depleted uranium

Out of the depths of the cavern came a voice, and IT said "can this not be enough?!" I have just spent the last two (2) hours talking world politics with an English-challenged South Korean man and a seemingly mute, but quite fetching, Japanese girl.

She wouldn't hug me goodbye, which I attribute either to the fact that a) her far more attractive friend has the hots for me, despite her short stature, or b) she hasn't yet grasped the finer details of social interaction in these United States.

To sum up the discussion on world politics sadly missed by you readers, I will list the following key points, not listed in any kind of order and totally devoid of reference:
- North Korea is the # 1 threat to the United States (US)
- Russia is unbeatable in a land war, and will rise again
- S. Korea is a colony of the US, similar to Puerto Rico, Guam, Alaska and Hawai'i
- The Korean police force is run by the Legislature, while the military is run by the executive
- Japan has no nuclear capabilities
- Socialism, as practiced in the US, is preferable to that practiced in Western Europe
- Pax Americana will never wither, and will last for eternity
- Foreigners cannot become members of the US armed forces
- Retirement aged Koreans are routinely beaten by S. Korean police for protesting (video proof available)
- N. Koreans are forced to make forks by hand
- The US is the finest country on earth, and those with the proper drive, vision and steadfastness can, within its borders, achieve anything

The clock ticks, my eyelids grow heavy, and the prospect of sleep bears its weight in gold.
Fare thee well, brave readers, and ponder the fascinating implications of this missive. JP

on children... end of December 2005

welcome. to my home away from homes, that feeble gesture at providing a glimpse into the depths of my most unwholesome soul. tonight I find myself twenty dollars richer (after spending ten on a bottle of vodka) from a wholly boring job making sure children do not drink in public places.

but what I'M really here about is to put to text some concern I have regarding children, love and the whole follied institution of marriage. I am a cheater, even if I haven't cheated on every girlfriend I've had, I've cheated on those with which it counted. to quote HS Thompson, "sex is as worthless without love, as love is without sex" (THE PROUD HIGHWAY, v.1, around page 150). everyone cheats, and if they don't they might as well be dead. to bind oneself to another is, in this day and age of consensual sex, extramarital fornication and just plain hedonism a most noble and outright costly endeavor.

if YOU want to do it, fine, but just look at the divorce rates, and at the amount of pain and anguish children suffer when mommy and daddy can't just fuck each other, and think twice before dropping five grand on a diamond mined by African forced child laborers. Sure, it sounds nice, a white picket fence and negative ten in the bank, a job you hate and which hates you back, coming home lying to your spouse about your day because you don't want to burden her white ass after a day of dealing with your snotty, kleptomaniacal spawn. i offer no solutions but for this one. don't get married, have at least four girlfriends who pay for you at all times, and spend your money on making something out of yourself.

gone are the days when the hopes and dreams of one man could rest on the backs of his children, in hopes that they, one day, would become the next rockefeller or gates. gone are the days of spreading one's genetic seed within an enclosed or for that point even fluctuating population, for with so many billions, your infintesimal contribution doesn't mean jack shit. instead, use that money to start a business, any kind of business, art, writing, philanthropic, carpentry. not that you can't have both, but for chirstsakes at least wait until you're forty and have had some fun with your life before knocking up some innocent young filly.

then you can pass on some real fucking world wisdom to those little anklebiters, and teach them to doubt everything, even your own authority, while making sure they understand the importance of self-respect and the sanctity of the human spirit. and for the love of god have them read, and i mean READ, the classics, from Herodotus over Traven, stopping by at Kant's house for a handjob, and ending up ultimately with Hunter S.T. for a rum soaked introduction to the life of a true and virtuous firebrand. give them Stevenson, Gaiman and Gibson for a jog into the fantastic unknown, and teach them to TALK BACK, eshewing the facade of authority for true discourse and a real, unbridled stretching of the mind.

to crush the spirit of a rambunctious and curious soul for the sake of conformity to the social norm is a crime, and should be punished as such. for it is he who steps outside of his bounds and stretches, in whatever direction he chooses, that may fly too close to the sun, and not he who kowtows before the false facade of justice and the public good, for he is doomed to oblivion, and his name will be as quickly forgotten, as a sandcastle built at low tide. Enough. and that's about all I have to say on that. have one with me now, and let us soothe the beast inside.
X

consequences of the NYC MTA strike...

Wearily, the man approached, slipping here and there on the icy pavement. He paused, resting on a wellworn handrail outside of a ginmill in the final stages of opening, removed his tweed driving hat, and smoothed back his remaining silver locks. His ears shone a bright red in the early morning sunlight, and the sky was clear, and blue.
It was just another few steps, maybe half a block, until he would decend into the embracing warmth and step lightly onto an awaiting car and fly for Penn. Station. He had paid the doorman of his building, a massive, kind Puerto Rican man named Jesus, to send ahead of him the presents he had bought for his daughter Lisa, her husband James, and their brand new baby Mattie, who lived in Southold, far out on the tongue of Long Island.
He smiled gleefully to himself, thinking of Jesus' kindness, and at the thought of bouncing his first and only grandchild on the worn but clean slacks he'd had since 1972. So, in that seldom state of happiness did he approach the stairs, and failed to notice the police tape blocking off the entrance until it arrested his descent.
"What's this," he asked to the cold wind, the patches of windblown snow. Backing up slowly, freeing himself from the tenuous grasp, he turned, bewildered, and scanned his memory for the next available entrace to the veins and arteries of that fine city, his home for as long as he could remember.
...
Four blocks south, the old man paused again, puffing, for he had hurried, his excitement at seeing the new baby ebbing slightly at the frigid effort, only to come quickly rushing back in more full force every few steps. He rounded the corner, walked a few steps but spied, with his failing eyes, another distant yellow flutter. Crestfallen, deposed and down-right sad, the old man turned, and made for the 24-hour Pakistani market he knew would be one ave. block north.
He bent over slightly to read the wind-whipped paper, cursing himself for not brining his reading classes; he kept a pair at his daughter's cozy home.
But, finally:
MTA WORKER'S STRIKE -
GOTHAM IN STRANGLEHOLD
His heart jumped, fluttering erratically. After a few deep breaths, he looked around suspiciously, and guardedly removed his wallet, which contained just enough for the train fares there and back; he had spent the bulk of his meagre pension on baby things, and, in a fit of paternal goodness, on a nice, white gold necklace for his daughter, of whom he was so proud.
On the verge of tears, he quickly shuffled the ten or so blocks back to his apartment, quietly cursing the stoplights for marring his desperate progress, and finally, in a state of near panic, leaned heavily on the reception desk of the moderate building he called home.
"Jesus... please... please call Lisa... her number is..."
"Mr. Goodlit, calm down. You left out the back! so I could not tell you the subways are out. Workers striking today."
"I must... call her... find a way to get there..."
"I have cousin, Ramon, he driving out there later today. He can take you."
"No... must call her now..."
"Here, use my cellphone. What's the number?"
"631... damn it! Give me the phone!"
Jesus shrugged and handed the cellphone to Mr. Goodlit.
As he reached for it, pain flashed across his lined face, and his left side seemed to go slack. He tumbled to the ground, bashing his jaw on the tall wooden counter on the way down.
Jesus jumped up and rushed around, through the little swinging door, to kneel next to the fallen man.
"Jesus y Maria. Hold on, Mr. Goodlit." He dialed.
The street were jammed with cars in all directions. A siren blared loudly, startling a baby sleeping on the fourth floor of a rundown tenement.
...
Twenty minutes later two serous paramedics leaped out of the ambulance, which blithely blocked nearly a whole lane. People honked.
But, they were too late. Weak old eyes were gently forced shut, without ever having crinkled and creased at the sight of that newborn's unfound glee.

and so, you forked tongued bastard, I hope you live with the weight of this unfortunate and sad death on your backs. may your snug and smug jobs be taken over by banks upon gleaming banks of faithful processors in an unmarked building somewhere. X

why can't we all just get along

My daily struggle with my own inadequacies has begun to take a toll on interpersonal relationships. I simply cannot bring myself to respect others without the prerequisite of respecting myself. The knowledge of my financial predicament, sealed by my petty and cheap request for cash from my ailing and loving parent burns in a low blue light at the base of my every move, sucking at my spine, sapping the will to live and love and write. Booze takes the edge off, but I have not and will not let it tether me with its chemical lure.

These few days without it have seen a fourfold increase in vocabulary, a reawakening of the synapses which now are building at quarter steam. Complex situational analyses once again are flourishing, but they lead to awkward silences and faintly strange looks during conversation, as I ramble on about my sudden discovery of the root of someone’s problem, at least as seen my perspective of information received and gaps filled in via educated guessing. Once I am again fluid, and have relegated the boozing to more random occasions, I trust that life will once again retain its hue of promise and opportunity.

The last year in Dago has been taunting me with its calm and orderliness. Money was readily available, running was creeping up to twenty miles a week, yoga was going well, and the blessed release of writing welcomed me back every night. Now, my plans for unemployment and a quick, cheap transfer to affordable digs dashed, accounts dried up, many grand in credit card debt, I look back on it with envy. May I not stumble and fall for too long.

UPDATE

Hello. I am currently working on a screenplay, and lock myself in my room listening to Bach organ concertos, the Hunt for Red October soundtrack (extremely good writing music), WEEN, and other fine classical instrumentals for hours a day. Thank you for everyone who stops by, and for the spammers who, although I cannot directly make use of their fabulous offers for arthritis cures, are very much appreciated here at Lie Smith. The doors are open, should ye but knock. HA!
I love the medium for writing screenplays, (master screen format), which allows me to visualize the scene and hint at the elements necessary to make it work, then run the dialogue through the old synapses and see what passes the test of previous movies, books and music, most of which I store somewhere up there in the gray, fleeting void of my drug addled brain. VIVA LOS ANGELES. X

The Wrinkled Shirt

It was sometime around recess, every day, when all the other kids were rushing outside, that Nathan dallied in the hallway, pretending to wait for the bathroom, or fooling around with the water fountain, as if it didn’t work.
He would dally, hoping beyond all hope that the one girl who always wore yellow, who had smiled at him once when he was getting out of the schoolbus, would come out of her classroom down the hall. She was in a class one higher than him, wore a ponytail with a bright yellow ribbon, and liked ponies. He knew that because she carried a folder with a pony on it.
Nathan was a year older than His Girl, and two years older than most of his classmates, because his Daddy had an important job that took them all around the country. Nathan was very well prepared and pretty excited to tell His Girl all about being in the big mountains out west, called the Rockies, and to show her pictures of him and his mom at the Grand Canyon, which his Dad had taken. The pictures were fuzzy, but he was wearing his favorite shirt in one, and he’d wear the shirt the day he showed His Girl.
Her name was Charlotte, his friend told him, when he had asked. Later that same day Charlotte looked directly at him, for a moment, before running off to join her friends.

Nathan knew that she wanted to be his friend, maybe even sit with him at recess sometimes, maybe even hold hands, like he saw some of the other boys doing. That night, Nathan announced as he came in the door that he’d be needing his favorite shirt in the morning, but his Mom she was leaning up against the stove and crying, when he found her in the kitchen, and his father was sitting alone, in the dark, funny smelling living room.
Of all the houses they’d lived in, Nathan liked this one the least. He didn’t want to wake his father, so he crept over to hug his Mom, who hugged him back, into her belly. He loved the way she smelled, but her hands were weak as she held him, and he was scared, because he didn’t know why she was crying.
When he asked why she was crying, she shushed him, and sent him up to his room.

Sometimes, Nathan’s Mom would take him to the laundry-mat down the street, and he loved watching the clothes in the drier as they spun, and helping her fold some things, although he always got it wrong, and she would refold them.

Being very quiet, Nathan crept into the hallway, to the clothes hamper, to look for his favorite shirt. He found it, wrinkled, at the bottom of all the other clothes. It smelled damp, and of his father’s dirty jeans. He took it out, tried to smooth it, and hoped Charlotte would not ask to smell it, because didn't want to bother his Mom about washing it now.
Without brushing his teeth, but secretly hoping his Mom would come in and tell him to, he went to bed.

When he woke up the next morning, his father was already gone, but his Mom was in the kitchen quietly putting carrots into a pressure cooker. On the metal kitchen table, sitting next to two plates, silverware, and a half-glass of orange juice on the thin checkered cloth, was a square brown paper package.
Mom told him that the package was a special present for him, and that he shouldn’t open it until the bus got close to school. She told him she was sorry for telling him to go to his room the night before, and that they might have to move again.

He was so happy to talk to Charlotte, and show her the picture with him in his favorite shirt, that he completely forgot to open the package, on his way to school. Getting off the bus, he was sad because he suddenly realized he forgot his lunch. Nathan wondered if his mother forgot to give it to him, or if he forgot it when he left for the bus stop.

On his way to the main doors to his school, a sleek black car pulled up next to him, with bright wheels and dark windows. The rear door opened, and he stopped, stunned, as first one stockinged foot, then another emerged, pulling behind them a girl wearing a frilly white hat, dressed in a white dress that hurt his eyes in the sun. When he pulled his arm back from his elbow, which he had used to cover them from the glaring brightness, Charlotte was standing there, wearing the white dress!
He rushed up to her, babbling about something he had to show her, and searched frantically for the fuzzy picture of him and his mother at the Grand Canyon.
Nothing.
Did he forget it on the bus? He ran his hands over the front and back left pockets of his jeans.
Nothing.
Charlotte turned and began walking toward the doors. He shifted the package and shirt from under his right arm to his left, and, finally!, pulled the picture out of his pocket.

Nathan reached Charlotte just as she entered the door, and, when he called her name, she stopped and turned. Triumphantly, he held up the picture, and dropped the package, wrapped in its brown paper, onto the concrete, which hit with a hollow thud, so he could unfold his favorite t-shirt.

“See? This is me and my Mom, at the Grand Canyon. Can you see it’s me? I brought the shirt, this one right here, not the one I’m wearing, so you can see it’s me, cause the picture’s a little fuzzy. My Dad took it.” Nathan stood beaming proudly.
“It doesn’t look like you.” Charlotte said. Then she sniffed, and scrunched up her nose, and looked down at the wrinkled t-shirt he clutched in his right hand. “Why are you wearing those clothes? Your shirt has a stain on it, and your jeans are ripped. Didn’t your Mommy buy you something nice for school picture day?” Charlotte twirled. “My Mommy bought me this new dress. Don’t I look pretty?”
With that, Charlotte bounced off down the hallway.

Nathan stood, just inside the doorway, and watched her go. He looked again at the picture, and at the shirt, lowered his head, fighting back tears and not caring who saw.
Sniffling, he bent down, and two drops went slipping down his cheeks, splashing quietly on the linoleum. He reached out his hand to pick up his package, still wrapped in its brown paper wrapper, just as another kid came running past him into the school, who kicked the package with his foot, sending it skidding clear across the hall. It came to a rest, with a bounce and a hollow thud, against the far wall.
The other kid glanced back, laughed, and kept running, faster, down the hall, thinking Nathan would chase him.

Sitting in his first class, math class, which was easy for him so he got bored a lot, Nathan began quietly picking at the clear tape that held the paper wrapping together. Slowly, working with his hands while pretending to pay attention, he got all the pieces of tape off and was about to peek inside, when the teacher came walking down the row directly toward him!
Leaning forward, he tried hard to make it look like he was concentrating, but the teacher stopped directly next to his desk!
“Nathan, what is that in you lap? Why don’t you show the whole class what it is?”
All the kids in his class turned around, looking at him and laughing. He blushed a deep red, and felt like crying again. Then the teacher reached down, grabbed the package from his lap, and turned to face the rest of the room.
Nathan saw the brown wrapper fall to the ground, and strained to see what it contained.
“A lunch box! Nathan, you know there’s no eating allowed in class!” She showed the rest of the class the box, reminding them again of the rule. Without looking back at Nathan, she walked to the front of the room, placing the lunch box on the extreme corner of her desk, and the class resumed. His classmates snickered at him, but Nathan, he didn't hear a thing.

Seeing the lunch box, His Very First Own Dukes of Hazard Lunch Box, Nathan smiled, and thought to himself

This is the best day of my life

The Renewal 24OCT2005

“Why”, she asked, standing in the dark and in the rain, at the foot of the stone steps leading up to his apartment. Her dark hair slowly plastering to her face in the fine drizzle, the beige leather coat she wore turning a dark brown. Her big brown eyes peered up at him, long, fine lashes flicking away water, what he told himself were tears, onto her tanned cheeks. Her teeth her bright as she shivered, once, and turned to walk away, then paused, and turned back.

“I told you not to fall in love with me. I said that you were not to initiate compassion or sex at any time, that I would let you know when it was appropriate to do so. And you know the reason I asked you to leave my place last time.” She spoke calmly, rationally, and the images flickered through his mind.

His upset stomach, images of the whirling, twisting carnie ride, her apologies, his
insistence that the choice, and naturally the consequences, had been his own. The argument, then the last week of torn, jagged emotions, heights of elation, depths of despair, absolute neutrality had left him drained.

“Look, you just don’t kick me out of your place, ask me to gather up what few things I had there, then come back a week later, expecting me to welcome you with open arms. For me, the moment you asked for the key back was the moment I fundamentally, irrevocably, divorced myself from the idea of us being together. It’s over, finished. Take care of yourself.” As in previous such situations, his voice was calm, devoid of emotion, almost cruel in its simplicity.

He cried out in joy, leaving the theater during his first viewing of the Return of the King, torn between that marvelous tale and the third call from Her, that hot little Philippina from Accounting, with her full breasts and cunning, her toying, over the past few weeks, stoking his lust in their brushing encounters, feeding him lines designed to arouse, blinding him with the prospect of sodden lust just days away.

Her boyfriend had just broken up with her, that scumbag who had come between them, fat and lazy, but possessing of the qualities needed to make a girl dependent: just enough cruelty for her to doubt her worth, just enough sex to keep her going, just enough disinterest to keep her guessing, and on, and on.

That night, she hate fucked him. She fucked him savagely, and left him unsatisfied, at which point, for any normal man, this would have happened:

Klaxons sounding loudly, everywhere throughout the rock-hewn corridors; just overhead, a yellow strobe light, encased in rusting steel mesh, begins to flash; small, metal boxes drop down from their crèches in the ceiling, swiveling toward him, flashing, in menacing red lights the following message, echoed by a grinding, deep male voice emerging from speakers hidden in the dripping rock walls:

LEAVE NOW. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PUT YOUR PANTS ON, BID FAREWELL, AND GTFO. NOW! OR AT LEAST HAVE HER FINISH YOU OFF BY HAND. OTHERWISE, GO!

But he ignored the warning, and swallowed his pride, his scrotum pretty much sucking itself back up into his torso. And he toughed it out.

Another night of television, another night snuggled under the blanket. He never quite relaxed, but was always a bit tense, ready to spring to her beck and call, to fetch her the phone, to massage her feet, to spin up the X-Box and kick her skinny ass in Halo, to get her water. He gave and loved, never asking for anything in return, but yearning for it quietly.

Another night of television. This time she had promised him sex, but instead talked into the night with her roommate, and he stormed into her room, frustrated and confused, but accepting his fate yet again. They were to go to the fair the next day, and he thought of the fact that there would be rides there, and that he would go on one with her, even though he knew that it would make him sick.

Lying in the dark, listening to the hushed tones coming from the next room, he resented her, and was confused at the past six months, at his complete and unconditional love for her, at her promises that she would learn to love him too, in time.

Then, he slept.

She woke him, later that night, as she had never done before, pleasure overriding his need to rest. Groggy from sleep, still quietly upset, he looked down, and she laughed at him.

“You really should learn to control your emotions some more. It was so obvious that you were mad. You were disappointed because I said we would be together tonight, but instead talked with Jamie, right?”

He nodded.

“Well, she and I haven’t talked in a while, and you shouldn’t count on that happening, even if I say it will.”

She laughed again, and joined him, and they had the best sex they’ve ever had together, bodies writing in the dark, him choking her mildly as she climaxed, her body taunt as a wire in extended reverse cowboy.

He did not drink, watching her walk away into the rain and dark, that night or the next, or take drugs, or enjoy the cool, quick pleasures of the brothel, nor the hot, quick desperation of a fat horny girl. Rather, he sat, numb, reading, for weeks, and pushing himself on his daily run, cranking out pushups, churning off the fat of domesticity, the pounds of the docile and satisfied man.

Then, one day, sometime around six months after she had begged him to take her back, after she had cried and promised him her body, assuring him she would not go on dates with other guys, he bounced back.

The doubt, the painful knowledge of past failure, ebbed from the forefront of his daily mindset, and he waded back into the sea of potentiality, and caught a few charming damsels, breaking more hearts, enjoying once again the pleasures of the wanton, lithe body. Free of charge, of course.

AND SMILED. A short story

The sky was darkening, over the low mountains to the east, as a tall but stooped man, clutching his raincoat to himself tightly against the cold, descended the steps of a bland and non-descript office building, onto a dimly lit street. He paused to light a cigarette, the flash showing part of his scarred, dark features, and he coughed. It was the cough of someone who had been smoking for years, and who had no intention of quitting anytime soon.
Pulling his coat around him more tightly, and flipping up the collar, he smiled a tiny, private smile at the realization that it was vogue for the hip kids to pop their collars on polo shirts. The smile faded as he reached the corner, two blocks south, at which point he would have to turn east, toward the bus stop. There were always bums, in the lot he would have to pass on his way to catch the bus, and he had begun to despise them for their lack of initiative, for their constant freeloading on others. The smile faded completely, and was gone, as he remembered what he had to do that night. He shuddered, at the thought, this time not from the cold, but from the thought of performing that terrible task, and from the idea of having to hold onto the greasy, warm handle on the bus, warm from the previous person’s hand, greasy from their sweat, skin, and god knows what else they had just grabbed. Maybe a businessman’s cock, for a quick twenty bucks. Maybe a screaming baby’s shit-covered bottom.
He pushed those thoughts out of his mind, and turned to look up the street, for any sign of the bus, as he was nearing the bus stop, where one or two others sat waiting already, still a ways down the block. Hearing a voice behind him croak something, he continued on his way toward the bus stop, despite subsequent and repeated requests from the darkness for change, a smoke, help. Not turning, pretending not to hear, he turned again to look for the bus, and started. Somehow, he was suddenly in a dark alley, one he had never seen before. Staring about wildly, he saw broken windows covered by rusted old bars, felt the soft hardness of packed earth through his shoes, so foreign. Paint peeled off of crooked, bent wooden slats on the far wall, exposing grain turned grey from age in sickly light coming from some unseen source.
He began to panic, turning around in small circles, frantically searching for a way out. The small dirt alley was sealed, it seemed, on all four sides. Suddenly, he thought he felt a hand on his shoulder and whirled, fists up in what he hoped was a menacing stance. In the dim light he saw movement through one of the broken windows, and, despite his fear, but after a moment’s hesitation, leaned forward, closer to the jagged panes, to peer inside.

A figure sat, hidden in the shadows, on large, dully gleaming metal crates. After an moment that was somehow too brief, the figure stood, and walked a few steps toward the window. The man jumped, but did not back away, although he was very afraid. He watched as a gray, sunken face, which seemed to float in the weak, oily light coming in through the jagged mouths of the concrete windows, came into sight. Its skin was like parchment stretched tight; wisps of white hair clung in patches to the skull, and grew in riotous clusters out of moles on the neck. It smelled of warm dampness and ozone, with a faint overone of rotting. Rags could be seen hanging limply from a skeletal frame. Large, dark eyes opened slowly, almost audibly, to peer back at the man.
“You must not proceed with your duties tonight, no matter how much she offers. I warn you, Vincent Braun, not this one. She must not be allowed to go through with it.” The voice sounded like pebbles bouncing their way down a stone well-shaft, and it sent a shudder down his spine.
As he opened his mouth to answer, Vincent became aware of brakes screeching, a horn blaring, and realized his head was leaning out into the street. Yanking it back barely, just before he became a pesky stain on city property, adrenaline pumping, he turned, wild eyed, toward the others at the bus stop, and met a dead, disinterested stare from an old woman who probably, he thought, would have like to see him decapitated by the bus. He jogged a half block to the stop, and jumped on just as the doors were closing.

Fumbling in his jacket pocket for his pass, he finally showed it to the void, uncaring face of the bus driver, who looked him up and down, once, then turned, motioned with her head toward the back, and dropped the bus into gear.
Vincent made his way carefully through the bus, all other seats taken, to his usual three man bench at the back, which was taken up fully by a man, dressed in dirty castoffs, who seemed to have wet himself, some time earlier, and was asleep. Vacant, void, uncaring stares from those witnessing his petty predicament watched him reach up, pause, then grasp the glistening hand-railing, revulsion barely concealed on his lean, scarred face.

A cat screeched, and scampered away up the stairs past him, when he had almost reached their foot, and the door to his atelier/living space. Adjusting his shirt against the goose-bumps, his heart pounding, he jiggled the key in the lock, once, felt it begin to slide against the pins, but stop.
“Shit.” He said aloud. A tired, quiet sound, and turned to look for the can of W-D40 some workmen had left behind, by accident, the week before.

Inside, he made his way cautiously through the cluttered living space, past piles of old newspapers, five half-dismantled bicycles, a couple of cracked computer monitors, to the back room, flipped a switch to reveal a brightly light, immaculately clean area sealed off in plastic, with a stirrup mounted gurney in the middle. Stripping completely, in a small cleaning area, he washed himself, and donned clean scrubs from a small cabinet, then began to wash his hands, thoroughly, refusing to look at himself through the shards of mirror glued to the wall above the sink.

“It’s open,” he said, at the slight nock at his door, a little after two A.M. She entered, her face hidden by long bangs, barely visible in the poor light. She wore cheap clothes, jeans and a generic chain-discounter sweater, but he could tell that she had money. Somehow, he could tell. And, she was young.
“Look, I just want to get this over with, as soon as possible. My parents don’t know I’m out right now, so, can we be quick?”
“Sure,” he said quietly, never looking directly at her. “You’re going to have to change into … something else, for the … procedure.” He pointed to a cheap, import screen shielding one area, just to the side of the plastic sheeting, illuminated by the bright fluorescents within.
“But, before we do … what we agreed on, I’ll need it now. Before we go any further.”
The girl hesitated, both at the idea of changing behind the flimsy screen, and fearful that he might steal the money, but only hesitated for a second, then dug an envelope, out of her front pocket, and handed it to him.
“You’re short,” he said, steel in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice wavering, tears starting to crowd the corners of her eyes, “I tried real hard, but my parents started asking questions … Please …”
“If you cry, for real, you leave. I’ll do it, for this. For you. Now get changed.”

Later, washing the blood from his hands, he shuddered at the sight of what had emerged from the girl. It had shone, seemingly with a light of its own, pulsing out, and fading slowly in the steel basin below the gurney until it had shone no more. Inspecting his fingers closely, he reached for a coarse brush, and started over. Once he was satisfied, he stripped, and scrubbed his whole body with the brush until he bled in spots, then threw his clothes into the same plastic trash bin into which he had balled and stuffed the plastic sheeting from the operating area. On his way up the stairs, he grabbed the can of machine lubricant he had used earlier, and dragged the plastic bin a good ways onto a large concrete slab about a block from his flat, between the gutted husks of once-proud factories that stretched to the south, for miles. He sprayed the entire contents of the can onto the bloody clothes and plastic sheeting, the stepped back, lit a cigarette, took a few puffs, and threw it in. The fire caught, and burned brightly. So brightly, in fact, that he had to shield his eyes, and turned away.

When the spots cleared, he found himself on the edge of a very deep, vast forest, turned, and ran toward the open plain he could see, just through the trees. His foot caught a root, and his speed sent him flying.
A tree had fallen, just ahead, and one of its branches had broken, forming a jagged spike sticking out at about a 45 degree angle. Vincent’s full weight pushed the spike into the top of his left shoulder, shattering the collarbone, finally stopping just short of his heart, but not short of the left lung, which collapsed.

Too shocked to scream, in too much pain to whimper, the man tried weakly, after a moment, to push his body off of the log, but the pain ran in yellow lightning past his eyes, blinding him, and he lost consciousness. When he awoke he saw a pair of old, dusty boots, just to his right, and knew at once they belonged to the face and the rest of the body of the man he had seen through the glass, in the dirt alley, on his way to the bus stop.
Strong hands grabbed him, and twisted his body along the jagged branch, which ripped through his heart with the movement, sending a geyser of blood past the spike, to join the pool on the forest floor. The dusty old woman, dressing in rags ,old eyes staring out of taunt skin, leaned close to his face, watching the life fade from Vincent’s eyes, and seemed, in a way, sad.
“Did I not tell you, not to service her? Now, you have brought this, upon yourself. No worries, though, there will be another. You may have killed one who would save us, save YOU, but there will be more along."

Vincent awoke, briefly, before he died, impaled on a rusty piece of rebar jutting out of a piece of old foundation. And smiled.

Ignorance in the City of Angels

Mahalo. Thanks for reading, if you are. I sit, a stone in the tide of a million people, tethered to a simple yet elegant combination of game-play elements, the yearning for which has lain dormant in the dusty corners of the pre-frontal cortext lo these past thirteen years, since last I commanded a squad of pixelated warriors agains the legions of the alien menace. I sit, for hours, surrounded by the vast potential of this fabulous city, this swiftly tilting menagerie of cultural divergence and social deviance, aware yet unaware, blissfully ignorant of the at once fabulous and bland sheer Potential of this magical, freakish place. Good bye fain San Diego, the "Whale's Vagina", fare thee well.
Mahalo.
IK

Traffic

I simply must, Must, sell my desktop and purchase a portable computing system. Simply Must. It is irresponsible, nay, downright ludicrous, that I remain to be tied to one physical spot, if I do in fact intend to be a writer of any kind, or description. Now, to wipe that hard drive, format it, and sell it off for a few hundred bucks to some unsuspecting, backdoor computer store. I got the beast for about five hundred, and hope I get a small fraction of that back. I will want to get something small, simple, with maybe only a web browser and a word processing program, not much. Any ideas?
I LOVE to see that there is some traffic now coming through this site, hopefully because of my link to and from the American Gods site (link to the right). I will be using Lie Smith as a sounding board for assignments in the coming months, as well as an outlet for creative writing and a general vent for frustrations.
Thanks, C and H, for keeping with it here and dropping lines now and then.
I am hungry, and sweaty from thrashing, and need a haircut, but that will all come in due course.
Mahalo.
JP

When Traveling 07SEP2005

TO: St. Christopher, Papa Elegba, Hermes, Allah, Ganesha,


Bear these travelers, along their path.
Keep them this day from Fate's patient wrath.


My protection-prayer-chant thing I say before getting on the road.
Mahalo.
IK

amor vincit omnia

so every once in a while, just when you seem to yourself at least, to be bustling along the right, the virtuous path, you come to understand that everything does in fact mean nothing, that all attempts at virtuous, deeply Good behavior really do, all things said and done, mean nothing. what one man recognizes as an innocent, inter-human attempt to make light of a situation, the other sees as a backstabbing, cruel act violating a deeper understanding of, or the fundamental human need for friendship.
scenario:

a long, nervous line of potential patrons waits for some time to enter the hot spot in town. having waited in that line, exchanging pleasantries with a gruff-voiced Irishman, for some time, a group of girls are admitted by a man farther towards the door, admitted ahead in line although they had just arrived. not really cool, but they are talent, and they are hot, so no one really minds. subsequently, however, just before the girls are admitted inside, there happen to pass a number of johns, their friends, whom they wish to let in with them. wishing not to upset those still waiting behind us, and driven by an urge to keep things fair, I ask the first man not to do it, not to push in line, to go wait in the back. that said, they remain, and begin to duck under the barrier, and again I say, you really don't have to do that, it's kind of a dick move, but if you Really want, go right the fuck ahead. my friend standing next to me asks if they pushed in line, as he did not see it himself, and proceeds to move forward in line, to the bouncer, indicating that the people in front of us had pushed, and that we should be allowed in first, not them.
turning to the man from the other group with whom i had first spoken about Not Pushing In Line, i question my friend's actions, asking why he would address the situation to the bouncer, the Authority, and not to the violating party at the time that the line-jumping violation occurred. he and i shake our heads in wonder, turn away, and the friend, coming back to the group, asks me if everything is ok. i reply that it is, and he turns back to the bouncer, telling him everything is ok.
the offending line-pushers are allowed in, followed shortly by us.
immediatelly inside, i am approached by my friend, who had been informed by his girlfriend who saw and heard me talking with the First Man of the Line-Pushers, who is in a fury, livid, seeking a physical confrontation to rectify the wrong i had committed by talking to the First Man, by making light of the situation to him, and the fact that i had committed an act of treason toward our friendship.

stress, and drama, for thirty seconds, i feel the cold steady loathing and contempt seeping from his girlfriend, who had ratted me out, skewing the actual events of the transation to put me in the worst possible light, who is already in a bad mood because the evening's plans have been so frequently changed, at my direction, and who, I believe, is a spiteful and contemptuous person by nature, or at least by nurture anyway.

confronting the friend, the next day, seeking to understand why he became so suddenly violent at such a minor, tiny jest on his part, he informs me that he wanted to protect me, from a physical altrication with the First Man, from jail time and a rap sheet, from the violence that can follow that kind of encounter. talking to the bouncer about the offending parties had been his first viable option for backup had the situation gone sour. he had taken it, and i had stabbed him in the back, and that is Not What Friends Do, friends never ever, in their life even think to make fun of a friend behind his back, but would die for the other. and haven't there been so many examples of my cowardly and turn-coatish actions in the past, when i had not immediatelly stepped in and started swinging, when he had been disadvantaged in a fight, or verbal disagreement.


so i am a bad friend, i cannot immediatelly divorce myself from reason, and choose to step back and examine first before plunging right in a getting my fists bloody. so i do not live up to the strick and stringent standards of friendship, and please yes, divorce yourself from me! call me names, and put me down, and tell me that i'm not worth anything to anyone, that there are Reasons why i don't have a girlfriend, why i can't seem to keep a girl for very long.

Ho ho ho. times, they change wierd.
mahalo
JP

Wood bears her; a visitor; inflammable sorrow

He finally understood what was happening. For hours, he had sat, her sleeping with her head in his lap, the once proud inferno of that night’s bonfire reduced before them into pulsating coals, and wondered at the great sadness and release that had washed over him in waves, tearing at his soul. The sky, at times, would open, great tongues of blue stickiness washing the land, licking at the fringes of his consciousness, a sea of young, pale faces stretching out behind him, just out of reach of the fire.

Some nights earlier, he had awoken with a start, to find a young boy sporting a riotous plume of black carbonfiber strands as hair, too-short, gnarled legs kicking gently in the air atop a stack of blankets at the foot of the bed, and he had called to him. What was he doing here? he had asked, why had he come? and would he not just saying something?
The boy had stopped kicking, and a line of fear had drawn itself jaggedly through his befuddled mind, as the black plume stopped its slight swaying to the rhythm of the boyish action, and he felt a ancient, cold energy flow toward him, the small figure directing his attention, if not his eyes, at him in the dark. Better to turn on the light, he thought, find out what the little bastard wants. Without taking his eyes off the figure, he flipped the switch.
Nothing. A motorcycle crash jacket mostly covering a battered black helmet, both skewing righteously, bearing great potential and endless stories of their own, to the right off of the pile of blankets.

At first, hearing the soft squeals of longing wafting into his subconscious, he had started to protest, but stopped, and watched as she had thrown into the bonfire a small, brown bedside table, and shuddered as the wood of the piece released its pent up mourning.
Visions of an old woman slowly fading away toward death, years and immense Time settling onto his emotional plane, had drifted across his inner vision, filling him with a melancholy sorrow that stretched to his very toes. The small, brown bedside table had soaked up and was now releasing, with a final great wave, strong impressions of the last days of Her life, pain beyond morphine’s sweet embrace, telomers frayed, the agony of cells collapsing while others multiplied her organs into each other, an end he instantly knew he would find himself one day, someday, any day, tomorrow or in fifty years.
The bedside wood had burned brightly, far brighter than anything around it, and the air had roared as it was sucked into the fire, a vortex of flame that stretched high, yearning, it seemed, to lick the low, pregnant cumulus clouds sitting above the valley. When the flame subsided, not long thereafter, his Virginia girl had immediately fallen asleep, almost pitching forward into the flames, if not for his caring hand which had pulled her back into his lap.

He wept, great wracking sobs of joy and sorrow, at the loss of a stranger, at the knowledge that he would love Her forever.

Our friend, who talks to wood

Unlike the rest, our friend could actually talk to wood. Not with words, and maybe Talking is a bit too strong of a term, but he could certainly communicate with the stuff. If a chair had a weak rear leg, on the right side, he would know to warn the obese woman about to sit down to favor the front and left, and he made a point to mention the weakness to one of her companions, should there be any.
Of course, the wood making up that chair would put off a cool aura, and only be able to tell him, with feeble pulsing, vaguely where it was weaker, or perhaps which grain still held the essence of the sun from a magnificent summer of growth. In the forest, alone, he would teeter on the very edge of madness, bombarded by the inexorable stubbornness and constant slow wailing of the various trees.
Firs tended to be a bit dull, as they never really changed their leaves, and put out hard spiky cones. But seasonal trees, like the chestnut, were a delight. They put off such phenomenal waves of euphoria at the first sign of thaw, rubbing against each other in the wind, sometimes putting forth tender green tendrils simply to taste the warming air, recurring frost be damned.
Now, our friend, he thought his whole life that everyone else could feel the odd doorjamb, or knew why he smiled at the quiet, confused story of a boyhood pencil. He actually never spoke about it, never mentioned it to anyone just as people don’t normally talk about the joys and intricacies of Breathing, until he was close to twenty, and fell in love with a girl one summer in Virginia, who loved to hurl whole pallets into midnight bonfires under obscured twinkling stars.

There once was a schoolboy named Kent
He was laughed at wherever he went

He found someone's baby, the mother's name, Sadie,
And his monkey got totally bent.

End. X

A peace disrupted; aftermath of violation; consequences

Wearily, the man trudged up a long, low hill leading up to a small hamlet. Stopping halfway to rummage in his leather bag for a bit of jerky, he turned to admire the stark beauty of the valley in which he stood, and, chewing slowly as he turned all the way around, found the view to be pleasing in all directions. Especially the view up toward the collection of squat houses of various sizes he had first called home nearly one year earlier.
No one would be home, he knew, as fall had arrived, and brought with him not only a flurry of activity from the village’s otherwise complacent farmers, but festivals in every village to honor the new crop, celebrate the changing of the seasons, or ward off the coming evils of winter.

Entering the village from the eastern path by which he had climbed the low hill, he felt ill at ease, but unsure why. Shrugging it off as negative energy left over from his hard day at work, he rounded the corner of the last grass-thatched house before reaching the cottage he shared with a friend. He could see directly into the dim room, and marked with slight alarm that the door to one of the houses’ two room, that which he occupied, was standing open.
He could see people inside, and decided to surprise Them, lest they get the jump on him! Carefully he rushed inside, swinging wide to the left once inside to clear the short wooden table, and jumped into his room, letting loose a cry of playful chiding.

At once, he knew that his foreboding lay not in the day’s residual hardships. Her face was screwed up in fear, pain, frustration. She barely had the will to sit upright on his bed, and sobs wracked her body as tears slid into her wide-open mouth.
“She was raped.” There. Matter of fact, no bullshit, soft cold words spoken in a tongue she could not understand. He heard the steel in his friend’s voice, and felt a fist of the same alloy close around his own heart. Seeing her supported in his friends' arms, knowing she was now safe with him, the man failed even to ask her if the same was in fact true. Impulses to punish and fix threw the much smaller, but far more significant, thoughts of compassion up against a wall, grinning wickedly at their brief success, poisoning reason and love with their savagery.
Two paths presented themselves. First, find the sorry fuck who did the sorry deed and rip his lungs out. Second, inform the constable and have things settled officially. Barely had his heart been enveloped, hardly had the two paths been spun up out of their logical docks, and said aloud, than she began to wail, and speak.

“NO! I told you I didn’t want anyone to know! You told him? And we are Not going to the police! I can’t believe you told him! How could you tell him? I don’t want anyone to know! I just want to forget about the whole thing. Why can’t we just forget about it?”
Over, and over. Dozens of times she accused him of telling me, of wanting to go to the police, to call the constable, but mostly for telling me. At least that’s what stuck out most in his poisoned and confused mind, and he darted past them back out into the living area, sitting down heavily on a musty couch, motes aroused by the vortex churning a scant beam of sunlight which came in from a gap in the thatch work that would have to be patched before the winter.
Then, she was screaming. Screaming at his friend, standing with him in his room, becoming hysteric at the sheer audacity of the fact that her man had told his friend about what had happened.
They had been together almost two years. During that time, she and the man had spoken many times, laughed and cried, become friends, sharing words and intimacies. They were friends, of a sort, and he had tried not to hold a thing from her. The disgust in her voice, and its’ eardrum-overloading volume, brought him out of the seat with a start, guiding his hand as it slammed the door to his room, closing in the familiarity of Own space, shielding him from the tantrum of fear and loathing outside.

The constable was notified, and expressed confidence, when he arrived, that the perpetrator would be caught, no matter that he had left the country. Evidence was collected, and the mechanisms of the second, official path were set in motion. The perp would hopefully wallow in some dank cell, receiving occasionally a personal taste of what he had done to another.

Wearily, the man trudged up a long, low hill leading up to a small hamlet. He was eager to see his friend, for a synopsis of the previous day’s events, and to see how the girl was recovering. During the day, while performing his various, laborious tasks, the man had understood that the girl could have very easily been put out by his cold-heartedness, by his slamming of doors, and lack of pure concern for Her at the moment he had heard the news. Very easily, she could have let her fear and rage follow the path of least resistence.
In his mind, he saw three pictures, one of himself (handsome devil) one of his friend (nearly as handsome devil), and the perpetrator (whose face had been burned into her memory to lurk there forever, and who would hopefully be the closest thing she would ever again have to associate with an actual devil).
First, he erased the picture of his friend, who always encouraged her, was faithful to her, and had been actively supportive, patient and loving in the initial aftermath of the horrid event.
Second, he mentally erased the picture of the perp, who had not only violated her, but left the country immediately thereafter, who represented everything wrong and poor about those entrusted with a single X and one shriveled Y chromosome. Who wants to think about their tormentor? Does the four-eyed, YuGiOh! loving poor kid from the corner, who walks to school, let his mind rest on the upcoming theft of his meager lunch money by the cowardly, fronting little shit who just got dropped off in a Chrysler? No! He may flittingly pick at the concept, his fear lapping like the Pacific, but ultimately, he would cross that bridge when the time came.
The girl would never have to see the man again, but would also never be able to fully abandon her fear, fully recover, at least not for a while.
Third, he let the picture of himself pulse a soft white, incandescence caressing the borders of a playfully scowling self-portrait. That was the man to hate! That was the man who had moved so quickly to answer pain and violence with more of the same. He had been told what had happened, a terrible thing! He had heard with his own ears what had happened. Would his perception of her perhaps forever change? Would he discount her because of the fate that had befallen her? Would he mock her? Would he spread nasty rumors about her to the world? Would he even perhaps take pleasure in it? So many opportunities, so many chinks in his armor in which to bury the hatchet of her fear.

His friend, waiting for his return by the wooden table under the thatched roof, confirmed to him his day’s inklings. In his terse, forward manner, he confirmed that the girl had stated she never wanted to see him again, and that she was immeasurably upset with him.

Having figured that much out already, he paused briefly, to mourn the loss of her as a friend, shifting the breadth of knowledge that made up Her to him, to join the small stack of profiles of the disenchanted. Sometimes you get blamed for shit you didn’t even do. Can’t cry about it, at least he didn’t.

Remain positive, he thought, learn to enjoy losing.

An das Gefährt

Sleek, the flanks, sunlight glinting off of a sturdy frame.
Dauntless, in the face of unrelenting trajectory,
Exact, in the face of deadly consequence.

Not once, brave friend, stout Bucephalus, have you failed me.
No. It is I, neglectful, abusive, pushing ever forward,
Who have blindly brought ruin to your intricate workings.

Steel, rubber and plastic meld with flesh, skin, and bone.
Without one set, the other is still, immobile.
Without the other set, the one is still, immobilized.

Carry me, friend, a few steps further.
Fly with me through the hurtling voids, into the inter-pack repose.
Sing with me, rejoice at the prospect of return and awakening.

Looking a bit foreign?

London Underground Sign

NanoTech Article

Yo,
Check out this Yahoo Special from BusinessWeek on NanoTech. Pretty in depth. JP

Subjective Time

Feel like the day is passing you by? DON'T move your EYES! More here.
For all you lovers of Drew Kurtis, FARK party at the SD ComiCon Saturday 7/16/2005 at the Rock Bottom.
see you there. X

Summer; a dangerous transfer; transformation; NYC adventure

Memories of the past summer were still fresh in her mind. Sulking down the boardwalk, her mother turning, hands on her hips, to look pleadingly at her husband, seeking his consent, his approval as she caught her breath from her tirade. Seemingly oblivious, the man puffed on his cigar, laughing with the newly met neighbor, a welder from Arizona, down with his family, one fence over. Their daughter had snuck out the night before, and she had tracked her down for two hours, creeping along in the family’s car, listening for her daughter’s laugh, asking passers-by if they had seen her. Nothing. Then ... in an alleyway, she had found her. Pressing some smaller boy up against a stucco wall, seemingly oblivious.
The girl, Sally, was mad that they had waited until dark to let her out of the house. They had kept her in one of the rooms all day, where she had tended after her cousin who had come down with the flu. It hadn’t been so bad, not at first. She had always liked her cousin, and got along with her great, but had been longing for sun sand and boys for weeks in school. Now, with the sun setting over the Pacific, she herded her younger siblings around a slender puddle, hugging the wall to allow a rapidly approaching figure pass. Tall, might be, ok verified cute, but no, I have to babysit these four, this sucks, maybe he’ll ... oh my god. Nice eyes, was he smiling? A tiny smile, so small, but a flash of understanding in his eyes, playfulness, and compassion for me in this my terrible fate. Now, let’s not get too dramatic. How can I get out of this next year?

He didn’t even feel the data transfer. Wasn’t supposed to, especially not walking past the Lincoln memorial in broad daylight. Oh wait, there it was, a scratching, in his lungs, like an oncoming, bad cough. Hacking, he began to make himself invisible. Not in the literal sense, but to the degree that anyone who knew him, who would be looking for him, heck who was probably already looking for him now, would have a very hard time recognizing him. After walking east, randomly, for about two miles, the man had thrown himself down a flight of stairs, badly spraining an ankle in the process, ripped his shirt, and purposefully fallen into in a stagnant brown puddle out behind a $Dollar$ Chinese restaurant. He had traded his jacket and five bucks for a tattered parka an old street bum had been sitting on. Limping, smelling of rotting cooking oil and rat shit, long hair disheveled, clothing torn and tattered, he forced back a smile. A handful of dirt caked his otherwise clean, healthy teeth, and pen ink would have to do until he got into New York City to make the transfer.
The man had a small time window before the courier, an older, nondescript Hispanic man, who had looked at him with eyes screwed against a sudden gust of cool wind, sold his description and whereabouts to the D.C. criminal underworld. In the meantime, a virus that contained strands of DNA was at the moment writing those strands onto the vast uncoded portions of his 18th chromosome, sinking them like shipwrecks into a sea of “COPY ME” viruses. Not only was the specific location of the information, now part of his DNA, known to only three people on the planet, but a special RNA protein compound was needed to extract the information, and only a handful of labs were capable of even attempting to manufacture it.
If you wanted to transfer data, across town or the globe, without virtually anyone being able to locate, track or extract it, this method was ne plus ultra. The only problem was that it was ridiculously expensive.

The price was worth it, considering the value of the data contained. As soon as the inhaled virus hit, it had imbedded critical segments of the DNA one hundred world leaders into the “COPY-ME” wasteland on chromosome 18. Data in hand, a competent and ruthless group of people could engineer diseases that would kill these people more or less quickly. Ransoms monies, blackmail, the whole deal.
But to entrust this information to one person, or even a handful of persons, had seemed foolish and arrogant. That is why they had piggybacked it onto a common cold virus, and a pretty nasty one at that. Let the cold spread, only a few people knew what it truly contained. They would still track the four original

The two men had met halfway up the stairs of a Metro entrance, at exactly the agreed upon time. Javier had asked him for a cigarette in his limited English, accepted the man’s lighter, and handed it back along with a sleek inhaler he had taken from his right jacket pocket. He had immediately returned the hand to his pocket, where his sweaty palm had gripped the cheap red plastic handle of a Chinese knockoff SAS flechette pistol.
There was a single charge in the inhaler, he knew, from what he could tell on the miniature readout display. With empty eyes he watched the man take his hit, and took back the inhaler. Turning, he walked down the stairs, extinguished his cigarette, running to catch an approaching train that would take him to the next station. His man waited there, in a van outside, with a cellphone, a steel box, a vial of phosphorus, and a change of clothes.

Sally had convinced her parents to send her to summer camp, one she had not been to yet. She had also convinced a poor girl she had met at the mall, who shared her build, but not her looks, to go in her stead. The poor girl had agreed at five hundred dollars, which she had withdrawn from checking. Three of her friends had arranged to ditch their parents that week as well, and the four of them were going to visit some seniors they had run into at the mall, who were crashing at one of their brothers’ lofts in the City.

She had gotten separated from her friends, somewhere north of Union Square, on their way back to the loft. Their laughter echoed off the canyon like walls, as her world began to spin. Suddenly on hands and knees, she came to puking expensive alcohol through the heavy grates in the diffuse blackness below. Looking to her right, she realized the pile she thought was garbage was instead a man, very close to her, who was getting ready to sneeze.

Challenges facing literature; paths to resolution?

I found myself thinking, actually getting quite upset about it, but nonetheless thinking about what writing means today.
Looking at other genres, you have abstract structural art, e.g. a giant fork welded to the side of a bulldozer, or seventeen video monitors mounted on top of each other, all showing different segments of the same elderly man’s talking head reciting the alphabet backwards.
In music you have perhaps the greatest breadth of options known to mankind. Right now, I could go online, and, within fifteen minutes, find stations broadcasting the latest sounds out of Ramadi, Ninsei, Mumbai, Novosibirsk. I can listen in to the local sounds of any part of the globe, or find modern music ranging from silent symphonies to seventeen loudspeakers all playing different segments of the same Harley motorcycle starting up.
Looking to writing, though, what do we find? We find the same medium, paper and ink, that has been around since the dawn of mankind, perused by millions of people a day. Of course, music has been around far longer, but enjoys the advantage of mobility.
The reader must sit his or her ass down, in one spot, with the intention of reading just one book, one page at a time, to myself, ignoring everyone and everything around me. Running on the boardwalk by the beach today, however, I heard a dozen different snippets of pieces of music, and saw cars, houses, bodies and clothing that bore visual art. Where would I rather be, as a young man in Southern California? Out in the sun, checking out sculpted female bodies, iShuffle blasting, looking for new tatoo ideas, or inside, in a comfy chair, jogging the mind, expanding the imagination?
Both options have their merits, both fulfil certain needs, desires. But with eternal sunshine, endless TV programs and internet pr0n, who has time for books, let alone novels? I work hard myself to make the time to read and write, but find it far easier to boot up the PS2 and drop in Mean Girls, naked, in the dark.
So, what is the solution? I beg to offer none. Just as there is no silver bullet for terrorism (RIP London 7/72005) or environmental destruction (too many to mention, open your blinds), this is a complex issue. For one, it’s really not cool to read, at least not when you’re, say, walking, or riding your bike, or at a party.
Would you be reading, at the party? Not there. I would be working the room, dropping body language hints to the foreign chick smoking non-filters in the corner, guzzling Black Russians, grab-assing and being generally inappropriate.
Well, if not at the party, would you be reading at home? My GBA is burning a hole in my skull right now, from twenty feet away, Sacred Stones begging to be saved. I discipline myself as best as possible, to read, and not just in the fifteen minutes before going to bed.

One possible solution is to shorten the material into its basic components without losing the basic, underlying meaning or substance of the piece. Is this possible? I mean to try. I read not too long ago that the majority of people who read novels are over 50. Would the under 35 demographic take the time to read five pages of kick-ass text, boiled down from the classics, or compiled from today’s newest and finest? Perhaps such shrinkage would alienate the older foundation of readers. Perhaps, it would not even register, and they could go on leafing through leather bound tomes.
Another solution would be to offer cheap downloads of text read by man or computer to portable devices, with voice on-off activation, so that the under 35s can listen while driving, walking, fucking, and not face the nuisance of having to take the CD with them, or carry an additional playback device.
Personally, I like listening to books read on long trips. Maybe ... weave pop music in with the story, have it in the background, but I doubt if radio stations would play it. Maybe NPR, before the Republicans cut funding. Pop music would time-stamp the piece, forcing periodic rework, or encouraging the creation of all new stories to all new music. I will have to look for similar discussion groups, or blogs. Any ideas? MG.

Shortcut; Imp. of Risk Assmt.; Anticipation; the Date

Maybe, he thought, maybe if I take this road, it will lead me by some secret back way sun-glazed cliffs which I aim to descend, for to meet a fain lass in the vale. The jolly man, hidden in his cave, had made a few things clear to me before I left.

Not to take anything, you know, from the company, and certainly not to sell it so blatantly, in the square on market day. Rather to permeate all levels of the keep, to know of things before they happen, and plan for the bounty they bear, should the preparations be just right.
Of these things he did not speak, but I was thinking them over his words as he rambled on about the supposed necessity of maintaining a permanent, positive image in the eyes of others. How god damn important is it, I thought, if the new guy thinks you’re his best bud, if some jackass upstairs just up and walks into your office, yanks out some super-limited product, then hackles it at the market for no cost but that intangible risk of being caught. Whole peoples have been decimated by men willing to take, or oblivious even to the existence, of that risk.

The lean beast pounding away beneath me sounds a bit raspy, could have him checked out at the glue maker’s. This patch of road seems in no way familiar, unless that bridge up ahead is ... indeed, it is. Damn, must have triangulated my intended location by about three miles. At the very least, this stretch is, for sheer lack of interesting features, to be avoided.

Buy the ticket, take the ride. She had laughed, that night, every time she twirled, sinking back into my arms, allowing me to steal a kiss in her shy way, hesitant, with all her friend’s eyes on her, but excited at the prospect of it, at the spontaneous naughtiness. For some reason, I knew I would call her. It had become a bit of a personal problem, girls’ numbers filling empty spaces on scratch paper, appearing magically on cellphone contact lists, like so many others never to be called. I knew it would have to end, that I would have to not only buy the ticket, but take the fucking ride with it.
But why her? Why did the brief and barely noticed rash of empty promises, missed opportunities, echoing in its own loneliness, more of an irritation than a rash, really, that happened to plague this finest city briefly, before the advent of summer, end with her?

The bar can’t be but a few more blocks, and the lights have been sooooo good, hold, just a little longer, let me through, good, just ah... crap. Can’t get the fucking thing into neutral, roll back, gun it forward, get some friction on it, there. Something calming about that little green light, pulsating softly as the turn signal sucks juice, like the eye of a storm, internal clocks resetting as signs of an impending traffic light change promulgate. Then, the eyes pulsating slightly in their sockets as the lungs suck juice, releasing held breath slowly, for the split second when sound, wind and velocity once again reign supreme.

His eyes adjust to the dimness, a low mishmash of ceilings covering a previous courtyard. The Mexican bartender dunks a sliver of lime, too small, into his beer, seemingly for good measure, as he turns again, to scan the bar. Door in the back, looks like even more dim booths and tables in there. Two, at a table close by, pretty, but keep looking. The handful of booths that line the wall in this main room are all filled with couples, and it’s certainly not the eight year old sitting with Granny and Gramps. Now don’t they look foul. No smiles on her old face in decades, at least not real ones. He’s probably a cop, or wishes he still were, set in his ways, trigger happy, would complain about his own sweat.
The family close to the back door doesn’t even compute. You wouldn’t meet up with someone for drinks with your infant girl cousin puking on herself two feet away. No sir, it must be these two.

Three times he touches her, lightly, on the arm, about half way down the biceps. It is a gesture that is best used when something the lady said was not heard correctly, to encourage her to lean in, maybe get a little of your hot man breath down her ear canal to boot. Pleasant, interested, amusing, but not a fool, inquisitive, making sure to mix a little salt in with the sugar, so they know I’m not just feeding them lies.

Fuck I always mix up the first and third persons. Can we drop tense, shall I switch between them, can I? Will it make any difference, if someone picks up on it? Does it denote sloppiness, or a concentration on the greater structure of the piece?

It ends with a hug! Didn’t help that her sister was there. It was worse because she was hotter, maybe a bit smarter, but there for many different purposes. Failsafe. Judge. Support. Not once did she ask me a question. Fine. I just want to bang this little honey, probably never call her back. But a hug?

Proper fucked. There’s always prostitution. JK

Returning home; raven-haried killer wife; a meeting

Silently now, she must not hear me coming in so late.
His clothes seem tattered, the open collar revealing scratches, what could be a fractured collarbone. Looking in the hallway mirror, his eye sockets sheathed in pools of darkness. Through the large bay window off to the left, a sportscar, with one headlight out, choking on fumes in the driveway dark. With a sigh, it dies, the headlight dimming automatically.
Those German bastards really did get it right, with the new 500s.
Staring into the gloominess, he feels the Look from his wife. Call it spidey sense, maybe with a little radar thrown in, but with full send and receive. Scanning, he locates it off to the right, and meets her eyes by the stairs. She is armed when he reaches her, and he bear the scars to remind him of her abilities with even the smallest blades.. He knows if anyone else entered the house with malintent, they would be dead before their second breath of home sweet home.
From the tire tracks on the front lawn, and her loose stance, someone must have beat me here. But did they leave, or were they still here?
“Where is he?”
All was running according to plan. They knew they would have to face mercenaries at some point, he had just acquired the means to assure their financial security. She merely glares, a look of playful but deadly contempt briefly fill her face, to vanish back into the otherwise stoic depths of her face. She turns, and bolts silently up the stairs.
Reaching the top landing, he knows his son is safe, and looks at his wife.
Running her hands over his bruised body, she looks for signs of broken bones. They speak in hushed tones.
“How many?” A hint of mania rides his rational mind. He would never surrender the boy to that beast of a man. Sooner the boy would be dead.
“Maybe ten. If they burn the house, he will die. We must ...”
“He comes with us, then.”

The buyer sits, his legs crossed, wearing a loose Acapulco shirt, morning sun pouring into the misty beach air. He is drinking a mimosa, and is visibly drunk.
“Jack How the hell are ya ” He yells across the bar, waving Jack, the man who just sold out his company, to boot stealing hundreds of millions of dollars worth of product research and other sensitive data over, already ordering his new companion something to drink. The thumb drive burned a hole in his thigh as he slid in next to the American.
“What did you order for me?
“Jack and Coke.” He hesitates, looking toward the bartender, who causally moves on to the other end of the bar.
“Don’t worry. If you have what you say you do, you won’t need for money. Maybe find a safe place to hole up though. I got a cousin, in LA, could hook you up.”
Jack nods slightly, the base of his neck tight.

Winston J. Hall sees the movement, and realizes just how tense he himself is. This is big time, now, W. The only thing now is to get the data, and the passwords. His superiors had been pleased with the tidbits Jack had fed them, wanted the whole thing, even had the twenty million lined up for transfer.

Post-accident; discontent; strength of character - A Hassan side story

Und er gewann die Hand der schönsten Frau im ganzen Lande. Sie hatte Angst um ihn gehabt, wie er im Turnier sein Leben riskierte. Er hatte es getan, um sie seiner Liebe Zeuge zu machen, um Allen zu zeigen, dass ein gewöhnlicher Junge, vom Dorf, von normalen Eltern, den besten der Ritten schlagen konnte.

A couch sits in one corner, unused, but dusted and vacuumed, from time to time. The couch had been cause for a major disturbance, at the beginning. She had insisted they couldn’t afford it, that the kids needed other things more than a couch. But he had held fast, insisting on buying it. He didn’t know why, at the time, but hadn’t spent a dime on himself for a year without letting her know because of the cost. Now, quietly thinking to himself that he had been right, the man smiles a tiny smile at the absurdity of the arguments, the time when they would yell at each other, over it. Catching himself short as he sees movement in the corner of his eye, he straightens his back, and turns to face his daughter, just coming into the room, a concerned look on her face.
Immediately, she knows that he will be fine, that he will get this, that he will, as he always has, at the end, be somehow better for it. Beginning again to think of what happened, she finds her throat closing, a mild panic rising in her belly.
Fleeing from the room, she can’t but hate her father for the fact that he will be ok in the end. She fears for her younger sister. Her brother. Someone is going to have to tell him now. Tears soak her ears, and she is running down the street.

Fuck this. This sucks. I hate work, the young man thinks to himself, every day I come in here and unload these trucks, and stack the stuff in the store room in the back, and every day it sucks. It wouldn’t be so bad, if I didn’t have to work with the old man. His son is cool, he doesn’t give me any shit, tries to work with me. If they let me mess with the copiers and such, but the old fucker, he just likes to boss everyone around, even the customers sometimes. Randy works at Cold Stone, says it isn’t too bad, and you get to talk to hot chicks, says he can get me a job there. Maybe I should talk to him.
Shit, are they calling my name?
“Coming..” He says, walking toward the door. Is there someone crying inside. Wait, it sounds like Jenny, he thinks to himself.

“Redmond. Red.” Sniff. Just tell him she thinks, straight up. “Red, oh god, I gotta tell you something. It’s about Mom.”
“Jenny, what are you talking about.”
At that moment, they hear tires screeching in the parking lot out front. The door to the store flies open, little chimes banging violently on the aluminum.
“Jennifer! Red, have you seen Je ... thank god, there she is. Jen, why did you run off like that? You scared me ... I got your sister in the car. Red, I got to tell you something.”
“Dad, no. I’ll do it. Redmond, it’s Mom. She uh she was in an accident.” Fighting back tears, “She’s in the hospital. It just happened, like, fifteen minutes ago. Red, I’m so scared.” Finally, she cannot hold back, and falls into her brother’s arms, sobbing quietly into his warm side. Red looks at his Dad, and knows he is being strong for them, for him. He knows he will be strong too, for everyone.
“Dad, could you go tell Mr. Rostone that I’ll be leaving early today? I’ll get Jenny in the car.”

Dad seemed really mad, she thought. But maybe he was just scared. I’m scared, but I’m glad I have Nancy, she’s my best friend, and she’ll make Mommie better, when we see her. Mommie says I can’t take her to school next year, but maybe I can sneak her with me under my shirt, and she can protect me there too. I think this is where Roro works, Mom and I came here last week, but she and Roro were yelling at each other in the car.
“Hey Tyler, could you give your sister a hug? She really needs one now.” As he shuts the door, and moves forward to shotgun, the sight of the two hugging in the back, a small form cradling one far larger, he fights back panic, bracing himself against the car door. His father pauses at the driver door, and meets his eyes. Red can see the slightest, fleeting panic.
“Son. Your sisters and I need you to be strong, now. We’re going to see her at the hospital. It’s pretty bad, from what the nurses could tell me. She’s a strong woman, Red.”

Hassan watches, from the window, as the family drives off. He had class with the older girl, Jenny, he thinks, and hopes that their Mom will be ok. He feels his father, close behind him.
“Hassan, there are customers waiting. I’m sure everything will be all right, with them.”
“Dad, they all looked pretty upset. I hope nothing like this happens to us.”
“It may, it may not. We must leave that up to God. Now, come back to work.”

A moustache; Hero's Quest; banishment

Gott sagte, und er sprach, so lasse dir doch einen Schnurbart wachsen. Und wie Er sah, dass es geschehen war, legte er seine Arbeit nieder, und war zufrieden. Sometimes, you chop your beard off, leaving only a moustache, and suddenly, everything changes. It’s not just that having one is so Out, it’s also the fact that it is absurd to wear one, but not in a pretentious way, somehow self-deprecating. It is also somehow a powerfully subtle statement that I fundamentally don’t fucking care if the fashion-whore magazines don’t like it, while sticking a shovel up cubeLand’s ass, and telling it to suck golfballs.

To emulate Hannah's Gonzo Brain, I will sum up a bit. Working on some short stories, slowly churning out some chunks, some building blocks, with which I will one day soon craft my own version of the hero’s quest. Essentially, every story ever written is a hero’s quest in its own right. It is so simple in concept, and so very fucking hard to turn into practice. Of course, I may be looking to produce a masterpiece overnight, and am only slow to realize that I can’t. But every piece is a building block to a larger potential piece, I just have to choose the format, create the environment, introduce the characters, kill off one or two main ones, throw in a reference to the cancer-killing AAV2 virus more here, and have some killer pr0n scenes involving femjacking and whiskey.

I was first introduced to the concept of the hero’s quest by my brother, His Illustriousness, esq., coming soon to Vatam Inc website who pointed me toward The Hero with a Thousand Faces, by Joseph Campbell, more here , which outlines the basic concept.

Fundamentally, we meet a hero, let’s say he lives in a small village of a few hundred people, in a mythical land of beasts and magic. The king of this mythical land, sitting on his throne many leagues removed, sends forth messengers to the far corners of his realm, offering fame, riches and honor to any man who can slay a terrible dragon which lives in the hills, blocking the entrance to a vast silver mine of lore.
Our young hero packs his meager belongings, accepts the large salami offered by his mother, kisses her, shakes his father’s hand, and turns his back on everything he has ever known. After traversing the scorching acid plains of the western desert, and fighting off his zombie parents, stopping briefly to slowly torture his roommate to death, who cannot leave a budding writer a moment’s peace to complete a few modest words.
Having reached the mouth of the great, terrible dragon’s lair, on the edge of the Eastern Sea, nestled in the rolling foothills of the Hundusian mountains, he wavers. His resolve broken, his body and mind exhausted from the journey, scarred from his countless battles, the recent patri-, matricide fresh in his mind, he doubts himself, with one foot in the cave. Realizing he has nothing left to lose, nothing to turn back to, however, he steels himself, setting on, to face the dragon, a silver-scaled beast standing two stories tall, not one of the fire breathers (his cousins are), but lightning quick, and beautiful to behold, who takes half of his left hand, as well as our hero’s right eye, with him to the grave. With a shock, the hero realizes that the real battle was internal, with himself, and turns back, to wealth and fame, rebuilds his parent’s ruined home, marries the brunette baker’s daughter, and lives to scare the shit out of his grandchildren with his tales of conquest, his gaping ocular cavity coming in handy at certain points.
Or, you could have the hero, vomiting blood, staring as, with its final dying energy, the dragon chews half of his small intestine out of his belly. He holds on for a few more minutes, reciting his final dying words into a special recording scroll he purchased from a fetching merchant lady, his head swimming with shock, reveling in the fact that he laid it all on the line, that he bought the ticket, took the ride, and died trying.

So, he leaves the comfort of childhood, fights his way to the “dragon”, kills it, becoming a man, and either goes on to kill more dragons (see the many villains struck down by Ian Fleming’s James Bond), or fades into relative obscurity, perhaps emerging to write a bestseller about his achievements, or just getting married and pumping out a bunch of ankle biters, to tell them all about it when they’re old enough to listen without trying to chew on the tattered finger-nubs of his left hand.

Of course, any combination of settings, love interests, villains, and heros are available, and I should probably re-read Campbell’s THwaTF (see previous), finish Herodotus’ Histories, and plough through Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, all the while experimenting blindly with various styles, literary methods, transitions, character depth, etc., until I find the right combo.

I know a cherished few do read this blog, for that I give my thanks. The more who do read it, the merrier, and the more I will put myself under pressure to produce better and more interesting shorts to read. So, tell your friends, and who knows, if it gets big enough, we can do an Olde Bouyah t-shirt, I already got some designed, which would r0xx0rz.

Thanks for reading.

Doch sah Er, was der Mann sich zugetan hat, und befohl ihm es sofort zu richten, was nicht geschah. Gekränkt, schickte Er ihn fort. Er war Spott und Demut ausgesetzt, und leidete sehr. Und Er war zufrieden.

Disconnected, observant

Deep down, he knew what would occur. He knew that, once he got to the mall, he would essentially have nothing to do there, no purpose. All day, the only thing that he could think about, throughout the meetings, while having a walk and talk with his boss, churning out emails and pretty much getting shit done, everything he did was tarnished by the desire to be at that mall.

Everywhere you looked, once you got there, while either sitting at the food court in the middle, or roaming the open expanses, there were beautiful women. They walked the broad central thoroughfare, passing boutiques large and small, chain and startup, millions of colors, fabrics assaulting their senses, fulfilling the most pure ideals of consumerism, alive with passionate discourse, explaining excitedly to a girlfriend what outfit they had picked out, quiet, internal evaluations, lips barely moving, as gross calculations were made based on a constellation of variables.
Current cash-flow, available increases to current cash-flow, possible occasions that would justify the purchase, matching shoes, necessary accessories to bring out, or subdue, this or that feature, known blemishes and the purchases’ ability to conceal and or alleviate the need to conceal, and on and on.
In a split second, at least no more than one or two, the brain calculates these and many more. Sometimes the rational voice wins, overcoming the desire to live out the envisioned future enjoyment of the purchase. Other times, the rational voice is quiet, or not loud enough to tamp out the desire to simply feel beautiful, to know that outfit was yours, and no one else’s.

Deep down, he thought he knew these things to be true. He watched them, as they browsed, comparing and tracking prices, perhaps walking, true of purpose, to a previously visited store, to doublecheck the price of a certain item, perhaps even buy it there. Perhaps that was the reason he came to the mall, to watch these beautiful creatures passionately hunting for just the right item, gathering together the means to their individual ends.
Perhaps, however, he was merely projecting his notions of a woman’s desires and habits from his knowledge of previous wives, his mother, onto women as a whole. Perhaps the woman sitting down, two tables to his right, resting, it seemed, from a busy day, was thinking about what to buy next. But she could have been thinking of her dog, a project at work, children, maybe if the chunk of earth two hundred miles long, just barely hanging onto the Kamchatka peninsula, would indeed shortly slide off into the ocean, kicking up a tsunami that would drown her and all others, laying waste to her fine city.

Why are these thoughts in my head, he thought to himself, sitting with the setting sun at his back. He wondered if the people around him were thinking things about him, discussing his choice of clothing, or what kind of hair shampoo he used.
Looking around, he realized that no one was looking at him, at all, that all people seemed focused on going somewhere, being or doing something else. Not a single person said anything to another, unless they had come together or were trying to sell the other person something.
Slowly, it dawned why he yearned for the mall, why his waking hours were filled with an unspecified desire to be there, to sit, unmolested, for hours. He desired to be among people, without having to answer emails, field calls, document procedures.
Nothing gave him greater pleasure that being surrounded by people, but speaking to no one, and knowing that none would speak to him, unless he got a job there and was forced to.
Inspired, in part, by Dostoevski’s Crime and Punishment, Everyman’s Library

On pride, briefly

On pride.
Pride can be many things, but, in my opinion, certain ruough categories can be established.

An arrogant person displays pride in his or her personal achievements, boasting to others about their success and making it known to anyone who gives a damn that they did something well and should receive praise for it.
A person lacking pride does not display to the world that they have done anything worthwhile, and often attempt to downplay, even sabotage, any attempt to praise them for their accomplishments.

Both extremes can bear negative fruit, in their own way.
The arrogant person, when confronted with the suggestion that their accomplishment may not in fact be the pinnacle of excellence they thought it to be, will often argue the opposite. To protect the idea of finality and perfection they see in their accomplishment, fully convinced that they are correct, they rigidly stand behind their statement, wavering not, even in the face of superior logic, or when presented with facts proving that their accomplishment is indeed flawed, in some way.
I will argue that the arrogant person has shackled himself to a particular statement, and, rather than losing face, will not even entertain the notion that there may be a different way, an alternate approach, a new concept, and fail to realize the opportunity to learn something new.

The person lacking pride, on the other hand, will have already examined their accomplishment, found it lacking perfection, even worth, and will have already begun listing the things they see wrong with it before the task is even completed.
In my opinion, this person shackles themselves to failure even before a task is begun, thus making any progress or improvement virtually pointless, robbing the accomplishment of its value before the value has even been determined.

In the end, both die. It’s true. I read it in a pamphlet this one homeless guy gave to me while I was jogging. It was smeared with mustard, and one corner was torn, but the message was clear enough. The day before that, I had seen him vomiting near a large family gathering, and later scouring the beach, near a bunch of frat boys, for beer cans to turn in for money.

After studying the Tao Te Ching for about five years now, I am opined that the person who finds the middle ground between these two extremes is best off. That person does not take unreasonable pride in his accomplishments, but, when they are done, says they are done, and, without ado, sets his sights on the next task.
At the same time, he is aware of the fact that, in the eyes of others, his accomplishments may mean nothing, that from a different point of view, his very existence may be seen as a waste of time. Without investing emotion or too much time into the qualitative review of the completed task, the middle-ground person pursues a previously determined course of action, taking a sense of completion from the accomplishment. That person knows that so many people and factors had to occur, had to align, at that very moment in time, to allow the task to be done, so he does not directly seek praise, but takes responsibility for what was done, turns and walks away.
Quality is so hard to nail down, so hard to quantify. Damn.

Reverie; a daring attack; satchel-charges; retreat

A kite flew, a single kite, flitting in and out of the smoke that rose from the barricades the insurgent fighters had raised that morning. She watched the kite, remembering the days when she and her brother would fly their own in the market place, off to her right, the sound of haggling in her ears, smells from a hundred countries filling her nostrils, the sun flashing off of rows upon rows of dented, chipped silverware. She remembered laughing, as they ran, trailing their kites, through the streets, to escape the half-hearted attempts of the guards to catch and punish them.
Today, there were no people in the square. A donkey lay on its side, long dead, bloated in the hot sun, still tied to a cart that had already been stripped of its wheels. The fountain had stopped running, and what few weeds had somehow managed to survive now listed, brown, as thirsty for water as she was for the past.
Behind her, to the south, she heard gunfire, short, disciplined bursts. By the sound, she knew it was an AK, or the Right Hand of God, as her brother had told her once. Perhaps it was her brother who was shooting, at whom she did not know, or if he even lived. Peeking around the corner at which she stood, she watched five men running along the side street toward her, bent low, in single file, not saying anything, disciplined. Plaster and rocks rained down on her, bouncing off her hijab, as something slammed into the wall directly above her. The last thing she saw, before she lost consciousness, was an armored vehicle of some sort with a man halfway out, pointing something in her direction.

Behind them, he heard the vehicle scrape to a halt, surely getting ready to fire. Who is that? Silly girl will get herself killed, the man at the front of the column thought to himself. What is she doing out here in this part of town, it is off limits, and dangerous, she could ... damn!
At that moment, he watched the wall the girl was looking around explode, and dust obscured his view, for the moment. The five figures reached the end of the short road, passing a burned out SUV, and threw themselves against the short wall. Looking over, the leader saw the girl lying on the ground, but did not see blood. Good, she must still be alive. What in God’s name is she doing here, he asked himself.
Peeking around the corner himself, he saw that the armored car had turned the corner, and was coming their way. He knew that the enemy would shoot the girl, thinking her armed, or loaded with explosives, if they made it to the end of the street, and turned to the other four. Having caught their breath, the four nodded that they ready, looking at him intently. None of them had seen the round hit the wall near the girls’ head, or had seen the girl at all, for that matter. The leader pointed, in her direction, letting them know that, if they did not stop the armored car, and rescue the girl, she would be killed. Four pairs of eyes stared back at him, the men awaiting him to command them, to lead them.
How did I get myself here, he thought, to this square I used to come to play in, with my sister, when we were younger? Why do these men follow me, willing to die at my command? Wheels crunched on broken appliances that lay in the street as the beast came closer, breaking him from his brief reverie. He signed for two of the men to loop north, then left, to flank the armored beast, and to get as close as they could to it in the small courtyards that lined the square. The two, not much more than boys themselves, were off and running before the last words left his mouth, saying something he could not hear to each other, chuckling quietly.
He looked quickly over to the girl, ducking back down quickly as a burst of machine gun fire raked the opposing wall of the market. Suddenly, one of the two remaining fighters sprinted east, across the barren expanse in front of them, leaping across a dead animal, up and over another twisted heap of car, dancing and leaping as someone on the armored car let loose with a steady stream of fire. Before he was halfway across the marketplace, the leader had handed one of the two makeshift satchel-bomb they had brought, and, cellphone in hand, sprinted around the corner, directly at the armored car, screaming for the other boy to follow.

On top of the vehicle Private ______’s heart skipped a beat. The leader was running right toward him, with a bundle in one hand, and what looked like can’t let him reach the car, not with the hatch open like this, who knows what’s in that bundle, he thought, swinging his weapon down, sighting on the figure coming his way, just another half second and
In his peripheral vision, off to the left, as he was lowing his weapon on to sprinting figure, the Private saw two torsos pop up from behind the wall, and knew he was dead.

The soldier sticking halfway out of the armored car was turning to shoot him when his head and left shoulder were torn away, and he slumped over in the open hatch of the vehicle, and down into its bowels. The leader saw another machine gun swivel, this one on motors, attached to a turret with little armored mirrors for peeking out, toward him. He confidently, almost lazily, underhanded the bundle in his hand, up and over the top of the large vehicle, where he figure the sniper had been standing, at the same time pressing and holding down the number eight, on his cellphone.
A shout from one of the men who had flanked the tank, an old victory cry they had used, before the war, when their team scored a goal in soccer, informed him that his aim had been true. Glancing at his phone, he saw the call connect, and turned to run for the girl, a bit of her scarf just peeking around the corner.

The young woman woke to the ground humming against her face, dust stinging her eyes. Looking up, she saw a large tire shoot into the market place, followed by a limp body that flew a few yards, crumpled, and slid to a halt. After a moment, she rose, and peeked around the corner to find the once menacing armored car belching smoke, its top splayed like a half-peeled orange. She heard a cough from the crumpled lying a little ways into the market place, and rushed to its side.
“Are you ok?” she asked.
“ ... “
A gasp escaped her lips, as she turned the figure over onto her lap, blood trickling out of her brother’s ears, both eyes bruised, as if from a fight, his jaw lolling, breath barely escaping.
“You are safe now, brother, let me take you home.”
Looking up, she started at the other four men, dirty and young, standing close to her, but let them bend to hoist her brother up on their shoulders, and run off to the east, toward home.

She rose to follow.