Writing Competition: Entries

[ruken]

The brilliant, brilliant, brilliant blue


I.

I am?

And white light explodes, I am drowned in light and forceps and drills and eyes, I can beat it, I shut my eyes and they all go away, except the light, the light seeps through red and green and bursting in patterns and colors and pain..

..pain. What am I comprised of? Where do my dimensions extend? Some go below, some go above – very few go above. Above itches, warmer. Cooler. Cold. A ring of pain.

Below tries to move, but does not. Below spreads left, spreads right. Spreads below, then splits again, left, right. Each is held in place. I feel that they could move if they were not held in place, why am I held in place?

Below left moves. Closes at the end. Opens, closes. It could hold, it could hold the right below. It could hold other, other belows, hold them by the above.

Open again. The light hurts so much, and there is water, but they are open. The white is ugly. It hurts. There is more white. It is beneath the other, the Other.

There are Movers. The Other is a Mover. The Other picks up the forceps and the drills and the white cloths that come back red. What is a forceps, a cloth, a drill? The Other has these things. A forcep, a forceps? Some law behind me, in between above and below, finds this strange. I am strange?

I find it strange. What are forceps? They claw into my above. What are drills? They grind into my above. I am one with the table, mined out. I could be a Mover, but I do not. Perhaps I am an Other, not a Mover? But the Other is both.

I find this strange. What is a table?

The cloth comes back red. How do I know drills? The cloth comes back red. Where do I know forceps? The cloth comes back red.

The red is so pretty, I feel it should be. Where is the red? Come back red, but the forceps are red. That is not so pretty. It looks as though it will drip.

The white is the enemy. The white represents pain, all this light. My eyes hurt so much, and the Other only blocks it for a short time, when the Other is above me. The Other.

The Other is kind. The Other brings the red back, the pretty red. The Other is eyes, spotted with blue, two blue spots, with black spots inside. They are inside the white. The blue is pretty, prettier than the red, prettier than the white that surrounds it and the flesh. The Other is pretty, that I think under the blue and the white and the flesh that maybe there is red too, so much red that everything would burst.

The cloth comes back red. So pretty!

Something back. Way back. Red. And Others. Yes, there is red in the Others. I think it is true. I could see red, when I touched the Others. Inside, I could see, but it came outside when I wanted it. I see Others as a mass of red, all bound up and tied up and waiting to come out. And they are pretty when they are red, so pretty that the white becomes red, and the blue becomes red and the brown and the green and it all becomes red. It is pretty because it is red, but it is not as pretty..

The forceps dig in. Above.

The red is not so pretty. The red hurts. The red smells bad. I can smell, and there is red and white. The white smells clean, and the light hurts less. The Other.

The Other is a ring of blue, a ring of brilliant blue. All the meaning is in that ring, I see it back. And there is red inside, deep inside, but I do not..

The drill spins, and the white light is flecked with red. Above.

The red is ugly. The white is pretty. All white is pretty, and clean, and the red is ugly. The cloth comes back red, and I am afraid. I want the red, but I do not want it? I want it inside. Away. Above. Not to taste, not to smell.

The cloth comes back red. The cloth makes the red go away, the cloth takes the red away. And now I shake. Everything shakes because I shake. I want the red to stop coming. There is too much of it, I am afraid of it. The red is in the Others and it is in me, because I am an Other. The drill, the forceps hold me. Could I be a Mover?

I am afraid of the red. The forceps are red, and the forceps made the red ugly, and the drill made the red ugly. And the light makes the white ugly, but the Other blocks the light when the Other moves beneath it. All is ugly but the Other, the Mover; for the Other is pretty, and the forceps are strange. And all the colors are ugly, but the blue; the ring, the halo, the brilliant, brilliant, brilliant blue.

[Astyanax]

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I have not tried to be pretentious in language, the colloquialisms seem to fit the tone as you'll see...

Nose Candy

Bella ‘Blitzkrieg’ Raynes had taken a roasting. With her skirt hitched and her blouse ripped, she stumbled out of the ambassador’s house on 32 Winnington Road. Having been introduced to a couple of Arab businessmen, she had invited them upstairs for a snort and sex party. Whilst Ms Raynes felt cheap and sullied, her savoir-faire repressed the guilt, instead looking forward to a life of comfort, far from what she had experienced growing up on the streets of South London.

The lucky recipients of her ‘talents’ that night indeed kept to their word and soon Bella had became an A-list British Movie star, playing the lead in films such as ‘The cunning linguist’. Although her roles were mainly promiscuous, she was seen as the darling of London, clean living and hard working boasting Keira Knightly and Kate Winslet as her showbiz pals. It was Zeno who said ‘we are cylinders, a mesh of characteristics alongside free-will rolling down a hill towards the same place’ – Bella could never shrug off the addiction that plagued her so. It was an added thrill that the media had never caught on to her excessive cocaine addiction; her dealer, a 27 year old psychopath was paid enough to never squeal and besides, she had banged him a few times for shizzles and giggles. All was about to change when she met a man by the name of Clinton Pratt.

Pratt, a small time photographer had never caught a break. An amateur magician in his spare time, he dreamed of the red-carpets and the award ceremonies but never got a whiff, so to speak, of the action. A good looking chap, Clinton had dated a combination of head-turners and brown-paper bag jobs and he had a close circle of mates who used to boost his confidence when necessary, but bring him down to earth when the time called for it. Our hero earning a decent wage didn’t believe in saving and spent his leisure time eating well and frequenting classy nightclubs Funky Buddha and China Whites. It seems the pair were destined to meet as they had been on the sauce for a few nights running without ever bumping into each other.

At a quarter to midnight both their lives were to change forever. Bella arrived looking scintillating in a sultry, low cut satin dress, her breasts making their way into every man’s w@nkbank. Clinton spotted her and urged by his friends, already half-way to being escorted off the premises, went for the jugular. ‘My boys over there bet that I wouldn't be able to start a conversation with the most beautiful girl in the room. Want to buy some drinks with their money?’ he calmly said. He oozed confidence and it occurred to Bella that she hadn’t made brownies in a week and needed the feel of a man inside her – they left through the back door after the second tequila. The sex was staggering, she got bucked from Bristol to Brighton. The pair were inseparable for a few days, just long enough for Bella to hide her addiction to the Bernie.

Some days later, Clint wondered home and started to take pictures of his house in order to experiment in his diminutive dark-room he had bought several years earlier. Dashing into the bedroom to wipe his lens he stumbled on his lover doing the devil’s dandruff with a smile on her face and her fingers down her knickers. At first Clint was stunned by what he saw but he gathered his senses and asked her what on earth she thought she was playing at. Raynes confessed all but the damage had been done – a picture speaks a thousand words and his magical fingers had done the business once again. Instead of diving for the amber nectar, he had struck gold.

They broke up a few days later with Pratt sounding the moral-brigade alarm although a sinister side had taken over him. The benefits of the selling the picture and revealing the secrets of that fateful night many years ago appeared to outweigh the negatives and it was duly snapped up by the News of the World for a princely sum of £125,000. Pratt’s career as a photographer duly took off and he quickly became the poster boy for the amateur who ‘seized the day’; his antics were not seen as malicious or voracious. Ms Raynes’ fate lay in the hands of the studio and the people of Britain. She was hung drawn and quartered; left to rot only surfacing to appear in reality television shows about reality television contestants.

Some years later they met quite by chance. Having tried to change no one had given Bella a second chance and she spent her nights in Soho as a prostitute and spent her days on the hard candy. Clint has morphed into a degenerate, so desperate for buttsecks he appeared not to notice those hazel-green eyes which had taken his breath away.

She bit his knob off.

[Teh1337zor]

What It Do Kid: From the King of the trap, To the King of Rap

The sirens rang in his ears and the metallic taste of blood lingered in his mouth as he lay on the cold concrete, rain pounding rhythmically along with his heart. A voice arose from behind him,
“Sir, we would like to apologize for this we have mistaken you for another person, we are extremely sorry for the inconvenience.”
He responded with an unshaken voice “You mean you got my [censored] green lion fur jacket dirty for nothing?”
“Sir, again we apologize for the inconvenience”
He rose from the ground brushing himself off and laughing.
“What it do [censored]?” he asked.
“What does what do sir?”
With that he grabbed for his waste band and two shots rang out into the crisp night air.
“Neva [censored] with a cold blooded [censored] ho, besides I wanted a new whip anyway”
He emptied the officer’s pockets to find a wallet and car keys. He got in the car and began driving with no particular destination in mind. As he cruised down the highway he opened the wallet, and was sorely disappointed.
“Eleven dollars, broke ass [censored].” He exclaimed
As he dug further into the wallet he came across a white card with an address scribbled across it. Naturally, having just killed a police officer, he thought it was wise to lay low. The young man drove to the address on the card to spend the next couple of nights. As he rolled into the driveway he was let down by the small house of the police officer.
“Knew this [censored] was broke” He mumbled.
Never the less he realized a place to sleep is a place to sleep. He fumbled through the keys attached to the car keys and eventually opened the door. Making himself comfortable he walked into the bedroom and began watching TV when he heard a feint voice. He very slightly turned down the volume of the television and heard
“Honey are you home?”
He did not know what to do so he chose to remain silent. The voice became clearer and cleared when without warning the bedroom door swung open. There in the door stood the most beautiful lady he had ever seen. She gasped when she saw the unknown man laying down on her bed.
“Wh, wh, who are you?” she stammered.
Not wanting to give away his name he thought and quickly a name arose in his head.
“Bitch, you can call me What it do Kid.”
“Wheres my husband?” She asked half scared, half in awe of the aura that surrounded the What it do Kid
“Dude didn’t know what it do”
She gasped in horror, here she was in the house with the man that had murdered her husband. However she found herself attracted to What it do Kid.
“That was my man” She said in a very angry tone.
The What it do Kid responded calmly
“Nah you my bitch now”
The woman could not help herself she found herself falling in love with the man that had murdered her husband. She sat down on the bed next to him and began to talk only to be interrupted.
“You know I’ve always had a thing for bad m-“
“Bitch shutup you gonna give my brain or what” said What It Do Kid in disgust.
Within minutes the woman’s dream was a reality. What It Do Kid made her feel in ways she never felt before. After their night of fun both were extremely drained and decided to go to sleep. What It Do Kid however had other plans, he left while the woman was still asleep leaving nothing but the card with the address on it, however on the backside something new was written, “What it do?”

What It Do Kid proceeded to roll to the trap in his police cruiser. People bolted like lightning as they saw the car pull through, after all these people made their career selling drugs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his best friend, Loc. He pulled over to talk to Loc and set up shop.
“What it do Loc?”
“Nothin mayne what it do?” Loc replied
“ Im just tryna make that paper dog” What It Do Kid said
“ Homie how you gonna sell anything when you posted up next to a cop car” Loc questioned
“Cause I’m the king of the trap.” What It Do Kid said with authority.

Within a half hour What It Do Kid had made 140k and proved Loc wrong.

“I told you Loc, I’m the king of the trap!” He yelled.

All of the sudden What It Do Kid was hit from behind by an extremely large man. What It Do Kid, while getting helped up by Loc, saw who the man was.

“The [censored] you hit me for TxRedman?” What it Do Kid said with not an ounce of fear in his voice.

“I heard you saying you were the king of the trap and that’s [censored] homie I am” Said the man who was clearly on steroids.

What It Do Kid immediately began to reach for his gun when TxRedman spoke again.

“What It Do Kid, I know you can kill me if you want to but I wanted to test your skills at something else, rapping.”

What It Do Kid laughed,

“[censored] what it do?” he said.

With that the contest was on. Thousands of people gathered to see who would win the title of “King of the trap”. The atmosphere was electric.

Out of no where TxRedMan kicked the first verse.

“what it do kid get the [censored] off my stage
before i triple barrell bluff with my roid induced rage
i dont give a [censored] if you're gettin head or gettin brain
and up until today i never even heard of your name
i'll introduce that diamond plated grill to the front of my car
and take all your monies like your name was grimstarr
seriously, dawg, i'll drop a drama bomb on you
straight from the streets of [censored] twoplustwo
you keep steppin to the mike like one day you gonna fly
but you're a gimmick account, and gimmick account gotta die
i'll throw a left hook of sklansky
and i'll upper cut you with brandi
and if you put the two together
you've got the [censored] manson family
dum diddy dum what it do BBV?
who it be kid? Yo gildy check the IP
your rhymes are busto, and my rhymes are sick
but only time will tell if i can avoid the ban stick
you better call me your brother or your friend when you rhyme
because every rappers favorite word is a BBV crime
insta, i mean perma, foreva gettin banned
if you say the word *****, even if you're afri-can
BBV has a cake, and the mods like to eat it too
straight from the PC department of motha [censored] twoplustwo
it's been a while kid, let me bring you up to date
we used to love vig, but now he's the object of our hate
oh noez! my girls got cancer!
where oh where will i find the answer!
should i sell baby vigs body and make her the first toddler-booty dancer?
wait oh wait, i know what i'll do!
i'll develop a little reputation on good old twoplustwo!
they'll think i'm just a nice guy
who one day will fly
except they'll give me cancer monies
so i can gambool really high!
lol @ BBV, you got vigged you silly rabbits
but i'll just laugh and deny that i've got this gambling habit
uh oh, what's that? i better answer the phone
because i'm twenty two years old and still live in my parents home
hello? who is this?
BBV? who is that?
oh, you mean the forum i scammed like a worthless dirty rat?
how did you get this number? why do you want to speak to my mom?
i guess i better forge some screen shots and hurry up and log on
i promise i didn't steal the money sir, please dont slander my name
i'm trying to start a prop bet escrow service, oh noez the shame!!!
what it do kid do us all a favor
we'd like a side of vigorish marinated for extra flavor”

The crowd went crazy, the roars could be heard from all over the ATL.

What It Do Kid remained stolid and started his verse.

“tonight it was only ok for me dog
while the thread gives love to a [censored] with a blog?
you motherfcckers forgot who up and gave you the sickest shtt
people say my name every day, don't pretend you aint witnessed it
it seems every thread i check its like all i see
is another clown sayin "what it do bbv"
dont forget who brought that shtt and gave it to yall
taught you how to represent, taught you how to ball
i got that old school shtt you only wish you could [censored] with
you rhyme the same shtt twice and think we aint gon notice?
motherfccker whos the gimmick? is it you or me?
you're a roided out fatass, im a real OG
stop and look at yourself, youll see it couldnt be clearer
youre taking half naked pictures of yourself in the mirror
those are some sexy poses, Tex, are you the Next Top Model?
[censored] with me, you'll be the color of a Hpnotiq bottle
so what exactly are you on Tex? the clear or the cream?
my fans know what im on, Monster and Player's Extreme
you run with bbv noobs while i got Loc in my gang
you all in those tighty whities, while i let my nuts hang.
my shtt hangs to the ground, when it hits youll feel the earth quake
im as hard as a rock, youre soft as a strawberry milkshake
"I will fly one day"? I cant believe my eyes,
is the next line you say "oops pow, surprise!"?
people are screamin for my shtt, they keep gettin new cravings
youre shtt is straight out the past... did you forget daylight savings?
but im sick of this shtt, thats all i got to say to you
you cant even see me tex, motherfccker what it do”

For a split second there was silence, however no fear crept into What It Do Kid’s soul. People were in shock, they had never heard a verse so pure. The crowd erupted and started chanting “Hail the king!”. Out of the crowd emerged a man named Al Sharpton. He was the owner of a record company and he happened to be in the trap, buying crack. Sharpton offered a record deal to What It Do Kid, and the rest is history.

[diebitter]

This is an entry pmed me. Not sure if entrant wants to remain anonymous, but here it is:



CHEAP DIGS





Impoverished Scholar’s First Rule of Travel: For a college student on holiday, cheap is usually best. The exceptions are the vices: pay top dollar, ruble, euro, pound or yen for your cigarettes and beer, and everything else will take care of itself.



I’ve tried to live by the rule, and my efforts have led to some interesting consequences as I’ve wandered through Europe, well stocked with Camel Lights and Guinness, but otherwise unfed, unwashed, and (sometimes) unclothed.



The following is an example of the kind of mischief an itinerant student can land in if he’s determined to travel cheap...



I had hitchhiked from Dublin to Galway through a nasty storm. Storms are a huge help in catching a ride; when the rain is slanting hard into the windshield, even the most callous drivers can’t help feeling a twinge of sympathy at the sight of a bedraggled, dripping wayfarer humping a soggy backpack through the downpour. Sounds masochistic, I know, but it’s a companionable way to travel – and it beats bus fares by a country mile.



Galway is an extremely friendly town on the west coast of Ireland, brimming with college students, hospitable natives, and cozy pubs (does there exist a more irresistible combination? I think not!). I enjoyed the scene there for three or four nights until wanderlust set in again, whereupon I caught a ride out of town.



I wasn’t as lucky as on the way in. My driver, a charming old guy who thoroughly enjoyed recounting his exploits in a sport called ‘hurling,’ let me off a bit north of Ennis before he turned back west toward Killkee. I spent most of the rest of the day hoofing it to the nearest town, Kinvara – no storm, no ride (or “lift” as the Irish say). I was headed for Limerick but not on a deadline, so even so I wasn’t put out by the layover.



There was another reason I didn’t mind the delay. I had heard stories of a local site that I thought might be worth checking out; called the Burren, it was described to me as a rustic area filled with old megaliths, jutting hills, and impressive natural scenery. Also, the night before I had departed Galway, a half-drunk acquaintance had proclaimed over a pint that that the Burren might be the best day hike in all of Ireland. It had sounded pretty cool, so now that I found myself so close by, I decided to take a look.



In Kinvara, I arranged a room at a hostel and then located a nice pub with Guinness and good trad (traditional Irish music), and then I whiled away the rest of the evening in a pleasant haze.



The next morning I woke early, aspirined my headache, found a bike rental shop, and cheerfully pedaled off for a sunny day of exploration. At the trail marker that indicated the entrance to the Burren, I chained my bike to a young poplar and set off on foot along the thistle-encroached northbound path. A mile or two later, I wandered offtrail into the hills to the west, having met my third, and – I was determined – last fellow traveler. In my experience, the best touring is usually where there are the least tourists.



I’ll spare you several pages here of cataloguing all the wonders I stumbled onto in the Burren: stone circles, deserted old shanties, ruined churches and the like. If you’ve ever been there yourself, you’ll understand how easy it was to get distracted and lost. If not, you’ll just have to take my word for it.



Sometime around dusk, I turned around to head back to town, but nothing told me which way to walk in order to get there. Landmarks often look different from behind, unfortunately for me, and the shadows had already grown long. Not that I was concerned, of course; the trail would be somewhere east of me, and when I reached it, I could just head back south to find my rented bike.



With this in mind, I started walking. I think I had taken about three optimistic steps when I spotted a light not far off to my left, dim but promising. It glowed invitingly part way up the side of a wooded hill, a smidgen flickery but definitely not moving. Without a moment’s hesitation, I turned and was on my way toward it. Having become well acquainted with Irish hospitality over the last few weeks, I had no doubt that I would be spending the night with a roof over my head – and likely without even paying for the privilege.



Not a hundred yards later, I came upon a narrow, neglected-looking path leading up the hill. I followed it, and shortly found myself at the door of a dilapidated but habitable little hut. I knocked at the door. To my surprise, it opened immediately, almost as if I had been expected.



The wizened old woman holding open the door was less than five feet tall, stooped and grizzled. She was also incredibly ugly, enough so that I briefly wondered why she wasn’t on exhibit someplace. Two beady little eyes – one crusted over with a milky old cataract – looked me over, then peered past me into the gloom from above an impossibly long nose, which to my revolted amazement, was graced by a horny, hair-adorned wart growing almost from the tip. Her blackened lips, pulled back in what might have been a smile, revealed earth-toned teeth as craggy as the surrounding hills. This was as foul-looking a crone as ever there was.



Hoping my disgust hadn’t shown itself too plainly, I started to make a lame excuse about coming to the wrong address, but the hag interrupted me in an incongruously sweet Irish voice, so musical and lilting it shocked me into silence.



“Nonsense, nonsense! Wander the Burren at this hour? Come in for a bit! I’ve had but few visitors since my dear son Shamus, bless his soul, passed.”



Slightly ashamed at my unkind initial reaction, I realized that this old woman must get awfully lonesome, living so isolated from her fellow man. Thinking I might be doing her as much of a favor as she was doing me, I allowed her to take my arm and usher me inside. All the while I berated myself for the thoughts of Black Annis that had risen in my mind when I first laid eyes on her.



By the light of a few candles and the fire in the hearth (over which a sturdy iron cauldron hung suspended), I saw that the hovel, if small, was comfortable. A wooden table and two chairs sat near the fireplace atop a worn gray throw rug. An unlit lantern stood beside a thick book that lay open on the tabletop. The simple room’s contents were rounded out by a rickety bookcase, a plump couch with tufts of stuffing coming out of a rip in the side, and two goggling human skulls which stared at me from atop the mantelpiece.



That’s exactly how I absorbed my surroundings, calmly like that. It took me a second to register the skulls. The hag had turned toward the couch, but now her head swiveled back around to regard me. The gesture called to mind thoughts of an ancient, predatory barn owl studying a doomed field mouse. She chuckled evilly and grinned a rictus grin.



I spun for the door but then froze, my motion arrested by a hideous gurgling sound which erupted from the cauldron hanging over the fire. The hag lurched toward it muttering something reproachful, then jabbed a bony finger into the steaming, bubbling liquid it contained – and then the focus of my entire being locked onto the two distinct clicks I heard behind me. I looked at the door, knowing beforehand what I would see, and of course my dread was confirmed. The exit had double locked itself behind me.



Terrified, I looked back at the witch, who had started eyeing me in a disconcertingly hungry sort of way.



“I don’t supposed you’d like to let me go?” I asked, in a quaking voice that I hoped at least sounded like it was quaking in a cool, rational way.



“I was thinking I’d rather eat ye,” said she, and all the sweetness had drained from her voice. What remained was a raspy Irish brogue that reminded me that I needed a cigarette, badly.



“Could we compromise?” I asked, realizing as I said it how ridiculous it must sound. What was she going to do, eat half of me?



“Hmm,” she hmmed. “Perhaps we can, just perhaps. Do ye know the riddle game?”



I swallowed thickly and nodded.



“Good. Maybe you’ll see the light of day anon, then. Here are the only terms I’ll brook: If ye ask me a riddle that I can’t solve, I’ll let ye go,” she said “But if I ask ye a riddle and ye can’t answer, well...” Menace crackled in the air as she spoke. “The consequences don’t really bear mention, do they?” Then she licked her lips with an evil gleam in her eye, and the effect on my psyche was almost worse than if she had just come right out and said it.



Thrilled at this (possibly brief) reprieve from being dined upon, I babbled my agreement. After a moment or two, my spirit rallied a bit, though to this day I have no idea how. It’s hard to drum up much optimism with the prospect of being eaten looming large on your short term horizon.



“Do you mind if I smoke?” I asked. Despite everything my voice sounded better now. At least, I think it was less squeaky.



“I cook my food, young man. Ye’ll smoke soon enough.”



At these reassuring words, I took out a Camel and lit up.



With no further preamble, she said,

“Always do I follow ye

Until the darkest night,

Whereupon I’ll swallow ye

Until ye find the light.”



Paralyzed, all I could think of was what a stupid riddle this was to get eaten over. It was five minutes of sweating in that ill lit, claustrophobic little hut before the answer literally flashed before my eyes.



“Shadow!” I shouted, my life saved by the dancing firelight.



She looked disgruntled. This was not a pretty sight, and a soot covered window pane on the wall opposite her, cracked.



“Now ye ask,” she commanded.



Fear swept through me, and it was some time before I could think of anything. I’m good under pressure though – philosophy term papers do have their uses – and I finally said,

“I hold men before the law

But my twofold nature is my flaw:

Though the prisoner’s death is oft my end,

When he’s in the Tower I’m his best friend.”



She answered instantly, almost before I was finished talking, and I knew I’d have to do better than that if I was going to escape alive. “Rope”, she said, then followed with this:

“I hold king and serf and reeve

They’ve done no crime

But serve their time

In me, a prison they’ll not leave.”



I lit another smoke and thought about this for a while. Finally, I had an answer that I thought was suitably dark, and gave my response. “The grave.”



Again she looked unhappy and clutched her claw-like fingers, but she had to nod assent at last. Exhaling a cloud of smoke that glowed a dull blue in the firelight, I countered:

“My center can never be found, for though I seem round,

My edge is unwound, and so knows no bound.”



To my credit, she had to think about this for quite a while, which did wonders for my morale. When she finally responded, even though she had solved it correctly, I was a new man.



“Spiral.”



“Right,” I said boldly. “Ask another.”



She growled irritably at my show of courage, then said:

“Burned or bred or bled alone

Alive or dead or turned to stone

I do not pine for time my own

For though my killers won’t atone

They often make me feel at home.”



So much for my newfound confidence. I must have puzzled over this for half an hour before I had my epiphany. When I said, “Tree,” the witch merely shrugged and inclined her grotesque head slightly. She had obviously settled in for the long haul. Fearing she would become impatient, I offered the first thing that came to mind.

“I light the night

But I hide in bright light,

For in my quiet flight,

I abide not its sight.”



She snorted insultingly before answering, and again I knew that I had better start coming up with some tougher questions.



“Star,” she said, then asked this:

“Child of the sun,

I’m the thief of its light

When I come I bring darkness

And leaving leave night.”



My own riddle was interfering with this one, trying to merge with it in my mind. With effort, I cleared my thoughts, lit a cigarette, and the answer came to me.



“It’s twilight,” I announced.



“Damn college kids,” she snarled. Irritated that she somehow knew this about me, I asked a college riddle:

“A sideways look at infinity,

I am vastly less in entirety.”



Now it was she who had to think for a while, at least two or three cigs worth of thinking, with pauses in between. I was cheerfully puffing away at another Camel, trying to blow smoke rings actually, to shake her confidence – when she interrupted my thoughts of freedom, sadly, with the correct response.



“Eight, ye mean, the number eight.”



“Damn evil man-eating hags,” was my jaunty reply.



“Watch your tongue or I’ll have it out!” She shrilled at me. Her next riddle followed promptly:

“When I sing madly, grown men die.

When I sing sadly, women cry.

When I sing gladly, children fly.

I’m not a banshee, who am I?”



“A nasty old witch,” I almost said, but stopped myself just in time, biting off the angry reply. No doubt she would have used it as an excuse to eat me for a wrong answer.



It was the “children fly” part that gave me real trouble, but a chance cloud, shaped like a diamond and scudding low across the moon, caught my eye. It looked like nothing so much as a kite, and I suddenly had my answer.



“Wind!”



She looked even more peeved than before, so I gave her my next riddle quickly:

“I can be long of tooth or short, and this is my plight:

That which I chew never feeds me, but only dulls my bite.”



She ran her black tongue along her brown teeth, drooled a bit, and thought. She leaned back in her chair with a creak, thinking. She thought and thought, each minute giving me new hope. Finally, realization dawned in her eyes and I knew that she knew. “Saw,” she barked, then said,

“I flame and flicker, burn and die

And my birth and death both make folk cry.”



I naturally tried thinking of unpleasant things, but none of them seemed to fit. I pondered a long time, but nothing that fit would come to mind. She heaved herself up from her chair, and had begun waddling toward me like a giant, evil penguin when inspiration struck. She was using psychology against me.



“Sit down, woman!” I cried. “The answer’s love.”



Hatefully she stared at me, wanting to rend me limb from limb. Finally, quivering with effort at self-control, she said, “Ask me three more riddles in a row. If I guess all three, I win. If not, ye go free.”



I was terrified anew. I’m better at solving riddles than making them up. Besides, the fact that she had changed the rules of the game midstream made me doubt whether she would honor the result even if I did manage to stump her. Still, since she didn’t seem to be able (or at any rate willing) to eat me until the game was over, and because I knew I couldn’t get past the locked door without her help, I had no choice but to go along with her.



I said, under horrible pressure,

“Eyes that see not

Met ears that hear not

And battle was quickly brought.

It was quite a sad plight.

With a little foresight,

Each might have profited, in his own right.”



Smirking evilly, she said, “Potatoes and corn in the same field, you’re on about. Crop rotation would have helped them each grow.”



My heart sank. How the hell could she know about crop rotation? But there was nothing for it, so I asked my next riddle as gamely as I could.

“Old man, white hair, stony-faced, seated there.

His hardened heart, which lacks life’s flames

Will never move what’s in his veins.”



Her evil smirk deepening, she said, “A mountain, ore-veined, an’ capped with snow.”



Now I almost despaired. Two riddles down and one to go. I tried hard to come up with a good riddle, but could not. Lighting what I was sure would be the last Camel of my too-short life, I inhaled... and then, an idea struck me. Thank you Mister G., I thought, filled with sudden gratitude for a certain high-school English teacher of mine.



Trying not to shake with fear, I asked my final riddle.

“This thing all things devours:

Birds, beasts, trees, flowers.

Gnaws iron, bites steel,

Grinds hard stones to meal

Slays king, ruins town,

And beats high mountain down.”



The witch cackled hideously. “I’ve read it too, you young fool!” She cried with sadistic glee. “The answer is time.”



“Wrong!” I yelled, springing back away from her.



“What!?” She shouted, furious. “It’s ‘time!’”



And it was. At that moment, the first rays of dawn shined through the broken window onto the door, breaking the witch’s spell and the locks opened with a double snap. I bounded to the door, threw it open, and galloped down the path, sprinting toward the rising sun. In daylight, it took less than an hour to find my original trail and jog back to the bike. As I sat down on the seat and started pedaling back toward Kinvara, I turned back toward the Burren and quietly called out, “Corporate strip-mining.”



A distant howl of fury seemed to echo back to me from across the hills.



I still travel Europe when I have time in the summer, and I still love Ireland, but I’ve never been back to the Burren.



I may not ever make it back, in fact.



I admit it: cheap digs aren’t always best.

[adsman]

Desperation by Degree

He had emailed the head guide from Peru. Wrote that he would be arriving in a few days, wanted a job, would see him when he got there. Hadn’t waited for a reply. He’d had enough of South America. Sick of being constantly ripped off, treated like an ignorant gringo. Except when they needed him. Then he was their greatest friend. He had just enough money for the airfare, was an old mate of the guide who was running things in Uganda. He figured that if he arrived on their doorstep then they’d have to give him a job. The only thing he knew he’d miss would be the coke.

He was right about the job. The company didn’t need him but they slung him on anyway, his connections and experience giving him the go. They’d only started rafting the White Nile the previous year, but the company were predicting that things would pick up. He didn’t care what their market projections were, as long as he was paid enough to get off his dial every night of the week. He was soon sampling the many varied establishments that Kampala had to offer, learning some of the language, and sleeping with as many locals as he could.

They began the rafting trip a few kilometers downstream of the dam that held Lake Victoria in place. Before the dam was built there had been a series of natural falls that had acted nicely in that capacity, but in dry years they held water back from the turbines, so they were blown up and covered by the rising water. Fifty years later and the dam was visibly leaking. Transpired that they had used the wrong concrete and the structure was beginning to fall to pieces. Rather than repair the existing construction, there was pressure on the government to build another series of dams further downstream. A five hundred million dollar project. The American ambassador had subtly thrown his weight behind the idea. It would be a great benefit to Uganda. It would create jobs and industry. An independent study commissioned by the private company wanting to build the dam stated that less than forty families would be effected by the flooding of a fifteen kilometer stretch of river. A native witch-doctor at a sacred site that was threatened with flooding publicly reversed his opposition to the project after receiving a gift of a mobile phone.

He hated seeing rivers drown, he’d watched too many go under over the years. As he floated across the long pools that separated the rapids, the constant thought of the impending concrete wall nagged at his mind. He didn’t notice the numerous islands with their individual habitats, nor the channels that ran between them creating the impressive cataracts on either side. He saw only a large stagnant lake, the tops of skeletal trees poking sadly from the malarial waters, in whose branches red-tailed monkeys had once stared impassively as his raft floated by. He was disturbed by this, yet whenever he tried to express his thoughts the words came out disjointed. The true meaning of what he wanted to say was lost in his awkward manner and desperation to communicate. He came across as intense, hasty, unconnected. People smiled and nodded and found an excuse to be somewhere else leaving him struggling alone in an isolated world, not knowing what was needed to change about himself, incapable of any act necessary for such a change.
No matter. There was always the bar, the cheap drinks, the hashish, the desperate women who would sell their soul for the chance of a ticket out, unaware that he was more wretched than them.

He was young - mid-twenties or thereabout, but the years of drinking, smoking, drug-taking and eating only as an afterthought had taken their toll. Tall, his face gaunt, burnt out from the tropical sun, he kept his hair shaved close. It was one less thing to smell of the night before. One less reminder when he invariable woke reaching for a joint in the late afternoon. Different guides came and went leaving him a permanent part of the scene, moving from job to job within the company, not able to disappear. Blokes arrived who had known him before Uganda and were quietly shocked at the visible changes. He was constantly coming down with malaria. Three days locked in his room alternating from chills to fever, glimpsing visions that scared him more than he could admit. Then eventually rising from the mattress, shattered, wraith-like, shouting at the house girl to fix him some grub. Anything at all as long as it put some lining on his stomach so he could head back to the bar and drown out the apparitions that sat gleefully on the edges of his increasingly hazy world.

Frozen stares as he leant over the pool table. The night-fighters dotted around the room like flies on a summer wall. He despised them. They could act tough now, but if he flicked his finger in a splash of neon light, any one of them would follow him out the door. The familiar routine and their vague hope that maybe this time it would be different and they’d get something good out of it.

He was playing pool with an Australian, a guy named Hughie who was in Uganda for a break from drilling in Nigeria. He hadn’t held a cue for some time due to the lack of a decent challenge. They had played each other for the last three nights, only stopping when the sun had risen over Kampala and the rafting bus had pulled up outside, one of the lads running in to get him.
He had asked Hughie if he wanted a free trip down the river but his opponent had politely declined.

“I don’t want to give you a chance at getting back at me for whipping you so many times at pool,” he’d said.

“You’d be wearing a lifejacket. You’d be right.” He stared incredulously at the shot the Australian had just made.

Hughie leaned up from the table. “You look like an idiot wearing one of those lifejackets.”

“You’d be dead without it.”

Hughie grinned. “Mate, I get enough excitement in Nigeria. I’m here for some relaxation that won’t follow me back there. Going down that river, that don’t look like relaxation to me.”

He rubbed some chalk on his cue, blew away the excess and gave the hooker who was standing too close a threatening look. “Trust me, on this river you want a jacket.” The whore glared at him and sauntered away. “Why do you think we always see so many dead fishermen at the bottom of the rapids?”

“Bet your customers love seeing that.”

“You’ve got to point in the opposite direction and say, ‘look at the elephant!’ Even then they look the wrong way and see the floater.”

Hughie missed a shot and sipped his whiskey. “How do they die?”

“How do you think? They fall out of their little wooden canoes and drown. Even at a spot that looks like a ripple there are huge forces working.” He shook his head. “Look at what you’ve left me here. What am I supposed to do with this?”

“How long have you been in Uganda?” Hughie asked.

“A long time.”

“Thought about going home?”

“Not much.”

“Why not?” Hughie asked.

He stared at the guy for a little while. “No reason.”

“Because you can’t function back in the real world anymore?”

“I reckon,” he replied, after some deliberation. “Been here too long. Here I’m not just some deadbeat in a bar, you know? I’m still kind of above it all. Back home I’d just be another loser.”

“I’ve got this sister back in Brisbane,” Hughie said. “Worships the ground I walk on. Rest of the family are a bunch of dead-beats, but my sister is getting her act together. Studying at university and escaping form all the family nonsense. I send her money. It lets her study without her having to get a job packing groceries or something.”

“What’s the point?”

Hughie stared at him across the green felt going grey from tobacco smoke. “It keeps me sane.”

He nodded his head, bent down and violently suck the black into the far pocket.



He was slouched in the front of the bus, drinking a beer and carelessly watching the sun set in a haze if purple and red. One of the punters approached him.

“Is this the best river you’ve rafted on?” the guy asked, sitting down beside him.

“Best I’ve seen,” he answered, trying to keep it short.

“Yeah, they sure were great rapids today. I had a fantastic time.”

He knew the guy wanted to be accepted. Thought that one days rafting might qualify him for the same status that the riverguides held. He identified that standing with adventure and mystery, an absence of responsibility. An ability to sleep with desirable women.
“It’s not just the rapids, man”

The tourist appeared confused. “What do you mean?”

“The river you rafted on today. It’s the Nile, man. The White Nile. Think about it. They talked about this river in the bible. They sent expeditions to find the source. The Egyptians, the Romans, all of them. None of them could find it. The Romans lost a whole legion in the Sudd. And today you floated down the very spot they were searching for, man. A hundred years ago the world knew more about the surface of the moon than this river. There’s ten thousand years of human history connected with this spot.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” the tourist agreed. “I didn’t consider that.”

He drank deeply from his bottle of beer and looked at the guy with disdain. “You lot just don’t get it. It’s not the stupid rapids. It’s the environment, the history, all of it.”

The customer nodded, collected a bottle of beer and hurried back to his friends.


He was off the booze, had cut down on the hash. He’d grabbed one of the other guides and explained what needed to be done if he was seen in the bar. Drag him out of there, get him home no matter what he said or did. Stick him in his room and lock the door.
He started getting some enthusiasm back for the river. He still thought that the punters were useless morons but he made more of an effort. He pointed things out on the trip, told them some relevant stories, didn’t just sit in the back of the raft and scowl at them all day. He still smoked hash but only to get to sleep. He knew that if he went on a completely dry run his body would rebel and he wouldn’t be able to take the consequences.

They were getting the punters kitted up for a trip when the head guide got a call on the mobile. He watched him walk away for a couple of minutes and then come back looking like a bloke who had received a positive test for the slimming disease.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“The governments done a turn around. They signed the final approval for the dam this morning. The bastards finally figured out who they needed to bribe. It won’t be built for years, but now we know. It’s all gonna go.”

The two of them stood at the top of the hill, gazing in silence at the doomed river cutting a noble path between islands sagging beneath the weight of their own vegetation.
He didn’t talk much to his punters that day.


They were coming home after a day on the river, driving down the road which led to the guide-house on Lake Victoria, when he told the driver to stop. He jumped out, crossed the busy street into the bar, disappearing into the murky gloom, a glass of gin in his hand and his name scrawled on the board for his turn at the table. Next in line after the hooker that signed herself, “HIV+”.
The bus had driven off into the evening, the other guides not saying a word, not inclined to attempt the impossible after a long day on the river.

He planned it with care, didn’t want to be a nuisance. Spread a large tarpaulin over the bed so they could wrap his body up. No mess. The boys thought he had got malaria again, figured that was why he wasn’t coming out of his room. Until somebody took a look inside the first-aid kit and discovered all the valium was missing. They found him on the mattress, soiled and stinking, staring at the ceiling as if willing his soul to fly away. He vaguely heard them arguing, they didn’t know what to do, didn’t want this problem. Too much to deal with as it was. When you live and work together you’ve got to get on, got to have a bit of give and take, a degree of respect for each others moods. Now they were living with a suicidal loony and being expected to not only deal with the situation, but to somehow fix it as well. They cleaned him up and managed to get him functioning again. Sent for the only decent white doctor in town who prescribed him some drugs to keep him calm. He listened with disinterest as the doctor told the others that the best idea would be to get him out of Africa.
“Oh sure, mate”, one of the boys said. “We’ll just stick him on a plane and hope for the best.”

The little pills allowed him to cope with day to day life, but they also gave him a glimpse into his disturbed mind, something that he was not prepared to confront. His colleagues noticed that he took longer to respond to simple questions. If somebody told a joke he’d nod and laugh out loud a few minutes after the fact. Sitting on the balcony looking over the lake, a cigarette fixed between his trembling fingers as he drooled into a bowl of cereal, he couldn’t remember if he had just got up or if it was time to go to bed. His sneer went from disdainful to hostile, his contempt for those around him unparalleled in his own history. The other guides began to sleep behind locked doors, unsure of which way he was falling. Would he go quietly or would he try and take everyone with him?

Things seemed to be improving until he attacked the house-girl with a pen. One minute he was eating some food that she had prepared, and then they were having to drag him off her as she crouched whimpering in the corner with her hands over her head. He was screaming obscenities at her, about the way that she skulked around the house, about the things that she stole, how she whispered to the other house-staff behind his back. He knew that they all talked about him, he knew how much they hated him. No stupid black bitch was going to plot and scheme in his house. She was nothing, not worth crapping on, not worth the measly money that they paid her every month. If he had his way he’d fire all the house-staff every six months. Keep them on their toes, show them who was boss.
It took three of them to restrain him, tie him to a chair, while the others calmed down the help. The woman he attacked was staunch. No mad whitey was going to reduce her to tears, not after what she’d seen in her life. Got back to her work as they arranged an emergency flight, drove him out the gate, down the road past the bar with the girls arrayed around the pool table, desperate for a ticket out.

[HarryW]

A Handful

Once a month, I make a trip to the town at the edge of the desert. As I walk the narrow, sandy streets, a stranger approaches. The face changes each time, but the question remains the same: “What is it like to be rich?” The stranger can’t be bothered to ask a different question; I can’t be bothered to give a different answer.

“This grey hair used to be black. My body was young, strong. I wasn’t bent double by an afternoon breeze.”

“I grew up poor. My family had to keep the herd moving. My father knew every patch of grass and every oasis. ‘Like the back of my hand,’ he would say.”

“Townspeople were the origin of my ambition. They had a home, a foundation. Their lives didn’t change with the setting sun.”

“I pestered my father: ‘Why don’t we have a house? Why do we have to march through the desert with these damn goats every day? Why are we so poor?’”

“It was the last question, the accusation of poverty, that drove my father to violence. He struck me. His face was red, his eyes bright with tears. I was too proud to be struck by a poor goatherder. I gathered my things and left.”

“It was a moment where a man acts faster than he thinks. I wasn’t sure how far it was to town or how many days provisions I would need. My stride at the outset was purposeful, brash. As the days crawled by, my pace became more resigned, more a stumble than a stride. I was dying, proud and penniless.”

“A merchant appeared as I faltered. This wealthy man offered me a ride on one of his camels. I was proud, but not stupid; I accepted his salvation.”

“I arrived in town--not this town, but one like it. The merchant gave me a pittance, but it was squandered before I caught my breath.”

“I, like many young men, thought ambition would be a suitable replacement for skill, but my two skills, pride and hubris, were in short demand. I was reduced to the job a man is never too poor to perform: begging.”

“The first trials of the beggar are the worst. The shame sets a man’s body on fire, sets a man’s hands to shaking. A beggar learns quickly. Shame will cause a man to sleep with an empty stomach.”

“I learned to shiver when a well-dressed man approached me and I learned to avoid a confident man’s gaze. Rich men seek out poor men to exalt their stature. The exchange of wealth must involve both parties extending: the rich man reaching toward the ground, the poor man reaching toward the sky. Woe to the beggar who would beg as equal.”

“A rich man can be generous with money; a wise man can be generous with wisdom. I wanted to find a man wise in the ways of becoming rich. To every man who gave alms I would ask, ‘what must I do to become rich?’”

“It was an ill-conceived question, a young question. Each man could describe the road to his wealth, the twists, the turns, the gambles, the failures and, finally, the successes. I would listen, my eyes glinting with greed.”

“My optimism faded fast. These roads were closed. These opportunities were unique. A stroke of good fortune united these tales. Hard work was never enough; a man needed luck.”

“It was a dreadful hot day with a slight breeze--a day like today. A withered, three-pronged man hobbled up to me. I smiled at him, but made no move to beg. I knew the look of a man with empty pockets. He produced a coin from his tattered white robes and tossed it at my feet. This unexpected boon caused my pessimism to disappear. I asked the old man my question.”

“‘It’s the wrong question, boy, but I’ll answer it,’ the old man said. ‘What you seek is many days south. There lies a dune not made of sand, but of gold.’”

“The old man hadn’t finished talking, but I’d finished listening. I was already gathering provisions in my mind, making arrangements for my trip. I feigned interest in the old man’s speech until I couldn’t stand it. I excused myself with a word of thanks, turning my back on the old man. As I departed, I heard the faint tapping of the old man’s staff.”

“I traveled a week before I found it. A dune as high and wide as the horizon, glittering with promise. My stride turned to a sprint. I threw myself into the dune. The gold poured into my robes, becoming a second skin. I breathed deep, letting the metal taste fill my nose and mouth. I cried as laughter choked the breath out of me.”

The glaze vanishes from the stranger’s eyes. “You found the golden dune?”

“Yes. I lay on the dune for a day and a night, considering how I was going to transport the gold. I decided to haul out as much as I could. I emptied out what little provisions were left in my sack and cast aside my staff. I filled the sack to the point where the threads threatened to give with each step. Then I opened my hands, knelt reverently, and grabbed as much gold as I could hold. My hands were fit to burst.”

The stranger’s eyes move with the speed of a jackal stalking an injured goat. I lean heavily on my staff, my eyes shut tight. I hear footsteps circling me. The stranger always asks the same question: “Where’s the sack?”

“The sack is gone.”

The stranger sighs, like wind whistling through a desolate canyon. The ritual continues: “You aren’t rich.”

My left arm slithers out of my tattered white robes. The blackened, lifeless fingers of my left hand are curled tight, the flesh fused into a hard, dark ball. I raise my left hand above my head, displaying it--the setting sun catches a few falling flecks. I hear the stranger’s retreat; I tap my staff in time with the steps.

[youtalkfunny]

Cotton Candy

My 8-year-old daughter Gabby brought home a prize from school the other day: a ticket to a Memphis Grizzlies NBA game. That's right: ONE ticket. What am I supposed to do, put her on a bus, and say, "Have fun at the game!"??? She said about 20 kids were each given one ticket (for making the honor roll, or something like that).

I took her to the game Wednesday night. In the parking garage's elevator, we met another family on the way to the game. I mentioned the "one ticket" problem. They had an extra pair of tickets they weren't going to use, so they gave them to us. How nice is that? As you can see, getting Grizzlies tickets is nothing like getting Red Sox tickets.

The first thing Gabby saw when she walked into the arena was a vendor selling cotton candy. "I want it! I want it!" I reminded her that we had just finished supper, and suggested that we find our seats now, and worry about snacks later.

Our seats were in the upper, upper level. WAY up. This new arena is a big place. Too big, for a city that doesn't support its teams. Better than half the seats were empty throughout the game.

We found our seats, and sat down. It was still 30 minutes before tip-off. There was no traffic coming into the city, no tie-ups near the arena. We found parking very close to the stadium. It was super-easy to get there. Too easy! We were 30 minutes early.

With a half-hour to kill, we headed out to the concourse, in search of cotton candy. None of the concession stands had it. I guessed we'd have to go back downstairs, where we had seen it, and check those concession stands. I thought that was weird. I asked an usher, who assured me that a cotton candy vendor would come around. Gabby ran into a classmate by the concession stand.

Once the game tipped off, Gabby hardly watched it. She was studying the other sections of seats, looking for a cotton candy vendor. None were seen, only popcorn and Pepsi vendors. I told her that after the first quarter, we could go try to find some cotton candy. This pleased her. I suggested that we take our coats with us, so we could go home after buying the cotton candy, as it was clear that neither one of us gave a damn about the basketball game. But no, she wanted to stay.

We took our coats any way, planning to find the section where all her classmates would be sitting. But first, downstairs, in search of cotton candy. We walked 3/4 the way around the lower concourse, to no avail. Finally, we spotted a vendor, whom we promptly tackled. $4 for cotton candy.

Another long walk later, and we were back upstairs again, hiking up through section 227, Gabby looking for classmates. NOT A SINGLE ONE. Not even the kid we saw earlier. To me, this illustrates what a lousy idea it was to give each kid one ticket. I imagine most of those kids were told by their parents, "I can't afford to take you to a Grizzlies game!" Yet these same kids almost certainly would've found someone to take them, if they had been given TWO tickets.

Gabby spotted her teacher sitting in the very last row. Gabby ran up to her, and sat down beside her. I met the teacher, and her husband. I resisted the urge to tell her how stupid it was to hand out single tickets to the kids.

By now, it's just about halftime. We had just spent the entire second quarter looking for cotton candy.

Shortly after halftime, Gabby finished her cotton candy. She then asked for popcorn. No way, I assured her.

Now we're coming up on 9 PM, which is past her bed time, and she's out of gas. She tells me that she's ready to go home. We left after three quarters. She fell asleep in the car as soon as I got on the highway heading home.

[Loungerat]

Insufficient Funds

I had spilt some of that god-awful Hooters Casino coffee on the waist of my uniform, and it wasn’t coming out. I was alone in the employee break room with a wet towel, trying to rub it out, but the stain remained. I had my back to the door and was furiously rubbing away that damn stain, when this Mexican housekeeper named Cierra walked in. I tried saying hello, because she’s kind of cute and all, but all I heard her say was, “Oh gross!” as she bolted out of the room. I think she thought I was wacking off or something.

Anyway, that stain wasn’t going nowhere, so I finally gave up, even though it was going to cost me lots of trouble. My boss, a big old black beast named Lavonna, would probably see it later and then spend the rest of the day chewing my ass out, so I was going to try to avoid her.

Plopping down on a plastic chair, I reached for the wad of bills in the front left pocket of my polyester pants and counted the day’s score thus far.

Fifty-four dollars exactly.

That wasn’t too bad for a Tuesday in June. I looked at my Utah Jazz watch and saw that I had a good 25 minutes left on my lunch break, so I decide to go throw some dice.

Lavonna don’t allow us bellhops to play craps here at Hooters, so I had to go across the street to the MGM. There ain’t no traffic signal nearby, so crossing Tropicana Avenue to the MGM on foot is practically a suicide mission. First you have to dodge the tourists, who are fresh off the plane at McCarran, driving a rental car that they are not familiar with. Besides that, they are always driving with their head in some damn map or they’re staring at all of the buildings or something. Then you got your locals, driving 30 miles over the speed limit because they are running late to their crappy job on the strip. I haven’t even mentioned the taxi drivers, who are the only guys who can make the tourists seem like safe drivers.

Getting out of the 102 degree heat, an awesome blast of air conditioning greeted me as I barged into the MGM and I practically ran to the pit. Lucky for me, they still had a $5 minimum bet game going. Those five buck games are getting kind of rare these days- even on a slow Tuesday afternoon. The table seemed to be hopping pretty good, with deep stacks of mostly green and black chips filling up everybody’s rail. I bought in for my $54 worth of the day’s tips, and it kind of put the game to a stop. The stickman, an SOB named Harley, recognized me from previous lunch break runs, and started giving me some [censored] about the coffee stain. I ignored him and focused my energy on the 90 year old fossil who was in the middle of a roll. Unfortunately, the bastard sevened out right after I had loaded up across the line. He and some others at the table sorta gave me a dirty look- like it was my fault or something, but “screw them” is what I say. I started looking for an atm machine.

Transaction Declined. Insufficient Funds

I figured as much, but it never hurts to try. On my way back to Hooters, this a-hole in a blue Dodge sedan rental almost ran me over, so I gave him the bird. I probably shouldn’t do that with my Hooter Casino/Hotel uniform on, but I was still pissed off at the fossil for sevening out so quickly. In other words, I wasn’t feeling really diplomatic at the time.

Lavonna and her fat ass were waiting for me when I got back.

“You’re five minutes late again.”
“Sorry Lavonna. Wow! Have you done something with your hair?”
“Don’t give me that bull [censored]. 1134 has some bags ready to go.”
“Okay, thanks.”

I started heading towards the elevator real quick, and acted like I didn’t hear her when she yelled out at me:

“Is that a stain on your uniform?”

At room 1134, some ugly freak of nature answered after my second knock. He told me to grab the two black bags against the window. On my way there, I caught a glance of his hot wife, who was laying on the bed with her eyes closed, like she was hung over or something. She was dressed classy but sexy. She had this low-cut light grey blouse and tight white capris. From my angle, you could tell she had a pretty good body. I must have been staring at her a little too long, because the ugly dude kind of made a fake coughing noise. I grabbed the bags and looked at her again, but I started to get a funny feeling down there, so I glanced away quickly and started thinking about dead animals. She sure was hot though. That’s for sure. She deserved better than the loser she was with, I’ll tell you that. That always cracks me up when some hot chick is with a completely hideous dufus. Who knows why these mismatches happen? I know the dude couldn’t have much money. Otherwise, why would he be staying at Hooters?

On the elevator ride down, I tried making small talk, but ugly dude and his hot wife just kind of ignored me. At around the sixth floor, the hot chick bent down to reach into her bag to get an aspirin or something. I had the perfect angle for this awesome cleavage shot. It seemed to last like an hour or so, but then the ugly dude started coughing again, so I had to look away.

I led the couple through the lobby and saw Lavonna, standing there with her fat arms crossed. She started giving me the ol' evil eye, so I tried to lift one of the bags in front of me so she wouldn’t be able to see that damn coffee stain. There was about 100 taxis waiting out front and I tried to whistle one of them over to us, but I ain’t never been good as whistling, so I just yelled.

After loading up the bags in the trunk, I opened the door for the hot chick and got in one last decent cleavage shot. I tried telling her my usual line of, “Thanks for staying at Hooters!” but she just held her head and waved me off.

Ugly dude was still standing there, and he shocked the hell out of me by reaching for his wallet. I figured he was going to stiff me on account of the fact that I had spent the last ten minutes mentally undressing his wife. But sure enough, he pulled out his thick wallet, which was jammed with hundred dollar bills. After fumbling through his wallet for a few moments, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled at me.

“Oh well, I’m on vacation, right?”

He greased my palm and hopped into the cab. I started feeling sort of guilty for calling him ugly, because I looked down and saw three benjamins in my hand. Their taxi drove off, and I decided that I was going to stop pre-judging ugly dudes. If you ask me, some of them are alright.

Back inside, I kept looking at the hundreds, just to make sure it wasn’t some sort of cruel prank. I made my way back to the bell desk. Even the sight of Lavonna’s ugly mug wasn’t going to be able to ruin this day. I tried walking past her, but she grabbed my arm real aggressive and all.

“We got a problem.”
I smiled.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about the stain. I spilled coffee this morn -“
”- I’m not talking about COFFEE. I’ve got a girl in housekeeping who says that you were masturbating in the break room.”

I tried to explain my way out of it, but Lavonna is not the sensitive, understanding type. Eventually she let me get back to work, but not before telling me that I would have to schedule an appointment to go to something called “Sexual Harassment Training.” I didn’t care. I was in too good of a mood. Four hours later I finished out a glorious summer Tuesday with my best day ever in tips: $378.

The end of my shift meant only one thing: It was time to make a suicide mission across Tropicana to the green felts. They only had $25 tables going at the MGM at the time, so I decided to make the long walk on the strip over to the lower rent district.

O’Sheas always has a $5 table going and there is this tall red headed cocktail waitress named Sherry, or Shirley or something who always smells really nice. When she puts your drink down, she’s only about two inches in front of you, so you can take a pretty good whiff of her. You have to be careful though. If they think you are some creepy guy who is trying to smell them all night, some cocktail waitress will start to freak out and tell their manager. At least, that’s how it is at the Excalibur, so I’m not allowed over there anymore. But so far, Shirley or Shelley or whatever hasn’t caught me smelling her yet, so it’s all good.

If she’s not there, I’ll go to Casino Royal and snuggle into a spot at one of their $5 crap games. I made sure to put $25 in my sock as a sort of "insurance policy" so to speak. That way I wouldn't be able to blow it. I would need $15 for the cab ride home. Normally I don't shell out the extra dough for a cab ride, but I was feeling kind of pimpish with all those benjamins and all. Most nights I ride home in a smelly bus filled with all sorts of drunks and degenerates. The rest of my sock stash would be in case I lost all my money on the felt. Ten bucks would be plenty enough for me to have a good ol’ time plopping down at the Casino Royal bar and slamming back those $1 Michelob Ultras. Sure, it’s pretty nasty beer, but for only a buck, you really can’t complain too much.

Walking along the strip, passing by all of the Mexicans trying to hand out those escort fliers, I got that same old beautiful feeling that I get right before an upcoming craps session. Lady luck hadn’t been with me lately, but I didn’t care. I was single, and free, and living in the moment in the most exciting city in the entire world. I was going to slam drinks and roll dice, and smell beautiful cocktail waitresses and hit on women that probably wouldn’t have nothing to do with me. It was going to be a hell of a night. I wasn’t sure how the dice were going to treat me, but as far as I was concerned, it really didn’t matter right now.

I had sufficient funds.

[DigitalAnthology]

Pillar

Our father, who art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done,
On earth as it is in heaven.
Arouse in us that flame of justice
That Jesus incited on this earth.
For among us walk many wicked men,
Whose hearts have strayed from the path of righteousness.
They refuse your dominion,
Desire blinding them from thy glory.
They slander thy word,
And seek to destroy thy kingdom.
Let us purge them from our midst,
And return them to you, O Lord,
As atonement for man’s iniquities.
We shall wash our feet in the blood of the wicked,
And we shall rejoice when they see his vengeance.
So that a man shall say,
Verily there is a reward for the righteous.
Verily he is a God that judgeth in the earth.
For thine is the Kingdom, The power, and the glory,
For ever and ever. Amen.

He stood up from his knees slowly, and when he opened his eyes he saw that dusk was nearly upon him. The waning light pouring in from the stained glass window bathed the marble floor with a shimmering mosaic of reds, yellows, oranges and violets, and looking around the cathedral he felt his heart fill with glory. As he headed toward the double wooden doors he gazed at the empty oak pews and the flickering candles. Then with a creak and a whirl he was outside, the wooden door clattering shut behind him he pulled his hood over his head. He looked out at the slow procession of cars on the avenue and the shopkeepers closing up, whispered something to God, then descended the stairs and disappeared into the stream of trench coats and suits that traversed the sidewalk. The time had come.

The red neon sign flashed “Tempest” in large wanton curlicue letters and as he emerged from the alley he saw them pouring into the nightclub in twos or more. As he got closer to the pulsing bass and the empty chatter of the men waiting to get in, he felt the fire in him grow hotter. He got in line and after a moment’s wait, the heavy-set man in black glanced at him and let him pass. He paid the cover fee without a word and as he stepped through the threshold into the sea of dancing bodies and strobe lights he automatically reached for the silver crucifix that hung around his neck and clutched it under his shirt. He walked past the sweating bodies that gyrated and thrust on the dance floor, past the ominous black speakers that boomed destruction and debauchery, past the men entangled on the couch like snakes, past the tank tops and falsetto voices and the emerald-colored drinks in highball glasses. He reached the metal spiral staircase, and descended into the lounge below.

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” He steadied himself and scanned the small room and watched the homosexuals, defilers of humanity, laughing and drinking and seducing in the sallow light, some shirtless, some masked, some entranced in the flesh that flickered on the screen mounted near the bar. Sin permeated the room like smoke in a furnace. He rested against a pillar near the fire exit, and watched in mute agony as heathen faces turned to examine him, eyes gleaming with fickle curiosity, then turn back to the carnal conspiracies that drew them to this infernal place. Like moths to a fire, he thought.

He walked over to the bar and asked for a beer. He took the bottle across the lounge, entered the restroom and stepped into the stall furthermost from the door. He emptied the beer into the toilet, produced a steel flask from his jacket pocket, and started pouring its contents into the glass bottle. When the flask was empty he produced a cotton handkerchief from his pocket, and carefully dipped it into the bottle until the cloth became saturated with the brown substance. He then knotted the fabric and forced it down the neck of the beer bottle such that the cotton was lodged in place, with one end sitting in the viscous liquid and the other end protruding from the bottle. He produced some clay from his pocket and molded it into the mouth of the bottle around the wick. He set the bottle down on the wet tile, then lifted up his right trouser leg and unstrapped his ankle holster. He drew a small semi-automatic, racked its slide and sat down on the porcelain to pray one last time. He was then overcome with a great calm and suddenly the walls fell away and everything became invisible to him except for God.

A bright yellow flame pierced the gloom and by the time they had turned it was arcing through the air. The Molotov cocktail shattered on the glistening neck of a man who lay prone atop another, and a grotesque guttural wail sliced through the room like a siren. As the burning tar and petrol snaked down his back he pitched himself off the leather couch and crashed into the glass coffee table in front of him. He fell among the broken shards of an almost transparent blue glass, on his hands and knees, and as the flames consumed his flesh he howled in pain.

As they rose in awe of the hellhound which had suddenly coalesced out of the darkness, the quiet American raised his pistol and started to fire. “Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels. Surely I shall slay the wicked. By fire they will be baptized, into fire they will be delivered.” He squeezed and struck the bartender in the sternum, knocking him backwards. The fire extinguisher slipped from the bartender’s grasp and fell on the carpet with a dull metallic ding. Someone shouted. He saw something move in the periphery of his vision and he turned and fired at the man running for the fire exit. The man lurched as if he were hit by a gust of wind and then crumpled mid-stride, his feet folding awkwardly under him, melting. He saw them scattering, some sprawling behind the couches and some diving behind the rosewood bar, others already facedown on the floor with their hands cradling their heads. And then there was that man on fire crawling towards the stairs, by now everything but his shoes engulfed in flames, black smoke rising from his body, fire catching on the carpet in his wake. A hoarse steady sound escaped from the midst of the burning, an incantation from a man incarnate. As smoke began to cover the ceiling, the fire alarm went off. He had them trapped now; they could not reach the emergency exit or the stairs without running past him. As he fired again he felt God surge through him like the rising tide…

[sweet wicking action]

a love story

They say that God is everywhere. And they say it is impossible to know God, impossible to see God, impossible to define or categorize or label God. But that isn't the truth. The truth is that God is not everywhere. Cannot be everywhere. She is here, in San Diego and her name is Eloise. And she is beautiful. Once, she roamed free. Once, she swam from the depths of the Andes, all the way downstream, across the continent without her family or companions or direction. Once, she spent an entire year exploring the Atlantic Ocean, looking for love. Don't we all?

The first time he saw her, sparks flew. With closed eyes, the picture in his head was of solid white light, of energy and power, shot through with veins of pinkish lust. The flat red of resentment. Mustard yellow for disappointment and acceptance. And the glare of confidence that hurt his eyes.

He must be ill. His brain hurt. What was hurt? Could it hurt? Maybe it didn't. There were no pain receptors in the brain. There was some mechanism for making him think that it hurt, and it was not something that he appreciated right now. It was a squeezing pain. As if he'd woken up that morning, and his skull has shrunk a few sizes. There's a novel thought, right? Do skull's even come in sizes? They certainly don't shrink while you're living, most physical attributes don't. Sure, the pupils in one's eyes will expand and contract with the light, and the gaps between each vertebrae close up over a lifetime, allowing for one to shrink with age. But the skull. The skull. It just seemed so unlikely that it would change size over the course of a few minutes. Perhaps his brain was growing. Or just sloshing around, slamming against the inside of his skull. There was no explanation for it, but his brain hurt.

"Ouch." He spoke aloud, but there was no longer anyone there to hear, or answer. The sound traveled through the bones of his head, to his eardrums, through and past all of the delicate things in there, so that he could hear the sound with his ears and auditory nerve. The pain in his brain hadn't stopped yet. But at least his ears were working. He flexed a muscle in his arm, and the fingers of his hand contracted together, opening and closing in unison. He was hardwired that way. Muscle memory wanted him to spread those fingers open, twist them apart, but he'd trained himself. On the surface, fingers were a concept way beyond him.

His eyes were open, so he must be hallucinating. She floated in the air, hovering just out of reach, and just in front of his eyes. A dolphin. He blinked and she was still there. His brain still hurt, but her image was helping. Did the sunlight cause hallucinations? Or stop them? Was her presence healing his injuries? What does the world look like through dolphin-colored glasses? So far, it looked very, very good. Like there was nothing else right with the world. Immersed in dolphin, the throbbing in his mind began to subside.

"I quit. I quit my job. I quit my job today." There was no good way to say those words. Not to his wife of twenty-five years. Not to the mother of his children. And especially not if he was going to follow them up with more depressing revelations. He was slumped in the driver seat, forehead sweaty against the steering wheel, eyes and cheeks crusty with tears. He'd been crying for a month. The words felt good in his mouth, felt perfect, he'd practiced for hours to hone each inflection for the perfect sense of pity and shock. And he'd tear up on cue. It was all set. Let her be home.

"Honey?" His voice cracked with the strain. "Are you home?"

"Upstairs dear." The sound of her floated down from their bedroom. There was concern in the words, and quiet patience. There had been no clues, and she was still on edge.

"Come on down here! I want to show you something!" He slid a hand along the wall, flicking at switches and illuminating the foyer. His feet slid over hardwood floors, waxed to a high gloss. Footsteps clattered on the stairs and he looked up at his wife.

"I quit my job today." She stopped dead in her tracks. A muffled snort came from the room behind him, and a Labrador retriever swam in his sleep. "But, I also bought you a boat."

"Start over from the beginning." She was very proper in her anger, always allowing him a chance to explain.

"I quit my job. And I bought you a boat. Happy Anniversary?" In his head, in the silence, he added, "And I'm leaving you."

She blinked her disbelief and went back up the stairs, only somewhat less enthused. The next day he went looking for work. When he came home that night, he was the newest third shift member of the San Diego Zoo and Aquarium cleaning crew. She would come, she was on her way, and he was waiting.

It had been weeks since Eloise left her home, the place of her birth, a crystalline pool of icy water in the foothills of the Andes mountains. She was five years old and on her own for the first time. One day, she'd opened her eyes and had just known. It was time to leave the nest, time to mate, time to procreate. But the one for whom she was destined was not there. She could hear his thoughts, see the shape of his mind, wrap her brain around him. But he was not there, and she would go to him.

The journey was fast, each day sliding by like the current--full of fish and plants and hidden, swirling, eddies. One morning, she saw dolphins. Bubbles and clicks and chatter surrounded the group, but it was nothing new for dolphins. Just a bunch of nine year olds talking about the usual nine year old stuff. Just like home.

"Yo, did you see Eloise today?"
"Yeah, man, she was looking fly."
"I'd hit it."
"[censored] off. She's all...lopsided."
"Yeah, I'd still hit it."
"True. But you'd [censored] anything with two eyes."
"So?"

And then they were gone, in a haze of laughter and boring, repetitive verbal congratulations. She had no idea how they had known her name. They were quite the heroes of the Amazon, but they were not for her. Nobody like them was for her. Nobody. She would have sighed, but it was anatomically impossible. They disgusted her, these—fish. There was something about where they were raised that lent a truth, and a simplicity to their adolescence. But it wasn't in her. Unable to accept the light-hearted nature of this phase of life, she knew what was to come. She knew where they were headed. Clairvoyance ran in her family, and with awareness came depression. Depression and loneliness, and a feeling that something more awaited. Something still missing. Her destiny was to rise above, travel beyond, surpass all her species. She was Eloise. She would be known. She was already on her way.

They had celebrated their anniversary at The Palace, a restaurant touted as, 'the most fun you'll have this year, unless maybe you go to the wake of an Irish acquaintance, so long as you aren't close enough to the family to be truly bereaved.' Later that month, the food critic had been fired for missing several days in the office. Apparently, he had been detained for questioning by the San Diego Police Department. Several thousand pills of ecstasy had gone missing, and he was a strangely prominent subject. Also, the Irish community had complained. Food criticism was a cutthroat industry.

"More wine, sir?"
"No, thank you." It was dry in the room, and he was parched. "I'll just have water." The wine was going to his head, and he worried about self-control. The woman across from him did not seem worried in the slightest. She drank with two hands, and the scent of alcohol wafted off of her body. Like cinnamon and acetone, she was familiar. Nauseous. No surprises. So, he sat in silence. Listened. Watched the muscles in her throat working, swallowing, poisoning the two of them. The glass in her hand was empty, and her eyes searched for someone to berate. He dropped two hundred dollars on the table.

"I'm leaving." The words dropped from his mouth, perfectly planned and perfectly formed. They bounced off the tablecloth. Staining the white linen and they scurried around the table. He smiled. It felt good, talking. He would miss it.

"Hon? Where are you going?" In her youth, she had been a big, bright, shining star at the forefront of her high school forensics team. Each year, they were the fourth place team in the state, bucking for third. Senior year was their year. They would be medalists. No more honorary mention for Clark County East. But she was an innocent girl, oblivious to the baser needs and desires of her classmates. On Homecoming weekend, late Friday night, she chose screw cap champagne once, twice, many times over instead of study. Chose acceptance and popularity and graduated a month ahead of time, with one more daughter than the replacement valedictorian. Time passed slowly for the girl, and she refused to abandon those choices. Her words were confused, and her eyes hazy and dim. But in her heart she knew. The two word sentence stood on its own. In her prime, she could read a man's eyes. Could stare into his soul and pry out startling answers, know his mind and finish his sentences. If it were twenty years ago, she would have read the message, "for Eloise. She is coming here, coming for me." But he was gone, and anyone could read the crushing, suffocating pity in the eyes of the sommelier.

"Dolphin [censored]!" The voice rang out, clear and proud. Not a hint of shame at using the most profane of obscenities in a public place. He had fallen from the ranks of the mighty, and was open to the most scathing of scorn, like a pedophile or a murderer or someone who molests collies. And how did she know? There were no hints. There was nothing but shocked silence, and a man standing near a fish tank. They could not know. Not yet. There might be no shame in the speaker's voice, but at least the bipedal rabble that filled up the amphitheater was able to recognize something, something new was going on here. With clenched fists and a tight jaw, he turned. Teeth grinding together, crazy mouth without the bliss and wonder and poverty of cokehead society. Turned to stare at the old woman calling out to him, isolating him, and wondered internally what it was that she knew. Probably nothing. Most people didn't. Humans. He shuddered.

The walk to the zoo had been long, but the glass was cool against his forehead. With hands cupped around his eyes, he pressed his face to the tank, drinking in the darkness of the water inside. It felt good, the cold and the dark. He breathed deep, in his nose and out his mouth, fogging the tank wall as he pressed against it. And he stared. The silence pressed down on him, heavy on his skin. It was the feeling of her. Of her presence. She was there. Like an opium high, dipped in chocolate and melting and melting and melting and melting, his writhed and yearned and groped for contact. She was there. Only there was nothing but the squeak of his shoes on the tiled floor and his oily skin on freshly cleaned glass. He waited. She was there, and she would come to him.

Eloise was the rarest of dolphins, a myth come to life, a South American pink river dolphin, and she was magnificent. How she got past customs would be a mystery forever, but he didn't care. Why would he? No one looks a gift horse in the mouth these days. They just scoop the loose hundred up with the rest of their change, and assume that today they were blessed by the gods. And blessed he was, watching her swim back and forth in her tank. He'd been searching his whole life, and nothing would keep them separated now that she was here. Through the haze of river water (flown in from Brazil, at an unsurprisingly prohibitive cost) she coalesced into view. His tongue flicked out, tasting bleach on the glass. Would he be fired for it? It was beyond his concern. Their eyes met. He salivated. He could hear her thoughts, and they were dirty. They reached out from behind the glass, thick bulletproof glass, and they grabbed him, stroked him. He panted, breathing deep. His body pressed against the glass. She did the same, and the world melted away. They swam together. Entwined in each other, arms and fins and slippery skin. She sang to him and people watched. From outside and within, the world watched in amusement and horror and he shook with emotion. The orgasm was strong, staining his pants and streaking the glass. He crumpled to the ground and her mind held him, cradled him, lowered him gently. And when he slept, she would hover. Hurling herself at the glass, driving away the usurpers, giving him peace. Tomorrow, he would be fired. The bleach or the predatory sexual tactics, each was enough by itself. The violent manner he had used to [censored] her, [censored] her mind--no human would understand. But he did not care. He simply stood, spent, as the alarms and sirens began to sound.

Perhaps it was a rash decision, but who are we to judge another? To pass judgment on human and God alike? Only so much time was left in this life, and she was certain to die at her own speed, the pace of her life faster and faster until the end. Before he even felt the effects of a life lived in lower gravity. Her huge round eyes would grow dim, murky, and her body would lose the sleek tautness of youth. She would no longer feel the caress of his hands, and her movements would be slow, awkward. She'd founder in her path, and float with the current. All drains lead to the ocean, and a burial at sea was honorable, commemorating all that was otherworldly about her life. He would not wait. Her thoughts already carried him, folded him into their staccato beat and buoyed him ever higher. They would be as one. Each piece of clothing fell to the floor, but he was not cold. Watch, glasses, wallet, shirt, pants. He discarded them casually, they were never to be used again. He'd never truly understood them. They were the constraints of an earlier life, and he was ready to move on. The guests and the security guards were on the same footing now. Nobody could know what was happening. In their ignorance and confusion they were running, panicked and scattered to the corners of the earth, fleeing the unknown and the terror inside them. With a deep breath and three running steps, he kicked himself high into the air, up ten feet, fifteen feet, up over the wall, arching his back as he flipped and plummeted, waiting for the cold, the dark, and her embrace.

Their love would burn hotter than the fire of ten thousand suns. They would live within, inside of each mind, joined at the hip and the soul while she bathed in his essence and he breathed underwater. As one creature they lived, perfect harmony and [censored] and violence and peace. Until it was over. And Eloise died.

A handful of tourists walked down the ramp to the aquarium. There were some that were black, some white, but they were predominately of unknown Asian descent. Surprisingly fat, but they moved fast. No lurkers here. Just fish enthusiasts waiting to be guided through and around a number of thick glass tanks, waiting to be force-fed common knowledge, knowing nothing more when they left than when they'd come in. They wore straw hats and fanny packs, and digital cameras of varied sizes were slung from their necks or belts, or shoulder holsters. They would be witness to a miracle today. One antsy gentleman had a backup, strapped to his ankle, Velcro closures cutting the circulation to his foot. Poor design and manufacturing policy made the foot just one more irritant in a series of minor medical problems that the man would ignore. The irritation was minor today. And when he gazed upon Eloise for the first time, he forgot all about it. He'd been using both cameras every few minutes. The holster hung empty and the lack of weight unbalanced him, but kept the blood flowing. Years later, he would develop minor nerve damage in the same foot, and attribute it to an ever-increasing chain of unfortunate events with no explanation. His collection of fifty-five orchids, harbored through the perils of three brutally cold winters and one stray cat would be destroyed during a routine burglary. Later that week, his mother would suffer a minor stroke, and be forcibly retired from her position as a kindergarten teacher. And some seven years further down the line, he would be killed in a car accident. As the world spun around him, car flipping end over end through the air, he would remember the feeling of weightlessness and how much he had missed it. The impact of the car against the ground would mangle his right arm and his body would expire slowly, wedged between the steering wheel and driver side door, long shafts of metal piercing vital organs, opening gaping holes in his waterproof skin. And he would remember. Remember that once he had seen the face of God, and she was laughing.