Tales of the Bearded Toad

The Pit

2010-04-15T22:15:00.001-05:00

She sat down on the curb and carefully plucked two pebbles from the broken skin of her knee. Her hard feet were planted in the still damp rain gutter, and her hair, darkened from sweat, was plastered to her pale neck. She grimaced as her deft, dirty fingers worked the sandy remains of the road grime from the wound. She pursed her lips and blew gently on it before looking up to see how far her friends had gotten ahead of her. One more deep breath to steady her pulse again as she rose to her rather foal-like stance, she started running with a steadiness that surprised her.

It didn’t take her long to catch up with the other two who were weaving back and forth across the old road with their arms stretched out like featherless wings. Ashlyn had tripped her but hadn’t seemed to notice.

“Oh, there you are.” Amber was barefoot too with her hair in a braid and clothes as filthy as her feet.

“Yep. Thanks,” she said as she kicked Ashlyn’s right foot from behind her so that it caught in the crease of her left knee, just enough to break her stride. They both giggled, and then made the sounds hawks flying overhead, that unmistakable screech that makes you look up to find it.

Shadows darkened their way in spurts as the trees let the sunlight through in odd shapes and patterns like the seemingly unrepeated designs on her mothers clothing. Never animal prints, but never solids either. Her mom said it confused the prey, men, so it was like camouflage. She must have been a good hunter, she thought.

Large clouds of gnats had to be dodged, and spider webs ducked since this roadbed was rarely travelled anymore. It led to the old quarry that shut down nearly twenty-five years ago when her mother was about her age. Her mom was still young, so she could imagine her out here too with her friends, boys actually.

As they arrived at the edge of the pit, they could smell the change in the air that flowed up from inside. The wind swirled and floated dust up from the edge and rolled it back down toward the ground causing it to look as though it were water going over a slide. They walked around a little further to the spot they had cleared to be able to sit on the edge and avoid the dust.

“I keep forgetting to look up why the water down there is so green. Do you think it’s full of emeralds or jade or something?”

“No. It’s probably got gunk growing in it from just sitting there all the time. My mom calls water that just sits ‘stagnant’. Stuff is always growing in that water, and it stinks. She said that about a guy who stuck around too long once too.” Her dirty feet were swinging, with her heels clunking against the stone wall inside.

“Gross. Count how long it takes for this rock to make a splash.” Ashlyn tossed a stone that looked about the size of a cherry over the edge and waited.

“I didn’t see a splash.” Amber said it flatly still peering down.

“Here try this one, it’s much bigger.” She grunted as she pushed it into the air.

“Four Mississippi!” The sound of the splash echoed up hollow and soft. They sat there gazing down into it, quiet except for their breathing.

Amber put her hand to her belly and scrunched up her nose, pulling her lip with it to show the two teeth in the front so much bigger than the others. “Ugh, I just remembered I have homework I haven’t done. It made my stomach feel weird.”

“Like how?”

“Like it’s all bundled up tight, like a bunch of string that’s gotten tangled in a knot.”

“Oh. I get that feeling too, only it’s not about homework.”

“What’s it about, then?” They were both looking at her now.

“Well…”

“Come on, tell us. It’s no big deal, right?”

“Well, I get that feeling every time I have to go home. It’s really bad when I’ve been out here with you two. I just don’t want to do it; I don’t want to be there anymore.”

“Why not?”

She crossed her ankles and lifted her butt off the ground so that only her hands were touching. She shook her head and said, “It doesn’t really feel like knotted string.” She paused and looked down at the shimmering water. “It feels like this deep hole is inside me with that green nastiness at the bottom.”

She rolled back, flipping on her hands and planted her feet. She smiled. “But I don’t have to go home yet.” She sprinted toward the trees and let out a screech. The other two looked at each other and jumped up to follow. There was still some Sunday left.

Shaded Strands

2008-07-05T08:57:00.002-05:00

Not so much! He was pouring salt into the mixture as though he were trying to completely hide the other ingredients. The taste of ginger was something she liked, but if he put too much salt in it would overpower it.

He put the heat on high and turned to look at her. His eyes were brown with a little ring of green around the pupils when there was enough light to make them small, like little holes poked into a tie-tied shirt. A little bit of darkness was still underneath his left eye from a few nights before. Seeing it made her twinge.

“What?” he asked, seeing the small crease appear and disappear just as quickly from between her well-plucked eyebrows.

“Nothing.” She said it flatly so hopefully he’d believe her, not wanting to talk about it again, hoping he’d let it go.

She was shorter than him by a couple of inches, with curly black hair and a pretty smile that always got her out of speeding tickets and got her free drinks before he showed up. He’d even bought her drinks that first night. Walking up to her with feigned confidence, betrayed by the shy way he looked down when she said yes to his offer, he asked to buy her a drink and maybe even a chance to wrap his fingers in those curls.

Thinking about that night, she wondered about how much she’d had to drink. These days it seemed she couldn’t handle more than two glasses of wine without forgetting some of what happened, some of what she said. That’s why she didn’t want to bring it up again.

She smiled at him now, with her head tilted to the side and slightly lowered, put her index finger into a ringlet of hair, and said, “Don’t you wish this was your finger?”

He laughed for the first time in days. “I do.” He slipped his hand under her arm and jerked her in close to his hip.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “My eye had no business getting in the way or your fist like that.” They kissed, shallow to start, but it moved on toward genuine feeling.

She pulled back and gently kissed his bruised lid. When he opened it back, the green wasn’t visible. She watched the pupil shrink, letting her see the color emerge. It was why she said yes.

He moved one barrel of hair from her forehead with his index finger, letting it slip into it for a moment. When he first hit puberty, it was redheads he’d fantasized about, with orange eyebrows outlining long lashes, pail legs leading up to what he still couldn’t really picture. Now, though, it was her he envisioned all the time.

So why had he said it then? The girl was nothing special, especially not compared to the one right in front of him. But the color of her mane caught him off guard, made him revert back to one of those fantasies. He was still mad about her punching him, but it had definitely brought him back to his senses.

“I’ve got an appointment tomorrow with Missy at 4:30.” She said it with a little smile creeping up one side of her mouth.

“I thought you just got your hair cut. Don’t you like it?”

“I’m not getting it cut this time.” He felt his stomach drop, as he pictured her in red ringlets.

Cow Pie

2008-05-08T16:54:00.003-05:00

She tasted salty at first, but that gave way to the smell, yes, smell of longing--no aggression. Or maybe all those things in succession. He couldn’t get out of his own thoughts, doubts, long enough to recognize it. For that matter, was it her he smelled or his own manifested emotions?

The car windows were fogged up now, and despite the lack of clarity in the glass, it made him somehow more conscious of the world outside, as though the silvery sheen he knew had built up was more conspicuous than the translucent windows they started with. He looked at her as he pressed his mouth into hers, realizing, thinking, that she was so enraptured by the sensations of the moment that she didn’t notice.

The feelings of doubt faded as he saw the tears. They began to roll out of the creases like the condensation on a glass, one beside the other without any acknowledgment of what had gone before. Then her body began to shake, but she said nothing. He continued watching her as the streams came faster and began to follow the path led by those before. Her legs clamped down hard around his hips, to the point where he could no longer move. Silently, breathlessly she wrapped him into the sensations.

He closed his eyes to separate himself, hopefully anyway, not knowing why. Why was she crying? Why was he here? Should he sit up now? Will this be the one in one hundred time?

***

Alexander ran across the pasture with ease, bouncing left to avoid the giant fire ant bed, and then the fresh greenish brown raised puddle of a cow pie. It didn’t make sence to him why the small little bails of horse shit smelled so much more pleasant than cow manure. For that matter, he never understood why he thought road apples smelled pleasant in the first place. Was it some derangement of his olfactory nerves from growing up in the country? It was the same food anyway, grass. So, why would it be any different when passing through the two different beasts?

The boy lifted the little yellow flower from its perch and spun it around between his finger and thumb, making it look like a horizontal pinwheel in the wind.

“Awe! He’s picked me a flower.” Mom spoke envisioning what would happen next. But it didn’t.
He snagged one of the thin offshoots and slowly built up the pressure until it popped free from the button it called home. Then he did the same to the rest, pausing at the last, staring at it with a blank face. When he dropped it to the ground, his head turned slowly to the left, stopping at the point at which it should, except that his face wasn’t blank anymore. It was contorted on the left side, with his eye closed. He was making a clicking noise with his tongue, and he slowly fell to the ground, convulsing in cow shit.

Mom picked him up, immediately wiping the greenish-brown waste from his lips. Dad was already in the truck with the engine running. The door was open, waiting for them to jump in.

***

He turned the key and punched the defrost switch as quickly as he could. Little slots immediately began to form in the blockade just above the useless wipers. He took a deep breath and played off a shiver. Sitting next to him, she stared at the floor.

“Do you ever have visions?”

“Of what?”

“Anything. Visions so strong you feel as though you’re there? Sort of like a dream without the acceptance of it being unrealistic?”

“Not recently.”

“What have you seen? Before, I mean?”

“Well, it was as though, I saw my future. I saw a hospital room, a railed bed with a boy in it, and tubes running out of his nose. I looked at that damn ubiquitous beeping machinery and watched the line jump up and down. That’s it. It only happened that one time.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight, I think.”

***

When Alexander woke, he looked around the room seeing his mom and dad weren’t there. A short nurse wearing a shirt with little poodles all over it smiled at him.

“Do you remember what happened sweetie?”

“Not really. Was I here already?”

“What do you mean?”

“The last thing I remember, I picked a flower. Then I saw all this stuff: the chair there in the corner, your shirt, this beeping thing. I saw all of it.”

“No. No, sweetie, you got here about 45 minutes ago. And this is the first time you’ve opened your eyes. Your mom and dad are just down the hall talking to the Doctor.”

“I saw this room. I saw it when the flower was in my hand.”

***

“Why do you ask?” he said.

She shifted in her seat, and looked down at the floor. Then she turned and looked into the pupils of his eyes. “I saw you…in a hospital room…holding a little boy…my boy. Our son.” She paused to get his reaction, to let him ask if he needed to. “His smell is still in my nose.”

He swallowed, looked away, and put the car in D.

"Alex?"

There's a New One - Part II

2008-01-13T10:04:00.000-05:00

A note from the Author: It's been a long time since I've posted, but here's my latest attempt. I would suggest that you read the first "There's a New One" before this one as it builds on the first. Thanks for reading!

************

Why couldn’t they believe him? Were they afraid? Were they stupid? Maybe, they know. Yes, they know and they’re trying to cover it up. Why are the lights trailing behind when I move my eyes?
The drug was starting to make his head swim a little. The needle had burned when the big orderly stuck it in, but not as much as what he called “the medicine.” He didn’t like the big orderly; he was always too rough with him. The little guy was never rough, but asked nicely instead.
“The doctor will be in to see you in a few minutes,” the course voice boomed with bullhorn clarity.
Why did he have to yell? He was standing right over me? I’m going to ask the doctor to give keep that big fucker away from me. Maybe he’ll listen to that at least. I know he won’t listen to anything else I say.
The door swung open sending a reflection of the hallway lights shooting across the ceiling in such a way that it looked almost liking a shooting star. I wish that I was the original. Do you think it will come true. Sure. Why not? If the rest of the world can believe I always existed, why can’t they believe I was the original? Another shooting star. I wish that I could explain it so that they really do believe that I am the original.
“Leroy? Do you mind if I call you Leroy?”
“No, Doc. That’s who I am. The first, and hopefully the last.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m the original; I’m the first.”
“The first what, Leroy?”
“The first Leroy, the first of the others…I mean, the others are new versions of me. Do you see?”
“Yes, I see. “
“Doc, listen, can you keep that big orderly away from me? He’s always too rough. I see him standing over there. See? Look how mean he looks.”
“Fine, Leroy. I’ll have Charles here take the sample then.”
“What sample?”
“We’re going to take a DNA sample for a research project we’re conducting. The goal is to determine if there are any genetic markers that contribute to your condition.”
“But I’m the only one, right, Doc? There aren’t more people who spawn others are there?”
“No, Leroy; I don’t think so.”
“Well how are you going to take it then?”
“Charles will just take a small sample of blood from your arm.”
The small orderly walked over and rubbed the inside of his elbow with a wet cotton ball. The sensation was cool and warm at the same time. He could smell the alcohol. The needle didn’t burn as much this time, though. He watched as the crimson, almost purple essence burst into the vile, filling it in what seemed like only a few moments. The orderly pulled the needle out holding a cotton ball on the puncture and wrapped it to stop the bleeding.
“There we are.” The orderly looked him in the eyes and winked. Then he and the doctor turned and walked out, saying nothing more.
Why did he wink at me? He knows something. They’re definitely in on it.
A few minutes passed and he heard Charles talking outside his door again. He raised his head to see through the square window in the door. No! Not my blood too?
Through the window he saw Charles’ face, and right behind it was his own. His own face staring back at him through the window. Not another one! He could read his own lips as they said, “Yes, that’s him. Where did you find him?”
“His wife brought him in. She said he thought he wasn’t the original anymore, whatever that meant.”

There's a New One

2007-01-10T10:02:00.000-05:00

He knelt down to tie his shoe, but he stayed there. He left his hands with his fingers gently holding the loops of his right shoe, with his left foot tucked under him. Frozen, she wondered what it was that could have triggered it this time. Usually when this happened, it was because he saw something that reminded him. She looked around, trying to find it. There it was, his name in reflective white letters in a field of green.

She had hoped the trip would help him forget. They’d been planning it for two months now. Actually, she’d been planning it. He just agreed to whatever she said. Watching a show on Broadway? “Sure.” Shopping for fake purses in China Town? “If that’s what you need.”

Two weeks before they left, he’d been driving and saw what could have been his twin riding with his head out the window. He’d turned around and followed the car for two miles, where the driver pulled into a parking space in front of a windshield repair shop. When the man got out, he’d yelled out the window, “Leroy?” No response.

Leroy had a belief. Not one of those that don’t really mean anything to the holder, such as believing that too much masturbation can cause blindness. “We shouldn’t have had sex last night,” he finally said flatly to her. “I don’t know how you talk me into doing something that I know will only create another one.”

“You think that this sign is saying that there is another one now?”

“Of course. What else could it mean?”

She could sense the agitation and fear building in him again. “Leroy, I’m pretty sure that this sign and this street were here well before you were born.”

“That’s just it. It probably was…now.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Every time one is created, it seems to the rest of the world, that they had always been around. The whole of history and time is altered with its creation. I thought I’d explained that to you before. Listen, I know you still think I’m crazy, but I know that that little seed of mine is cursed.”

She didn’t always listen to him anymore when he was trying to explain his ideas. “I guess you did tell me that. So what do you want to do about it now?”

“Take down the sign. We have to take down this sign and the one on the other end of the street. Once they are down, he will disappear, along with all traces of him.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to take down a road sign in the middle of Manhattan with all these people around. We could get arrested.”

“I don’t care. I’ve been arrested before. Just don’t let them put me in that hospital again. Jail I can handle, but I wouldn’t be able to take being put in with my others again. Plus, they’d figure out that I was lying last time just to be let out. Come on help me with this.”

He was stacking two plastic crates in front of the sign post. She knelt down and held onto it so that it wouldn’t tip over when he climbed on top. He took out the multi-tool that his father had given him for his last birthday. It had his name and date of birth inscribed in white letters along the side. When he held it up to start twisting off the first nut, the pairing of his name in white twice made him freeze again.

“What if I’m not the original? What if I’m just carrying on the multiplication of Leroy ‘somebody’ and I’m just his clone? What if every time I have an orgasm, I’m not creating another me; I’m creating another him? He could be trying to wipe me out of history.”

He stepped down and stared at her. She just stared back. He put his multi-tool back in his pocket and walked away.

Life in Transition

2007-01-05T14:06:00.001-05:00

I’m sure, if you check in regularly, or if you look at the dates of posts, you have noticed that I have been absent from my own blog for a while. The reason for this, I’ve kept fairly secret, because there were some friends who check in who are also coworkers. We decided to move and pursue new jobs, a wrinkle which could have caused problems should it become known to my now former employer.

In November, my wife quit working for a company that was, shall we say, less than ethical. Her action became the catalyst for us looking at moving halfway across the state. I actually moved her and our three rambunctious furry companions the day after Thanksgiving and leased out our house. I then, with the fortune that I have--not monetary--was able to stay with a friend until Christmas, traveling back and forth on the weekends. Being apart from her for five day stretches was a bit trying at times, but, given the examples of some of my acquaintances who left there families behind for years in order to complete college programs and emigrate to the U.S., I don’t think it was too rough.

So, we are now settled into our new town, taking in the eccentricities that abound, and enjoying every moment of it.

To all of my friends with whom I was unable to share a proper goodbye, I’m sorry. I hope that you understand my predicament. I greatly respect everyone with whom I worked and hope that the time I spent with you will be remembered fondly.

Soon, you will begin seeing new fiction, the way it used to be. Until then, enjoy the writings of those linked to the side.

The Warmth of a Cold Nose

2006-12-01T10:25:00.000-05:00

“Don’t you just love Christmas?” Her exuberance and cheerfulness grated on him as though someone were trying to add a little zest of Rick to their eggnog. “I mean, look at the lights. They add fantasy to the physical world. Come out of that realm inside your head and experience this imaginary scene with me.”

Rick grunted and lifted his chin from his chest. “Why, so that I can be a part of this ridiculous excuse to waste energy? I hate having to buy lights and trees, because they are so very temporary at that point, and both are drains on the environment.”

“Don’t look at it that way. For me, just try to let go of those practical views for just a little while. Think about how nice it will feel when you go back inside where it’s warm. I’ll fix you a glass of bourbon and bring you a book while you get settled into your chair. When I’m done with dinner, I’ll get you a big glass of eggnog for dessert.”

He acted as though he hadn’t heard what she said and just continued his mini tirade. “All this is a commercial push for everyone to consume more and more. I mean I understand that in order for the economy to grow we have to consume, but is there not a limit to how much things can grow? I hate that I’m told how to feel this time of year. There is a physical shock to my body every time someone blows one of those damn noisemakers at New Years. Even after the holidays, I still have to deal with my skin drying out and cracking. My nose bleeds all the time. Remind me again, why is that I’m supposed to like this time of year.”

She smiled, and rubbed her cold, red nose on his neck as she kissed his cheek. In a whisper, “Because when it’s cold outside, I like to get under the covers and make our own heat.”

Finally a smile crept across his face. He looked up and said, “You know, these lights do take you to a different place.”

This post is in response to being tagged by DBA Lehane to continue from a meme about ‘Five Things I Love & Hate About Winter’ over at Jefferson Davis’ blog.. Since there is really only one person left that I know who hasn't been tagged, the OregonMan is up next.

Six, Six Word Stories to Introduce DBA Lehane's Contest

2006-11-30T20:24:00.000-05:00

To introduce the Short Short Short Short Short Short Fiction Competition hosted by our friend DBA Lehane (aka Windscreen Fly) (Click Here to View), I will post here six example stories that I have written. The contest is for each entrant to submit one story that is exactly six words long, hence the title. I actually have written 18 of them so far. Here are my six favorites. Please let me know which one you think I should submit.

Warm, tingling, tongue explores her body.

Accusations. False. Guilty. Abandoned. Truth. Guilty.

A severed breast. Reconstructed, it feeds.

Penetration. Dry. Mean. Scratched. DNA. Prison.

Tainted blood. Virus. Skin and bone.

Paps sure loved that old dog.

Old Magazines

2006-10-27T08:42:00.000-05:00

Slipping his finger through the small brass loop, he tugged open the door, but only partially. Something stopped it, a shoe. He stepped back out of the closet and began to snatch and throw everything out into the room. All the hanging clothes, even his nicely pressed shirts and slacks, were heaved into a pile on the floor. He wanted to see what was inside. Again he pulled at the loop, this time it stopped again after only a few inches more. “Damnit!” He could find nothing blocking the way, but it wasn’t opened far enough to even fit his head behind it to see. He put both hands on the outer edge so that he could pull harder than one digit would allow. As he did so, the door began to slide sideways toward the hinges, into a pocket in the wall. It did so easily.

He poked his frazzled head into the opening, which was about half the size of a regular doorway, but the light of his bedroom would not penetrate the darkness. The mildewed stale air wafted from the opening and up his nostrils. He sneezed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. The beam of the flashlight cut into the dark air, splitting open the mystery to reveal the contents of the hidden room. Hunched over he waddled his way through the short hallway. Three steps down, and he was able to stand up straight.

The space was not that large, but it seemed to be. The back wall was eight feet across, but it was only four feet deep from the steps. There was a small table against the short wall to the right with a lamp set in the middle. He switched it on, surprised to see that it worked. A small, three-legged stool was hiding underneath the table. To the right side of the table lay a stack of magazines. And that was all. Nothing else was in the room.

He pulled out the stool and sat down. The lamp was old. It had a metal shade that oddly was not covered in dust as he thought it would be; it was clean and shiny enough for him to see his reflection. His hair was frazzled and he had a little dirt on his face, which he again wiped on his sleeve. He took a deep breath and began to calm down. “It’s too bad I don’t have anyone to hide from,” he said to himself. He laughed when he realized the stupidity of the statement; he did hate living alone, though.

The magazines were neatly stacked with the spines all aligned perfectly. They were all the same kind, porn. The date on the first one surprised him, October 1967. He didn’t expect it to be as good as the stuff he was used to seeing on the internet, but he had to check. Opening to the middle, he was surprised to get that stirring in his groin. He turned the pages, marveling at the lush bodies of the models. He opened the fly of his pants and began to stroke. As he turned the page again he felt a shiver rush up his spine. The hairs on his neck and arms stood as erect as his dick. Something with the lamp caught his eye. As clearly as he could see himself, he could see the man standing behind him. He spun around on the stool leaving his breath behind.

He awoke on the floor of the small room, curled on his side and drooling in a pool. The lamp was still on and the room was mostly as he remembered. He looked back at the magazine, but it was turned to a different page than the last one he’d seen. The advertisement showed the man whose reflection had appeared behind him. Shirtless, the man sat on the bed with a magazine on the nightstand; he was holding a bottle of lube with a big smile on his face.

The Maintenance Man

2006-10-22T09:19:00.000-05:00

Fat, bald, and wheezing. That’s how she imagined him to be. She lived on the third floor of her apartment building, and the man was going to have to walk up the stairs to get there. There was no elevator; this wasn’t a high-rise. Nonetheless, three flights is a lot of climbing for an overweight, middle-aged smoker. It’s especially taxing if he’s carrying tools.

He’ll knock on the door, but not until he leans on his knees in an attempt to catch his breath. She will have heard him coming, and she’ll look through the peep hole to see the reflection of the door in his shiny dome. She’ll think that’s a funny occurrence, to look through the glass only to see the other side from the other direction. He’ll lean up to reveal big, rounded glasses with a metal rim, the kind no one has purchased in fifteen years.

His round face will be flushed still when he finally knocks. She’ll wait a few seconds to make it seem as though she wasn’t standing there watching. Smiling, she’ll open the door and greet him, remembering suddenly that it smells bad in there from when the toilet overflowed. His face will scrunch up suddenly, and his wheezing will get worse. “I have allergies,” he’ll say. “I bet smoking doesn’t help,” she’ll say tasting the cigarettes almost as he coughs up the remnants of his last. His blue shirt will say Hal on the white oval stitched to the chest.

She’ll introduce herself and ask if she can get him anything to eat or drink. He’ll decline, and she’ll think about how no maintenance people ever accept the offer. The bathroom will be open, and he’ll walk up to it, stopping when he squishes brown water from the carpet in front of the door.

She jumped when she heard him banging on the door. She peered through the hole, but she couldn’t see anything. She opened the door to reveal the man was putting out his cigarette beside the stairwell. He was young, late-twenties probably, but he had hard creases in the skin around his eyes, which she noticed as he brushed his hair to the side.

“Whew! I can smell what happened in here.” She reddened a little; no man had ever smelled the remnants of her trip to the toilet. To deflect the topic, she offered him something to eat. He looked at her in near disbelief with his hand to his nose. “Uh, no thanks, I just had a couple twinkies.” She looked down at the floor. Slowly a smile crept its way across her face. She looked up to see his shirt, which made her laugh. “What?” he asked. “Oh, it’s nothing. Sometimes, Hal, I just think I can see the future.”

To Let Life Happen: Non-Fiction

2006-10-16T10:17:00.000-05:00

Recently I’ve had a couple of friends who have struggled with where life is taking them. They see themselves on a path that is either not what they envisioned, or at the very least, not what they enjoy. I see in all forms of media stories of those who had goals set out and plans for their lives, and they’ve followed those plans to accomplish their goals. I think that for the mainstream view of success, this is at least a part of it. But how do you measure success if your only real goal is to enjoy life as it happens? The philosophy here is that life is not about the pursuit of ends, but rather it is a singly ended string of experiences. It’s not about accomplishing tasks, or getting to a certain position, or having so many things. It’s about enjoying the moments that life gives. But what I’ve seen happen to these two, is life pushes them into a rhythm of income and consumption that lulls them into a situation that makes them unhappy. For both, something has happened that caused them to realize abruptly that the life that is happening to them is causing unhappiness, and now they feel stuck in it. Largely, that’s because of money.

I asked the question above, “How do you measure success…”. The answer, I think, is that you don’t. If you truly just want to enjoy life, that mindset is a success. However, because these people find themselves in the situation described, some action must be taken on their part. Right? Do they now have to be decisive?

Even if someone has the philosophy of passive participation, it is still necessary to decide how to exist. Will it be an existence of increasing consumption fed by an occupation that oppressive? Will it be modest in material fed by an occupation that the participant enjoys? This is the conundrum in which these two find themselves.

We all have to decide, whether overtly or not, what makes us happy, and then we have to decide whether we experience it or not.
I’m curious to see what philosophies of life and money that others maintain. At least one of these friends is a regular reader, although not a commenter (neither is me). If you would like to share yours, or even some advice, please post a comment. Or, if it is longer, send it to me at bhorne2x at yahoo, and I’ll post it. Thanks for reading.

The Wandering Author's Gift: A Contest

2006-10-03T18:23:00.000-05:00

The Wandering Author has committed himself to a gift to someone. He has initiated a contest that will reward the winner with personal editing service for their submission, which he will then help develop into a book, including artwork to be sold on Lulu.com. To all those entering, this is a great motivator, because such a service is very valuable. To read more, please check out the Unending Journey of the Wandering Author and show your appreciation by leaving comments on his postings.

Comforting Touch

2006-10-03T18:09:00.000-05:00

Everything’s going to be just fine. The phrase had become a mantra to him. It was how he coped with things going on in front of him. This time, it was death. He wasn’t so sure that his chant was going to provide solace for the uncertainties in this instance. Her face reminded him of a puppet he’d seen once, a marionette actually. It was hanging in a shop window in Prague amongst several others with similarly accentuated features. Bright lips and strong noses brought the expressions of the limp arms and legs to life in his mind. He stood in front of the window for nearly an hour imagining the miniature characters bounce around and converse jovially in his mind. He was doing it again now. He was imagining his mother dancing in the kitchen like she had done so regularly. The smell of pot roast and potatoes lingering in the nearly stagnant air, she would disrupt it in a burst from the sink full of clanking plates. Her rump would start to bounce, one side then the other. She’d swing around while gyrating her hips, lifting, almost involuntarily, each bare foot off the linoleum. She’d bounce toward him with a grin on her face that said he was going to dance too.

None of that motion and happiness was there now. She laid still, eyes closed and painted, her lips drawn tightly. Someone put a hand on his shoulder and told him that she was in a better place. He didn’t believe it. She led a good life here. She never complained and was one of the happiest people he’d ever met. The idea of heaven seemed like a bore actually, sitting and praising some mysterious form all day, always wearing the same thing, and nothing ever happening. Here, there were adventures.

She had introduced him to the excitement of the world. That’s why he’d adopted the phrase; it calmed his nerves. Not that he wanted to be completely calm. “What’s the fun if it doesn’t scare you a little?” She’d told him that when he was trying to decide whether to ride the rope swing into the river. Brown and cold, the water didn’t seem very inviting, but she was right. It was fun, and mostly because it made his heart race. He placed his hand on top of hers even though they were as uninviting as the water had been. He didn’t put it there for the same reason. He hoped it would be comforting, because his mantra wasn’t.

Disrespect

2006-09-21T19:24:00.000-05:00

The President entered the room setting off a storm of clicks, the shutters slamming shut repeatedly on the press cameras. Tension and excitement was evident in every person in the room. The photographers pressed forward against each other. Two reporters had nearly gotten into a fistfight trying to vie for seating positions. The expectation was that he would make an announcement that everyone had assumed was true already, one that if confirmed was expected create quite a stir.

At the podium, he cast his sly smirk to the television viewers in anticipation of the reaction. “In light of the recent attempts from the Islamic terrorist community to again blow up airplanes with U.S. citizens on board, we have instituted a program that we have been developing for months. We now will require every Muslim in the United States and every Muslim who wishes to enter the United States of America, to register with the Department of Homeland Security. They will be required to provide a history of education and travel for the past 10 years. Also, they will be required to offer any information they have on other Islamic Terrorists. If it is determined that they have a link to known terrorists, then they will either be denied access to the country or transported to a detention center for questioning. We will be providing a printed release with the details of the program at a later time. No questions at this time. Thank you.”

The journalists erupted immediately with questions, but the Head of State refused any more insights into his mind. He knew what would happen; at least what his advisors told him would happen. There would be a small uproar over the weekend in the Muslim communities, but his supporters would think it about time. The party base would be energized and feel safer that the terrorists wouldn’t be able to get on a plane anymore. The airline industry would see a boon in business, because people would feel as though it were safer to fly.

He was right. The Muslim communities held rallies in their neighborhoods that weekend, and the opposition went on the weekend talk shows. By Monday, most people had heard about the plan, and the poles on Tuesday revealed that his approval ratings had gone up 10% from the announcement. “Heckofa plan,” he told his advisors.

Two weeks later, on Sunday, bombs exploded in twelve professional football stadiums killing 5,000 people and wounding 10,000 more.

Here’s the editorial part: I am nauseated daily hearing about how our government has taken away the rights of U.S. and world citizens for years. The President announced that the secret prisons exist. He has yet to acknowledge torture has taken place, nor that individual’s rights have been violated. The way that they talk about them is appalling. They ask questions designed to rebut their opponents such as, “Do you really want to give these people more rights?” “These people” are “suspected terrorists” who have not been given due process to address the charges against them. No one is trying to give them more rights either. Some of us, are just asking that they not have their rights taken away until they have been proven guilty, and even then not to treat them in an undignified manner. It amazes me that somehow the leading politicians believe that we are helping our image by telling the world that Muslims are bad, and that we can take away their rights when we feel like it. The truly embarrassing part is that so many of the citizens believe it; and, those that don’t believe it can’t seem to muster the pressure to make changes. Hopefully the upcoming election will speak the essence of this country. Hopefully the ones elected will make clear policy changes and correct the damage that has been inflicted. Although death by human hands may be an anxiety provoking possibility, being accused of something you didn’t do and having everyone believe it is probably worse.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to say what I felt, even on this blog of fiction.

Get Tested

2006-09-18T19:33:00.000-05:00

He couldn’t remember if he should be embarrassed, but he felt it a little anyway. Pulsing with enough pressure to make his eyes ache, his brain was searching for memories of any uncouth or even illegal moments. He closed his mouth, which had apparently been agape the whole time as made evident by it being devoid of moisture. His tongue felt like his old baseball mitt when he chewed on it, bored in right field. He’d been thinking a lot about baseball metaphors lately. He even laughed at himself when he thought about which base he’d gotten to with some girl. She’d tasted of lime, and he couldn’t tell whether it was lip gloss or her drink that caused it.

But who saw him kiss her? Did anyone from the office see it? He couldn’t remember what she looked like from the neck down, or her name. He didn’t even remember if he’d asked for it. He checked the time, not his watch, because he didn’t have one, but on his phone. Three messages. The first was a hang-up. The second eased his lagging memory, but aroused mortification to the point of breathlessness. It was he; his own voice calling to remind him to get tested after what he’d done.

He looked at himself in the mirror as he raised his face from the sink. It was made up with skill. His lips were trimmed in green. They still tasted citrus and sweet, a stark contrast to the potent stench of cigarettes on his fingers. He had a tendency to smoke afterwards. It calmed him somehow, even though he despised the smell. The most calming thing he thought, though, was another drink. That would help take the sting out of his ass, not to mention calm the pounding inside his skull. He didn’t know which was worse.

Pouring vodka over ice, he trembled. The first sip of the harsh liquid burned on his dry tongue, but it steadied his hand enough to read the number scrawled across the back of it. He sat down at the table and tried to think. No use. He called it instead. A rough, sleepy voice answered. A man. He’d sounded so feminine the night before, but now his boss wanted to know why he was calling him at home.

Flying Home

2006-09-11T19:51:00.000-05:00

One weekend as I was flying over the eastern part of Colorado on my way back home, I looked out the window and felt a sensation which I will try to put into words. In the surprising landscape of the state, the eastern part is rather flat and filled with farms, whereas the western part is filled with the suddenly rising and falling mountains for which it is quite famous. It is the eastern half that one sees on the way to Denver. As I looked out over this scene it looked as one enshrouding quilt with an odd patchwork of circles, semicircles, squares, and odd rectangles that were sewn together by different generations through the years, each of which tried to express the similarities as well as the differences between them. I started to feel that I was lying in a bed covered by this quilt with these patterns that were intermittently interrupted by wrinkles created from the small rolling hills that appeared with the occasional loose strand of a stream. I then looked through the window on the other side to see a fluffy pillow of clouds behind my head. It was a very warm and comfortable feeling.

Author's Note: This is just an exercise in description. It's not really a tale.

Lip Tapping Thoughts

2006-09-04T10:53:00.000-05:00

The tapping gave it away. She sat at the table staring at the pepper shaker tapping her lips with her finger, the same finger she used to wipe an eyelash from the ball moments before. It was as if she were tapping out Morse code on her lips, but there was no one to decode the message, not that she was aware. Her inquisitor’s understanding was well hidden.

Madeline had become accustomed to being questioned. He mom was the first, giving her interrogations on what happened at school each day as though she were trying to wrench a confession of horrible deeds done to her by the double-chinned teacher who never sent home notes. She wasn’t a trusting woman. She seemed to believe that every child was regularly getting into some sort of mischief, and she wanted to know what it was that hers had her tiny hands so deep into that they came out cleanly on the other side.

Then it was her boyfriends. Insecure, all of them, they wanted to know what that guy had said to her. Was he flirting with her? Did she like it? The questions swirled in their narrow little heads as the butterflies swirled in their tight little bellies with the thought of her with another boy. Once they pictured her being penetrated by one, it was too late; she already had been; and the nausea came to fruition. She was good at keeping secrets right up until she wanted them divulged into the world and minds of her interrogators with the clarity of a windshield swept clean of heavy rain to reveal an impending crash.

Even girl friends displayed a jealousy that caused uncharacteristic action at times. One even tied up another girl and shaved her hair as a means to prevent Madeline from befriending the poor victim, for to be a friend of Madeline was to be sought after by the rest. There was no reason to share.

No matter what happened before, she always appeared at first to be unsullied to the next person in line to become overly possessive and wrought with anxiety. The reaction was symptomatic of the power she held. It was an ability that was palpable from the beginning of her self-awareness, but it became a game to her as the rest of life’s offerings became humdrum. Toying with psyche and emotion as though these were pieces of furniture to be moved about a room until it had just the right look, she maneuvered souls around the plan within her mind.

This reaction was telling; the tapping, a quick rap of the lips, displayed concern and intrigue. And it was real. The blue line in the small window made a statement of change and challenge. She picked up the directions to be sure she’d read it correctly, that she’d urinated accordingly, and that the result was complete. A difficult concept to grasp, to have a part of her unleashed upon herself, would pose a threat to her own self-image; but at least it wouldn’t be dull, not with what it could do to me.

Seeing this window into her mind elated me. I knew the spawn was also half from my seed, and I knew that she would stay. A father was the only other relationship she’d never experienced, and there was no way she would deprive this part of her the chance to control me. She was mine.

I left immediately.

Cleansed

2006-08-29T18:19:00.000-05:00

Author's note: This is my submission to the "Lonely Moon" contest hosted by Jason at Clarity of Night. It's entry #84, so there has been quite a lot of interest in the competition. Please check out some of the other great posts there as well. He has posted all of the stories entered. Thanks for reading.

From the top he didn’t hear the shouting anymore. The raucous drivers below couldn’t see him, so none of their unwanted jeers were directed his way. That didn’t mean the same were true in the other direction. Leaning on his right leg, he placed the flyer underneath his left as padding from the bolt head digging into his skin. His hands were raw from the climb, and his feet burned still from the asphalt below. The summer heat made it difficult to walk barefoot on the black surface until a couple of hours after sunset. At least the river had provided relief. His clothes lay on the banks, waiting, stinking from the putrid water and weeks of sour body odor. His pills were there too, the ones he stopped taking two days ago. There was no reason to take them if he were still going to live this way, wandering the shadows, horrified of his own mind. The flyer said it didn’t have to be that way anymore. It said he could be a new man; if only he cleansed himself, he would be reborn. Stroking his matted beard he knew he’d been unsuccessful. Shining upward the spotlight reflected from his ass giving company to the lonely pockmarked face hovering in the sky. The bullhorn screeched as the blue clad man coaxed him from his perch. Beginning his moonlit descent he clung tightly to the paper, hoping that the cop could tell him how it worked, how to be cleansed.

999

2006-08-26T20:18:00.000-05:00

In one smooth motion he pulled the blade across. His hand was no longer shaking as it had been, but the small beads of sweat remained on his forehead. Typically it helped if he vomited before he began, and tonight was no exception.

It helped too, if had had a few drinks. Strengthened his hand, he often thought. Made it steadier. And that was how he found them. At Bars. Waiting, waiting for men with fat wallets. But he was waiting too, and his waiting was a lot more pleasurable. Now that the deed was done, he felt a stirring, a sense of elation, not unlike the feeling of an athlete at the end of a winning race. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Wiped the blade of the long scimitar-like knife on the grass and proceeded to cover the body with rocks.

He set the last one in place, then surveyed the scene. A job well done flooded him with satisfaction. He didn't have long to enjoy the feeling. Fingers clamped his ankle in a grip as unforgiving as a pit bull's jaws. He stared, uncomprehending, at the hand jutting from a gap in the rocks. The fingers increased their pressure until he heard himself whimpering. The knife glittered, just beyond his reach. Her voice was cold and dark as wrought iron, nothing like the breathy warble she'd used earlier. "Dolt! My kind is not so easily killed. Remove these stones ere I grow truly angry."

For a moment he thought he was hallucinating: this wasn't possible. The cut he'd made into the carotid artery was always fast, always fatal. He made to move away, but found he was pinned to the spot, like a butterfly stuck to a board. The grip on his ankle increased, threatening to break it. Then, a hideous scraping noise at the rocks as filthy fingernails clawed their way to the surface. He looked down and saw rock after rock being dislodged. A second, almost feral hand emerged from within, dismantling the carefully arranged mound. He pulled away even harder, but the grip never faltered. At the back of his mind he could hear alarms wailing, growing closer, more insistent.

He awoke with a start, his alarm clock wailing its plaintiff cry of morning. Sweat clung to his body like shrink-wrap on a piece of meat. A nightmare. He'd had a nightmare.

He went into the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water. The night terrors he'd been having lately had never been as vivid as this one. This was a whole new level of nightmare.

Could he manage work? He’d have to. They’d noticed a fair bit at the office. Nervous stammers, glazed looks and the odd clammy palm. It was only a matter of time.

He thought of her now in the fading darkness. The bed felt cold and silent. She and the baby. They had been so happy together. Why didn’t she tell him? Why did she keep her secret? Of course, he would have understood. Of course, he wouldn’t have stopped her.
That’s what he'd told her softly in those frozen final minutes.

He remembered her startled __expression when she saw him. Making his way to her in the crowded bar. They were playing La Bamba. She looked like she was waiting for someone he didn’t know. Waiting, sipping a cocktail and swinging her legs. “Darling, what on earth?” She appeared shocked but had smiled quickly. She had tried to fix her lipstick, adjust her skirt. Her hair looked straggly and grey. Once she had been a stunning blonde. Once she had promised only him, her kisses in the moonlight. He had been adamant. Perhaps if the baby hadn’t come…Perhaps.

But no matter how she had changed, no matter her dark secrets, everyday he saw her smile on other women's faces, saw the light of her eyes in theirs. She haunted him. Tormenting him from her grave. All he wanted now was to be left in peace. To move on with his life. To create some sort of new beginning for himself. But it was as though she was holding him back – a hand from a grave.

"Damn you," he muttered, trying to push her insistent memory away.

He gazed at his reflection in the mirror. A haggard face stared back at him. Eyes bloodshot and ringed with grey. He splashed more water on his face and watched as it trickled through his stubble.

He shook his head. "Get a grip," he told himself.

He turned away from the mirror and stopped. He stared at the knife lying in the bath. How had that got there he wondered, bending down to pick it up.

The rock smashed down hard on the back of his clammy head, and he fell dazed and disorientated into the tub. Momentarily he thought it was filling with warm water but quickly realised it was blood oozing from his damaged skull.

He laughed. So this was how it felt. This is how it felt to be killed. He’d watched so many die close up.

As his eyes cleared he saw her face. She was blonde again. Young and pretty like she used to be. But it couldn’t be. She was dead. He'd made sure of that all those years ago when he buried her beneath the garden rockery. An angry, drink-fuelled rage when she told him the child wasn’t his.

She leant forward and picked the blade up from the bath. She smiled at him like she used to. Long before the child had changed everything.

He felt the blade cut slowly across his throat.

She pressed her face up close and sniffed his fear. He could smell the cigarettes and vodka on her warm breath. There were tears in her blue eyes.

Blue eyes? Hers had been grey, like her name, Sky. And then he realised. Finally, dying, he realised his mistake after all these years. The child should have died too.

Blog Owner's Note: This is the final product of the collaboration between the seven authors in the order listed in the previous post. I'm very pleased with how well it turned out. Thank you very much for contributing! I really enjoyed reading the additions as they came back, which happened well in advance of the Monday deadline I so arbitrarily set. It came in at 999 words, and I only tried to correct any paragraph breaks that looked as though they were corrupted in transition. Wonderfully done everyone.

The Challenge Order

2006-08-25T06:29:00.000-05:00

The order of writer's fell as follows:

Saaleh
The Wandering Author
Amin - I need your email address
Susan - I put you in, because I agree with the rest that you should participate. You can still object if you insist.
Nicky
Lehane

And, so that we can have a little more freedom to maneuver let's make it between 1000 words or less.

Happy writing!

My Collaborative Challenge

2006-08-23T21:10:00.000-05:00

I’d like to issue a challenge of sorts. It’s not really a competition, but a small experiment in collaborative writing. Maybe it’s a means to connect to each other a little further too.

I’d like to see who would be willing to add a bit of their voice to a story that I begin. I’ll write the first paragraph then send it to the next person for paragraph two, who will return it to me to send it to the next person for paragraph three and so on. The difficult part will be to create a story that has some semblance of meaning within the following guidelines:

It must be all fiction.
The end result must be between 500 and 750 words.
No one can alter what was written by the previous contributors.
It has to be back to me no later than Monday, August 27, 2006.

I know it may not sound very difficult, but the first people to contribute have to keep in mind how many people follow. I would start the process by sending the first paragraph to the next person in line on Friday morning around 9:00 am EST (that’s per the US east coast). When it’s complete, I will post the result here on Tales of the Bearded Toad. It will not appear anywhere else and all those who contribute will be listed in an accompanying statement.

So if you’d like to participate, please send your email address to me at bhorne2x@yahoo.com or leave it in a comment below. I promise that I won’t use it for any other purpose but this exercise. I won’t even bother unless we get at least six participants, so invite your friends to join in. Thanks.

You'll Know

2006-08-22T19:49:00.000-05:00

The worm wriggled faster when he pierced it the first time. Reddish brown fluid squirted onto his fingers when he pushed it through as his papa told him how. It was sticky almost immediately making it easier to hold onto the hook, but not the worm. A mildew smell wafted in to join with that of the dark earth encased in the white plastic cup. They had bought it at a roadside stand near the entrance from a fat man whose loud breathing had scared him. The man had looked like a heaving monster behind the counter getting ready to breathe fire onto his little blonde head poking up just over the rim.

Sitting on the edge of the county lake the boy listened to papa explain how the smell helped to attract the fish. He wondered how fish could smell anything in the water, but he didn’t ask. Papa made the first cast as an example he said. The red topped cork plopped down a foot away from the worm, which made the small waves roll against each other. How do you know when the fish has eaten the worm he asked. You’ll know papa responded. They waited.

Papa picked up his coffee cup and grunted when he realized it had gotten cold. The boy knew that’s what the sound meant. Ooh, can I have a sip he asked. He’d taken to the bitter taste after he started living with papa, after his mom was arrested. There had been no one else that he knew of. He smacked when he put the cup down, making papa smile. Has a fish gotten it yet? You’ll know.

He picked up the pole again and pulled the cork a little closer to him. Reeling in the slack of the line he asked papa how long he’d had the rod. Fifteen years. He’d bought it on his birthday with a gift certificate they gave him at work. They were nice people the boy thought. They were the same ones that had given him the jacket and pants he was wearing after his clothes burned up in the fire.

Look over there papa said. He followed the old finger to see a crane standing on one foot in the shallow water. It had its beak tucked under one wing. Why does he do that the boy asked. That’s how he sleeps. He has to block out the world somehow just like you and I turn out the lights at night. Mom had always left a night light on for him, but he never asked papa to do that, not after papa told him he was going to have to be a big boy now.

Reel it in papa said. Let’s try different bait, for catfish maybe. Papa pulled a container of chicken liver from the cooler as the last bits of worm came bobbing up out of the water at the end of the line. Now take this piece. The boy gently tried to take the little blob, but the slimy tissue shot out of his hand and onto the ground. That’s alright papa said pulling a piece of ladies panty hose from his pocket. What’s that the boy asked wondering why he’d have that in his pocket. Insurance papa said rapping the now dirty liver in the sheer nylon fabric and placing it on the hook. He thought about how mom used to hang them over the rod in the bathroom. She’d sit on the toilet while he took a bath. He’d ask her questions and play with his toys. How do you get money? From games she’d said. I look for games I can win. How do you know which ones you can win he’d asked. I just know she’d said.

The cork disappeared under the brown water. The boy grabbed the pole and started to reel without even asking papa. That’s it boy. The fish pulled hard bending the old pole into a wide U-shape. He drug the flopping fish onto the bank and giggled as it came. That worked better than the worm he said. How come? The insurance papa said. That’s what mom told me. What do you mean papa asked. When the men took her away, she told me it was because of the insurance. It was a game she’d said.

Author’s request: Please comment on the lack of punctuation along with your other thoughts on this one. In some stories I’ve found this to be a distraction, but I wanted to see what others think about it. Thank you for your time and suggestions. They mean a lot to me.

Flashing in the Gutters-New Post

2006-08-20T14:05:00.000-05:00

I have a new post on Flashing in the Gutters, that I personally like a lot more than the last one. Have a look and let me know what you think. Thanks and have a great day!

Sheer

2006-08-18T19:07:00.000-05:00

It didn’t make the same sound. Usually it rang with the same resonance every time, a nice ting that reverberated in his ears. He would position the stock for the next piece; the sheer would move downward with its hydraulic hum, slicing off the end with a seemingly effortless motion; and then, ting. Repetitively he slid the cool metal bar into position for the next cut and awaited the reassuring sound. This time though, it was a thud, a dead knock with none of the metallic quality he was used to hearing. Whatever this was, it absorbed the impact.

He leaned over to see what had caused the abnormality. At first he couldn’t tell, but there was a red streak on one of the pieces, that much was certain. Bending down he moved the pile with his left hand. There it was. A finger lay there amongst the steel as though it belonged; it was even the right length. The small puddle of blood beside it was a different story. The bright red contrasted harshly with the grayish blue of the pieces. He looked back on top of the platform to see another, larger pool. The skin of his face beaded with sweat, and his mouth began to water. Raising his digit-deficient right hand in front of his face, the smell of iron rushed into his nostrils with a vengeance. That’s funny; I never noticed that smell before, he thought as his nerves went back to work sending their electric pulses to his brain.

A Post Elsewhere

2006-08-16T08:01:00.000-05:00

I submitted a story to Flashing in the Gutters, and it was posted yesterday. It's a great site that has new flash fiction daily, with a criminal, gritty feel in most cases. I wrote this one specifically for submission to the site, so it's a little harsh compared to the others. Please take a minute, that's all it'll take, to give it a read and leave a comment.

Thanks for reading,

Brandon.

White Wall

2006-08-15T17:32:00.000-05:00

The turmoil in his head seemed akin to the sea during a hurricane, with thoughts swelling quickly only to subside and become eclipsed by another. He couldn’t seem to latch onto any of them as they rolled through his consciousness, so he just quit trying. He began to enjoy these short glimpses of his past. Jumping on the trampoline as an awkward little kid, he imagined being swallowed by the black round mat, only to land on the couch in his friend’s basement where he first felt the warm suppleness of a teenage breast. Her hair had smelled of vanilla as it gently tickled his neck, and her mouth had tasted of peppermint. This wonderfully juvenile erotic sensation gave way to a thought that one would wince upon having if they were only conscious and aware of it. He imagined himself alone, not just sitting alone but completely devoid of companionship. For him, the thought rolled by without much consideration. The following tumultuous remembrance was of his father, of the last time he saw him. He held him hard by the shoulders and peered into him, not at him. His father’s eyes were narrow and accented by lines that fanned from the corners like petals on a flower. That was the only appearance of softness he could remember. He felt his father grip him tighter, and with bourbon breath he said, “The world is cruel, son. Be cruel back.”

The words of his patriarch drew him from his mind and into reality. His stark cell was devoid of character. It housed only him, his toilet and his bed. The small glass window in the door gave him a view of nothing, only a white painted cinder block wall. He was alone in a captive world full of harsh cruelty, a world created to shelter those who couldn’t understand or tolerate it, and all he could see was nothing.

'06 4 Ever

2006-08-11T16:53:00.000-05:00

It called out to him. It glared at him. It stuck in his head to the point where he would lose concentration during sex. How could it be ‘06 4 ever? It didn’t make any sense, but he wished it were true.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one. Someone had felt so strongly about it that they had painted it on the pillar of the bridge, the railway bridge that sent the tracks just past the school. He could hear the trains from class everyday after lunch, first with the blaring horn and deep rumble of the diesel engine, followed by the rhythmic clicks of the steel wheels on the uneven joints. He had come to rely on it to carry his mind away from the drudgery of instruction for most of high school, but this year was different.

Stephen was an “early sprouter” as his dad liked to say. He sprouted hair on his chin and previously barren scrotum at the age of 10. He was a handsome kid about six feet tall with a writhe muscular build. His dad couldn’t have been more proud. Never mind that he was about as astute in a classroom as a chicken in flight. “The wings look good, but there damn near worthless.” His dad was fond of country sayings, even though he had never set foot on a farm. His dad spent his days behind the counter at the filling station up the road from his house, and that was about all he did.

Sports were easy for Stephen with his athletic build, as long as his role wasn’t very complicated. The football coaches tried putting him at quarterback once, but he couldn’t remember what all the other players were supposed to do, which hurt his confidence significantly. Wide receiver was a much more suitable role. He had the height, he had the speed, and he had just the right swagger after a touchdown. Of course, with this ability and his good looks, he was quite popular.

It was his senior year when he saw the crude graffiti. It was February, so football season was already over. He had decided not to play basketball that year, just so that he could take advantage of that popularity for a change. What good was it to be envied if you were always in class, at practice, or at games? He cashed in on it full force. “Why not,” he’d thought. “After this it’ll all change. I’ll be just like my dad with no action, no friends, and no life.”

He started skipping the class just after lunch. It was history taught by Coach Krebs, the assistant football coach. He knew that Coach Krebs didn’t care that he was gone; he didn’t believe history was worth remembering either. Besides, he was a football player.

He decided on a goal, to convince a different girl for every day of the week to skip with him. “Convincing three chicks to skip once a week should be a breeze,” he’d told his friends. They didn’t think he could do it and told him so, but he brushed them off with his usual brash demeanor. He was right too, and it wasn’t even hard to keep them separated. He used what he learned with each one to do even more with next, always pushing it a little further. It couldn’t get any better than that, which is why that little phrase bothered him so badly. ‘06 4 ever. Why did things have to change? Why couldn’t life stay that way forever?

The obsession started interrupting the sex, of course, when he couldn’t concentrate on it. He decided to do something about it; he would try to make things stay the same. He had heard rumors of an old woman from New Orleans who had moved up after the big hurricane. People said that she practiced voodoo, that she could do things to change your life. Most of the stories that he heard were about curses and hexes she’d cast. “I heard she made this one dude’s hair fall out in clumps just ‘cause he said something she didn’t like,” one guy told him. He started to reconsider when he thought of himself with bald patches all over. But what if she could make it true? The prospect was too tempting to let a little bit of fear get in the way.

He asked around and found out she lived by the river past the north side of town. He didn’t know the area very well. There wasn’t much there, only trees, a swamp and the river. Driving at night, he got lost twice down dirt roads that nearly dropped off into the rushing water. Eventually he found it. He knew immediately when he saw the shack appear in his headlights. The tiny one-room building stood straight, but somehow looked as though it could fall at any moment. The tin roof was red with rust, and the siding was just old rotting wood that had never carried a coat of paint. The din of the crickets and toads was louder than the city he’d thought. Smoke lazily rolled from the single fireplace laced with the smell of fried food, which made his stomach growl with hunger.

When he knocked on the door he heard her grunt inside. “Who it is?” The sound of her voice made him nervous, and he felt a shiver roll up his spine. After too much time had passed, she said, “Jus’ op’n da dow.”

Reluctantly, he gripped the handle and slowly pushed it forward. She was sitting in a rocking chair next to the fireplace. She was eating what looked like a frog’s leg with a plate full of them in her lap. She put the plate aside and stood up slowly. He was so nervous at this point that he couldn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

She walked over to him. With her greasy hand, she led him into the room and shut the door behind them. She sat him down on a stool next to her chair and looked him over for what seemed like hours. He just stared at her wrinkled grimacing face, too afraid to move. Her black hair was braided into locks that fell around her aging features. The parts of her eyes that should have been white were yellowed. She smiled at him finally parting her lips coated with grease, exposing a mouth that was missing nearly half its teeth.

She pulled an old wash tub from the corner of the room and placed it in front of him. She took her plate of frog legs and picked up six of the severed limbs and dropping them individually into the basin while murmuring something in a low growl he couldn’t understand. Shuffling around the room she gathered the fixings. One after another she added ingredients until she hiked up her patchwork skirt, squatted over the tub and filled it nearly to the brim with piss.

The strong ammonia smell of it dismayed him so badly that he couldn’t regain control enough to object when she pulled him up, spun him around and sat him down in the concoction. The warm liquid overflowed onto the floor and soaked into his clothes. He felt his testicles begin to tingle, a sensation that finally jolted him from his catatonic trance. He jumped to his feet with a quick gasp for air and bolted to the door without saying a word.

As he drove back into town wet to the core with urine and shivering in the wind to air out the smell, his cell phone beeped with the notification of new voicemail. The normalcy of the sound calmed him, but only momentarily. As he listened, the voice of each of the three girls erupted in consecutive unnerving messages through the tinny sound of his phone. They all said the same thing. “Stephen, I’m pregnant!”

Shutters

2006-08-07T19:16:00.000-05:00

Shutters

Eyes narrow, brow furrowed, head slightly down, and arms folded she steamed down the sidewalk. The small crowd of twenty-something men all stared as she came closer following the sidewalk that they blocked so obliviously. As she got about fifty feet away she stepped out into the street to go around them. That’s when the words came. “Hey baby. Where you goin’?” “Damn, honey, you fine.” “Ain’t she though?” She rolled her eyes and kept the same pace past the moronically catcalling bunch.

After many such occurrences during her teenage and now adult life, she had learned to have a hard, unapproachable stature in an effort to ward off the aggressive, disrespectful and hormone charged men that she inevitably had to encounter. Alone or in groups they had no problem yelling out invitations and what they considered compliments. Of course, it was much worse when it was a group. There seemed to be a competition between them to see who could get her attention and break her stride. Sometimes they would even run up beside her and start talking, so close sometimes she could smell the cheap cologne. She refused to respond, never wanting to give them the satisfaction after treating her that way.

The problem with her developed defensive technique was that it didn’t work. The buffoons continued to eye her and call out obscene gestures no matter how mean she felt she looked. To them, she looked like a collection of parts that was such a magnificent development that if they did get her attention it would mean bragging rights for weeks. Her dark hair and smooth tanned skin framed and encased a face and body that anyone, including the jealous women at her office would call stunning. What they all wondered though was why she never had a boyfriend. They never heard her talk about dating anyone. They would speculate and make jokes that she was a lesbian. She knew that’s what some thought, but it didn’t bother her. She felt that was no reason to feel shame.

It wasn’t as though she didn’t want to date. She craved companionship and good conversation. She wanted to feel the warmth of a man’s touch against her skin, to feel held and cared for by someone she trusted. She tried going to bars and clubs, but she encountered the same sort of purposefully one-sided conversation and bad lines that she did walking down the street. It seemed to her that everyone had lost their minds after the age of twelve.

To fill the void created by her lack of human company, she volunteered. On Saturdays twice a month, she would go to the animal shelter and volunteer to bath the dogs and cats that had been picked up that week. The cute little fur balls, looking frazzled after a good lather would shake and wiggle once she let them go, getting her wet from belly to toe. In the afternoon she would sit with a few of the no longer musty dogs individually playing and cuddling with them so that they would learn to trust people and become good pets for another affection-deficient individual.

The other weekends of the month she volunteered to have calls routed to her phone from a poison hotline. She was comfortable with this human interaction, because she couldn’t be seen. No one ever ogled her through the telephone line while frantically trying to determine if there son was going to die from drinking a pint of paint thinner that had been diluted by white paint. “He thought it was milk! Should I make him puke? Ugh, too late.” In a calming voice she would tell them exactly what to do. She felt good about herself for helping, for making someone’s discomfort dissipate.

On the corner near her building was a small bookstore that she sometimes visited. She would buy a coffee from the little café next door and browse until she found a cover that caught her attention. She wouldn’t pick one up or read the jacket liner unless it pulled a particular reaction from her when she read the title and saw the cover art. Unless she let out an audible “Ooh!” she wasn’t even bothering with it.

On one such occasion, she picked up a book with a picture of a woman from the waste down wearing striped red and white stockings to her knees, a pleated skirt and fabulous shoes. The title evoked a warm happy feeling too. With a deep breath, inhaling the oddly pleasant aroma of old paper, she headed straight for the cash register. There was a guy behind the counter with a smile on his face and a glint in his eye happily waiting on a man in his fifties who was buying a couple of plastic wrapped magazines. She knew what was coming, so she put away her excitement and put on her “don’t talk to me” expression. When the man reached to put his wallet back in his pocket he caught a glimpse of her, which gave him a bit of a start. He turned and said, “My! Aren’t you a pretty young thing?” Without waiting for a reply, he turned for the door. “I guess they never grow out of it,” she thought.

She placed the book on the counter, not looking at the attendant, who said, “Good morning,” so pleasantly that it took her by surprise. “Oh, good choice! I really enjoyed that one. When the cover and title are germane to the content, it makes the first few pages so much more satisfying. Don’t you agree?”

She felt her guarded posture begin to release. She looked up thinking about what he’d said. A few seconds passed before she responded, well past the normal time for a person to respond. “You know, I’ve never really thought about that.”

“It’s just that I feel when the title seems bright and cheery and the words on the pages seem dark and ominous it’s completely confusing.”

“That really does make a lot of sense. The last book I read was like that,” she said nodding her head and contorting her mouth to show that she was truly considering it. She unfolded her arms and picked up a magnet from a stack on the counter. It read, “A book is a window into the mind of the author. Please open your shutters.” She let out a short laugh. She could sense that it made the cashier smile and looked up to see it.

As she walked toward the door with new book in hand, she felt open, unassuming. It was nice to be able to laugh in public. She looked back at the cashier and said, “Have a great day!” They both smiled as she pushed through the double glass doors into the white light of the day.

The Security Guard (A Journey into the Halls Part II)

2006-08-03T19:27:00.000-05:00

“I don’t really see why they won’t give us guns. I mean, what if what happened at one of those high schools happens here, and some kid comes in trying to shoot as many people as possible before he takes himself out? My friend Dave at the Sheriff’s department says it could happen anytime.”

“Marvin, don’t you think that if a kid was going to do that, he would plan on how to kill us first? He’d have to get by us anyway!”

“Yeah, but if I had a gun, I could shoot him before he shoots me. I’ve been practicing my draw with my tazer. Watch.” He squared his feet and whipped the electric stun gun from his hip slightly awkwardly but with surprising quickness.

“Put it away, you lunatic. Here comes a visitor.” Marvin swiveled the tazer and tucked it away in its holster. He crossed his arms to look as hard and diligent as possible for the first person of the day to visit the building. He thought it was important to look as though he was on the verge of arresting everyone.

“Good morning, sir.” Marvin was quiet as the other security guard greeted the patron, who looked a little funny pulling on his belt loops to keep his pants up. Marvin thought that it wasn’t usually the saggy pants guys that came to visit the state house, but mainly he just thought the pictures of fish on his boxers were ridiculous. He could see the design as he walked straight through the metal detector without taking anything out of his pockets. The contraption didn’t beep, so he let the man keep walking.

He waited until the guy was out of earshot, and then said to his partner, “I bet that guy’s mom buys all his clothes.”

“Why do you say that? He didn’t look bundled up and clean like he lives with his parents.”

“You didn’t see his kiddy boxers with his pants all sagging like that? Grown men don’t buy themselves underwear with cute little cartoon fishies on them, but moms do though.”

His partner shook his head. “You think you’re being smart, analyzing the minds and lives of all the people that come through here, but I’d bet that none of your assumptions are right. I bet that guy is just cheap, and he bought his boxers on sale at K-Mart, blue light special all the way. He won’t even spring for a belt for crying out loud.”

“Well, maybe, but I don’t think so. Here, hand me that catalog. I’m going to the can.”

“Every morning, just like clock work. Just wait till you’re my age and you have to drink a glass of dirty-looking gritty water your wife gives you every morning just so you’ll go at all that day.”

Marvin walked down the hall and around the corner, then left, then right into the men’s room. It was always a little bit cold in there, but he didn’t mind once he got that first shiver out of his system. It crept up his spine just as his skin touched down on the white porcelain horseshoe. He opened the catalog and stopped at the flashlights. He always wanted the big one, the one that took four D-size batteries. His friend who worked for the Sheriff’s department, Dave, told him that it was a great way to subdue a perp’ at night. “All the extra weight gives it more momentum when you swing it,” he’d said. He idolized Dave, and wished that he could only pass the tests to join the department too. Marvin knew Dave thought he was better than him, that his job was more important.

He leafed through the catalog for a few more minutes and absent mindedly played with the strap on his tazer holster before finishing up. He flushed and walked over to the sink, watching himself in the mirror the whole way, straightening up and pushing out his chest. Washing his hands, he never even looked at them; he kept making different faces at himself trying to figure out which one made him seem most stern. He started to dry his hands under the blower, but he didn’t have enough patience for the thing. He wiped his hands on his pants and headed out the door.

As the heavy door swung open on its hinges, he saw the visitor slide around the corner with his pants nearly at his knees. He jerked them up and kept running. Marvin’s eyes grew wide, and he shuffled his feet into his quick draw stance. The strap on his holster was already undone from playing with it on the toilet. The tazer slid out without a hitch, and as the guy flew past Marvin nailed him right in his back. His pants slid back down as he fell face first onto the floor, skidding to a halt.

Marvin’s stomach dropped when he thought about what had just happened. He didn’t even know why the guy was running. “Why would he be running? What if he hadn’t done anything wrong? Now I’ll never get into to the department?” His mind was racing. He called his partner on the radio and told him he’d better come and help.

He looked up and saw a dark suit come around the corner hunched over in pain. Marvin’s fear evaporated in an instant. It was replaced by the fullness of pride. What would Dave think now?

Routine

2006-07-31T13:53:00.000-05:00

“I don’t care,” she said. A silence ensued that made her wonder if he was still awake. “Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here,” he replied with unmistakable indignation in his voice.

“Well, are you going to say anything?”

“Why would I say anything, when you won’t answer any questions that I have?”

“I did answer your question!”

“No, you didn’t answer my question. Whenever I ask you questions like that, you don’t answer it; you answer a different question. And no matter what I ask, or how I phrase it to try to get you to answer the question that I was really asking, you only repeat the answer you gave to the question you thought I asked the first time. You feel like I’m telling you that your answer is not good enough, and you’re right. It’s not. It’s not even the right question.”

“Well, then what did you ask?”

“Never mind. You don’t care.”

“I hate it when you do that passive aggressive crap!”

“Would you prefer that I were truly aggressive?”

“No. I’d leave you in a minute if you ever touched me.”

“So, what do you expect from me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it.”

“I don’t want to think about it! I just want to go to sleep!” With her typically loud statement, he rolled over, gave a strong snort through his nose, and settled into position to sleep. She continued to lie motionless staring at the blurry, dark ceiling for a few moments more. The dog shuffled between them, and the sound of the fan took over.

She woke exhausted after having bad dreams throughout night. Her clothes were wet with damp with sweat again. Once during the night she arose to change from her drenched pajamas into dry shorts and a shirt. Bad dreams, sweaty bedclothes, and very little sleep were becoming routine for her. Not to mention the other part.

With his teeth slightly clenched, he rolled over and put his feet to the carpet. She always liked carpet better because of the warm feeling you get when your feet touch down compared to the shock and agitation you get when you touch down on cold hardwood. Knowing this about her, the last time they were looking for a place to live, he agreed to get an apartment with carpet, even though the dogs wreak havoc on the pale fibers. His morning routine continued as he wriggled into his clothes, put the dogs’ collars back on, and clicked their leashes in place as she made her coffee.

Outside the air was muggy as usual. A thunderstorm during the night had left it a little stickier outside than normal. It caused the skin on the back of his knees to peal apart after bending down to fill the plastic bags with the steaming piles from the already panting dogs. She walked over and deposited the bags in the receptacle, carefully dodging all the other land mines left by lazy dog owners. “I want to watch and see who this is, so that we can turn them in to the front office,” she said, with no intention of really doing it.

The coffee was dripping into the pot and had collected enough to pour a full cup. She pulled her favorite mug from the cabinet and filled it to just the right level. Two sugar-extract packets and a teaspoonful of creamer made it just right. The satisfying moment she had been waiting for was marked by the inevitable slurp and smack. He sometimes asked, “Why do you do that?” With a smirk she’d reply the same each time, “Just sucking the flavor out, honey,” a comment that would give him that boyish twinge he knew he’d have to suppress.

With coffee in hand, she slowly sat down to watch the morning news. “Strong winds downed trees and knocked out power to 1,300 residents last night,” the well made-up minor celebrity belted out. She heard the shower begin to spray with hesitant power and the curtain screech closed on its rod. He always took a shower first, leaving her to wait fifteen minutes so the tiny water heater could muster up the clout to coax another showers worth of water to warm up. The clown-faced anchor was failing miserably in keeping her attention. She watched the gimp legged dog slowly climb into his chair and begin to lick the dew from his feet. Somehow this was more interesting than the news of another car bomb in Iraq, the sort of news story that was commonplace to hear in the morning, given the time difference.

“Evalen?” She was jarred from her musings on the dogs tongue. She set her mug on the coffee table. “Evalen?!”

“I’m coming!” There was the nearly tangible agitation in her voice as she made her way into the bathroom. She knew what he wanted. Laundry was a weekend activity, which of course meant washing towels. Reaching below the sink to pull out a clean towel, she saw the bottle of personal lubricant that was a catalyst for bad emotions. She felt her throat constrict and her face get hot. She handed him the towel, turned and walked out without saying anything. Just a sharp glance in his eyes so that maybe he’d get a small amount of the agitation she felt.

“Whose turn is it to fix lunches? Did I do it yesterday? What day is it anyway? Oh, yeah. It’s Tuesday.” She sometimes talked to herself as she went through the day, without realizing it. She made noises too, thinking they were only in her head. He would laugh at her and never tell her that she was spouting nonsense, especially when they were in a long line at the grocery store. The other people around always smiled but kept quiet too.

She pulled the peanut butter from above the refrigerator and set it next to a paper towel she’d laid out, struggling with the twisty for a few seconds before finally being able to pull four slices of bread from the thin plastic. She placed them in a square and generously spread the brown paste over two slices, thinking how it would taste at lunch when she ate it. “Oh, I hope we have enough jelly.” The jar was nearly empty, but there was just enough there to cover the other two sides of the sandwiches. “Goooood,” she said as she spread the last bit over the fourth slice of bread. Preparing and thinking about food calmed her down a bit.

As he walked into the kitchen for a glass of water he said, “What are you making for me?” As soon as he said it he knew he shouldn’t have. He saw her take in a deep breath, and his stomach dropped leaving him momentarily feeling scared. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said that. I know you’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks,” she said flatly. It was hard for her to let go of the emotion quickly.

Turning the knob on in the shower, she tugged on the end of the strap releasing her robe. Hanging it up on the hook adhered to the back of the door, she stepped into the not yet warm flow. “Ugh!” Within seconds, though, it was too hot for her to bear. She adjusted the knob to get the temperature just right, enough to steam up the mirror but not enough to redden her skin.

He sat down on the toilet and pulled in a cleansing breath of the humid air and slowly let it out imagining that the bad feelings of the night before were going out with it. “I’m sorry about the way I acted last night.” He waited for a few seconds to see if she’d respond. “I just get really upset when we talk about it. It scares me, because I think you might leave me over it.” Another long pause ensued. “I love you and it worries me to know that you are upset so much. And it makes me think that it’s all my fault. I’m the one who got you into it, and now we can’t seem to stop…but I can tell that it is causing you to be angry a lot. It seems like you are directing all that towards me, and we fight a lot.”

“Brit…”

“Wait. Let me finish. I know that we’ve gained a lot of weight in the past few months, and it’s keeping us from being able to have sex. Hell, we don’t even use the lube for that anymore; instead, I have to lube up my thighs before I go to work, just so they won’t chaff. We’ve needed to buy new clothes every month, and we can’t afford to because we spend so much on food. And we both know how restrictive that feels.”

“Brit, when I see myself in the mirror it looks like I swallowed a blimp.” He couldn’t help but laugh at that a little. “It’s not funny!”

“I’m sorry, but that was a little bit.”

“Well, I didn’t think so…ugh, what are we going to do?”

“I’ll tell you what. Let’s call in sick to work today. I can call and schedule an appointment with a dietitian, and we’ll go together to see her. I saw a book online yesterday that will help us break out of the nightly binging routine that we’ve gotten ourselves…well, that I’ve gotten us into.”

“But what does that have to do with today? You could schedule the appointment at work and pick up the book on your way home.”

He smiled and looked at her. “Today, I’m going to show you that I love you, Evalen. With all my bulging body, I love you.”

The Scarlet Pool

2006-07-26T20:16:00.000-05:00

He began his spiel by touting the graces of the woman he had met. “She was a beauty like none other, with class exuded from every pore. The sophistication with which she espoused the benefits of facials was astounding. The way she rubbed the serum over my skin made me feel as though I were being touched by a regal heiress disguised as a mere counter girl.”

Isaac shifted his feet and nodded as Gill continued on about the girl. It seemed obvious to him that most of it was a lie or at the very least a huge exaggeration. He could feel tension rising in his gut the longer the conversation went. It had only been a minute and a half, but it seemed like an eternity. And what was that smell? Almonds? He could feel his face begin to contort, so he concentrated on keeping his expression hidden. No matter how uncomfortable he became while listening-one never really said anything back-to Gill, he never wanted to hurt his feelings. He looked at his watch and made his eyes swell. “Oh, my, I am late for a meeting!”

Gill's style was to attempt to impress everyone he knew and met with a grandiloquence of speech that caused a great deal of his meaning to be missed by those whom he was addressing. Those who knew him were more than aware that he was a lonely man, but his pushy insistence on talking through every encounter made it impossible to enjoy his company. Gill could see the uncomfortable awkwardness come over them when they saw him coming near. A shift in their seat, attempts to appear as though they hadn’t seen him, a feigned cell phone call were all typical.

Each time it happened, Gill would prick his leg with a pin through his pocket, to take his mind off the emotional anguish. This time, it hurt so badly he nearly fainted outright. He grabbed the counter with both hands, putting most of his weight on them, because his knees had become so weak he thought they would buckle and put him flat on the blue-flecked linoleum floor. He tried to focus on the reddening lines in his knuckles and how they traced into the thick spider web pattern on the back of his hand.

Why had he never held a woman’s hand, he thought? Why had he never held a man’s hand? That simple act of affection that he’s seen so many people undergo as he sat in the food court of the mall waiting for someone new to impress was not an experience he’d ever had. In fact the counter girl was the only person to touch him since he had moved from his parent’s house twelve years ago. He didn’t tell Isaac that it was last May when he had gotten the impromptu sales treatment.

The sore on his leg had been festering for two weeks now, but he refused to see a doctor. The increase in pain had made it more effective at taking away the emotion each time he pricked himself. Infection was something that happened to dirty people he thought, and he washed every day. The smell of almonds had only made him think that the new breath mints he’d started using were having a rather odd effect.

As he fell to the floor, hitting his head against a chair, he wondered if anyone would come help. No one every voluntarily came over to him; he always went to them. That pool of scarlet looks quite garish against the azure accents, he thought. Someone should scour these floors.

Understanding

2006-07-23T20:01:00.000-05:00

NOTE: The Self Evolved suggested that I post this story which I wrote as a reading for our wedding, so it's a bit of a diversion from what I have been posting. Also, for those of you who couldn't tell already, I make some of this stuff up; most of it will be from here on out.

Understanding
The old man walked along the path slowly, deliberately. He felt the slight pain in his knees that had come to comfort him somewhat, like an old friend that assured him he was still alive. He looked beside him and saw his wife smiling as she inhaled the fragrance of the garden. Her smile made him forget the pain, forget he was alive. He felt as though he were in a dream, like he was watching events unfold before his eyes in slow motion. She brushed the gray hair from her face with a withered hand. As it fell back to her side he slowly, gently squeezed it in his own. The soft firmness made her heart leap slightly, just enough to make her look up and direct that wonderful smile toward him. She knew what he was thinking. She always had, she thought.

As the path curved, a small pond began to cast the sun’s golden reflection upon them. He couldn't help thinking that the glow wasn't from the sun really at all; it was just a part of his slowly developing dream. The pond was very calm and undisturbed, with a clear, upside down version of the fiery-colored trees lining the banks. They walked together to the edge of the pond and stood on a large mossy rock that jutted slightly into the water.

At first he looked into the water and saw the small fish swimming almost effortlessly by, one behind the other, but his eyes began to focus on his reflection. He saw himself as a young man again, standing dressed in black beside his soon-to-be wife dressed all in white. He noticed the smooth skin and vibrancy of their youth. It saddened him to realize how much time had passed since that day. All those wonderful years had gone by so quickly. The youth looked at his bride, as the words of the minister were faintly present in the background. The young man confidently replied to the minister’s question. “I do,” he said. An easy smile crept upon his wrinkled face that wiped away all the sadness.

He blinked to refocus as reality flowed back over him as ripples from a jumping fish rolled over the scene. Smiling with that same youthful confidence he’d just recalled, he looked to his wife.

“I meant it, you know?”

She turned around to face him, putting both hands in his.
“So did I,” she said, understanding everything.

A Formative Day

2006-07-16T14:52:00.000-05:00

March 9, 2001 was a day that escaped me for reasons which I cannot now realize. I do, however, realize the importance of it upon me, the description of which may not have an effect upon you, but it still does upon me. It helped make me who I am.

As I left the building on my way back to the parking lot, I thought about how beautiful a night it was. The air was crisp but contained that notion that it was beginning to warm into the sentimental sensation spring tends to bring about. The sky was clear other than those curious little sparkles that never cease to draw the imagination as they drew a smile across my face.

I rounded the corner at the end behind the row of low slung buildings into the alley that contained a few parking spaces and many dumpsters. I had walked this route four times per week since I began the program in September. The buildings included a few restaurants, which of course disposed of their refuse into the respective dumpsters. I say refuse as that is what you and I would call it, but what the little girl whom I saw trying her best to stack things on top of the cement block she had dragged in front of the bin would call dinner.

Seeing a small black girl eagerly trying to attack the rancid pile, made me more confused than I was the time I saw my mother light a joint. I felt the learned racism from some of my old acquaintances arise. Some of them might say, “Just like a ‘coon to be diggin’ in the damn trash.” I also felt the rise of humanity arise in me, in that I wanted to help her. Most of all, I felt curiosity as to what had caused her to be in a situation where she had to dig through other peoples garbage to find enough food to survive.

I didn’t know whether I could approach her or not. I didn’t know if I could handle the smell of wet rust and rotting pizza along with the smell of a child whom I was sure had not bathed in weeks judging from the crust under her nose and the wax oozing from her ears. I didn’t know if she would act like the ‘coon my old friends thought her to be and bite me with a rabid tooth. I did know that my feet were moving me towards her, a realization that came when I heard the puddle of dumpster juice splash under my foot.

She looked up at me as though I were wielding a knife, intensifying that feeling I was trying to suppress as I new it to be one of false pretence. Remembering that I had swiped three miniature chocolate bars from the basket in the student services office, I took one of them out of my pocket, quickly removed the rapper and ate it. No, I did not do this as a cruel joke. I did this to show her what it was. As much as I would like to think this were not true, I still felt as though she were a simplistic being that did not understand the complex culture that “we” had created. I did this to show her that the chocolate would not hurt her in that way you hold out your hand for a dog to sniff to show it the same lack of malicious intent. I then took out a second bar and held it out to her. She took it from my hand quickly and ate it even faster. I then took out the other bar. She took this one more slowly. She said, “Thank you.”

As naturally as she had spoken these two words to me, I spoke the natural two word response to her, “You’re welcome.” I felt in that moment all of the preconceived ideas about other people fall away. Not because I had heard her speak, but because I saw another little figure walk from behind the painted green can. With skin like a dirty white napkin, she held out her hand.

Since I had given the last chocolate to the first of the girls, I had nothing to fill her gritty fingers. “Wait here.” I ran as fast as I could back to student services grabbing as many chocolates as I could hold. By the time I had returned, two minutes later, the girls had made it successfully into the rotting container of food scraps. It appeared that they had a preconceived notion too…that you couldn’t rely on other people; so, they didn’t wait. I vomited, dropped the candies, walked slowly to my truck, and called 911.

The Loss of an Old Friend

2006-07-08T13:55:00.000-05:00

Today I had to say goodbye to a friend. That’s not something that’s easy to do, especially one that’s seen so much with you. We met in December of 1998 one night while cruising around town, and we’ve spent countless hours together since. We went through my years at Auburn together, moved out to Denver together, moved into five different places in Denver together, and moved to three places in North Carolina together. We have even worked together. Through many jobs, homes, and trips to the hardware store, we’ve stuck together. Through seven and half years and over 110,000 miles my truck and I have been friends. Today, though, I had to sell the Tacoma. I almost want to cry. So, please, when you’re riding down the road, keep a look out for my old friend.

A Journey into the Halls

2006-06-26T00:55:00.000-05:00

I wanted to see what it was like. I envisioned old men smoking cigars talking about how they were going to make it so that the tobacco farmers would be able to collect on their buy-out payments without actually getting the full amount they were originally slated to receive, or about how they could make it look as though they really tried to push through a state constitutional amendment to ban same sex marriage while making jokes about how fat their third wives' asses had gotten before they divorced. I didn't really know what it would be like inside offices of the state legislature, but I didn't have a good preconceived notion. So to see if any of what I thought was true, I walked up the wide steps and through the big doors. I had taken everything out of my pockets before I got out of the car so that I wouldn't have to be delayed very long at the metal detectors, even my wallet and driver's license. I even took off my belt; because I knew at the airport sometimes my belt would set off the alarms, which made me have to keep tugging at the loops on both sides of my hips. It was evident that the security guard thought that it was a little suspicious that I didn't take any thing out of my pockets by the way he furrowed his brow when I walked through the opening wide enough to fit the fattest of the local politicians. I hadn't planned out my trip to the capital very well, so I had to wander around a bit to figure out where things were. Perhaps it was this wandering that proved to be my downfall, but I'll get to that in a bit. I eventually figured out where the main floor of the state senate lay, but there was no one in there. Figured, lazy bastards. Then I found where the state house met. No one was in there either. This solidified my thoughts that everything was done in little side deals between a few people, who were being pumped full of booze and money from groups who'd worked out a scheme to bilk my tax dollars into there own bank accounts. The more I wandered around, the madder I got, imaging where these people really were. I found a hallway that had four doors on either side. This had to be the so-called "back rooms" of the state legislature where all that corruption took place. After a little debate with myself, I decided that I was going to go into the last one on the right, because I thought that would be where the most egregious failures were occurring-the farthest from view. I knocked lightly, turned the knob slowly, and then I flung the door open. With all that anger that had built up in my head, as soon as I saw that dark suit, I pulled back and kicked him square in the nuts. I turned around and ran back down the hallway; it's just too bad that in my rambling I hadn't tried to remember how to get back out. Security found me before I could find an exit. You know, you'd think that being hit with that tazer would have been the most shocking thing to me, but it wasn't. It was the realization a few minutes later, as the congresswoman told the guard that it was me who had kicked her in the crotch, that I had it wrong the whole time.

What would you do?

2006-06-22T20:40:00.000-05:00

On a, what I would call, regular basis, I meet up with a friend of mine for a burger, a couple of a great variety of beers, and some good conversation. Tonight, besides the interesting tales of his journey of riding plains literally around the world, we talked about our answers to a question I think that most of us have considered at some point. It's particularly relevant here given that the law just changed to allow the possibility of it without crossing state lines. "How much money would you want to win if you won the lottery, and what would you do with it?" We may not have consciously considered the first part of it as much as we have the second, but I do believe that most of us have fantasized about how our lives would be if we won "all that money." If this makes you think of your high school guidance counselor I'm sorry, but it's a great exercise for considering what you want to do with your life and what kind of person you are. For instance, if your response to the first part was "as much as I can", then you'll probably never be satisfied no matter how much money you have, but if you responded with something a little less infinite then you may be somewhat realistic and grounded (seems ridiculous to say given the chances of winning, but it's true). So, despite the realization that you may never be satisfied with how much money you have or make, what would you do if you had a lot of money? Would you do "two chicks at the same time", like Lawrence from Office Space? Or would you do "nothing" like Peter? I'd posit that most of us immediately think of how we'd like to experience life without work, such as one of my dreams of having a sailing yacht to tour much of the world and experience as much culture and people as I could. However, after a bit of thinking, you will hopefully consider how you, although on a smaller scale than Bill and Melinda Gates, can help the less fortunate of the world. My friend used the example of helping kids with cleft palates to afford the surgery to repair their socially unacceptable appearance, which could enormously enhance the quality of life of every one that is physically transformed. My thoughts, possibly because I listen to NPR too much, go to how do I get the self absorbed governor to stop being so selfish and pardon the man who 20 years ago was convicted of molesting two girls who recently admitted that it wasn't him. The only reason he won't do it is because he was the one who prosecuted him. There's a great deal more that can be said about either of these, but the main point is that each of us can make a huge difference in the life of someone else. Do you think that I'll make an impact on someone's life? What would you do if you were Bill Gates stepping down from Microsoft? What would you do if you were a toad like me? Please leave your comments.

Tadpole Nephew

2006-06-18T20:39:00.000-05:00

The Bearded Toad now has his first tadpole of a nephew. Not surprisingly, he didn't want to come out of his warm, safe pond inside his mother. It took him 12 hours to swim his way out and was only successful with the help of the trusty plunger. That sounded really funny to begin with until I got a more graphic description of a similar birth from a friend. His little girl didn't want to come out either, so the Doc pulled out the plunger and started pulling. Just as the baby was getting its head through the plunger popped off, and she went shooting back inside. So he tried again, with pretty much the same result. The slimy little newbie just kept getting scared of what the world looked like. To help out the nurse hops up on top of mom and starts pushing on her belly...sort-of a toothpaste tube concept, except that the baby didn't come out nice and smooth like that. She shot out finally like a bar of soap shooting out of your hand. This story made the Self Evolved a little queasy.

To see some photos of my proud brother and sister-in-law and the tadpole that is making the whole family happy, go to ChaseLandon.blogspot.com. You'll see what 12 hours of work, pain, and the magic of biology can do for you.

Back from the West: The final Chapter

2006-05-30T19:50:00.000-05:00

After the fun of camping and being in nature, the Self Evolved and I found our way into more sensory attacks than one could imagine without the aid of television and glossy magazines. Vegas seemed to seep into us through the air as though we were soaking in a rainbow covered acid rain filled pond. The smell, although it's not as bad as that from Bourbon Street (pre-Katrina) on any given night, was quite bothersome, which was only one of the many strange things about the place.

As this was our first venture into the blinding lights, we planned on taking in as much of the so-called attractions as possible. Some of the free sights are the surprisingly amazing and graceful dancing fountains of the Belagio, as well as the soothing canal under the blue sky of the Venetian, which had a wonderful three-piece band providing even more atmosphere. Despite all of this great design and nuance, I could never shake the feeling that I was two words away from all of my money disappear.

This feeling was especially true when approached with really cheap tickets to Zoomanity, a fittingly named show for this blog. Why would someone or a company sell me tickets to this show for $20 each when they are usually $85 or more? Well, because they pegged me for a sucker. We had to sit through this 2.5 hour presentation for a time-share. Once I figured out what they had in store for us, I developed a very toady strategy; I displayed such an air of disinterest that I only had to tell them "no" twice. Other couples apparently had to say no to extremely high pressure repeatedly.

I did at least allow myself to lose some money in a couple of poker tournaments. I played at the MGM Grand in the morning tournaments, hoping that every other person in the tournament would be a hung over tourist too. But, alas, there were a few players who had actually planned on being mentally present. I lost out in both tournaments without winning any of my money back. However, the time at the tables was just about the most fun I had in the town.

Well, this will be the last posting of the "Back from the West" series, so you can finally read about something new next time. That is, if you come back to see how this tadpole site morphs into something worth reading on a regular basis.

Back from the West: Part II

2006-05-22T20:23:00.000-05:00

While on the journey up and down canyon walls and through the vulgar seeming hoodoos, we met a man whose invention has creating a slight bit of salivation for me at times. Kettle Chips are a bit more low key in advertising than the lost bet inducing Lay's, but they are quite tasty and much better than regular potato chips. This gourmet addition to the deli chip world was created by Michael Slocum, a chef out of Gaston, Oregon, who is taking an enviable trip on which he will circumnavigate the continental U.S. within a four month period.

The man was a wealth of knowledge and conversation, which helped us to enjoy our time in the campsite at Bryce, which was not where we met him. Our first encounter was trugding up the path to Angel's Landing in Zion, where he kept me company across the narrow ridge to the point. We parted ways here, but he happened upon us again in the parking lot of the visitor's center just as we arrived in Bryce. After our hike, he offered us a beer and to enjoy the full moon as it rose over the canyon to eerily illuminate the formations below. This was a great reminder to me of how interesting it can be to meet new people while traveling; they always seem to be more open and have more experiences to share. To read about and follow his journey, visit http://oregonman.blogspot.com.

Back from the West: Part I

2006-05-21T17:59:00.000-05:00

We have returned to "normal" life after having ventured into the realm of sun drenched rocks, steep cliffs, and spectacular views, which was followed by time spent trying not to be ripped off in the haven of habitual hedonism, just in time to make my first post to the Tales of the Bearded Toad. That's me, of course, whom I have now so deemed for lack of cooler nickname. I have long been in want of a good username for things such as this and my webpage. To create this one I, for obvious reasons for those who have seen me in the past couple of years, took from my fiery red beard and from an old name that some used to mock me as a youngster on the cruel playgrounds, horny toad--the horny part coming from the old world spelling of my last name.

The realm to which I refer was Zion National Park and Bryce National Park, which are both in the odd but beautiful state of Utah, one of the four corners states...also the Mormon state. Zion was brutally hot but absolutely amazing in the rock formations carved out over such a nearly incomprehensible period of time. We took a recommended hike up the Angel's Landing trail, which is a winding, switchback riddled 2.5 mile (one-way) paved path up about 1,500 feet from the canyon floor. The path runs along the canyon wall in such a way that anyone who is agoraphobic in the least may get a little woozy when they look down, which was the case with the Self Evolved. She had to grip the wall and not look up or down for a time about half way up. Needless to say, she would not attempt to traverse the narrow ridge guided by a chain to the point of Angel's Landing, so named as it is a heavenly place to take in the beauty of the canyon.

Bryce was far more pleasant than Zion in terms of climate as it was double digits cooler, and it was also dramatic in a much different way. The canyon has a maze of formations called hoodoos that are tall, slender finger-like remnants that make it seem as though you are surrounded by very still, very tall aliens. These provide for very interesting photographs as you can position the camera from different angles creating varying effects. The last picture that I wanted to take, but did not, was of one ridge with a series of bumps and a lone hoodoo that appeared as though the canyon were giving me the finger as I was leaving.