Four Padded Walls and a Pen

2010-05-10T19:10:00.001-07:00

Be back soon with something new, promise.

Blood

2010-02-12T17:22:00.000-08:00

"You don't have to do this, Richter. Whatever the Old Man is paying you, I'll triple it."

"He's not paying me, Nolan."

The young man in the chair looked at him in surprise.

"What do you mean, he's not paying you?"

Richter looked down the barrel of the .380 at Nolan, his expression cold.

"You really think he'd ever put out a hit on you?"

"Why not? That's what I'd do if I were him."

Richter stared at him for a long minute.

"He paid me to come here and watch your back, keep an eye on you, report back to him. That's not what I usually do, but the Old Man and I, well, we go back a long way."

He paused for a moment, thinking.

"He never doubted you for a second, you know that? Never questioned your loyalty. Just wanted to know you were safe."

"He's an old fool," Nolan sneered.

Richter took one step forward and backhanded him with enough force to knock him out of the chair before he could so much as flinch. Nolan lay on his back, dazed, the taste of iron on his broken lips. A powerful hand grabbed his collar and wrenched him from the floor as violently as he'd hit it, then sat him down hard in the chair. Richter continued talking as if nothing had happened, his expression unchanged.

"Once I figured out what you were up to, well... I can't let him know about that. It'd break him."

"Wait, he doesn't know?" There was hope in Nolan's voice. "You didn't tell him?"

"No, no I didn't."

"Then why...?"

"Like I said, the Old Man and I go back a long way."

He chambered a round in the .380 and trained it on Nolan's chest.

"Wait!", screamed Nolan, "What are you doing!? I thought you said you weren't here to kill me!"

"No, I said the Old Man wasn't paying me to kill you."

The gun fired twice, and Nolan's eyes went wide with shock. He crumpled to the floor, staring up at the ceiling. He blinked twice. Richter was standing over him, talking again, but the words were coming from another room.

"You and I both know what would've happened if I went to him with what I know. If I didn't, well, I know what you'd have done. I can't let either of those things happen."

Nolan looked at him, his eyes filled with anger and fear, lips struggling to form words that wouldn't come out.

"He'll hate me for this; he'll never rest until I'm brought to him in a body bag..."

The gun fired again, and Richter was talking to himself.

"...but better he believes an old friend betrayed him than know his son did."

Random

2010-02-05T20:43:00.000-08:00

It's a familiar scene. The hero, going through the routine he's grown too accustomed to to love or hate anymore, suddenly realizes that where he belongs isn't here, it's there. There is usually where she is. There is generally very far away from here. So, without a moment's hesitation, he walks, strides, runs or sprints down the hall, street, platform or runway and hails a taxi, jumps in his car, or boards a last minute plane or train. Cue some reflective music and a travel montage lasting, oh, ten to thirty seconds and he's there, where he's supposed to be. Sometimes he lives happily ever after, sometimes there's just a subtle promise of more to come, and sometimes he finds he's a second too late. Once in a great while he just falls flat, period. Never had a chance. But regardless of the outcome, you never see the days, hours or even minutes in between. That's the part that I always think about when I watch that scene. As long as you're still sprinting down the street or weaving in and out of traffic or racing to make that flight, you're fine. You're full of adrenaline and hope, or even panic. But then, at some point, you find yourself alone on a nearly empty road with no traffic to dodge, or sitting at 30,000 feet with the cabin lights turned down and nothing but the muted sounds of half-sleeping passengers to distract you. That's the part where you die a thousand deaths, each one more terrible than the last, wondering, thinking, imagining what will happen when you get there. Sometimes you're way off base, and everythings fine. Usually, at least in real life, you find that for once in your life you were absolutely right, that at least one of the grisly scenarios you played out in your tortured mind was dead on. As bad as the reveal is, that's still the easy part, in my book. The hardest part will always be those minutes, days or hours spent not knowing. That's all...

Carpe Noctem

2010-02-02T09:26:00.000-08:00

THE END. Inside the Star Theater the house lights came up and the credits rolled: Colin Clive, Mae Clarke, John Boles, Boris Karloff… One-by-one the black-lettered names climbed up the silver screen while wide-eyed people streamed out of the dim theater, strains of an ominous violin following them into the night. The sound of hard leather soles on tacky, popcorn-littered floors faded and the projector slowly whirred and clicked itself to sleep, done with work for the day. Outside, beneath the safety of the marquee’s bright lights, the boy watched the rest of the audience walk and drive away, loud voices and bright red taillights growing faint and disappearing in the darkness.

Alone, he wished for a moment that his father would suddenly burst into his room and find the pile of pillows he had so strategically placed beneath the covers, realize he had sneaked out the bedroom window and come roaring up the street in the big Lincoln, spewing a sermon and brandishing a belt, to drag him home. Well, as long as he got home…

Abruptly, the marquee lights died and he was plunged into the depths of the darkness. Just as abruptly, his feet, which had until now been rooted firmly in the sidewalk by fear, were uprooted and flung into motion by terror. Running full tilt down the street, he felt his feet pounding against the pavement and his heart pounding against his ribs. Unconsciously, he tried to match the frenetic beat within his chest, but try as he might his feet could not keep up. The cool night air, which had lain still and silent but a moment ago, howled in his ears and wicked away at the cold sweat that beaded on his forehead.

On both sides of the street were the moonlit windows of vacant shops, through which his companion reflections raced, catching his eye now and then when the pale light hit them just so, ghosts in the glass. He felt the tap of shadows on his shoulder, urging him to look behind, but on he ran, past the last of the unlit street lamps and on towards the bony, bleach-white spines of picket fences.

There, leaning against a tree in his friend's yard, was a bicycle. Racing towards it, he tripped on a tree root and fell, scraping his knee against the rough sidewalk, but he was up and moving again so fast, he barely noticed. Grabbing hold of the handlebars he wrenched it away from the tree trunk with such force that he nearly toppled over again. Turning toward home, he leapt on and began pedaling furiously, the back tire spinning in the wet grass before taking hold and propelling him forward at break-neck speed down the street. Tree branches reached from overhead with skeletal fingers to scratch at his face and hair as he flew by, but he paid them no heed.

Finally, he saw his house looming ahead, the windows dark with sleep. Had he been able to breath, he might have breathed a sigh of relief. The front gate was open and he rode straight through and into the front lawn without slowing, jumping clear of the bicycle as it crashed into the bushes by the porch. He hit the ground at a dead run and sped around the house to his bedroom window, open barely a crack. Forcing it open, he crawled though frantically, ignoring the frightful squeal it let out at being treated so. He crashed to the floor of his room, slammed the window shut behind himself and jumped, fully clothed, into bed.

Pulling the covers over his head he listened carefully for any noises outside his window. Laying there, his chest heaving while he sucked at the cool night air hoarsely, he felt the muscles in his legs twitching, slightly, uncontrollably. He lay there a long time, his mind racing, before sleep won out over scare and he drifted off...

The next morning he stood over his bed, shaking the change jar in his hands and counting out the trickle of coins that scattered on the sheets. He hoped it would be enough for a movie ticket...

An End To Waiting

2009-04-12T23:11:00.000-07:00

An hour before sunrise. A man opens his sleepless eyes and looks through the flat gray of the ceiling above him into anywhere. Anywhere but here, today. The expectant silence of the morning is broken by the creaking of bed springs and a sigh of resignation. Water pours cool from the tap into the clean white porcelain of the sink and for a long time he watches as it swirls and trickles down the drain, wishing he could follow. Cupping his palms he lets them fill and overflow, feeling the tendrils of cold water trace themselves about his hands. In the mirror he sees his reflection, but cannot hold its gaze and looks away...

Sunrise. A man listens to the familiar sound of hard shoe leather on painted concrete and the sleigh-bell jingle of keys on a ring. The head of the key scrapes at the heavy lock, searching and then finding as the tumblers fall, one-by-one, into place and the door slides open...

...Cell doors line the long hallway. Behind them men wait for nothing but an end to waiting. They sit and cry, they sleep, they scream and curse, they pace like animals in cages, they rattle their bars with bloodstained hands. But now they simply stand and watch, their eyes following the three men walking by them, two in uniform, one in chains...

The hallway is long...not nearly long enough. A man looks straight ahead, past the cells to the far door, past the door to everything he can imagine lies beyond, past imagination to the end.

...Seven men stand in a large room of whitewashed concrete and incandescent light. Three of them are dressed in blue uniforms and black caps, one in a white coat, two in dark brown suits, and one in black, white and linked steel. In the middle of the room is a broad, high-backed chair, covered in leather straps and hooked to wires that run along the floor and up the wall. On the wall is a large switch with a heavy wooden handle...

A man stands alone in a room, people moving around him like dust in a beam of light, seen but unnoticed, their voices a catacomb whisper in the back of his mind. Beneath his hands he feels the unpolished grain of the wooden chair, then the warmth of skin beneath rough cloth, the cold touch of steel buckles and the smooth touch of worn leather straps. He breathes deep, holding it and then letting it go reluctantly. A prayer is muttered behind his clenched teeth; a bead of sweat runs down his back. He shuts his eyes and a moment later the switch is thrown...

A man opens his eyes. The hair on the back of his neck falls and he breaths deep again, the smell of ozone filling his nostrils. He looks at the man in the chair, finished with waiting. His tongue touches at his lips and he tries to swallow, his throat suddenly tight. Letting go of the heavy wooden handle, he stares at his trembling hand, then presses it to his chest and runs it slowly down the front of his uniform.

The Coming of the Storm

2009-04-09T14:35:00.001-07:00

Black clouds roll across the vast blue expanse,

Silver-capped waves crashing on the shores of the sky,

Pulling the light of day down, down to the depths

'Til shadows are all that remain;

And the heavens cry out at their loss,

Tears raining upon the parched and darkened ground,

While the thunder celebrates it's victory over the Sun

With frightening applause.

The Glory of Battle

2009-03-14T20:11:00.000-07:00

Colorful banners stream and snap proudly in the wind

As they march, perfect ribbons of gleaming steel;

Ruddy-cheeked champions of summer, tall and lean, invincible in youth

Riding on the broad backs of their high-stepping chargers

Across a field, filled with rolling green waves of grass and bejeweled blossoms,

Their laughter and bravado roll like thunder over the hills,

Rising above the clanking of polished armor and the jostling of beautifully crafted blades;

Then the trumpets peal and the drums beat a battle-pulse

And they charge courageously into battle…

Tattered banners lie trampled underfoot in the mud,

Among the bits of torn ribbon, tarnished and rusting;

Scattered corpses, ashen-faced, wide-eyed and terror-stricken in death,

Eternally still

Upon the blackened, smoldering battlefield, blood-soaked and scorched,

Their screams and cries and prayers rise in whispering echoes to the hills,

The battered breastplates, broken blades and shattered lances strewn about in silence;

Then the sky darkens and the thunder peals and the rain beats down on fallen drums

And God weeps bitterly…

Burning Bridges

2009-01-29T21:13:00.000-08:00

Sharp and clean, the chilled autumn air trickled down the back of his throat as he filled his lungs with a deep, slow breath. Sighing heavily, his breath billowed about him in a smoky cloud and then was gone in a moment, carried away on the fickle breeze.

Walking with an unhurried pace, he made his way to the edge of the meandering river and stopped, looking at the modest bridge that sat across its waters. Long and narrow, it was built of thick logs and planks of solid oak, milled from trees that had long ago loomed over the very banks they now spanned. It had been new when he first laid eyes upon it, filled with splinters and the smells of sap and sawdust and sweat, still warm from the carpenter's hands and humming with the blows of hammers. Not anymore. Now it was smooth with use and gray with years, the sounds of building long since replaced with those of decay; the creaking of rotting timbers and the groan of tired beams longing to lay their burdens aside and rest.

Dropping his eyes, he stepped onto the bridge, his footfalls echoing out over the surface of the water with a hollow sound, as if someone were knocking at the door to an empty room. The river murmured at the disturbance. The old metal can in his hand, covered in rust and faded, flaking paint, sloshed loudly in the stillness of the night as it struck his leg with each long stride. Barely legible, the word “kerosene” was written in blocky black letters on the side.

For a moment he stopped and glanced over the railing. His gaze fixed on the murky water flowing far below. Moonlight outlined his reflection, pale as death; his expressions changing and shifting with the current, grotesquely exaggerated in the cold stream, eyes strange and fevered. He lifted a shaking hand to his face, felt the unchanged, placid features. Clenching his eyes tightly, he wiped away the cold sweat beginning to bead on his brow. He muttered a curse, lost on the wind, and turned away.

Twisting the cap off of the battered can, he tipped it slowly and watched as the kerosene spilled onto the warped oaken planks at his feet. His nostrils flared slightly as the fumes rose to meet him, and a grim smile pulled at the corners of his hard mouth. A low, harsh chuckle escaped his lips as he began to make his way up and down the length of the bridge, back and forth, and again.

The scent of kerosene grew heavy, overpowering. He felt himself becoming lightheaded and stumbled towards the end of the bridge, stepping onto the thick black mud of the far bank. He sat sluggishly on the mossy trunk of a fallen willow, wet with dew. Sitting there, he stared at the kerosene-soaked bridge long after the cool night air had cleared his head. Finally, he stood and reached into the deep pocket of his threadbare jacket, taking out a book of matches.

“One left”, he said to no one in particular. His voice was strained and quiet, a whisper lost in the steady rush of the river.

“Just one…”

Striking the remaining match, he held it up against the night sky and watched it sputter and spit, the blackened sliver of wood twisting and wilting in the ravenous flame. He waited, waited until the fire licked at the tips of his fingers and he could wait no longer. With a snap of his wrist he tossed it onto the bridge, his gaze following it as it fell, slowly. He stood there for a long time, his eyes empty and unblinking, hands trembling at his sides, his ragged breath catching in his throat as he watched the blaze spread across the weathered bridge like a billion fiery insects swarming over a hulking carcass.

He swallowed hard until the lump in his chest disappeared, and then turned and began to walk. He could hear the roar of the flames still, louder now than the river flowing below. He could feel the heat of it, washing over his back; smell the smoke, thick in his lungs. His shadow, cast long and dark before him, flickered and jumped about, a caricature of his pained gait. He walked, his pace slowly quickening, looking straight ahead at the cramped and narrow pathway that lay ahead, until it had all faded away.

Far behind him the blackened oak turned to gray ash and floated away on the gentle current, while the last of the bright, glowing sparks drifted into the sky, higher and higher, until at last they faded and were lost in the glow of the distant stars.

The Apple

2009-01-29T21:12:00.000-08:00

Winter came to New York with a fury. Icy winds surged through canyons of concrete and steel like floodwaters, the sounds of the city drowning beneath their bitter cries. Empty streets filled with ice and drifting snow, blinding white against the dark and filthy asphalt.

A man walked along the sidewalk, tattered collar turned up against the cold, chin buried in his chest, back bent against the wind, feet dragging through the thick brown slush that soaked his shoes and freezing feet, hands buried deep in his pockets, fingers searching for scraps of warmth. He’d have made a miserable sight, had anyone seen him.

Stumbling as he stepped off the curb, he went down hard on his knees, feeling the familiar tear of flesh and fabric. His face twisted momentarily in pain and a sharp breath escaped through his clenched teeth. Then the cold seeped through him and met the pain halfway, pushing it back into some numb corner of his brain to be remembered later. Picking himself up, he walked to a nearby wooden bench. He sat there for what seemed a long while, his head tipped back, staring blankly at the framework of the green awning overhead. He made out the faint impression of letters on the back of the canvas.

“Grocery”, he read quietly to himself. Turning around, he noticed for the first time that he was sitting in front of a small store. A neon sign that read “Open!” hung in the frosted windows, through which he could see the blurred outline of a man behind the checkout counter and several customers milling about in the narrow aisles. He stood quickly and moved towards the door. Suddenly lightheaded, he braced his raw palm against the brick that lined the big front window, steadying himself and waiting for the fog to lift before he reached for the door handle…

The door swung wide with a loud clattering of bells and a howl of wind. The heavyset man behind the counter looked up from his newspaper with a curious expression that turned quickly into a scowl. The gaunt man that had just blown in from the cold was clearly not here to buy anything. His clothes were little more than rags, his pants torn and his jacket full of moth-eaten holes. His expression was a familiar one to the shopkeeper; it was the same expression of terrible hunger, of wide-eyed suffering and misery that he had seen on the faces of so many others on the streets. But, he noted, it was an honest face, if there is such a thing, and he decided with a sigh that it couldn’t hurt to let the guy warm himself up. It wouldn’t be human to turn anyone out on a day like this. He went back to reading the paper and ignored the man…

The little shop was warm and bright, a sharp contrast to the world just beyond the door. Shelves lined the walls, filled with neatly arranged cans, bags and boxes. Tightly spaced tables throughout the shop were stacked high with loaves of bread, wedges of cheese, pyramids of cans and baskets of dry beans and cereals. For some time he simply stood there, feeling the warmth work its way through him. After a minute or two he felt the pain in his knees again as they thawed and the blood began to flow; but just to feel anything beside the bitter numbness of the cold was a welcome relief. Taking a deep breath, he filled himself with the aroma of it all, and in his stomach he felt knots begin to tie themselves anew. The cold may have faded from his bones, but the hunger was still there, deep in his gut.

His eyes continued to wander about the shop until they came to rest on a table in the far corner, just below a rack of summer sausages that hung from the ceiling. A large basket sat on the checkered tablecloth, filled to overflowing with apples. Moving closer, he picked one up and looked longingly at it. It was perfectly shaped and beautifully ruby red, bigger than his clenched fist and polished to a wonderful shine. The knots in his stomach tightened a bit more, growling lowly in frustration.

Glancing about, he noted that no one had bothered to look his way. The man behind the counter still had his bulbous nose buried in the paper and the customers were all busily filling their shopping bags. What a simple thing it would be to slip the apple into his pocket and walk out the door. No one would notice; no one would care. No one would miss a single apple. What could it cost, a few cents? Why, a man like the grocer probably left that much behind in his pockets every time he had his wash done.

Looking at the apple again, he caught a glimpse of his face dully reflected in the polished wax, stretched and distorted, cheeks hollowed out by shadows, eyes dark and sunken, desperation written in its lines. It was not a face he recognized as his own. It terrified him, and for a moment the hunger was forgotten. With a start, he tore his eyes from the apple and shook his head. Carefully, he put the apple back in its place in the basket. Drawing himself up to his full height, he took off his battered hat with one hand and ran his fingers through his hair with the other, sighing heavily. He turned and walked towards the front of the shop…

The door opened with a loud clatter and a howl. The shopkeeper looked up from his paper to see the gaunt man standing tall in the doorway, holding the edge of the door to steady himself against the blast of cold air that rose to meet him. Steeling himself, he leaned into the wind, pulling the door shut as he left. Walking away down the lonely street, his dark frame grew small and faint, like a shadow beneath the ice, and then disappeared entirely, swallowed up by the storm.