seen the first time he accidentally cut himself. He remembered it looking like a river of jewels coming out of him. He stepped closer to the bike, and the colors came more quickly; the blue of skies above churches, the green of a field he made love in once, the brown of a girl's eyes that he had only ever seen dance in his dreams of South America.
His eyes strained from the spectrum. When he finally touched it, the motorcycle was nearly pellucid, and it burned. Like running a cold hand under hot water, the sensation was cruel.
"You built this yourself," said Chase with distraction.
"No, truly, I wish I could bestow credit for it upon myself, but when you are in the position that I'm often found in, you have created and destroyed enough to simply leave things be. There are others who will build. There are others that enter the world in search of destinies, and they remain despaired until their heart has been given purpose. To even tinker on a machine such as this...it makes their very pores glow. I would take that away from no man or creature."
The engine stirred, almost with a breath of its own, as Chase's hand, strained and tense, dragged across the hide of the machine. It rumbled faintly.
"I've been working on bikes for a long time," said Chase, "and I've never seen something like this."
The stranger stepped forward, a thinly stretched smile cutting his face.
"Go on," whispered the stranger.
"I've been from here to India, and I've fixed up some of the wildest things not cooked up by a god, and this doesn't come close to anything I've found on the road."
"Tell me, young traveler," said the stranger with a peculiar intensity, "what is it you most want from the road?"
"I want to ride my motorcycle through the Middle East."
"Ah," said the stranger with a harsh tone of thrill. "A very brave charge but what do you most want tonight by dawn?"
Chase considered this, and his pupils swam through the murky waters of honesty.
"I could use a good surf right now," said Chase.
"Good," said the stranger with the coo of a hungry bird.
Chase noticed a small pack of tools tied to the seat. He unwrapped them and tinkered with the engine, all while the stranger posed questions and gave him conversation like a supple fruit that he could not stop eating. He could find nothing wrong with the motorcycle, though the stranger's demeanor had become more confident than curious.
"Now open the gas tank," said the stranger.
The stranger extended his arm, and a tool Chase had never seen before slid out of his sleeve and into his hand. Chase took the tool from the stranger and held it. The tool looked like a cross between a screwdriver and a wine opener, and it was heavy. But it fit into the lock of the oddly shaped tank. Chase removed the cap.
As if all the words he had said these last few minutes had been looming above him in the stationary air, Chase thought he heard his voice in tiny bits float downward by his ears and into the gas tank. Stunned, he stood up quickly and looked at the stranger, who leaned forward, scooped up the cap, and tightened it.
The stranger smiled knowingly. "That may have seemed all too easy to you, but it takes one with a great love for motorcycles to do it."
"I don't even know what I did," said Chase.
A moment of wordless echo seemed to pass between the canyon of the motorcycle riders.
"You know," said the stranger, "you aren't possessed with demand and desire like the others I encounter. They drag questions and requests. You carry observations and interests."
"Yeah, I guess that's true," said Chase.
"Well, no questions will get you no answers, but you have the immaculate glimmer of a wayward philosopher. So I will tell you," said the stranger. "There is a rumor that, every year, two motorcycles race across the world."
"Oh, yeah? What's the name of the race?"
"It has no name."
"Who competes?"
"There are no names for the two racers, but many are given," explained the stranger. "Good and Evil. Life and Death. God and The Devil. The battle, the race, the everything must go on, you see."
Another motorcycle suddenly wailed in the darkness. The bridge illuminated with a ghostly headlight, and the new banshee rider cried out in a mad bellow, poisoned with a feverish glee, flying by the two.
"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeooooooooooow!" was the wild cry of the unknown.
Chase laughed.
"And there goes the other," said the stranger.
"Damn," said Chase, a gleaming smile decorating his chin.
But a sweat drew itself out of him then. His smirk deepened into an unfamiliar bite of the lips. His bones went cold, and the world unveiled itself to him, in truth and in logic. He breathed with patience, watching the lone light of the valley, besides the shower of stars above, pass as wild and easy as it had arrived. No fear drove his mouth to ask the million questions that devoured his tongue. Instead, he slowly turned his head and asked the one thing he wanted to know more than anything.
"So which one are you?"
The stranger showed him something that resembled a smile, as he buttoned his helmet. His mouth was a treasure chest of mismatched teeth. Chase had not noticed it before, but it had the unmistakeable quality of a hastily built fence, as if each tooth belonged to that of a different animal. How the mouth was able to close without gashes or cuts was beyond his mastery. The mechanics of it were other worldly, a terrible gift on display in the haunted museum of La Misión.
Finally, the stranger answered.
"I am the one who is losing."
The stranger threw himself atop the motorcycle, started the engine, and rolled it by Chase, back toward the road.
"In my many thanks, I would give you this," said the stranger. "Consider it a token for putting me back in the race. Chew the earth and rinse your mouth with the unknown, and you will get what you most need from this world."
He thrust out his hand and dropped the object in Chase's palm. It was a necklace of dark twine with an emerald oval looped into the thin rope.
"You carry moonlight with you now," said the stranger. "Rouse the tides and award your starved soul a feast."
With an enormous blast of color from the tailpipe, the sound rang throughout the valley. Chase could only describe it to himself as the sound of every war's first gunshot fired at once...
And so the stranger's motorcycle leapt onto the only paved road out of town and barreled out of the valley. The asphalt seemed to slide and careen beneath the weight of the spinning tires. A howl, not of man or animal, bestowed itself upon the chilly Mexican landscape.
Chase examined the necklace. His fingers, coarse from honest work, drifted over the surface. It was perfect in his smoothness. When he shook it, he heard the modest crashes of water inside.
The world returned with a call, and he looked up. The houses were aglow once again, and he turned to see the cook gesturing to show his food was on the tiled counter. He stared at the length of the road, but no cars or trucks crossed it, nor the demons or angels he suspected he might accidentally encounter.
He rode home, his quesataco stuffed into the pocket of his brown leather jacket. The house was as he left it, partially lit. His plan to turn on every remaining lamp in the house became him standing on the wall of the patio smoking a cigarette and listening to the ocean, as it purred against the dim house.
Chase picked up the beautiful stone that one of his younger cousins had discovered on the beach and left in a seashell last Christmas. He rolled it in his hand and felt its tiny curves.
After a cigarette, Chase climbed into his wetsuit and tied the necklace around him. There was a small but noticeable hole at the bottom of the oval, yet no liquid escaped. He tilted the gloomy green canister and still no water leaked from the necklace. It was curious.
He picked up his surfboard and walked to the water's edge with the small stone in his fist and the necklace hanging off his chest. The world was still, but not as silent as when the stranger had arrived. Cars passed in the distance, and the water coughed and crashed. After a long thought, the board and the surfer entered the sea.
After a comfortable paddle and several dips beneath small, easy waves, Chase sat upon his board. He laid the stone in his mouth and drank from the necklace. The water carried a sugary taste as he swirled it across his gums.
A wave rolled beneath him like a quiet, slow-waking beast.
The coastline's lone surfer watched the sky sparkle above him with the bare light of the stars, and the jewels of the coastline, a confetti of porch lanterns and highways lamps, snuck upon the world with a cluster of yellow that gave the cliffs a broken-tooth grin.
Chase gargled the sweet flavor a final time and then spit the stone into the ocean. It sank, and as it did, a stormy pale blue burst from the stone like glowing tentacles. The contorted arms spread out until the surrounding water looked sprinkled with every shade of blue oil paint.
And then—the waves came. A set of translucent hills, swimming with the pace of great aquatic creatures, dazzling and featureless, rolled their way toward Chase, who lowered himself and began paddling forward, in anticipation of the Poseidon's playful challenge.
A magnificent lust blazed in the young man now, as his hands carved out the cold ocean water that warmed with each stroke. His fingers lightened, and the water's temperature reminded him of pool parties from his youth, when summer was endless and time was motionless, and he was free.
The bountiful laughter could be heard along the shore for miles, loud and exuberant, his eyes radiant and his heart triumphant. Blue, the color of boyhood and sea and sky alike, swallowed the darkness around him, piercing and welcomed. For this moment and beyond now, all was hope.
the crucial account of the curious jack-of-all-trades Chase,
if it were hastily written by Neil Gaiman.
by Jake Kilroy
In the old country of Mexico, there is an older country still. It twists and crawls at night, and it cannot be found in the day. Any traveler would have to focus to see the shadows within the darkness, but, even then, that would not be enough to give the land an honorable name.
Somewhere beyond the reach of the locals, but close enough to hear each child sleeping in bed, there are creatures of colors from dreams and nightmares. They growl, they gnarl and, worst of all, they laugh.
The land, divine and broken, has an oral history that has only ever been recited in the jungle of shadows that are only seen out the corner of an eye, while the most truthful poems are only to be found in ancient cemeteries. And, yet, the roadside shops of La Misión open and close each day without terror or notice.
Most had been locked up at sunset, with the shopkeepers going home to their families, taking the dirt paths that would always lead to them to a hearty supper and cold ale.
A thick scoop of black pressed itself against the hills and over the town, as night didn't fall as much as it splashed like a cannonball across the long, anomalous valley. The lamps of the living rooms were kept aglow, this was true, but the only shops left with life in them were the liquor store and the restaurant of choice, Maganas.
The sounds of the valley were atmospheric and quaint. Dogs barking, mariachi on a radio, and the symphony of crickets giving up on harmony. But a new sound slathered its greasy, beautiful noise across the only paved road leading into the small, moonless town of La Misión.
A motorcycle.
Chase Menen rode his motorcycle through the curves of the country. It was the only sound between the graves and the heavens for him. White stars and yellow lights dotted the bruised landscape, and his figure, pattering coolly along the slow carving of the hillside, was the only thing that moved. The silhouette of curious men and women watched him from behind the pale curtains and iron bars of their houses.
But no one spoke or hailed his arrival.
He pulled up to Maganas, greeted the employees warmly, especially the bartender David, and ordered his meal. After a few strong laughs, Chase stepped into the cool wind of the valley.
Chase lit a Marlboro Red, snuck a drag, and, in an instant, the world went black. Well, not exactly. He at least had the stars. Behind him, the inky details of the restaurant whispered not a word. There was not a soul, not a sound, not a thing. He withdrew the cigarette and watched the town with a thin tickle in his throat. The town was there, just as it had always been. But the air now tasted stagnant, as if he were taking deep gulps of an old house's damp attic. The windows of every home were dark, and not even a dog barked in the emptiness of the blackout.
His eyes adjusted, and the earth came back to him in purples and blues. His glare moved from one end of the road and to the other. There was no breeze in the fresh pelt of midnight. The nothing was complete.
"Huh," he said.
A boom erupted in the distance, and it came to echo throughout the valley. The splattering of an engine, one that belonged to another motorcycle, coughed a death so loud that Chase touch his ears to check for a wound.
The motorcycle rolled into town like slow lightning. It materialized from Chase's right, from the bridge he had driven over since he had been old enough to speed. The brutal racket of the motorcycle seized his nerves, as the vehicle barely made it to the front lot of the restaurant.
Then the stranger stepped off and undid his helmet, hurriedly dropping it to his side. A long top hat popped out from underneath it, along with shaggy hair the color of ash and soot. The rider's skin swirled in the light of the stars, moving even, as if snakes of melted seaweed and pasty white soap coursed through out his rangy limbs.
Chase blinked and corrected his eyes, and the skin looked ghostly yet ordinary in the fresh beat of his pupils. The stranger dressed in peculiar clothes that looked formal and ill-fitting. He was a long pile of scarlets and ebonies.
"In my haste, I must confess, I am without guidance," said the stranger excitedly. "Am I correct to assume you have been charged with the title of town mechanic?"
The phrasing had rattled Chase's head for a moment, but his wits returned with a swing.
"Oh, no, I'm just cruising through, picking up some food," said Chase. "That's a gorgeous bike though."
The stranger seemed confused. His eyes idled.
"What trade has claimed you as its own?" asked the stranger.
"I'm an engineer," said Chase.
"Ah! Splendid, splendid," said the stranger. "And that is your conveyance over yonder?"
Chase turned to see his motorcycle still parked in the dirt.
"Yep," said Chase, "that one's all mine."
"And it is a grand contrivance at that! So you have crafted your fingers as tools then," said the stranger. "I could use that toolbox of a hand, you see, as this perilous machine has lost its livelihood."
"What's the matter?" asked Chase.
"The matter is that it runs on knowledge," answered the stranger, "and I am too tired to teach it anything, lessons or otherwise."
"Right on," said Chase.
Chase took a long drag of the cigarette in his mouth, and put it out, stepping toward the unfamiliar motorcycle. As he approached the wheeled machine, the metal changed in each of his steps. It was a red that he had only seen the first time he accidentally cut himself. He remembered it looking like a river of jewels coming out of him. He stepped closer to the bike, and the colors came more quickly; the blue of skies above churches, the green of a field he made love in once, the brown of a girl's eyes that he had only ever seen dance in his dreams of South America.
His eyes strained from the spectrum. When he finally touched it, the motorcycle was nearly pellucid, and it burned. Like running a cold hand under hot water, the sensation was cruel.
"You built this yourself," said Chase with distraction.
"No, truly, I wish I could bestow credit for it upon myself, but when you are in the position that I'm often found in, you have created and destroyed enough to simply leave things be. There are others who will build. There are others that enter the world in search of destinies, and they remain despaired until their heart has been given purpose. To even tinker on a machine such as this...it makes their very pores glow. I would take that away from no man or creature."
The engine stirred, almost with a breath of its own, as Chase's hand, strained and tense, dragged across the hide of the machine. It rumbled faintly.
"I've been working on bikes for a long time," said Chase, "and I've never seen something like this."
The stranger stepped forward, a thinly stretched smile cutting his face.
"Go on," whispered the stranger.
"I've been from here to India, and I've fixed up some of the wildest things not cooked up by a god, and this doesn't come close to anything I've found on the road."
"Tell me, young traveler," said the stranger with a peculiar intensity, "what is it you most want from the road?"
"I want to ride my motorcycle through the Middle East."
"Ah," said the stranger with a harsh tone of thrill. "A very brave charge but what do you most want tonight by dawn?"
Chase considered this, and his pupils swam through the murky waters of honesty.
"I could use a good surf right now," said Chase.
"Good," said the stranger with the coo of a hungry bird.
Chase noticed a small pack of tools tied to the seat. He unwrapped them and tinkered with the engine, all while the stranger posed questions and gave him conversation like a supple fruit that he could not stop eating. He could find nothing wrong with the motorcycle, though the stranger's demeanor had become more confident than curious.
"Now open the gas tank," said the stranger.
The stranger extended his arm, and a tool Chase had never seen before slid out of his sleeve and into his hand. Chase took the tool from the stranger and held it. The tool looked like a cross between a screwdriver and a wine opener, and it was heavy. But it fit into the lock of the oddly shaped tank. Chase removed the cap.
As if all the words he had said these last few minutes had been looming above him in the stationary air, Chase thought he heard his voice in tiny bits float downward by his ears and into the gas tank. Stunned, he stood up quickly and looked at the stranger, who leaned forward, scooped up the cap, and tightened it.
The stranger smiled knowingly. "That may have seemed all too easy to you, but it takes one with a great love for motorcycles to do it."
"I don't even know what I did," said Chase.
A moment of wordless echo seemed to pass between the canyon of the motorcycle riders.
"You know," said the stranger, "you aren't possessed with demand and desire like the others I encounter. They drag questions and requests. You carry observations and interests."
"Yeah, I guess that's true," said Chase.
"Well, no questions will get you no answers, but you have the immaculate glimmer of a wayward philosopher. So I will tell you," said the stranger. "There is a rumor that, every year, two motorcycles race across the world."
"Oh, yeah? What's the name of the race?"
"It has no name."
"Who competes?"
"There are no names for the two racers, but many are given," explained the stranger. "Good and Evil. Life and Death. God and The Devil. The battle, the race, the everything must go on, you see."
Another motorcycle suddenly wailed in the darkness. The bridge illuminated with a ghostly headlight, and the new banshee rider cried out in a mad bellow, poisoned with a feverish glee, flying by the two.
"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeooooooooooow!" was the wild cry of the unknown.
Chase laughed.
"And there goes the other," said the stranger.
"Damn," said Chase, a gleaming smile decorating his chin.
But a sweat drew itself out of him then. His smirk deepened into an unfamiliar bite of the lips. His bones went cold, and the world unveiled itself to him, in truth and in logic. He breathed with patience, watching the lone light of the valley, besides the shower of stars above, pass as wild and easy as it had arrived. No fear drove his mouth to ask the million questions that devoured his tongue. Instead, he slowly turned his head and asked the one thing he wanted to know more than anything.
"So which one are you?"
The stranger showed him something that resembled a smile, as he buttoned his helmet. His mouth was a treasure chest of mismatched teeth. Chase had not noticed it before, but it had the unmistakeable quality of a hastily built fence, as if each tooth belonged to that of a different animal. How the mouth was able to close without gashes or cuts was beyond his mastery. The mechanics of it were other worldly, a terrible gift on display in the haunted museum of La Misión.
Finally, the stranger answered.
"I am the one who is losing."
The stranger threw himself atop the motorcycle, started the engine, and rolled it by Chase, back toward the road.
"In my many thanks, I would give you this," said the stranger. "Consider it a token for putting me back in the race. Chew the earth and rinse your mouth with the unknown, and you will get what you most need from this world."
He thrust out his hand and dropped the object in Chase's palm. It was a necklace of dark twine with an emerald oval looped into the thin rope.
"You carry moonlight with you now," said the stranger. "Rouse the tides and award your starved soul a feast."
With an enormous blast of color from the tailpipe, the sound rang throughout the valley. Chase could only describe it to himself as the sound of every war's first gunshot fired at once...
And so the stranger's motorcycle leapt onto the only paved road out of town and barreled out of the valley. The asphalt seemed to slide and careen beneath the weight of the spinning tires. A howl, not of man or animal, bestowed itself upon the chilly Mexican landscape.
Chase examined the necklace. His fingers, coarse from honest work, drifted over the surface. It was perfect in his smoothness. When he shook it, he heard the modest crashes of water inside.
The world returned with a call, and he looked up. The houses were aglow once again, and he turned to see the cook gesturing to show his food was on the tiled counter. He stared at the length of the road, but no cars or trucks crossed it, nor the demons or angels he suspected he might accidentally encounter.
He rode home, his quesataco stuffed into the pocket of his brown leather jacket. The house was as he left it, partially lit. His plan to turn on every remaining lamp in the house became him standing on the wall of the patio smoking a cigarette and listening to the ocean, as it purred against the dim house.
Chase picked up the beautiful stone that one of his younger cousins had discovered on the beach and left in a seashell last Christmas. He rolled it in his hand and felt its tiny curves.
After a cigarette, Chase climbed into his wetsuit and tied the necklace around him. There was a small but noticeable hole at the bottom of the oval, yet no liquid escaped. He tilted the gloomy green canister and still no water leaked from the necklace. It was curious.
He picked up his surfboard and walked to the water's edge with the small stone in his fist and the necklace hanging off his chest. The world was still, but not as silent as when the stranger had arrived. Cars passed in the distance, and the water coughed and crashed. After a long thought, the board and the surfer entered the sea.
After a comfortable paddle and several dips beneath small, easy waves, Chase sat upon his board. He laid the stone in his mouth and drank from the necklace. The water carried a sugary taste as he swirled it across his gums.
A wave rolled beneath him like a quiet, slow-waking beast.
The coastline's lone surfer watched the sky sparkle above him with the bare light of the stars, and the jewels of the coastline, a confetti of porch lanterns and highways lamps, snuck upon the world with a cluster of yellow that gave the cliffs a broken-tooth grin.
Chase gargled the sweet flavor a final time and then spit the stone into the ocean. It sank, and as it did, a stormy pale blue burst from the stone like glowing tentacles. The contorted arms spread out until the surrounding water looked sprinkled with every shade of blue oil paint.
And then—the waves came. A set of translucent hills, swimming with the pace of great aquatic creatures, dazzling and featureless, rolled their way toward Chase, who lowered himself and began paddling forward, in anticipation of the Poseidon's playful challenge.
A magnificent lust blazed in the young man now, as his hands carved out the cold ocean water that warmed with each stroke. His fingers lightened, and the water's temperature reminded him of pool parties from his youth, when summer was endless and time was motionless, and he was free.
The bountiful laughter could be heard along the shore for miles, loud and exuberant, his eyes radiant and his heart triumphant. Blue, the color of boyhood and sea and sky alike, swallowed the darkness around him, piercing and welcomed. For this moment and beyond now, all was hope.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
The Sporting Pleasure of Chase Ruiz
"The Sporting Pleasure of Chase Ruiz"
a careful observation of the sure-bet gambler Chase,
if it was hastily written by Ayn Rand.
by Jake Kilroy
His eyes pulsed, surveying the great crop that was the world before him. He was the beginning and the end of the existence he allowed himself. There was control in his breaths. His lungs were clean and machinelike, fitted exquisitely for a hardworking man with a healthy routine that had already seen his skin leak sweat and his muscles ache from the morning's fitness. School would be later, and he had already done his running, lifting, and ab-ripping as well as the heavy breakfast he had cooked and finished before showering.
Now, clean and dressed, Chase Ruiz felt solace sweep over his property.
The roommate's dog, Danny, feverishly spoiled his canine nerves by sprinting around the backyard. Chase watched the creature lose energy like a propeller run aground, as the animal came to a slow, panting halt, broken and exhausted. Chase shook his head with his hands clasping each other like jacket hooks behind him. He had seen people like this, men and women killing what was left of them every day. This was not, and would not be, a life for him, nor was it what he would sufficiently deem a life. There was no brilliance or courage to a speed that had the confidence and reckless quality akin to teenage sex. Chase was aptly promised what came to him, for he growled at the helm of his future, aware that the system could always work in his favor if he was willing in body and spirit.
In the most wholesome terms of observation, Chase Ruiz was a patient man. A statuesque individual, crafted against cause and effect, in order to meander through, at his cautious leisure, what stresses he would handle and what loves he would cultivate, he sought a life beyond life; a sanctity that was, profound, almost criminal, in its elegant isolation of one. More importantly, he understood human beings. Whether it was at the clinic or at a party, he witnessed what people could do for him if he remained aware with a beastly anticipation of their actions.
Some, most of them competitors, though often novice, called him a swindler.
But that would be the iron being tested, as credit is due to swindlers. In Chase's experience, swindlers, dapper and earnest in the bending of reality or environment, typically earned their keep with boiling blood and rocklike firmness. Thieves, on the other hand, are cheap shots, played out like sneaky fools on stage, browsing society in the shadows, afraid to stroll and be important to those who matter; a scavenger, stealing to either beg another day or pay tribute to his wayfarer ego at night.
Swindlers, though, attended dinner parties and laughed in the home of the host. They had the striking ability to sit near the head of the table and rouse laughter without the wager of doubt coming to fruition until the right information had been lifted and illuminated from one's sloppy pocket mouth. Society trusts swindlers because they operate within a system. They work until their nerves have been compounded and beaten, only to be made victorious, simply by enduring the fate of destiny, a glory that can be made tragic by the populace's tendency to call it something it is not and has never been.
Chase considered this and then shifted to his dining table to taste his coffee. It was still hot, but he drank it with fulfillment. The steam whipped at his gums for a moment, only for him to lick his lips and be done with the sensation. He turned the page of the newspaper, noticing a picture of hulking athletes colliding into one another. A dull smirk drew itself across his face, pressed with strong features and a cunning disposition, as his gaze paraded down the black and white steps of the printed words. He had once again done well in fantasy football. It was of no consequence for his pride, however. There was barely an acknowledgement beyond the lull in his movement.
He just wanted to know that he could and that he was.
From outside, birds called for each other, filling the house with song; an arresting testament to what lay beyond the windows that stood behind him, over his frame, tall and complete, offering little help besides passing rays of sunlight in the quiet mornings he had grown used to with the roommates at work.
His lunch plans were quickening their pace to his doorstep, and he knew that giving way to a distraction now would take an afternoon to right. With his brow furrowed over the sports page like a church's awning, he called his lady.
"I was just been thinking of you," she answered, the tone soft and expectant.
"You know why I'm calling you now," he said, his voice not bored, nor uninterested or annoyed; simply there, abundant in presence.
She sighed, feeling surrounded and outnumbered.
"You can't do lunch, can you?"
"No. There is work to be done."
"Fine," she breathed.
"Good."
"There's no point to suggest Chipotle, is there?"
"No, not today," he told her, licking his thumb and moving to another page of the periodical. "I had chili and coffee for breakfast. Pushing myself today would be of no use."
"Then I will call up the girls. Maybe there's time to do brunch. Will you..."
"I will be busy until I am done."
"Yes...I know..."
The line lingered and demanded attention.
"Do you have the games out?" she asked him, finally.
"Listen, I want you to have a nice time with your friends. Drink mimosas, celebrate life, and then come home to me. Later. Tonight. I will make sure I am done with work then, so that you and I can give each other what the world owes us after a long day."
Her teeth creaked in a smile over the phone. Chase could hear her lips move.
"Well, then I'll be there," she replied, an amused lilt cheerfully escaping her words. "See you tonight."
"Wonderful. I will see you this evening."
He set the phone down and closed the newspaper.
His girlfriend was accurate in her remarks. Spread out across the table like a feast, erupting in color and tantalizing his fingers, were board games, video games, and sports equipment. Encircling the thorough study in fun were books, heavy and complete, stacked to a poetic height, as they cast curious shadows of towers over the activities.
Chase perused the text of each sport and recreation, studying their rules and philosophy with the precision he had taught himself in high school and sharpened in each level of higher education. The hobby had started with small words and big implications from a drunkard, upset in a card game that had whittled itself down to two players one Saturday evening. Chase had built his city of chips, and business was cruel to the other sporting architect, but this was capitalism and it has never been for everyone. The other player accused Chase of cheating, but there was as much as truth to the gentleman's words as there was sobriety to his rolling pin eyes.
No, Chase had not acted the part of a cheat this time; he had just been more aware of the holes in the game. What magnificent rage will burn through a losing hand's entire body if the desperation sets in. To keep the man's temper healthy and his car without slashed tires or flames atop, Chase suggested one last hand for all the money on the table. The large man's eyes set upon Chase with cruel brilliance, shining light above a maddening sneer. Chase, however, shrugged and mumbled a few meaningless words to show that he was thoughtful, not mute.
Unsurprising to no one in the room but the scoundrel at the other end of the green felt, Chase won the last deal and collected the money with an efficient sweep of his arm. He pulled up his bag, pushed in his chair, and shrugged again, clearly, quietly, and sufficiently insulting the man.
"Better luck next time," Chase said, addressing the man with an indifference that registered on the sauced brute like spit. The man, livid and deranged, shot up, but the others eased him down.
Once the loose-tongued individual registered a few more uneasy breaths, Chase put out his hands and answered the furious card shark, shaking with anger now, in range of the victor's mocking glare, "Sorry, bro."
In the car, Chase put on Glassjaw and sped onto the highway before the glassy-eyed gambler could reach the back lot and torch his Scion. Maybe even with him in it.
Not long after that evening, Chase took up reading all that he could about card games. He attacked all that his brain could accept before his head would spin, and he would smoke hookah in the backyard to relax. Insatiable and determined, he devoured the etiquette of croquet, taking notes of the gaps in the rules and creating a bribery system. He studied every potential friendly weekend suggestion, from volleyball to Scrabble, carefully constructing the mannered persona of a sporting player, with an intense knowledge of sports and games, shelved between the meticulous and questionable guidelines he had come to recite without hesitation in the shower upon waking every day.
With a long inhale of the fresh air that wafted through the open sliding door, he picked up the mug and finished his coffee, considering the long road ahead of him and the opportunities at every turn; surefire in the efforts of expanding his reach in all direction but backward. He found his daydreams to be madness at their most difficult, but, at times like these, they were pornography for the soul.
Shaking his wrist clear of all verbiage that haunted his tendons prior, Chase wrote what he imagined he would memorize as a nightly prayer, declaiming them even years from this clear day, this brief genesis in history.
Building empires is fine work if you can stomach the dust and the blood. If both ingredients are in one's appetite, then all that holds back the kingdom is the choice of crown. And the most glorious king of brutality and benevolence chooses both jewels and thorns.
Amen.
a careful observation of the sure-bet gambler Chase,
if it was hastily written by Ayn Rand.
by Jake Kilroy
His eyes pulsed, surveying the great crop that was the world before him. He was the beginning and the end of the existence he allowed himself. There was control in his breaths. His lungs were clean and machinelike, fitted exquisitely for a hardworking man with a healthy routine that had already seen his skin leak sweat and his muscles ache from the morning's fitness. School would be later, and he had already done his running, lifting, and ab-ripping as well as the heavy breakfast he had cooked and finished before showering.
Now, clean and dressed, Chase Ruiz felt solace sweep over his property.
The roommate's dog, Danny, feverishly spoiled his canine nerves by sprinting around the backyard. Chase watched the creature lose energy like a propeller run aground, as the animal came to a slow, panting halt, broken and exhausted. Chase shook his head with his hands clasping each other like jacket hooks behind him. He had seen people like this, men and women killing what was left of them every day. This was not, and would not be, a life for him, nor was it what he would sufficiently deem a life. There was no brilliance or courage to a speed that had the confidence and reckless quality akin to teenage sex. Chase was aptly promised what came to him, for he growled at the helm of his future, aware that the system could always work in his favor if he was willing in body and spirit.
In the most wholesome terms of observation, Chase Ruiz was a patient man. A statuesque individual, crafted against cause and effect, in order to meander through, at his cautious leisure, what stresses he would handle and what loves he would cultivate, he sought a life beyond life; a sanctity that was, profound, almost criminal, in its elegant isolation of one. More importantly, he understood human beings. Whether it was at the clinic or at a party, he witnessed what people could do for him if he remained aware with a beastly anticipation of their actions.
Some, most of them competitors, though often novice, called him a swindler.
But that would be the iron being tested, as credit is due to swindlers. In Chase's experience, swindlers, dapper and earnest in the bending of reality or environment, typically earned their keep with boiling blood and rocklike firmness. Thieves, on the other hand, are cheap shots, played out like sneaky fools on stage, browsing society in the shadows, afraid to stroll and be important to those who matter; a scavenger, stealing to either beg another day or pay tribute to his wayfarer ego at night.
Swindlers, though, attended dinner parties and laughed in the home of the host. They had the striking ability to sit near the head of the table and rouse laughter without the wager of doubt coming to fruition until the right information had been lifted and illuminated from one's sloppy pocket mouth. Society trusts swindlers because they operate within a system. They work until their nerves have been compounded and beaten, only to be made victorious, simply by enduring the fate of destiny, a glory that can be made tragic by the populace's tendency to call it something it is not and has never been.
Chase considered this and then shifted to his dining table to taste his coffee. It was still hot, but he drank it with fulfillment. The steam whipped at his gums for a moment, only for him to lick his lips and be done with the sensation. He turned the page of the newspaper, noticing a picture of hulking athletes colliding into one another. A dull smirk drew itself across his face, pressed with strong features and a cunning disposition, as his gaze paraded down the black and white steps of the printed words. He had once again done well in fantasy football. It was of no consequence for his pride, however. There was barely an acknowledgement beyond the lull in his movement.
He just wanted to know that he could and that he was.
From outside, birds called for each other, filling the house with song; an arresting testament to what lay beyond the windows that stood behind him, over his frame, tall and complete, offering little help besides passing rays of sunlight in the quiet mornings he had grown used to with the roommates at work.
His lunch plans were quickening their pace to his doorstep, and he knew that giving way to a distraction now would take an afternoon to right. With his brow furrowed over the sports page like a church's awning, he called his lady.
"I was just been thinking of you," she answered, the tone soft and expectant.
"You know why I'm calling you now," he said, his voice not bored, nor uninterested or annoyed; simply there, abundant in presence.
She sighed, feeling surrounded and outnumbered.
"You can't do lunch, can you?"
"No. There is work to be done."
"Fine," she breathed.
"Good."
"There's no point to suggest Chipotle, is there?"
"No, not today," he told her, licking his thumb and moving to another page of the periodical. "I had chili and coffee for breakfast. Pushing myself today would be of no use."
"Then I will call up the girls. Maybe there's time to do brunch. Will you..."
"I will be busy until I am done."
"Yes...I know..."
The line lingered and demanded attention.
"Do you have the games out?" she asked him, finally.
"Listen, I want you to have a nice time with your friends. Drink mimosas, celebrate life, and then come home to me. Later. Tonight. I will make sure I am done with work then, so that you and I can give each other what the world owes us after a long day."
Her teeth creaked in a smile over the phone. Chase could hear her lips move.
"Well, then I'll be there," she replied, an amused lilt cheerfully escaping her words. "See you tonight."
"Wonderful. I will see you this evening."
He set the phone down and closed the newspaper.
His girlfriend was accurate in her remarks. Spread out across the table like a feast, erupting in color and tantalizing his fingers, were board games, video games, and sports equipment. Encircling the thorough study in fun were books, heavy and complete, stacked to a poetic height, as they cast curious shadows of towers over the activities.
Chase perused the text of each sport and recreation, studying their rules and philosophy with the precision he had taught himself in high school and sharpened in each level of higher education. The hobby had started with small words and big implications from a drunkard, upset in a card game that had whittled itself down to two players one Saturday evening. Chase had built his city of chips, and business was cruel to the other sporting architect, but this was capitalism and it has never been for everyone. The other player accused Chase of cheating, but there was as much as truth to the gentleman's words as there was sobriety to his rolling pin eyes.
No, Chase had not acted the part of a cheat this time; he had just been more aware of the holes in the game. What magnificent rage will burn through a losing hand's entire body if the desperation sets in. To keep the man's temper healthy and his car without slashed tires or flames atop, Chase suggested one last hand for all the money on the table. The large man's eyes set upon Chase with cruel brilliance, shining light above a maddening sneer. Chase, however, shrugged and mumbled a few meaningless words to show that he was thoughtful, not mute.
Unsurprising to no one in the room but the scoundrel at the other end of the green felt, Chase won the last deal and collected the money with an efficient sweep of his arm. He pulled up his bag, pushed in his chair, and shrugged again, clearly, quietly, and sufficiently insulting the man.
"Better luck next time," Chase said, addressing the man with an indifference that registered on the sauced brute like spit. The man, livid and deranged, shot up, but the others eased him down.
Once the loose-tongued individual registered a few more uneasy breaths, Chase put out his hands and answered the furious card shark, shaking with anger now, in range of the victor's mocking glare, "Sorry, bro."
In the car, Chase put on Glassjaw and sped onto the highway before the glassy-eyed gambler could reach the back lot and torch his Scion. Maybe even with him in it.
Not long after that evening, Chase took up reading all that he could about card games. He attacked all that his brain could accept before his head would spin, and he would smoke hookah in the backyard to relax. Insatiable and determined, he devoured the etiquette of croquet, taking notes of the gaps in the rules and creating a bribery system. He studied every potential friendly weekend suggestion, from volleyball to Scrabble, carefully constructing the mannered persona of a sporting player, with an intense knowledge of sports and games, shelved between the meticulous and questionable guidelines he had come to recite without hesitation in the shower upon waking every day.
With a long inhale of the fresh air that wafted through the open sliding door, he picked up the mug and finished his coffee, considering the long road ahead of him and the opportunities at every turn; surefire in the efforts of expanding his reach in all direction but backward. He found his daydreams to be madness at their most difficult, but, at times like these, they were pornography for the soul.
Shaking his wrist clear of all verbiage that haunted his tendons prior, Chase wrote what he imagined he would memorize as a nightly prayer, declaiming them even years from this clear day, this brief genesis in history.
Building empires is fine work if you can stomach the dust and the blood. If both ingredients are in one's appetite, then all that holds back the kingdom is the choice of crown. And the most glorious king of brutality and benevolence chooses both jewels and thorns.
Amen.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
The Fantastic Dinner Party of Scott Barman
"The Fantastic Dinner Party of Scott Barman"
a tender yet quaint pull of the eyes about the musician host Scott,
if it were hastily written by Ernest Hemingway.
by Jake Kilroy
It was warm and a breeze came, so the windows were left open and the sky looked like it would be the great death that many soldiers drink to. The lights glowed in the garden and in the distance Scott heard the cars go by but they were not the guests. The guests would come later, after he had taken down shots of cool liquor like a sniper lowering the count of enemy troops.
He put on his black shirt and navy jacket and adjusted the radio to bring music to the room. It would be a long night and he felt energy in his bones coming to him now, finally, after a long day of preparing the food.
The air smelled of summer, but this was not enough. He had always loved the smell of coffee, even as a boy, when he would play in his metal band. He no longer saw those friends, but this was life. This was the torrid sea forever pushing us into the horizon. He lit a large candle in a vase filled with coffee beans and it was good and sweet and honest.
There was loneliness in the house. It had been there, truly. But tonight was the end of that. The women would fill his home with mirth and conversation and his bed would be full and he would be happy. A man does not need much to endure, but a bed of women has hurt no musician in this life.
He arranged his instruments and was careful of his selection. The piano can break a woman's heart more quickly than a ruined marriage. The guitar can be as tactful as a gun and it carries the boom of a Lazarus Pit. His orchestra pieces made up a militia and he was its captain.
He was a man with means, which is a god to many. To the restless and willing, a god is a man with all the control he can imagine, and the truest music is the sound of mutilating and mangling the nerves. It is a beautiful sound to those with ears that can bare it. This was a country of gods. He knew that.
He brushed his teeth and listened to the bossa nova. When he was done, he called the girl.
"Hello?"
Her voice was soft.
"Hello."
"Is everything ready?"
"Everything is ready. I've poured the wine."
"We aren't the lovely type, you know," she said. He voice came excited and feline in its calm.
"You are who I want."
"All of us?"
"Yes."
"You are ambitious."
"I am a lot of things, but I am no coward."
"I'll have to consider the wine."
"You'll have some."
He put down the phone. That was enough. He would save his muscles for the lovemaking.
The smell of coffee and the taste of mint exhausted him with memories. He had thrown dinner parties before and the familiarity weakened him with beauty. The breath of warm lasagna coughed from the oven was not new. He was a man of family and of friends. There had been great laughs in his kitchen and sublime foreplay in his bedroom. There was the quality of an aristocrat to his tongue and the fury of a drunk to his blood. There would be no reason to not be welcomed in his home if one was of good faith in manners and an interest in dice.
The table blazed like a holiday. He watched the flames move in the breeze and he remembered the nights of his youth, when he was a college student studying music in the northern country. The sonatas he had written then as a young man in the city, the ones that had no place for the world but in the ear of a sleepy girl who had stayed the night, they came to him now.
He would go to the cafes that needed tending to and order sandwiches that were in desperate need of care and drink like a man with nothing to prove but honor and he would wait for the sun to go down to find hope or lust at a party near campus.
He had loved the darkness then as he did now. It was only after dinner he could resume his thoughts. The day would often prove useless and lost to the drought of time. He would bury himself in legal work or swim until the sun was no longer above him. At the pool he would watch the women, but they were often not what he was after. There would be a young white woman at the pool on stray afternoons, and it would stir his heart, but that was all.
In the kitchen now he sipped the wine and cut himself a pepper to enjoy with his glass before every appetite within his strange and serene body took him in the promised bellows of exceptional manhood. He would wait for the guests and he would give them everything he had in him, no matter how wild or sincere.
He took out the sheet of garlic bread and dropped it on the counter of scattered knives and forks. A crash of silver sounded from below the dish. The garlic bread was burned. The edges crumbled like ash. It spoke of gross poetry like a log in the hearth of the fireplace that his mother never let him use when she was out of town. This was not a surprise to him. He knew he would be a wealthy man that could set sail and live his life at sea eating fish and drinking port if only someone would pay him to burn garlic bread.
It was the truth and that is all that matters to some. It should matter to most but men are often too proud to take their blows like the prizefighters they boast to be in bars at last call. What should be nothing is everything to a liar. It is worse when the only person in the bar is the bartender. Not even the mirrors talk to the loudest scoundrel.
His friends would always talk about the garlic bread as if it had never been the grand curse that it came to be in his formidable years of cooking. It haunted him from his earliest days as a host. The wine, the women, the whipped cream had always been to his preference, but the garlic bread would laugh in the freezer and then cackle in the oven. A bare brutal beating would come from his compatriots, but they were at least true and loyal, and that is all a man can ask of his friends and lovers.
The door rattled with knocks now and he heard the squealing and giggling of his guests in the courtyard on the other side. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink and dropped the mangled sacrifice into its usual temple and closed it. There would be no garlic bread this evening. There would be wine and sex and lasagna but the garlic bread had played it's part in the death of a quiet chef's reputation. He wanted the women and there would be no fool left in the kitchen.
He brushed his blazer, moved a hand through his hair and surveyed his teeth in the mirror of his dining hall before he answered the door. He turned the knob and the night was tempered with glory.
"Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii," he said.
A half dozen Asian women in black dresses stumbled into his house with fervor and eagerness. They passed Scott and removed their coats and kissed his cheek and showed the white teeth they couldn't hide in their red cheeks any longer. They had arrived in a cab and he closed the door. He would drive them home in the morning, after a swim in the nude with good sunlight and iced tea.
"Who wants wine?" he asked.
Each woman showed him the bottle of wine they brought with them. They still howled like their throats tickled with exotic feathers in each breath. They had the same notions as him and they might have been even more riddled with the dreams that we so often find pretty before sleep in a bed alone for one night too long. These women were the last thoughts he would have on his deathbed, he surely knew.
"Very good," Scott said. He pointed his finger in a quick jab and made an elegant sound. "Mmhmm. Very good indeed."
a tender yet quaint pull of the eyes about the musician host Scott,
if it were hastily written by Ernest Hemingway.
by Jake Kilroy
It was warm and a breeze came, so the windows were left open and the sky looked like it would be the great death that many soldiers drink to. The lights glowed in the garden and in the distance Scott heard the cars go by but they were not the guests. The guests would come later, after he had taken down shots of cool liquor like a sniper lowering the count of enemy troops.
He put on his black shirt and navy jacket and adjusted the radio to bring music to the room. It would be a long night and he felt energy in his bones coming to him now, finally, after a long day of preparing the food.
The air smelled of summer, but this was not enough. He had always loved the smell of coffee, even as a boy, when he would play in his metal band. He no longer saw those friends, but this was life. This was the torrid sea forever pushing us into the horizon. He lit a large candle in a vase filled with coffee beans and it was good and sweet and honest.
There was loneliness in the house. It had been there, truly. But tonight was the end of that. The women would fill his home with mirth and conversation and his bed would be full and he would be happy. A man does not need much to endure, but a bed of women has hurt no musician in this life.
He arranged his instruments and was careful of his selection. The piano can break a woman's heart more quickly than a ruined marriage. The guitar can be as tactful as a gun and it carries the boom of a Lazarus Pit. His orchestra pieces made up a militia and he was its captain.
He was a man with means, which is a god to many. To the restless and willing, a god is a man with all the control he can imagine, and the truest music is the sound of mutilating and mangling the nerves. It is a beautiful sound to those with ears that can bare it. This was a country of gods. He knew that.
He brushed his teeth and listened to the bossa nova. When he was done, he called the girl.
"Hello?"
Her voice was soft.
"Hello."
"Is everything ready?"
"Everything is ready. I've poured the wine."
"We aren't the lovely type, you know," she said. He voice came excited and feline in its calm.
"You are who I want."
"All of us?"
"Yes."
"You are ambitious."
"I am a lot of things, but I am no coward."
"I'll have to consider the wine."
"You'll have some."
He put down the phone. That was enough. He would save his muscles for the lovemaking.
The smell of coffee and the taste of mint exhausted him with memories. He had thrown dinner parties before and the familiarity weakened him with beauty. The breath of warm lasagna coughed from the oven was not new. He was a man of family and of friends. There had been great laughs in his kitchen and sublime foreplay in his bedroom. There was the quality of an aristocrat to his tongue and the fury of a drunk to his blood. There would be no reason to not be welcomed in his home if one was of good faith in manners and an interest in dice.
The table blazed like a holiday. He watched the flames move in the breeze and he remembered the nights of his youth, when he was a college student studying music in the northern country. The sonatas he had written then as a young man in the city, the ones that had no place for the world but in the ear of a sleepy girl who had stayed the night, they came to him now.
He would go to the cafes that needed tending to and order sandwiches that were in desperate need of care and drink like a man with nothing to prove but honor and he would wait for the sun to go down to find hope or lust at a party near campus.
He had loved the darkness then as he did now. It was only after dinner he could resume his thoughts. The day would often prove useless and lost to the drought of time. He would bury himself in legal work or swim until the sun was no longer above him. At the pool he would watch the women, but they were often not what he was after. There would be a young white woman at the pool on stray afternoons, and it would stir his heart, but that was all.
In the kitchen now he sipped the wine and cut himself a pepper to enjoy with his glass before every appetite within his strange and serene body took him in the promised bellows of exceptional manhood. He would wait for the guests and he would give them everything he had in him, no matter how wild or sincere.
He took out the sheet of garlic bread and dropped it on the counter of scattered knives and forks. A crash of silver sounded from below the dish. The garlic bread was burned. The edges crumbled like ash. It spoke of gross poetry like a log in the hearth of the fireplace that his mother never let him use when she was out of town. This was not a surprise to him. He knew he would be a wealthy man that could set sail and live his life at sea eating fish and drinking port if only someone would pay him to burn garlic bread.
It was the truth and that is all that matters to some. It should matter to most but men are often too proud to take their blows like the prizefighters they boast to be in bars at last call. What should be nothing is everything to a liar. It is worse when the only person in the bar is the bartender. Not even the mirrors talk to the loudest scoundrel.
His friends would always talk about the garlic bread as if it had never been the grand curse that it came to be in his formidable years of cooking. It haunted him from his earliest days as a host. The wine, the women, the whipped cream had always been to his preference, but the garlic bread would laugh in the freezer and then cackle in the oven. A bare brutal beating would come from his compatriots, but they were at least true and loyal, and that is all a man can ask of his friends and lovers.
The door rattled with knocks now and he heard the squealing and giggling of his guests in the courtyard on the other side. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink and dropped the mangled sacrifice into its usual temple and closed it. There would be no garlic bread this evening. There would be wine and sex and lasagna but the garlic bread had played it's part in the death of a quiet chef's reputation. He wanted the women and there would be no fool left in the kitchen.
He brushed his blazer, moved a hand through his hair and surveyed his teeth in the mirror of his dining hall before he answered the door. He turned the knob and the night was tempered with glory.
"Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii," he said.
A half dozen Asian women in black dresses stumbled into his house with fervor and eagerness. They passed Scott and removed their coats and kissed his cheek and showed the white teeth they couldn't hide in their red cheeks any longer. They had arrived in a cab and he closed the door. He would drive them home in the morning, after a swim in the nude with good sunlight and iced tea.
"Who wants wine?" he asked.
Each woman showed him the bottle of wine they brought with them. They still howled like their throats tickled with exotic feathers in each breath. They had the same notions as him and they might have been even more riddled with the dreams that we so often find pretty before sleep in a bed alone for one night too long. These women were the last thoughts he would have on his deathbed, he surely knew.
"Very good," Scott said. He pointed his finger in a quick jab and made an elegant sound. "Mmhmm. Very good indeed."
Thursday, September 12, 2013
The Long Night of Jackie Jones
"The Long Night of Jackie Jones"
a borderline obnoxious five-chapter story about the photographer Jackie, if it were (quickly and lazily) written by Charles Bukowski.
by Jake Kilroy
Chapter I: Hot Night
I got home late from the newsroom. It was dark but pretty. The sky was still there, so I hadn't died on the way home. There was music on somewhere. My studio was still and hot, but what else do Americans expect from their bedrooms in the summertime? People want to come home to a disaster or flowers, and they never learn it's nothing but a room. There are a hundred rooms on the block. Why would any of them be different from the others?
"All these weddings and no assistant," I cursed with salty gums. I had hoped my work would've done itself in hours ago.
Chapter II: Sure Enough, Here
The clock was a sloppy mess, hands everywhere. Or maybe it was the heat. Maybe Dali was right about clocks. Maybe Einstein was right about time. Maybe I was right about nothing. At least here was cold beer in the fridge. It would be a long night, but that's the only kind I've ever had.
"All these weddings and no assistant," I mumbled again, waiting for the air to come on. The air was staler than the bread I begged for when I was a rotten youth.
I set my bag down and considered my computer. Lurking in it were brides and grooms and the terrible aches of the future. How had so many deadlines come knocking at my door to let themselves in? Why was I always at the Orange Circle taking photographs of sunlight?
Ah. So I'd have something to hold onto when the darkness and wine came later.
Chapter III: Sacrilege of the Photographer by the Writer
Hours later, I had a headache and my pajamas on. There were photos everywhere with memories nowhere to be found. They let me drink at these weddings, and they shouldn't. I'd be a mess if there weren't other messes. I can blend into a crowd. It's not that hard. All you do is stand tall and micmic the others. This is why sheep get eaten by wolves. They try to show off.
Individuality will get you killed. Conformity will get you married. The irony will get you grinning. But, ideally, in the back of your mind, you also see yourself smiling in front of a firing squad.
Joe Purdy came from the small radio I keep by the window. His answers made sense, but I had no questions I could ask this late after so much work with words. I nearly drowned in the wine bottle that watched over me like a concerned friend. These were troubling times, but I was in no mood to be anything else than drunk and glorious at photo editing.
So many lovers, so many meadows, so many holding hands with daylight glimmering until nausea sets in later, often around midnight. Then I will go to bed, convinced that I am the reason these people even love each other. The artist with the loaded gun, bullets flying out (months later, after I've touched up the colors), here now in the foxhole of her room, waiting out another summer of engagements, weddings, and babys being goddamned babies, drooling on themselves, like I will one day when I have finally given up the camera for good.
Chapter IV: When You Finally Give into Everything You Want and Your Body is Silent
When the slurs finally came to my mouth, the empty room felt like another person. It sheltered me and kept me company. I wasn't lonely, though every strong-hearted person says that, whether they mean it or not. I can be mean or not. Whatever suits the mood suits me. There's nothing to do about the world if it doesn't feel like it.
Around 2, I called Celeste. She didn't answer. It was just as well. I had seen New Girl GIFs online, and my only intention was to giggle with her for 45 minutes, or until one of us lost breath and fell asleep. These were the nights, and we welcomed them.
The sun was still gone, and I was still awake, but we would both be changing soon. What lousy creatures night owls are, with their broken eyes and their busted hearing. So I called a man. His name was in my phone as "Robert, M.D." I didn't remember him. I remembered what I had that night. But you can't make a house call to eight vodka tonics and a handful of vicodin.
Robert answered without any tone of drink or drug. He was asleep.
"Hello?" came the groggy voice.
"Hi, is this Robert?" I chirped.
"Who is this?"
"Are you a doctor?"
"What?"
"Are you a doctor?" I repeated, slower this time. This brute was a drag.
"I'm a maitre d'. Who the fuck is this?"
"So you're not a doctor," I moaned in distress, this time making sure to roll my Rs like the bad girls from high school had taught me.
"Who. The Fuck. Is this?" he growled like a monstrous beast from Hell.
"Your worst fucking nightmare."
I hung up. If he wasn't going to give me the time of a day, I didn't see any point in giving him the time of night.
I wondered what Kristen was doing.
Chapter V: The Devil's Play Things
I tried to do the math to figure out if Kristen was just going to bed or just getting up, but the numbers might as well have been sworn enemies. I can count cigarettes, and I know what radio stations play the right songs, so I stopped. It was enough math.
I went back to the computer. I had enough of weddings. There was more to life. There was more to the world. The problem wasn't the system. The problem was me. I had made a living taking pictures of happiness, and they weren't me. I was happy, and I've been happy. But happiness to me is free booze and a dance floor. I don't need a whole goddamned society telling me otherwise.
Still, I suppose there is always something left, even at night. The fears and the anxieties come out of the darkness swinging at you. The problem is that it requires a choice. Step back, swing back, or die. I decided to find a man, to find sex. I was bored, and I was hungry, and it was more work for me to make a sandwich at this hour.
I took down the last of the last bottle, unable to read labels anymore until rest. So I went to the window. I wasn't a beggar, but I wondered. Where were the machines of sex? Where were the men, soldiering on as nobodies in their great lifelong campaign of nothing? Where was the entertainment for a young woman hellbent on everything? They were supposed to be ready and willing and eager to ruin.
So here I was, a woman, empty and coarse, relentlessly pursuing a dream, any dream.
And then the young man dropped off the morning paper. His eyes lured up to my window like a catfish with his mouth caught on the grime of the hook. I grinned, starved for attention and sweat. He, on the other hand, gulped so loud it should've woken the neighborhood. He set down his bike, and I walked to the door to unlock it. There is never a need in this world to be impolite. Always be a good host. It will be repaid in the afterlife.
a borderline obnoxious five-chapter story about the photographer Jackie, if it were (quickly and lazily) written by Charles Bukowski.
by Jake Kilroy
Chapter I: Hot Night
I got home late from the newsroom. It was dark but pretty. The sky was still there, so I hadn't died on the way home. There was music on somewhere. My studio was still and hot, but what else do Americans expect from their bedrooms in the summertime? People want to come home to a disaster or flowers, and they never learn it's nothing but a room. There are a hundred rooms on the block. Why would any of them be different from the others?
"All these weddings and no assistant," I cursed with salty gums. I had hoped my work would've done itself in hours ago.
Chapter II: Sure Enough, Here
The clock was a sloppy mess, hands everywhere. Or maybe it was the heat. Maybe Dali was right about clocks. Maybe Einstein was right about time. Maybe I was right about nothing. At least here was cold beer in the fridge. It would be a long night, but that's the only kind I've ever had.
"All these weddings and no assistant," I mumbled again, waiting for the air to come on. The air was staler than the bread I begged for when I was a rotten youth.
I set my bag down and considered my computer. Lurking in it were brides and grooms and the terrible aches of the future. How had so many deadlines come knocking at my door to let themselves in? Why was I always at the Orange Circle taking photographs of sunlight?
Ah. So I'd have something to hold onto when the darkness and wine came later.
Chapter III: Sacrilege of the Photographer by the Writer
Hours later, I had a headache and my pajamas on. There were photos everywhere with memories nowhere to be found. They let me drink at these weddings, and they shouldn't. I'd be a mess if there weren't other messes. I can blend into a crowd. It's not that hard. All you do is stand tall and micmic the others. This is why sheep get eaten by wolves. They try to show off.
Individuality will get you killed. Conformity will get you married. The irony will get you grinning. But, ideally, in the back of your mind, you also see yourself smiling in front of a firing squad.
Joe Purdy came from the small radio I keep by the window. His answers made sense, but I had no questions I could ask this late after so much work with words. I nearly drowned in the wine bottle that watched over me like a concerned friend. These were troubling times, but I was in no mood to be anything else than drunk and glorious at photo editing.
So many lovers, so many meadows, so many holding hands with daylight glimmering until nausea sets in later, often around midnight. Then I will go to bed, convinced that I am the reason these people even love each other. The artist with the loaded gun, bullets flying out (months later, after I've touched up the colors), here now in the foxhole of her room, waiting out another summer of engagements, weddings, and babys being goddamned babies, drooling on themselves, like I will one day when I have finally given up the camera for good.
Chapter IV: When You Finally Give into Everything You Want and Your Body is Silent
When the slurs finally came to my mouth, the empty room felt like another person. It sheltered me and kept me company. I wasn't lonely, though every strong-hearted person says that, whether they mean it or not. I can be mean or not. Whatever suits the mood suits me. There's nothing to do about the world if it doesn't feel like it.
Around 2, I called Celeste. She didn't answer. It was just as well. I had seen New Girl GIFs online, and my only intention was to giggle with her for 45 minutes, or until one of us lost breath and fell asleep. These were the nights, and we welcomed them.
The sun was still gone, and I was still awake, but we would both be changing soon. What lousy creatures night owls are, with their broken eyes and their busted hearing. So I called a man. His name was in my phone as "Robert, M.D." I didn't remember him. I remembered what I had that night. But you can't make a house call to eight vodka tonics and a handful of vicodin.
Robert answered without any tone of drink or drug. He was asleep.
"Hello?" came the groggy voice.
"Hi, is this Robert?" I chirped.
"Who is this?"
"Are you a doctor?"
"What?"
"Are you a doctor?" I repeated, slower this time. This brute was a drag.
"I'm a maitre d'. Who the fuck is this?"
"So you're not a doctor," I moaned in distress, this time making sure to roll my Rs like the bad girls from high school had taught me.
"Who. The Fuck. Is this?" he growled like a monstrous beast from Hell.
"Your worst fucking nightmare."
I hung up. If he wasn't going to give me the time of a day, I didn't see any point in giving him the time of night.
I wondered what Kristen was doing.
Chapter V: The Devil's Play Things
I tried to do the math to figure out if Kristen was just going to bed or just getting up, but the numbers might as well have been sworn enemies. I can count cigarettes, and I know what radio stations play the right songs, so I stopped. It was enough math.
I went back to the computer. I had enough of weddings. There was more to life. There was more to the world. The problem wasn't the system. The problem was me. I had made a living taking pictures of happiness, and they weren't me. I was happy, and I've been happy. But happiness to me is free booze and a dance floor. I don't need a whole goddamned society telling me otherwise.
Still, I suppose there is always something left, even at night. The fears and the anxieties come out of the darkness swinging at you. The problem is that it requires a choice. Step back, swing back, or die. I decided to find a man, to find sex. I was bored, and I was hungry, and it was more work for me to make a sandwich at this hour.
I took down the last of the last bottle, unable to read labels anymore until rest. So I went to the window. I wasn't a beggar, but I wondered. Where were the machines of sex? Where were the men, soldiering on as nobodies in their great lifelong campaign of nothing? Where was the entertainment for a young woman hellbent on everything? They were supposed to be ready and willing and eager to ruin.
So here I was, a woman, empty and coarse, relentlessly pursuing a dream, any dream.
And then the young man dropped off the morning paper. His eyes lured up to my window like a catfish with his mouth caught on the grime of the hook. I grinned, starved for attention and sweat. He, on the other hand, gulped so loud it should've woken the neighborhood. He set down his bike, and I walked to the door to unlock it. There is never a need in this world to be impolite. Always be a good host. It will be repaid in the afterlife.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Rings
"Rings"
a story for Carlos, by Jake Kilroy
Based off of a Facebook comment from Carlos:
"Requesting you write a short story about life on Earth with rings!" - Carlos, with this link.
The rings wrapped the sky like a neon ribbon and shattered the colors of the sunset. Carlos and Jake sat on top of the barn with several empty beer cans between them and their legs dangling. Carlos leaned forward and spit, wiping the foam from his mustache. Jake nearly dozed off.
"What do you think it'd be like without the rings?" Carlos asked.
"Boring," Jake answered, rubbing his eyes. "I mean, what would be left? Empty space and a few stars?"
"Well, we'd see more stars."
"We would?"
"Yeah. Without the rings, there'd be less light in the way, and the sky would look like a diamond quarry, I assume."
"Sunsets would be flat."
"Probably true," Carlos agreed, "but the only light pollution would be from buildings."
"And streetlights. And headlights. And those swirly lights at movie premieres."
"Searchlights?"
"Ah, that's what they're called," Jake said with a snap. "Wait, that doesn't make sense. They're facing the sky. What are they searching for?"
"I don't know. God?"
"The only god you'll find at a movie premiere is the god of fake boobs and fur."
"That's real deep, Jake."
"Would God love or hate movie premieres?"
"He'd probably have mixed emotions," Carlos explained, considering another sip.
"God has emotions?"
"Well, he's capable of wrath, right?"
"Yeah," Jake mumbled with a squint.
"And he's capable of pride."
"Right, but not gluttony, since he can't eat."
"Gluttony isn't an emotion. It's a sin."
"So is pride and wrath."
"Good point," Carlos agreed.
"Is haircuts one of the seven deadly sins?"
"Ok, I think you've had enough to drink."
"Which would be sloth."
"The guy from The Goonies?"
"Now who's had enough to drink?
"How are we going to get down?"
"Hey, do you think you could slide down the rings?" Jake asked, pointing up.
"I doubt it. They're just jagged ice and rocks."
"They are?"
"Man, your high school science teacher should be put in front of a firing squad."
"You're an enemy of science, Los."
"I'm the one explaining the rings!"
"Los of the Rings."
"Ok, well, that was lazy."
"I kind of wish we could see the sky without them."
"We probably wouldn't know what to do with all those stars."
"I don't even know what to do with the rings."
"Maybe we should just leave the sky alone."
"Sounds good."
And so the two men toasted the sky, clinked their beers, and went on arguing about Tim Duncan.
a story for Carlos, by Jake Kilroy
Based off of a Facebook comment from Carlos:
"Requesting you write a short story about life on Earth with rings!" - Carlos, with this link.
The rings wrapped the sky like a neon ribbon and shattered the colors of the sunset. Carlos and Jake sat on top of the barn with several empty beer cans between them and their legs dangling. Carlos leaned forward and spit, wiping the foam from his mustache. Jake nearly dozed off.
"What do you think it'd be like without the rings?" Carlos asked.
"Boring," Jake answered, rubbing his eyes. "I mean, what would be left? Empty space and a few stars?"
"Well, we'd see more stars."
"We would?"
"Yeah. Without the rings, there'd be less light in the way, and the sky would look like a diamond quarry, I assume."
"Sunsets would be flat."
"Probably true," Carlos agreed, "but the only light pollution would be from buildings."
"And streetlights. And headlights. And those swirly lights at movie premieres."
"Searchlights?"
"Ah, that's what they're called," Jake said with a snap. "Wait, that doesn't make sense. They're facing the sky. What are they searching for?"
"I don't know. God?"
"The only god you'll find at a movie premiere is the god of fake boobs and fur."
"That's real deep, Jake."
"Would God love or hate movie premieres?"
"He'd probably have mixed emotions," Carlos explained, considering another sip.
"God has emotions?"
"Well, he's capable of wrath, right?"
"Yeah," Jake mumbled with a squint.
"And he's capable of pride."
"Right, but not gluttony, since he can't eat."
"Gluttony isn't an emotion. It's a sin."
"So is pride and wrath."
"Good point," Carlos agreed.
"Is haircuts one of the seven deadly sins?"
"Ok, I think you've had enough to drink."
"Which would be sloth."
"The guy from The Goonies?"
"Now who's had enough to drink?
"How are we going to get down?"
"Hey, do you think you could slide down the rings?" Jake asked, pointing up.
"I doubt it. They're just jagged ice and rocks."
"They are?"
"Man, your high school science teacher should be put in front of a firing squad."
"You're an enemy of science, Los."
"I'm the one explaining the rings!"
"Los of the Rings."
"Ok, well, that was lazy."
"I kind of wish we could see the sky without them."
"We probably wouldn't know what to do with all those stars."
"I don't even know what to do with the rings."
"Maybe we should just leave the sky alone."
"Sounds good."
And so the two men toasted the sky, clinked their beers, and went on arguing about Tim Duncan.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Two People Talking Beside A Fireplace
They lied next to each other, counting the holes in the ceiling. There were none.
"Don't you think it's kind of stupid to run your air conditioning just so you can use the fireplace?" asked the young woman.
"I don't care," sighed the young man.
"Also, should we even be smoking in the house? Every window is shut."
"Ok, I guess that is stupid."
He sat up.
"But I don't plan to change what I'm doing," he remarked gently. "I'm too comfortable."
She sat up.
"This conversation just took a turn for the worse, didn't it?"
"Every conversation with me takes a turn for the worse."
"You're in rare form, even for a Saturday night."
He laughed.
"I'm not even depressed. Not really apathetic. Can't say I'm drifting either," he laughed with a shrug. "Is it possible for a person to have a heightened sense of entitlement so bad that they grow delirious from confusion?"
She stared at him.
"You have to start sleeping."
"Can't. The coke makes a loud racket."
"Oh man, that explains so much," she said, shaking her head.
"It really doesn't. I started doing the coke because I wasn't sleeping. I started doing coke again because it gave me something to do at 3 a.m."
"Everything you're saying sounds like the most unhealthy thing I've ever heard."
He shrugged.
"WebMD would tell you that you have cancer of the conscience," she said with a wry smile.
"No guilt, no reckoning. Maybe boredom is a symptom."
"Do you hear yourself?" she asked. "Ok, I know how that sounds, but you're clearly dealing with some turmoil."
"I don't think I am. What if insomnia is just a way to get by? What if sleep was really killing me?"
"You need to get out of this empty house. Where are your roommates anyway?"
"One's in L.A. Other's in San Francisco."
"Place is all yours all weekend?"
"Afraid so."
"And you wanted to spend it smoking cigarettes with me?"
"And you wanted to spend your weekend in an empty house with a guy who can't sleep?"
"Fair enough," she answered. "So what's your big problem anyway?"
"I think I wear too much plaid."
"No, really."
"Honestly, I couldn't tell you. I don't drink enough?"
"We both know that's not the problem. Loneliness?"
"My sheets may have thinned out, but they aren't without filler."
"Ew."
"You asked."
"So it's just boredom?"
"Maybe it's worse than that."
"Nothing's worse than boredom."
"Maybe it's that. Maybe that sentence is the problem."
"I think we nailed it."
"Right to the cross."
He laid back down.
"By the way, your new man seems nice," he said, shadows fang.
"Listen, you can be psychiatrist next time. I think it's obvious you're the patient tonight."
There was a heavy silence. He finally broke it.
"You ever watch Korean game shows?"
"Jesus, you're in trouble."
"Don't you think it's kind of stupid to run your air conditioning just so you can use the fireplace?" asked the young woman.
"I don't care," sighed the young man.
"Also, should we even be smoking in the house? Every window is shut."
"Ok, I guess that is stupid."
He sat up.
"But I don't plan to change what I'm doing," he remarked gently. "I'm too comfortable."
She sat up.
"This conversation just took a turn for the worse, didn't it?"
"Every conversation with me takes a turn for the worse."
"You're in rare form, even for a Saturday night."
He laughed.
"I'm not even depressed. Not really apathetic. Can't say I'm drifting either," he laughed with a shrug. "Is it possible for a person to have a heightened sense of entitlement so bad that they grow delirious from confusion?"
She stared at him.
"You have to start sleeping."
"Can't. The coke makes a loud racket."
"Oh man, that explains so much," she said, shaking her head.
"It really doesn't. I started doing the coke because I wasn't sleeping. I started doing coke again because it gave me something to do at 3 a.m."
"Everything you're saying sounds like the most unhealthy thing I've ever heard."
He shrugged.
"WebMD would tell you that you have cancer of the conscience," she said with a wry smile.
"No guilt, no reckoning. Maybe boredom is a symptom."
"Do you hear yourself?" she asked. "Ok, I know how that sounds, but you're clearly dealing with some turmoil."
"I don't think I am. What if insomnia is just a way to get by? What if sleep was really killing me?"
"You need to get out of this empty house. Where are your roommates anyway?"
"One's in L.A. Other's in San Francisco."
"Place is all yours all weekend?"
"Afraid so."
"And you wanted to spend it smoking cigarettes with me?"
"And you wanted to spend your weekend in an empty house with a guy who can't sleep?"
"Fair enough," she answered. "So what's your big problem anyway?"
"I think I wear too much plaid."
"No, really."
"Honestly, I couldn't tell you. I don't drink enough?"
"We both know that's not the problem. Loneliness?"
"My sheets may have thinned out, but they aren't without filler."
"Ew."
"You asked."
"So it's just boredom?"
"Maybe it's worse than that."
"Nothing's worse than boredom."
"Maybe it's that. Maybe that sentence is the problem."
"I think we nailed it."
"Right to the cross."
He laid back down.
"By the way, your new man seems nice," he said, shadows fang.
"Listen, you can be psychiatrist next time. I think it's obvious you're the patient tonight."
There was a heavy silence. He finally broke it.
"You ever watch Korean game shows?"
"Jesus, you're in trouble."
Friday, June 15, 2012
The Magician's Veil: Part Two
The Magician's Veil: Part Two
by Jake Kilroy
The Magician's Veil: Part One can be read here. This is Part Two.
Squile stepped lightly in the darkness. The wooden planks creaked like broken songbirds. All he could see in the endless black was the sparkle of the magician's teeth when he would look back at the boy and grin a mouthful of ivory lanterns.
"So," he hissed gleefully, "you are to be a magician?"
"Yes, sir," Squile answered with full lungs and a prideful chest.
"Then it's all downhill from here," the magician told him.
Squile felt his bones creak like the floorboards.
But then they came to a spiraling stone stairwell with torches glowing angrily. Tapestries of rich historical scenes that Squile had not learned about in school adorned the descending rock hallway. Squile understood the downhill joke now, and it made him even more uneasy, as the magician giggled like a puppeteer.
"Watch your step," cooed the magician. "I'd hate for you to break your legs and be left down here with the beasts."
Squile's throat closed like a trap door, catching his breath off-guard.
Then the stairs lead into an underground hall of sparse light. It was one room, but it had high ceilings and a sense of grandness to it. At the entrance stood two statues of intriguing beasts that Squile didn't recognize. He got the second joke, and the magician again stifled his sneaky laugh.
With a sweeping motion, the magician undid his cape and threw it up onto a hook. It caught perfectly. Next, he tilted his head backward so that his top hat fell, and the magician kicked it with his heel. It too landed perfectly on a hook. Without breaking his stride, the magician finally whirled a single match out of his breast pocket, struck it against his shoe and threw it in front of him, where it ignited a torch. Once near it, he slapped the base of it, so a few of the flames leapt out and caught another torch, which then spun and threw flames to another torch, and so on. Within the catching of a breath, the room was aglow, and it stunned Squile to his very core. The room was beautiful, unlike anything the boy had seen in his short life. There was no dull quality to it. Stained glass separated working areas of science, old books piled upon older books of the many shelves, and a tucked away corner of the breathtaking hall looked like a medical station. Paintings covered the walls, and, beyond the many trinkets and prizes, a bedroom had been fashioned with little privacy.
Once his eyes unglued themselves from the magnificence of the hall, they came to settle on a throne decorated with beads and hats atop and the magician sitting with an his head resting on his knuckles.
"So," the magician bellowed with gleaming eyes, "you want to be a magician."
Squile was helpless with words for a moment, but then caught his tongue and shot it out.
"Yes, sir," the boy announced, "and I know you to be a man of magic."
"Me?" the magician jokingly gasped and then stood. "What if I were to tell you that I wasn't a magician and these wonderful decorations were all that I've lifted from the many magicians I've murdered?"
Squile had not considered this. Not even slightly. He locked eyes with the magician's yellow wolf eyes. He had thought them to be a different color. Even now, they looked like blood drops were dotting the gold.
"You have built yourself a reputation to be an honorable man. Whether by the grace of a god or by the possession of a demon, you have announced yourself before as a great magician," the boy explained heartily.
The magician paced the room and considered this. Squile had not realized how long of a man the magician was. He looked like a marionette, strung together desperately and plagued by splinters. His legs crept across the floor.
"And who, my new young fascinating accomplice, has told you off my honor?" the magician asked, almost philosophically.
"The great magician Travio. When drunk on wine, he would talk in his sleep. He would talk of you."
The magician's eyes fluttered like birds in mid-flight. His ears twitched.
"Travio," repeated the magician. "I have not caught his name in my empty nest of a head for quite some time. How do you know him?"
"He was my uncle."
"Was?" the magician purred sadly, leaning over his long legs.
Squile sighed grudgingly and breathed a few panic attacks.
"He was murdered last week," he finally answered.
The magician's eyes dropped, weighing the news. He looked at his coal black shoes, which he lifted up, as he rolled on his feet, taking in the death.
"How?"
It was all the magician said, and it was the first word spoken by him that didn't contain a sugary coat.
"Strangled."
"By whom?"
Squile labored a breath.
"That is why I'm here."
The magician's head rose like a balloon with eyes that looked almost blue now.
"Have you come here to find the great hands of a murderer?"
"Yes."
"Am I to be sought vengeance upon?"
"No," said the boy.
"Ah," nodded the magician. "So you have not icy blades in your heart or pockets intended for me?"
Squile saw the confusion now.
"Not even a dull branch with the threat of splinters. My uncle, in his drunken slumber, always spoke highly of you, even when it was nonsense."
The magician smiled a truly radiant grin.
"So you are here for answers?"
"I am here for help."
The magician lifted his chin suspiciously.
"And training," added the boy.
"Before you are taught anything, I want a question answered by your young lips," growled the magician. "Do you know what revenge tastes like?"
"I imagine it is a sweet taste."
That is what priests and politicians want you to think, but they are no cooks."
"Then what is the the taste of revenge?"
"It is a foul, sour taste," explained the magician. "But it is an acquired one. Maybe even a delicacy for those who have so little."
Squile gulped.
by Jake Kilroy
The Magician's Veil: Part One can be read here. This is Part Two.
Squile stepped lightly in the darkness. The wooden planks creaked like broken songbirds. All he could see in the endless black was the sparkle of the magician's teeth when he would look back at the boy and grin a mouthful of ivory lanterns.
"So," he hissed gleefully, "you are to be a magician?"
"Yes, sir," Squile answered with full lungs and a prideful chest.
"Then it's all downhill from here," the magician told him.
Squile felt his bones creak like the floorboards.
But then they came to a spiraling stone stairwell with torches glowing angrily. Tapestries of rich historical scenes that Squile had not learned about in school adorned the descending rock hallway. Squile understood the downhill joke now, and it made him even more uneasy, as the magician giggled like a puppeteer.
"Watch your step," cooed the magician. "I'd hate for you to break your legs and be left down here with the beasts."
Squile's throat closed like a trap door, catching his breath off-guard.
Then the stairs lead into an underground hall of sparse light. It was one room, but it had high ceilings and a sense of grandness to it. At the entrance stood two statues of intriguing beasts that Squile didn't recognize. He got the second joke, and the magician again stifled his sneaky laugh.
With a sweeping motion, the magician undid his cape and threw it up onto a hook. It caught perfectly. Next, he tilted his head backward so that his top hat fell, and the magician kicked it with his heel. It too landed perfectly on a hook. Without breaking his stride, the magician finally whirled a single match out of his breast pocket, struck it against his shoe and threw it in front of him, where it ignited a torch. Once near it, he slapped the base of it, so a few of the flames leapt out and caught another torch, which then spun and threw flames to another torch, and so on. Within the catching of a breath, the room was aglow, and it stunned Squile to his very core. The room was beautiful, unlike anything the boy had seen in his short life. There was no dull quality to it. Stained glass separated working areas of science, old books piled upon older books of the many shelves, and a tucked away corner of the breathtaking hall looked like a medical station. Paintings covered the walls, and, beyond the many trinkets and prizes, a bedroom had been fashioned with little privacy.
Once his eyes unglued themselves from the magnificence of the hall, they came to settle on a throne decorated with beads and hats atop and the magician sitting with an his head resting on his knuckles.
"So," the magician bellowed with gleaming eyes, "you want to be a magician."
Squile was helpless with words for a moment, but then caught his tongue and shot it out.
"Yes, sir," the boy announced, "and I know you to be a man of magic."
"Me?" the magician jokingly gasped and then stood. "What if I were to tell you that I wasn't a magician and these wonderful decorations were all that I've lifted from the many magicians I've murdered?"
Squile had not considered this. Not even slightly. He locked eyes with the magician's yellow wolf eyes. He had thought them to be a different color. Even now, they looked like blood drops were dotting the gold.
"You have built yourself a reputation to be an honorable man. Whether by the grace of a god or by the possession of a demon, you have announced yourself before as a great magician," the boy explained heartily.
The magician paced the room and considered this. Squile had not realized how long of a man the magician was. He looked like a marionette, strung together desperately and plagued by splinters. His legs crept across the floor.
"And who, my new young fascinating accomplice, has told you off my honor?" the magician asked, almost philosophically.
"The great magician Travio. When drunk on wine, he would talk in his sleep. He would talk of you."
The magician's eyes fluttered like birds in mid-flight. His ears twitched.
"Travio," repeated the magician. "I have not caught his name in my empty nest of a head for quite some time. How do you know him?"
"He was my uncle."
"Was?" the magician purred sadly, leaning over his long legs.
Squile sighed grudgingly and breathed a few panic attacks.
"He was murdered last week," he finally answered.
The magician's eyes dropped, weighing the news. He looked at his coal black shoes, which he lifted up, as he rolled on his feet, taking in the death.
"How?"
It was all the magician said, and it was the first word spoken by him that didn't contain a sugary coat.
"Strangled."
"By whom?"
Squile labored a breath.
"That is why I'm here."
The magician's head rose like a balloon with eyes that looked almost blue now.
"Have you come here to find the great hands of a murderer?"
"Yes."
"Am I to be sought vengeance upon?"
"No," said the boy.
"Ah," nodded the magician. "So you have not icy blades in your heart or pockets intended for me?"
Squile saw the confusion now.
"Not even a dull branch with the threat of splinters. My uncle, in his drunken slumber, always spoke highly of you, even when it was nonsense."
The magician smiled a truly radiant grin.
"So you are here for answers?"
"I am here for help."
The magician lifted his chin suspiciously.
"And training," added the boy.
"Before you are taught anything, I want a question answered by your young lips," growled the magician. "Do you know what revenge tastes like?"
"I imagine it is a sweet taste."
That is what priests and politicians want you to think, but they are no cooks."
"Then what is the the taste of revenge?"
"It is a foul, sour taste," explained the magician. "But it is an acquired one. Maybe even a delicacy for those who have so little."
Squile gulped.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
"Chuck & Carolina"
"Chuck & Carolina"
written for the eternal by jake kilroy.
written for the eternal by jake kilroy.
The breeze tumbled across the road more often than cars did and the trees shrugged their usual July whispers. The lake was perfect and the downtown was filled with talkative locals. In the great turning of the world, there rolled a loud hum. It was summer, and it was glorious.
Up the wispy, melodramatic, lakeside street known as Cherrywood Road sat a girl on a porch step. She wore a sundress that looked like it had been sewn by birds. Standing above her, leaning against the columns of the house, was a slightly older gentleman with a button-up shirt tucked into his jeans, holding a tin cup. He wore boots and a shadow against his darkened cheekbones.
"You know, you're pretty when you're mad," he told her, drawing a line through his thin beard, his hand holding a cigarette with dirt beneath his nails. "But you're downright gorgeous when you're happy."
"So then take me dancing," she cooed, leaning over herself, squinting in the sunlight.
He leaned back and grinned almost too wide for his face, letting the smoke come from his nose like steam from a train. He bit his lip and rolled his powerful neck.
"Darling, you may be trouble. I'm an old man now. I wore out all my good dancing shoes ages ago."
She smiled helplessly.
"I may be younger, but you've got a young spirit, maybe even younger than mine," she told him.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but even artists in Paris aren't this hard up for youth," he drawled, the apology having echoed up from the great cavern of his chest. "No matter how teenage or wayward my heart is."
"Spirit, not heart," she corrected him softly.
"Hey, you've got your religion. I've got mine," he chuckled.
The rose petals of her cheeks fluttered.
"Chuck, if talking was an art, and it damn well should be, you'd be the love child of Vincent Van Gogh and Georgia O'Keefe."
"That right?" his voice boomed, as he tip-toed backward with a sultry step. It was a difficult feat against the whiney old wooden planks of the porch. They never shut up when he wanted them to.
"I may be younger, but you've got a young spirit, maybe even younger than mine," she told him.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but even artists in Paris aren't this hard up for youth," he drawled, the apology having echoed up from the great cavern of his chest. "No matter how teenage or wayward my heart is."
"Spirit, not heart," she corrected him softly.
"Hey, you've got your religion. I've got mine," he chuckled.
The rose petals of her cheeks fluttered.
"Chuck, if talking was an art, and it damn well should be, you'd be the love child of Vincent Van Gogh and Georgia O'Keefe."
"That right?" his voice boomed, as he tip-toed backward with a sultry step. It was a difficult feat against the whiney old wooden planks of the porch. They never shut up when he wanted them to.
"That's right," she answered, a warm breeze lapsing through the cave of her milk-white throat. "You're soft enough for flowers, but you're crazy enough to cut off your ear for love."
"Honey, you got it wrong," he crooned, as he dipped back and slung up the guitar tucked behind the firewood. "I'm soft enough to cut off my ear for love and crazy enough for flowers."
Her brow caved in on itself, as she wasn't sure what he meant. And neither did he. He looked at the sky, as if his own sly talk would be spelled out for him in burly white against the silk of the blue.
She looked back at him to follow up his nonsense speak, only to be surprised that a wooden guitar was now in his hands, held with the gentle cockiness of a prayer book.
"Oh, soft enough for guitar?" she laughed.
"Crazy enough for a song," he smiled.
"You know all the ways to a girl's heart, Chuck."
"Same way as always," he laughed. "Right through the front door."
Her eyebrows stood up and shook hands. She gave him the pitter-patter of her hands a whirl.
"Here goes," he sighed. His fingers trickled down the strings, and a folksy melody that could've been for the righteous or the wicked escaped from the wooden depths of the guitar's caverns.
"Gooooddaaaaaamn, the looonely meeeen; dreaming of the sea, buuuut broken by land," he sang.
From the side yard came a marching band drummer that Carolina recognized as one of the local boys that went swimming across the way. He played the snare hooked on him with an applause rhythm. She covered her mouth and her nose with her delicate hands.
"Sippiiiiiing cheap whiiiiskey on the shoreliiiine; just waiting on that old laughing sun to up and diiiiiiiie," he sang.
Then, from both sides of the porch, came the rest of the tucked away marching band: the horns, the woodwinds and the big drum.
And they all sang with Chuck, and they all played for Carolina. The lawn was filled with musical youths and a man who left his youth like a hometown.
"Daaaaarling, my heart is a biiiiiirdcage; just one red biiiiiird singiiiiing your name," he and his makeshift band sang together. "Now, I'm wonderiiiiiiing and consideriiiiiing; just leaving that tiny old steel gate wiiiiide open."
"Because!" he yelled, and the marching band played louder.
"My heart is a biiiird cage!" he sang alone, a melody that sounded chewed up and swallowed, nourishing to the last note.
"His heart is a biiiird cage!" sang the teenagers.
"Just one reeeeed bird!" he bellowed.
"Just one reeeeed bird!" they bellowed.
"And it's singing your name!" he cheered.
"And it's singing your name!" they cheered.
"My heart is a bird cage!" he hollered.
"My heart is a bird cage!" they hollered.
"And it's singiiiiiiiiiiiiiing," he crowed with all the teenagers stopping abruptly, and with one last swipe on his guitar, he whispered, "yoooour naaaaaame!"
"Because!" he yelled, and the marching band played louder.
"My heart is a biiiird cage!" he sang alone, a melody that sounded chewed up and swallowed, nourishing to the last note.
"His heart is a biiiird cage!" sang the teenagers.
"Just one reeeeed bird!" he bellowed.
"Just one reeeeed bird!" they bellowed.
"And it's singing your name!" he cheered.
"And it's singing your name!" they cheered.
"My heart is a bird cage!" he hollered.
"My heart is a bird cage!" they hollered.
"And it's singiiiiiiiiiiiiiing," he crowed with all the teenagers stopping abruptly, and with one last swipe on his guitar, he whispered, "yoooour naaaaaame!"
By then, the neighbors had gathered, though Carolina didn't take any notice. She swung herself up from the steps and into Chuck's arms. The drummer caught the guitar. They smooched, and he carried her off to go dancing with the marching band following them into town, wailing away on their instruments, striking up reprise of the birdcage tune.
An older man, one with a woman on his arm, spoke up.
"The heat does something funny to young folks of this town," he cracked.
"We were young folks once," the woman on his arm corrected.
"But I never played guitar."
"You played violin, and you wrote me a symphony."
"It was the heat, I tell ya!"
The old couple laughed and followed the rest into town.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Last Stand Prayers
"When I came at the world, I brought everything I had. It wasn't much, not by the standards of Fitzgerald or Bukowski. It was a pack of cigarettes, a lighter my father gave me and a loneliness nobody could put into words. How's that for apathy?" asked the man.
"Your name is in everyone's prayers," answered the kid.
The man nodded while the kid threw stones off the nearest cliff.
"Your name is in everyone's prayers," answered the kid.
The man nodded while the kid threw stones off the nearest cliff.
Friday, November 4, 2011
The Magician's Veil: Part One
"The Magician's Veil: Part One"
the beginning of something by jake kilroy.
The steam of the city came from every crack. It was the hottest month of the year and the poor of the downtown, an area known only as The Gray, knew it better than anyone. The Gray hid in the broken heart of the skyline, though it felt like the edge of civilization. Hissing and whistling came from the grates and the walls, as the water below them shook desperately to escape.
A young man by the name of Squile, pronounced "skill," left his block in search of a magician. As he kicked the cans of the alleyways and the dirt of the backroads, tucked away by the bridge, he felt the violent dreams coming back. Flashes of light careened in his head, bouncing off his ears and piercing his eyes with what he could only explain as "spiritual visions." Without any money, his family suggested he go in search of a magician, as the chance of affording a physician was slim, if not impossible.
Squile ducked through the sewer systems to make haste, tossing a switch blade in his hands for rats and thieves. He whistled his neighborhood's anthem, so any creeping sharp grins would know he was from the dirtiest of districts, making him the dirtiest of fighters. Now, on the other side of the water, Squile jumped through a pipe that had been set up as a hidden slide into an underground poker room. He slid, dragging his blade against the concrete towards the end to slow him down just enough to keep his stride when he hit the plank wood of a tavern's cellar. Several men played cards at a table nearby. They hardly noticed him.
This burrough, known only as The Range, was considerably cleaner than Squile's stake of city land, but it was the lowest level of interest for the other side of the river. Squile went up the stairs, kicked open the door and meandered through the bar of restless street tycoons. Broken bottles filled the trash cans, the bartender had a small arsenal beneath the counter and most of the crowd wore bowler hats with no smiles to match. It was loud and awful, but Squile moseyed through, still whistling his proud district tune. The locales knew him, but not by anything more than "kid." Squile was neatly dressed, or as fashionable as one could be from The Gray. Wearing a thin three-piece suit with shorts instead of pants, as pants were much more expensive in the city's tailor shops and a sign of class, Squile was as fancy as he figured he'd ever look. He was on the street and finally stopped tossing his knife in the air. Instead, he took in The Range.
Nearly everything in The Range was painted a shade of white or brown. The cobblestone streets were brown, the buildings were brown, both the horses and carriages were brown. One thing after another was either white or brown. The windows were white, the sky was white, the dresses were white. Squile nodded to nobody and stepped off the tavern's porch, slipping his sharp toy into his coat pocket.
Sunset was soon approaching, as the crew of lamplighters put the candles to work. Squile heard the angry chants of a fruit vendor at the market, which was spread through a large alley. Chalking up a sly smirk, Squile dodged carriages and beggers to make his way over. Without any hesitation, he bumped into the nearest lamplighter, who fell backwards into the angry fruit vendor, spilling his inventory. The lamplighter and the fruit vendor got into it, all while Squile collected his earnings.
Now looking like a young, lumpy man, Squile ate his winnings casually, with several more to go in his pockets. The sky was blood red by the time he reached Mortigan's Square and well on its way to darkness. Squile caressed the brickwork of the square until he came to a corner of ivy. The ivy was everywhere, except for a gaping hole in growth near the bottom. Squile brushed off some mortar dust and pushed on random bricks.
A churchbell rang in the distance. The sun was coming down upon the city. The brutal light of the sky flodded the streets in the final gasp of the horizon's breath.
Squile, still tapping at bricks, clicked his tongue and bit his lip, wondering what he should do. It was one thing to visit The Range. It was something else entirely to sleep in its streets. He just had to get beyond the wall.
Finally, his fingers stumbled upon a groove in the dirt and he pulled as hard as he could. The brick rolled in its place with the sound of gears replacing the gutter talk and drunken chatter awash in the square.
The bricks parted to form a small, though truly grand, entrance into a stone courtyard. It looked desolate and abandoned. Squile made a face. This was not what he was told would be. The rumors and wild talk had always suggested the courtyard was lavishly adorned with the most curious garden in the city's history.
Dumbfounded and disappointed, Squile made his way across the courtyard, taking in the spectacular nothing around him. Deteriorating walls of once-majestic masonry surrounded him on three sides as he faced what appeared to be a long-forgotten spice store. Its wooden sign swayed in the lulling breeze. Dry leaves fluttered lazily. Squile's eyes took in the scene once more before he noticed the design below his cloth shoes. Beneath the weight of Squile's increasingly nervous stance, there lay a star within a circle. Squile inhaled quickly. A pentagram in stone is almost never a good omen.
He gasped, reconsidering his intentions. His breaths shortened and sped up. The brick behind him began closing, as stone rubbed stone. Squile sprinted to the hole in the wall, but would've been crushed if he had attempted to jump through it.
There now came a rumbling in his heart he was usually unfamiliar with. Fear, in all of its entangling trickery, crept through him like snakes. His eyes stayed on the pentagram. Could he climb the walls? He wondered. He would have to.
Moving uneasily to the pentagram, Squile lowered his body, ready to run and climb the wall. He relaxed his lungs, exhaled and regained his calm. This is not how the city will kill me, he promised himself.
But before he reached the end of his count, the courtyard exploded with colors. Squile blinked and straightened. In an instant, Squile was in the most breath-taking garden he had ever seen. Flowers he didn't recognize, trees he wouldn't have believed, mesmerizingly soft grass all circled a tiny pond in the corner. In the middle, underneath Squile's feet, the pentagram covered itself in ivy.
And then the door of the shop opened.
Squile spun around and was even more impressed with the shop's appearance. It looked new. Beautiful architecture swept over the shop, now with clean windows and fresh paint. Squile stepped out of the ivy, hyponotized by the beauty. His heart racing and his skin itching, Squile stepped onto the small porch and then into the shop.
The shop's interior was astounding. Walls of velvet, chandeliers of brilliance and endless shelves of world wonders filled the shop, which was overwhelmingly larger than the outside hinted at. Squile moved hesitantly through the shop. Jars of powder and liquid, neatly labeled, filled an entire wall's shelves. Another long shelf featured tanks of plants and mud, each beautifully labeled. Squile jumped as he noticed that each tank contained frogs. The frogs watched him move across the room, towards the other half of the room swathed in black. Squile gulped as he proceeded. More shelves came into sight, each one offering new things that Squile didn't recognize. It was a hall of dreams.
Squile heard a swift movement in the darkness beyond. A knife soared through the air, barely a whisper from Squile's ear, and dug itself into the door frame Squile had come through. Squile shook with anxiety. He trembled as he gritted his teeth, slowly building himself up for what may come.
The outline of a gentleman came from the shadows. He wore an elegant suit, with matching cape and top hat, and held a knife that he twisted into his fingers. The gentleman's calm voice both thrilled and terrified Squile.
"And what may I do for you?" the gentleman whispered in a slow, syrupy growl.
Squile warmed himself up with heavy breaths.
"I want to be a magician," Squile replied.
A thin smile carved its way up the gentleman's face.
"Oh, is that all?" he said. " Then come with me, for we have work to do."
And, with that, the gentleman turned and gently disappeared into the darkness.
Squile heaved a sigh, smiled sharply and then followed the magician into the shadows.
the beginning of something by jake kilroy.
The steam of the city came from every crack. It was the hottest month of the year and the poor of the downtown, an area known only as The Gray, knew it better than anyone. The Gray hid in the broken heart of the skyline, though it felt like the edge of civilization. Hissing and whistling came from the grates and the walls, as the water below them shook desperately to escape.
A young man by the name of Squile, pronounced "skill," left his block in search of a magician. As he kicked the cans of the alleyways and the dirt of the backroads, tucked away by the bridge, he felt the violent dreams coming back. Flashes of light careened in his head, bouncing off his ears and piercing his eyes with what he could only explain as "spiritual visions." Without any money, his family suggested he go in search of a magician, as the chance of affording a physician was slim, if not impossible.
Squile ducked through the sewer systems to make haste, tossing a switch blade in his hands for rats and thieves. He whistled his neighborhood's anthem, so any creeping sharp grins would know he was from the dirtiest of districts, making him the dirtiest of fighters. Now, on the other side of the water, Squile jumped through a pipe that had been set up as a hidden slide into an underground poker room. He slid, dragging his blade against the concrete towards the end to slow him down just enough to keep his stride when he hit the plank wood of a tavern's cellar. Several men played cards at a table nearby. They hardly noticed him.
This burrough, known only as The Range, was considerably cleaner than Squile's stake of city land, but it was the lowest level of interest for the other side of the river. Squile went up the stairs, kicked open the door and meandered through the bar of restless street tycoons. Broken bottles filled the trash cans, the bartender had a small arsenal beneath the counter and most of the crowd wore bowler hats with no smiles to match. It was loud and awful, but Squile moseyed through, still whistling his proud district tune. The locales knew him, but not by anything more than "kid." Squile was neatly dressed, or as fashionable as one could be from The Gray. Wearing a thin three-piece suit with shorts instead of pants, as pants were much more expensive in the city's tailor shops and a sign of class, Squile was as fancy as he figured he'd ever look. He was on the street and finally stopped tossing his knife in the air. Instead, he took in The Range.
Nearly everything in The Range was painted a shade of white or brown. The cobblestone streets were brown, the buildings were brown, both the horses and carriages were brown. One thing after another was either white or brown. The windows were white, the sky was white, the dresses were white. Squile nodded to nobody and stepped off the tavern's porch, slipping his sharp toy into his coat pocket.
Sunset was soon approaching, as the crew of lamplighters put the candles to work. Squile heard the angry chants of a fruit vendor at the market, which was spread through a large alley. Chalking up a sly smirk, Squile dodged carriages and beggers to make his way over. Without any hesitation, he bumped into the nearest lamplighter, who fell backwards into the angry fruit vendor, spilling his inventory. The lamplighter and the fruit vendor got into it, all while Squile collected his earnings.
Now looking like a young, lumpy man, Squile ate his winnings casually, with several more to go in his pockets. The sky was blood red by the time he reached Mortigan's Square and well on its way to darkness. Squile caressed the brickwork of the square until he came to a corner of ivy. The ivy was everywhere, except for a gaping hole in growth near the bottom. Squile brushed off some mortar dust and pushed on random bricks.
A churchbell rang in the distance. The sun was coming down upon the city. The brutal light of the sky flodded the streets in the final gasp of the horizon's breath.
Squile, still tapping at bricks, clicked his tongue and bit his lip, wondering what he should do. It was one thing to visit The Range. It was something else entirely to sleep in its streets. He just had to get beyond the wall.
Finally, his fingers stumbled upon a groove in the dirt and he pulled as hard as he could. The brick rolled in its place with the sound of gears replacing the gutter talk and drunken chatter awash in the square.
The bricks parted to form a small, though truly grand, entrance into a stone courtyard. It looked desolate and abandoned. Squile made a face. This was not what he was told would be. The rumors and wild talk had always suggested the courtyard was lavishly adorned with the most curious garden in the city's history.
Dumbfounded and disappointed, Squile made his way across the courtyard, taking in the spectacular nothing around him. Deteriorating walls of once-majestic masonry surrounded him on three sides as he faced what appeared to be a long-forgotten spice store. Its wooden sign swayed in the lulling breeze. Dry leaves fluttered lazily. Squile's eyes took in the scene once more before he noticed the design below his cloth shoes. Beneath the weight of Squile's increasingly nervous stance, there lay a star within a circle. Squile inhaled quickly. A pentagram in stone is almost never a good omen.
He gasped, reconsidering his intentions. His breaths shortened and sped up. The brick behind him began closing, as stone rubbed stone. Squile sprinted to the hole in the wall, but would've been crushed if he had attempted to jump through it.
There now came a rumbling in his heart he was usually unfamiliar with. Fear, in all of its entangling trickery, crept through him like snakes. His eyes stayed on the pentagram. Could he climb the walls? He wondered. He would have to.
Moving uneasily to the pentagram, Squile lowered his body, ready to run and climb the wall. He relaxed his lungs, exhaled and regained his calm. This is not how the city will kill me, he promised himself.
But before he reached the end of his count, the courtyard exploded with colors. Squile blinked and straightened. In an instant, Squile was in the most breath-taking garden he had ever seen. Flowers he didn't recognize, trees he wouldn't have believed, mesmerizingly soft grass all circled a tiny pond in the corner. In the middle, underneath Squile's feet, the pentagram covered itself in ivy.
And then the door of the shop opened.
Squile spun around and was even more impressed with the shop's appearance. It looked new. Beautiful architecture swept over the shop, now with clean windows and fresh paint. Squile stepped out of the ivy, hyponotized by the beauty. His heart racing and his skin itching, Squile stepped onto the small porch and then into the shop.
The shop's interior was astounding. Walls of velvet, chandeliers of brilliance and endless shelves of world wonders filled the shop, which was overwhelmingly larger than the outside hinted at. Squile moved hesitantly through the shop. Jars of powder and liquid, neatly labeled, filled an entire wall's shelves. Another long shelf featured tanks of plants and mud, each beautifully labeled. Squile jumped as he noticed that each tank contained frogs. The frogs watched him move across the room, towards the other half of the room swathed in black. Squile gulped as he proceeded. More shelves came into sight, each one offering new things that Squile didn't recognize. It was a hall of dreams.
Squile heard a swift movement in the darkness beyond. A knife soared through the air, barely a whisper from Squile's ear, and dug itself into the door frame Squile had come through. Squile shook with anxiety. He trembled as he gritted his teeth, slowly building himself up for what may come.
The outline of a gentleman came from the shadows. He wore an elegant suit, with matching cape and top hat, and held a knife that he twisted into his fingers. The gentleman's calm voice both thrilled and terrified Squile.
"And what may I do for you?" the gentleman whispered in a slow, syrupy growl.
Squile warmed himself up with heavy breaths.
"I want to be a magician," Squile replied.
A thin smile carved its way up the gentleman's face.
"Oh, is that all?" he said. " Then come with me, for we have work to do."
And, with that, the gentleman turned and gently disappeared into the darkness.
Squile heaved a sigh, smiled sharply and then followed the magician into the shadows.
Friday, September 9, 2011
"And They Waited"
"And They Waited"
written without a drop of sobriety by jake kilroy.
The porch rang with laughter. It was springtime and there was a mild heat settling into the neighborhood. Lilac mist wafted under the street lamps and a car passed every time someone changed the radio station.
She leaned against the porch pole, dirtying up her shoulder, as she watched the universe.
"Counting stars?" he asked, sneaking up beside her with a drink.
"Counting something," she cooed with a sigh.
"Aren't we all?" he said, taking a sip and sliding his hand into his pocket where all he had was spare change.
She clicked her tongue and waited for the world to give her everything. He watched her drift and then he asked the world for everything. And they waited.
And the world came at them with nothing. She was surprised and he nodded.
Take what young lovers abandon for love and you could fill a city dump. Take what young lovers give for love and you could fill an ocean. Take what young lovers want of love and you could fill the sky.
Whether it's trash or treasure, it's ours. Finally. Now let the world take us, give us away and want us again.
I have all night and a lifetime ahead of me, the boy thinks.
I've got one night to turn things around, the girl thinks.
And they wait for the world again.
And, once more, the world comes at them with nothing.
Must be an off night, he thinks.
Just another slip of the cosmos, she thinks.
And they wait for the universe this time.
And the universe hands them new constellations that they'll later draw into each other's backs, counting blessings on soft fingers, ready to make love their favorite charity.
And so the world waited.
written without a drop of sobriety by jake kilroy.
The porch rang with laughter. It was springtime and there was a mild heat settling into the neighborhood. Lilac mist wafted under the street lamps and a car passed every time someone changed the radio station.
She leaned against the porch pole, dirtying up her shoulder, as she watched the universe.
"Counting stars?" he asked, sneaking up beside her with a drink.
"Counting something," she cooed with a sigh.
"Aren't we all?" he said, taking a sip and sliding his hand into his pocket where all he had was spare change.
She clicked her tongue and waited for the world to give her everything. He watched her drift and then he asked the world for everything. And they waited.
And the world came at them with nothing. She was surprised and he nodded.
Take what young lovers abandon for love and you could fill a city dump. Take what young lovers give for love and you could fill an ocean. Take what young lovers want of love and you could fill the sky.
Whether it's trash or treasure, it's ours. Finally. Now let the world take us, give us away and want us again.
I have all night and a lifetime ahead of me, the boy thinks.
I've got one night to turn things around, the girl thinks.
And they wait for the world again.
And, once more, the world comes at them with nothing.
Must be an off night, he thinks.
Just another slip of the cosmos, she thinks.
And they wait for the universe this time.
And the universe hands them new constellations that they'll later draw into each other's backs, counting blessings on soft fingers, ready to make love their favorite charity.
And so the world waited.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Two Lovers In A Field
His fingers sailed across the great plains of her back with the breathy wind of her body's hum carrying his touch from the arch of her neck to the curves of her thighs. The girl's tongue creaked and the boy's eyes swayed. The flowers around them sighed and he whistled a sailor tune. She grinned a masterpiece. The sky was blue, the world was warm and he felt the great shakes within him. The boy trembled with wonder.
"What if this is all there is to it?"
She rolled her brown curls down her head and kissed his bare arms.
"Then I say we did alright," she cooed.
"What a pageant it is to be in love," he quietly told his beloved girl in the field.
"Hail, hail," she mumbled, already drifting off to sleep again, "one float after another."
"The best parade in town," he remarked, as the long, slow pull of the world turned around them, softly pushing them towards sunset.
"What if this is all there is to it?"
She rolled her brown curls down her head and kissed his bare arms.
"Then I say we did alright," she cooed.
"What a pageant it is to be in love," he quietly told his beloved girl in the field.
"Hail, hail," she mumbled, already drifting off to sleep again, "one float after another."
"The best parade in town," he remarked, as the long, slow pull of the world turned around them, softly pushing them towards sunset.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Considering Love On A Porch At Night Somewhere In The South During Summertime
In the barrel moon light, I heard your body crackle like a dying fire. I was on the porch smoking my pipe and counting stars. But it was a nearly starless night, so I numbered the ones circling my aching head. There was too much brandy in me to not sway. And I listened to the floor boards creak as I rocked back and forth and stretched my knees. Our porch is so white, I thought, but a striking pale blue under the big bucket wash moon, tucked in the sky of mirthless and endless darkness. I spit stray tobacco and watched the bugs lazily bounce off the lantern. Such a tremendous glow our house has, I considered. We have our bookshelves, our furniture and a kitchen. What more we need, I don't know. But, then again, what I don't know could fill the house too.
I have these moments before midnight where I come out here to count my lucky and dizzy stars that you'll be in that bed come the morning hour. Loving you is like catching the last train home and I find myself thankful that I made it, even though I've racked up a heap of bad decisions over time. Some evenings, I think my beating heart will wake you up. Other nights, I find myself unable to sleep so close to your fire and I reckon I'm a man that should sleep in the chill of the world.
I try to be decent enough, but you...you, darling, are the quiet hum I want to hear within me. You know, your skin rides the sparse light of this dark rolling landscape and, for it, I don't quite know what to do with myself. There's an honor in the way you sleep, so content and so very within the world. Even as a living, breathing man, going on day to day, I consider myself a visitor many nights.
So, in those soul-calling hours, I drink myself into a stupor, just to make it to the bed in peace. I never stumble, but, instead, I sometimes slump close to tears before I take the first step back. As I move like a ghost, weightless and haunted, I dig out my grave of memories and, upon reaching the sheets and your shoulder, the house has become a palace.
You are beautiful, certainly, and, you won't admit it, but, you have the makings of what the world was actually, truly made for. Bless you for even making me consider prayer.
I wish I could train the fireflies to spell out your name. That would be a treat. But I'm thankful that you settle for me making you breakfast every morning.
Ah, shucks.
I have these moments before midnight where I come out here to count my lucky and dizzy stars that you'll be in that bed come the morning hour. Loving you is like catching the last train home and I find myself thankful that I made it, even though I've racked up a heap of bad decisions over time. Some evenings, I think my beating heart will wake you up. Other nights, I find myself unable to sleep so close to your fire and I reckon I'm a man that should sleep in the chill of the world.
I try to be decent enough, but you...you, darling, are the quiet hum I want to hear within me. You know, your skin rides the sparse light of this dark rolling landscape and, for it, I don't quite know what to do with myself. There's an honor in the way you sleep, so content and so very within the world. Even as a living, breathing man, going on day to day, I consider myself a visitor many nights.
So, in those soul-calling hours, I drink myself into a stupor, just to make it to the bed in peace. I never stumble, but, instead, I sometimes slump close to tears before I take the first step back. As I move like a ghost, weightless and haunted, I dig out my grave of memories and, upon reaching the sheets and your shoulder, the house has become a palace.
You are beautiful, certainly, and, you won't admit it, but, you have the makings of what the world was actually, truly made for. Bless you for even making me consider prayer.
I wish I could train the fireflies to spell out your name. That would be a treat. But I'm thankful that you settle for me making you breakfast every morning.
Ah, shucks.
Friday, October 8, 2010
The Sinus Infection Of Boner City (And Other Exciting Titles)
"The Sinus Infection Of Boner City (And Other Exciting Titles)"
based on a conversation with Non Talbot Wels, by Jake Kilroy.
John stepped into the apartment, out of the cold, away from the chill of the world. He removed layers of clothes like they were a colorful costume. The apartment was warm and he saw the bruised sky disappearing into moonless darkness from the window. He was home, and it felt good after a long day at the warehouse. He went to make some oatmeal for dinner when he noticed his roommate sitting like a statue, eyes drawn in a blank stare, at the dining room table as if he was too mesmerized to move.
"Mike," John began slowly, "you've moved from the table at some point, yeah?"
"No," Mike said with all the words sounding the same ringless bell. "No, I haven't."
"You're joking, right?" John said, approaching the table like it was booby trapped. "I worked a full shift and you've just sat here, doing nothing. You're even staring as blankly as you were when I left this morning."
"Yes," Mike replied. "This much I know is true."
"Well, what the hell, Mike?"
"I'm writing a masterpiece, John."
"About what?"
"That's the thing about masterpieces...you don't know they're masterpieces until they're masterpieces."
"Jesus Christ, guy, do you even bother to listen to yourself sometimes?"
"Always, John. I am always fascinated with what I am saying. That's why I must write my masterpiece."
"What's it about?"
"What isn't it about, you know?"
John took the notebook that sat in front of his friend and read the words at the top of the page.
"The Sinus Infection Of Boner City," John read aloud, before flipping through the hundred blank pages that followed.
"It's a 'tragicomedy,' like Shakespeare meets Ted Danson," Mike said with the forlorn dig of a gravedigger's shovel.
"Mike, I love you, man, but," John said, as the honest shakes of the truth rose in his voice, "this is one of the dumbest goddamn things I've ever read and it's only six words."
"Oh, I'm sorry I'm not Mark Twain, John," Mike bitterly remarked, snapping out of his trance. "It's just a working title."
"Yeah, I know. And it's stupid."
"Oh, whatever. You don't know. You don't know shit about shit. They said the same thing about Faulkner!"
"They did?"
"Probably!"
"Mike, have you ever even read Faulker?"
"No," Mike answered calmly. "Rumor has it that he was pretty stupid."
"Ah," John said, nodding his head in condescending agreement. "Ok, well, God help me, I'm too curious. I think you're an idiot and a lazy one at that, but I have to know," John said, dropping the notebook on the table. "What's the plot of this insane piece of crap you're going to write?"
"I don't know," Mike said. "I only have the title."
"You only have the title."
"I only have the title."
"And this is the best one you've got?"
"Well, I have two more, but, again, they're just working titles."
"Oh, Jesus, what are they?"
"The Ku Klux Klan vs. The Half-Dead Math Professor."
"Wow. Spectacular. And the other one?"
"The Steamboat Rapist Strikes Again."
"The Steamboat Rapist Strikes Again."
"The Steamboat Rapist Strikes Again," Mike repeated, nodding absently.
"Christ Almighty, dude, so what's the deal there? Does he or she rape steamboats? Do they live on a steamboat or something? Or do they just like to travel by steamboat?"
"Nope," Mike said, as a childishly sinister grin snuck onto his face. "The rapist is a steamboat. It's a twist! But you don't find that out until the end."
John sighed intensely, bringing out all the wind of his lungs.
"I'm inventing a new subgenre called steamboatpunk," Mike said.
"So it's like steampunk with boats," John added.
"No! Why does everyone think that?" Mike said, making the first rise in his monotone ramble of a voice. "It's a horror sort of thriller genre with eclectic non-people murders. Think about it, anything can be a murderer! This particular subgenre just happens to stick to boats."
John made a violent groan.
"You're an awful fucking writer, Mike," John said, as he headed into his bedroom.
Mike continued to sit at the dinner table with an empty notebook and a pen in front of him instead of a plate and fork, as his eyes rolled into a nothing glance, unfocused in every worldly aspect, and he was soon left confused in the very terrible waking laughable disaster that were his his thoughts.
based on a conversation with Non Talbot Wels, by Jake Kilroy.
John stepped into the apartment, out of the cold, away from the chill of the world. He removed layers of clothes like they were a colorful costume. The apartment was warm and he saw the bruised sky disappearing into moonless darkness from the window. He was home, and it felt good after a long day at the warehouse. He went to make some oatmeal for dinner when he noticed his roommate sitting like a statue, eyes drawn in a blank stare, at the dining room table as if he was too mesmerized to move.
"Mike," John began slowly, "you've moved from the table at some point, yeah?"
"No," Mike said with all the words sounding the same ringless bell. "No, I haven't."
"You're joking, right?" John said, approaching the table like it was booby trapped. "I worked a full shift and you've just sat here, doing nothing. You're even staring as blankly as you were when I left this morning."
"Yes," Mike replied. "This much I know is true."
"Well, what the hell, Mike?"
"I'm writing a masterpiece, John."
"About what?"
"That's the thing about masterpieces...you don't know they're masterpieces until they're masterpieces."
"Jesus Christ, guy, do you even bother to listen to yourself sometimes?"
"Always, John. I am always fascinated with what I am saying. That's why I must write my masterpiece."
"What's it about?"
"What isn't it about, you know?"
John took the notebook that sat in front of his friend and read the words at the top of the page.
"The Sinus Infection Of Boner City," John read aloud, before flipping through the hundred blank pages that followed.
"It's a 'tragicomedy,' like Shakespeare meets Ted Danson," Mike said with the forlorn dig of a gravedigger's shovel.
"Mike, I love you, man, but," John said, as the honest shakes of the truth rose in his voice, "this is one of the dumbest goddamn things I've ever read and it's only six words."
"Oh, I'm sorry I'm not Mark Twain, John," Mike bitterly remarked, snapping out of his trance. "It's just a working title."
"Yeah, I know. And it's stupid."
"Oh, whatever. You don't know. You don't know shit about shit. They said the same thing about Faulkner!"
"They did?"
"Probably!"
"Mike, have you ever even read Faulker?"
"No," Mike answered calmly. "Rumor has it that he was pretty stupid."
"Ah," John said, nodding his head in condescending agreement. "Ok, well, God help me, I'm too curious. I think you're an idiot and a lazy one at that, but I have to know," John said, dropping the notebook on the table. "What's the plot of this insane piece of crap you're going to write?"
"I don't know," Mike said. "I only have the title."
"You only have the title."
"I only have the title."
"And this is the best one you've got?"
"Well, I have two more, but, again, they're just working titles."
"Oh, Jesus, what are they?"
"The Ku Klux Klan vs. The Half-Dead Math Professor."
"Wow. Spectacular. And the other one?"
"The Steamboat Rapist Strikes Again."
"The Steamboat Rapist Strikes Again."
"The Steamboat Rapist Strikes Again," Mike repeated, nodding absently.
"Christ Almighty, dude, so what's the deal there? Does he or she rape steamboats? Do they live on a steamboat or something? Or do they just like to travel by steamboat?"
"Nope," Mike said, as a childishly sinister grin snuck onto his face. "The rapist is a steamboat. It's a twist! But you don't find that out until the end."
John sighed intensely, bringing out all the wind of his lungs.
"I'm inventing a new subgenre called steamboatpunk," Mike said.
"So it's like steampunk with boats," John added.
"No! Why does everyone think that?" Mike said, making the first rise in his monotone ramble of a voice. "It's a horror sort of thriller genre with eclectic non-people murders. Think about it, anything can be a murderer! This particular subgenre just happens to stick to boats."
John made a violent groan.
"You're an awful fucking writer, Mike," John said, as he headed into his bedroom.
Mike continued to sit at the dinner table with an empty notebook and a pen in front of him instead of a plate and fork, as his eyes rolled into a nothing glance, unfocused in every worldly aspect, and he was soon left confused in the very terrible waking laughable disaster that were his his thoughts.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
The Beginning to My Young Adult Novel
The beginning to my young adult novel,
The Space-Crime Continuum!
"Hand me a beer, will ya?" Shackles said, making grabby motions with his right large, green hand while holding onto the yoke of his spacecraft with the other.
"I don't know, Shack. You're already flying like we lost both engines. I don't think you need anymore booze in your bug eyes," Spiffer said, though he opened up the cooler and pulled a cold beer for himself.
"Come on," Shackles said, his long tongue sliding out of his mouth as he made an exaggerated groan. "You never got all spaced up and given it all ya got in hyperspeed?"
"You never let me fly this thing!"
"Well, that's because you're a drunk!" Shackles bellowed and roared with laughter. He yelled again, "If we don't get out of this space race with these ming-mong cops, then my name ain't Shackles The Stupendous!"
"Nobody calls you that," Spiffer said, clawing open his beer for a tasty first sip.
This was true. Nobody did call him Shackles The Stupendous but himself. In fact, there was a laundry list of nicknames for him, but none of them were that. Most people knew him as Shackles, as most would love to see him tethered and muzzled, but his full name was Graham A.A. Shackleford. He was the captain, owner and minor repairman of the Watership Down, a mesmerizing piece of space junk that was once a respected military spaceship. He was also a frog. And he dressed like the 1930s had never improved upon biplanes.
His co-pilot was Moses Pierre-Auguste Marionette, but he was called "Spiffer" because everyone was surprised how well he dressed when out of his overalls. They were also surprised that he could tolerate his frog pilot. He was the major repairman and bookkeeper of the Watership Down and was significantly more charming than his wild, drunkard of a boss. He was also a badger.
And the space police were in hot pursuit of both of these two yokels for stolen goods.
The Space-Crime Continuum!
"Hand me a beer, will ya?" Shackles said, making grabby motions with his right large, green hand while holding onto the yoke of his spacecraft with the other.
"I don't know, Shack. You're already flying like we lost both engines. I don't think you need anymore booze in your bug eyes," Spiffer said, though he opened up the cooler and pulled a cold beer for himself.
"Come on," Shackles said, his long tongue sliding out of his mouth as he made an exaggerated groan. "You never got all spaced up and given it all ya got in hyperspeed?"
"You never let me fly this thing!"
"Well, that's because you're a drunk!" Shackles bellowed and roared with laughter. He yelled again, "If we don't get out of this space race with these ming-mong cops, then my name ain't Shackles The Stupendous!"
"Nobody calls you that," Spiffer said, clawing open his beer for a tasty first sip.
This was true. Nobody did call him Shackles The Stupendous but himself. In fact, there was a laundry list of nicknames for him, but none of them were that. Most people knew him as Shackles, as most would love to see him tethered and muzzled, but his full name was Graham A.A. Shackleford. He was the captain, owner and minor repairman of the Watership Down, a mesmerizing piece of space junk that was once a respected military spaceship. He was also a frog. And he dressed like the 1930s had never improved upon biplanes.
His co-pilot was Moses Pierre-Auguste Marionette, but he was called "Spiffer" because everyone was surprised how well he dressed when out of his overalls. They were also surprised that he could tolerate his frog pilot. He was the major repairman and bookkeeper of the Watership Down and was significantly more charming than his wild, drunkard of a boss. He was also a badger.
And the space police were in hot pursuit of both of these two yokels for stolen goods.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
The King, The High Court, The Two Sons & The Queen
"The King, The High Court, The Two Sons & The Queen"
an epic tragedy in seven sentences by jake kilroy.
There was a great king who ruled the land with a fair, reasonable and just fist. His family and kingdom adored him, but his high court grew jealous and obsessive, so they plotted against him and, several nights later, murdered him when we went into the garden one night, which he often did to think. The high court took over and the meanest and most murderous traitor of them all became the new king, and he ruled the land with cruel tyranny. But then the only two sons of the king plotted against the high court and murdered the false king in the garden when he came to ask the dead king for advice one late night. The high court were then all hanged. Sadly, the two sons fought over which one of them would be king and they killed each other at the same time in a sword fight. The Queen mourned the loss of her family by becoming the greatest ruler of the land.
an epic tragedy in seven sentences by jake kilroy.
There was a great king who ruled the land with a fair, reasonable and just fist. His family and kingdom adored him, but his high court grew jealous and obsessive, so they plotted against him and, several nights later, murdered him when we went into the garden one night, which he often did to think. The high court took over and the meanest and most murderous traitor of them all became the new king, and he ruled the land with cruel tyranny. But then the only two sons of the king plotted against the high court and murdered the false king in the garden when he came to ask the dead king for advice one late night. The high court were then all hanged. Sadly, the two sons fought over which one of them would be king and they killed each other at the same time in a sword fight. The Queen mourned the loss of her family by becoming the greatest ruler of the land.
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