Travis Besecker's Blog: Apocalypse Coming, page 35
April 23, 2012
Harnessing the Spark - #37 (Chapter 18)
Harnessing the Spark - #37 (Chapter 18):
Installment #37 of the on-going online ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE horror novel
CHAPTER 18
“Elphie, wake up… c’mon Elphie.”
I opened my eyes but couldn’t focus on the face in the dark. I attempted speech but my vocal chords seemed miles away as did the rest of my faculties.
“For fuck’s sake, sis. I…
April 22, 2012
i can finally see
Always watching… contemplating… discovering… In this vast empty hole that is life, why do I strive to know the reason why? Before I can answer “why?” I must first uncover the motive… for a question without motive is lust without a target. In my mind’s eye, I spy the reason why. The reason for my search for absolution. However the explanation comes at the expense of sanity, my own… the meaning of life is right before me, in my mind’s eye… open it and I shall see. The meaning is the question. The question is the reason. The reason is the motive. The motive is the end. Opposite the end, there was a beginning, and in the beginning let there be light, the bright light that blinded the eye. Now, here in the vast darkness, I can finally see.
April 17, 2012
"Taking a Shot" - short story
Sitting at the bar, nursing a Guinness and a shot of stacked Bailey’s & Jaimeson… This place sucks ass. I only came here because it’s on the way home from work, but that justification is quickly losing merit. I look down into my drink, my third drink… normally about my limit. I lean forward and reach down to grab my wallet, but as I turn my head to the left to facilitate said movement, I catch a glimpse of green highlighted hair. As she walks directly behind me, I twist to my left even farther to try to catch a better look at the body connected to the hair and end up doing a very awkward spin on my barstool. Which, I might add, says anything but “cool”. One hand in my pocket, my head twisted over my shoulder, spinning the squeaking bar stool 360º counter clockwise… I assume I look handicapped at best. Half hoping I missed her as she kept walking on by, I reach the full arc of my rotation and find her sitting on the stool next to me, staring at me like I just sprouted a second head.
Our eyes meet and I can tell she’s trying her hardest to refrain from smiling, which, on her soft face, is as adorable as it sounds. I pause, mid-motion, realizing at that moment I probably look like I have cerebral palsy. She looks away, the smile growing as she turns toward the bartender. I sit motionless for 10 seconds, the proverbial deer in headlights, trying to figure out how to right this catastrophic sequence of events.
I leave my wallet in my pocket, straighten back up to the best of my ability and try to look as normal as possible. I finish my Guinness, chase it with the shot, then call Dave, the bartender (and a close friend) over. As he nears, I say “Dave, my good man, can I get a bottle of water and another Guinness with a chaser? Then please get the woman to my right, whatever she likes, on me, so she’ll stop looking at me like I lost the genetic lottery.” I turn her way as I finish the statement, hoping she heard.
“She must know you Nick, genetically imbalanced just about sums you up. What can I get you?” Dave directs the latter in her direction. She looks up and says, “Jack & Coke. Thanks.” Then she turns my way, “Thank you as well. Not recently escaped from the asylum then?”
The only way to describe the reappearance of her smile is heavenly. Just enough teeth to let me know it’s sincere, a curl of her lip twisting it into a slight smirk. I’m drawn to her lips, until the movement of her eyes behind the frames of her glasses begs my attention upward. She rolls her eyes as her smile widens a little more. Her eyebrows raise and her beautiful... (what color are they? impossible to tell in this light) eyes widen in a gesture of “what?”. I’m staring. One step forward, two steps back.
“I’m sorry.” I find myself recovering from dumbfounded slack jawed awe for the second time in 2 minutes. Not looking promising for me at this point is it? “No. Not escaped, I'm out on a day-pass… I don’t even know. Never mind.” Then I turn back to my drink… I’ve fucked this up royally.
“I hate that.” She says, turning back to the Jack & Coke now waiting for her at the bar.
“What?… Hate what?” courage kicking back in.
“When someone starts to say something, but doesn’t finish. Just fucking spit it out already. Drives me wicked nuts.” She brings the drink to her mouth and I find myself staring once again as she takes the first sip. The whiskey meets her lips, but my eyes are fixed on the green nail polish playing in the neon bar light. “You’re doing it again.” she says, never even looking in my direction.
“Staring… yeah I know.” I look back to my own drink, trying to figure out how to fix this before it spirals out of control completely. I take a deep breath, then turn to face her. “Here’s the deal.”
She turns to meet me, drink back to her lips, eyes curious. Our knees brush, but I force my brain through the touch. “I was going to say that I was a little awe struck when you walked by but I thought better of it because it sounded like a total line…” Breathe. “I’d rather tell you the truth and it sound like a line than you be aggravated that I didn’t finish what I was going to say. So, there, I caught a glimpse of you, the green in your hair, you took my breath away, I didn’t know what to say, I froze. Total awe, at it’s finest. Beautiful green locks, the sweetest smile in the whole bar and I’m a total sucker for a woman in glasses. Sue me.” I turn back to the bar, completely pleased with my performance but not wanting her to know.
She instantly blushes, lowers her head and lets the smile engulf her face. She brings her hand up to her mouth and slowly raises her head. She turns slightly to her left, gives me a little smirk, and a look like she caught me with my hand in the cookie jar… then follows with “That IS the worst line ever.”
“Not a line. Total truth. I never lie. It’s usually easier and more effective to just speak the truth and say what’s on your mind or keep your mouth shut.” Feeling this isn’t going anywhere, I turn back to the bar, drop the shot into my Guinness and take the whole thing as an Irish Car Bomb. I stand up, grab the bottle of water and leave $40 on the bar for Dave. “Her next drink’s on me too, Dave.” I turn in her direction. “It was very nice stammering and kicking myself in the face in your lovely presence. We’ll have to never do this again.” Maybe it was the last car bomb taking over, who knows… I grab her hand and bring it to my mouth, a soft kiss and a smile before laying her hand back on the bar and I’m readying my stride for a smooth exit.
“Alex. My name’s Alex.” Her smile more than let’s me know that I may have turned this around. She stands up and looks down at me. It’s at this moment I realize she’s about 2” taller than me. Score. Nothing sexier than looking up at a gorgeous woman.
My eyes never leave hers, but my head leans slightly as I call to my left, “Dave, keep the change and see ya tomorrow.” She takes me by the hand and pulls me in the direction of the exit. I trail through the wake of her perfume as we slink through the crowd toward the night.
I follow her through the door to the street beyond. As soon as the cold air hits us, I turn the corner and stand up against the wall, out of the wind. “Nick. My name’s Nick. Very nice to meet you Alex.”
My right hand still holding her left, she stands in front of me and raises her right hand slightly. My left hand meets hers so that we’re now completely connected. “Well Nick, what now?”
“Coffee?” I suggest as I straighten my arms and will them to my sides, drawing a few inches out of the gap between us as I bring her hands with mine.
“I’d rather have more Jack & Coke.” She steps a little closer to relax the tight muscles between us. Now only three inches separate our faces.
“I have a new fifth of Jack at my place.” I bring the three inches to two.
“Anything to go with it?” The two inches becomes one.
“We’ll get something on the way.” One inch becomes a graze of flesh.
“Sounds,” our lips touch briefly, “…good” she lets out slowly.
My hands draw hers closer and a little behind me, the brief touch of lips turns to a kiss. The kiss grows deeper and I feel her head twist as our lips part momentarily. The playful way our fingers intertwine and our palms meet in a gesture of long lost lovers, allows us to draw out the first kiss to an unimaginable depth. My left hand breaks its grip and I wrap my hand around her back, pulling her closer yet. The kiss lasts longer than anticipated until a sharp cold gust robs us of our will to breathe. “This way,” I say as I pull her closer and direct the scene in the direction of my car.
The connection between us was instant and explosive.
Our eyes meet and I can tell she’s trying her hardest to refrain from smiling, which, on her soft face, is as adorable as it sounds. I pause, mid-motion, realizing at that moment I probably look like I have cerebral palsy. She looks away, the smile growing as she turns toward the bartender. I sit motionless for 10 seconds, the proverbial deer in headlights, trying to figure out how to right this catastrophic sequence of events.
I leave my wallet in my pocket, straighten back up to the best of my ability and try to look as normal as possible. I finish my Guinness, chase it with the shot, then call Dave, the bartender (and a close friend) over. As he nears, I say “Dave, my good man, can I get a bottle of water and another Guinness with a chaser? Then please get the woman to my right, whatever she likes, on me, so she’ll stop looking at me like I lost the genetic lottery.” I turn her way as I finish the statement, hoping she heard.
“She must know you Nick, genetically imbalanced just about sums you up. What can I get you?” Dave directs the latter in her direction. She looks up and says, “Jack & Coke. Thanks.” Then she turns my way, “Thank you as well. Not recently escaped from the asylum then?”
The only way to describe the reappearance of her smile is heavenly. Just enough teeth to let me know it’s sincere, a curl of her lip twisting it into a slight smirk. I’m drawn to her lips, until the movement of her eyes behind the frames of her glasses begs my attention upward. She rolls her eyes as her smile widens a little more. Her eyebrows raise and her beautiful... (what color are they? impossible to tell in this light) eyes widen in a gesture of “what?”. I’m staring. One step forward, two steps back.
“I’m sorry.” I find myself recovering from dumbfounded slack jawed awe for the second time in 2 minutes. Not looking promising for me at this point is it? “No. Not escaped, I'm out on a day-pass… I don’t even know. Never mind.” Then I turn back to my drink… I’ve fucked this up royally.
“I hate that.” She says, turning back to the Jack & Coke now waiting for her at the bar.
“What?… Hate what?” courage kicking back in.
“When someone starts to say something, but doesn’t finish. Just fucking spit it out already. Drives me wicked nuts.” She brings the drink to her mouth and I find myself staring once again as she takes the first sip. The whiskey meets her lips, but my eyes are fixed on the green nail polish playing in the neon bar light. “You’re doing it again.” she says, never even looking in my direction.
“Staring… yeah I know.” I look back to my own drink, trying to figure out how to fix this before it spirals out of control completely. I take a deep breath, then turn to face her. “Here’s the deal.”
She turns to meet me, drink back to her lips, eyes curious. Our knees brush, but I force my brain through the touch. “I was going to say that I was a little awe struck when you walked by but I thought better of it because it sounded like a total line…” Breathe. “I’d rather tell you the truth and it sound like a line than you be aggravated that I didn’t finish what I was going to say. So, there, I caught a glimpse of you, the green in your hair, you took my breath away, I didn’t know what to say, I froze. Total awe, at it’s finest. Beautiful green locks, the sweetest smile in the whole bar and I’m a total sucker for a woman in glasses. Sue me.” I turn back to the bar, completely pleased with my performance but not wanting her to know.
She instantly blushes, lowers her head and lets the smile engulf her face. She brings her hand up to her mouth and slowly raises her head. She turns slightly to her left, gives me a little smirk, and a look like she caught me with my hand in the cookie jar… then follows with “That IS the worst line ever.”
“Not a line. Total truth. I never lie. It’s usually easier and more effective to just speak the truth and say what’s on your mind or keep your mouth shut.” Feeling this isn’t going anywhere, I turn back to the bar, drop the shot into my Guinness and take the whole thing as an Irish Car Bomb. I stand up, grab the bottle of water and leave $40 on the bar for Dave. “Her next drink’s on me too, Dave.” I turn in her direction. “It was very nice stammering and kicking myself in the face in your lovely presence. We’ll have to never do this again.” Maybe it was the last car bomb taking over, who knows… I grab her hand and bring it to my mouth, a soft kiss and a smile before laying her hand back on the bar and I’m readying my stride for a smooth exit.
“Alex. My name’s Alex.” Her smile more than let’s me know that I may have turned this around. She stands up and looks down at me. It’s at this moment I realize she’s about 2” taller than me. Score. Nothing sexier than looking up at a gorgeous woman.
My eyes never leave hers, but my head leans slightly as I call to my left, “Dave, keep the change and see ya tomorrow.” She takes me by the hand and pulls me in the direction of the exit. I trail through the wake of her perfume as we slink through the crowd toward the night.
I follow her through the door to the street beyond. As soon as the cold air hits us, I turn the corner and stand up against the wall, out of the wind. “Nick. My name’s Nick. Very nice to meet you Alex.”
My right hand still holding her left, she stands in front of me and raises her right hand slightly. My left hand meets hers so that we’re now completely connected. “Well Nick, what now?”
“Coffee?” I suggest as I straighten my arms and will them to my sides, drawing a few inches out of the gap between us as I bring her hands with mine.
“I’d rather have more Jack & Coke.” She steps a little closer to relax the tight muscles between us. Now only three inches separate our faces.
“I have a new fifth of Jack at my place.” I bring the three inches to two.
“Anything to go with it?” The two inches becomes one.
“We’ll get something on the way.” One inch becomes a graze of flesh.
“Sounds,” our lips touch briefly, “…good” she lets out slowly.
My hands draw hers closer and a little behind me, the brief touch of lips turns to a kiss. The kiss grows deeper and I feel her head twist as our lips part momentarily. The playful way our fingers intertwine and our palms meet in a gesture of long lost lovers, allows us to draw out the first kiss to an unimaginable depth. My left hand breaks its grip and I wrap my hand around her back, pulling her closer yet. The kiss lasts longer than anticipated until a sharp cold gust robs us of our will to breathe. “This way,” I say as I pull her closer and direct the scene in the direction of my car.
The connection between us was instant and explosive.
April 15, 2012
Stepping into Darkness
The edge of nothing. Carefully, not that it matters at this point one way or the other, I curl my toes south, feeling for the concrete line in the sand. Straight forward, my eyes open and I feel his gaze upon me. Judging curiously behind tinted glass, frozen in the moment. His slack jawed awe fuels my inner concession. The papers in his hand slip from his grasp and free fall to the berber below, catching a ride back and forth on the resistance of the very same concoction I’m about to brave. My brain hiccups, my throat tightens and my lip curls to a smile in anticipation of the freedom before me.
“Step forward into the vast abyss,” my mind prompts me. I obey.
I close my eyes and the final song starts to play. Building slowly from a faint steady rhythm of 16th note high hats… bass on the downbeat…. blackness engulfs me and an army of butterflies stir to life… snare on the upbeat… the ocean tide crashes in my ears.
I open my eyes at the crescendo and focus on the papers across the chasm, still drifting helplessly to their next destination. My feet find their way above my head as my inner soundtrack nears the first break.
Refocusing on my own destiny, the finality of my decision sets in. Time halts and only my stomach contests the change of direction. My smile falters then continues past it’s obligatory equator. The music stops. The ocean grows louder.
Closing my eyes again I feel my stomach twist itself into slipknot. The black returns, welcoming me inside with the promise of salvation for my horrendous decisions. Something tugs on my shirt and before I can turn to see, I hear the voice of my son.
“Are you ok, Daddy?” He sits down on the floor in front of me, smiling a toothless grin. I try to answer but can’t. The words are stuck, fighting to break free, tearing a hole on my throat… yet their effort is pointless.
Sitting up on the couch I swing my feet to meet the sand below.
The waves continue to crash in a steady drum of confusion. I stand up and take the first obligatory step in their direction. Emerging from the crashing waves, her salt water locks of vibrant red brilliance silence the thunder rolling in on each wave until all I can focus on is the beating of my own heart. Pounding harder with every thrust of blood to and fro I feel like my chest is going to explode. The intense pain and panic curls me in on myself. I close my eyes to escape the siren’s gaze and find solace once again in the black.
The ocean waves are crashing louder. My heart seizes. Silence befalls me.
I risk my sanity and force my eyes open. The sting of 32 feet per second squared bites at my pupils. The flash of concrete racing toward me makes the feeling of freedom experienced only moments before a surreal reminder of how fast I’ve fallen both figuratively and physically. My eyes close around tears, either from the flight or the fear I do not know. It matters not. The black takes me in.
“Welcome home…” drifts in on the last wave, “we’ve missed you.”
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“Step forward into the vast abyss,” my mind prompts me. I obey.
I close my eyes and the final song starts to play. Building slowly from a faint steady rhythm of 16th note high hats… bass on the downbeat…. blackness engulfs me and an army of butterflies stir to life… snare on the upbeat… the ocean tide crashes in my ears.
I open my eyes at the crescendo and focus on the papers across the chasm, still drifting helplessly to their next destination. My feet find their way above my head as my inner soundtrack nears the first break.
Refocusing on my own destiny, the finality of my decision sets in. Time halts and only my stomach contests the change of direction. My smile falters then continues past it’s obligatory equator. The music stops. The ocean grows louder.
Closing my eyes again I feel my stomach twist itself into slipknot. The black returns, welcoming me inside with the promise of salvation for my horrendous decisions. Something tugs on my shirt and before I can turn to see, I hear the voice of my son.
“Are you ok, Daddy?” He sits down on the floor in front of me, smiling a toothless grin. I try to answer but can’t. The words are stuck, fighting to break free, tearing a hole on my throat… yet their effort is pointless.
Sitting up on the couch I swing my feet to meet the sand below.
The waves continue to crash in a steady drum of confusion. I stand up and take the first obligatory step in their direction. Emerging from the crashing waves, her salt water locks of vibrant red brilliance silence the thunder rolling in on each wave until all I can focus on is the beating of my own heart. Pounding harder with every thrust of blood to and fro I feel like my chest is going to explode. The intense pain and panic curls me in on myself. I close my eyes to escape the siren’s gaze and find solace once again in the black.
The ocean waves are crashing louder. My heart seizes. Silence befalls me.
I risk my sanity and force my eyes open. The sting of 32 feet per second squared bites at my pupils. The flash of concrete racing toward me makes the feeling of freedom experienced only moments before a surreal reminder of how fast I’ve fallen both figuratively and physically. My eyes close around tears, either from the flight or the fear I do not know. It matters not. The black takes me in.
“Welcome home…” drifts in on the last wave, “we’ve missed you.”
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“I have no fucking clue what just happened! I was walking to my window about to file today’s Z490 Sales Sum when I looked up and saw him step up on the ledge… He… he fucking looked right at me. He smiled. Fuck. He fucking smiled! Who the fuck does that? I’m never getting that image out of my head… FUCK! I mean, c’mon… he just stepped off and pheweeeeewwww down he went. Why the fuck was he smiling?”
April 14, 2012
Mikey's Last Stand
Posting an old short story from my Tumblr...
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My name’s Michael but everyone calls me Squeal. I fucking hate it, so please call me Mikey. I just turned 8 years old… physically. I’m much older mentally. I have to be, otherwise I’d be dead by now, like my mother. My dad killed her. He’s a fucking asshole. Oh, he’s still around, he didn’t go to jail or anything. It’s not like he killed her with his own hands or a gun or anything. No, he made her do it herself like he did everything else. It kind of makes sense if you really think about it. He made her do everything for him, even cut up his god damn steak. Only fitting that his constant mental abuse drove her to parking her car in the garage, turning on the key, and turning off her life.
It could have said the same thing in as few as three words, “Fuck You Michael”.
She did leave me a note. At least.
How can an 8 year old possibly talk like this? you’re probably asking yourself right now. I’m sort of a genius with an abusive cocksucker of a father who only ever taught me one thing… excessive alcohol consumption leads to vomit on his 8 year old’s bedroom floor and subsequently the before mentioned 8 year old son cleaning it all up the next morning. Like I said, Cocksucker.
Squeal was the nickname given to me by Fred Cooper the first day of 7th grade. Yep, genius, remember? He said I looked like a tiny little piglet compared to everyone else. From that moment forth, everyone squeals and oinks like a little pig when I come into a classroom. The name stuck, unfortunately, and I was forever dubbed, “Squeal” by my peers.
Being so young compared to everyone else, I don’t have many friends. In fact, my only friend is Elphie, my Boston Terrier. Elphie’s 8 years old and never leaves my side. She’s the best dog in the whole wide world and has gotten me through the toughest moments of my life. Without Elphie, my existence would be pointless.
My birthday was yesterday. My father forgot. My grandma did not.
When I woke up I was first reminded that it was in fact my birthday by the brand new metallic blue 3-speed Huffy on the front porch, wrapped in a big red bow. A note hanging from the handlebar read, “I love you Michael! Happy Birthday - Nanny”. Immediately Elphie and I left my rundown 20 year old Schwinn behind the barn and took off, breaking in the new bicycle, cutting through the farmland and saying our good mornings to the neighboring cows. We took the long way around, partly to enjoy my birthday preset.
As we came into town, I rounded the corner and went though the park to avoid the woods that lead to the gravel quarry. The Cooper brothers hung out in those woods making forts and playing commando. Yes, you read that right, playing commando. They’re in middle school and still role playing. It’s sad really. Kinda pathetic too. Even though it was a straight shot to the school through those woods, I avoided them like the plague. The quarry was scary as hell and the Cooper brothers were mean as shit. Besides the fact that they seemed to get such great joy in kicking my ass.
Steering clear and following the bike path through the park instead, I popped out in front of the elementary school where Elphie and I planned on checking out the playground. I parked my new Huffy at the bike rack and started skipping toward the monkey bars.
“Hey guys, lookie here… if it isn’t Squeal and his lil’ mutt…” floated to my ear, carried on the breeze behind me, tip toeing up my shoulder and biting my ear.
I turned around just in time to see the dirt crusted to his knuckles before Fred’s fist connected with the soft flesh on the bridge of my nose, bringing water to my eyes, pain to fucking everything and me, crashing to my knees. Elphie started barking and growling as another Cooper’s fist followed, connected with my left temple. Immediately the world drained away, spinning down a black tunnel until the ground came rushing upward… smashing into my bleeding face.
When I finally came to, my bike was gone, along with Elphie. I rolled over, blinking up to the sky through dried blood. What happened? I started playing the last few moments back through my mind’s eye… gound, black hole, temple, nose, barking Elphie….
I jumped up and hobbled back toward the park entrance.
Not 10 yards from the entrance and I heard shouting coming from the park. Instinctively, my legs rushed me the last few steps and diverted the direction of my sprint toward the woods entrance. Running as fast as I could with a pounding head and still bleeding nose, I followed the dirt path toward the sound of Elphie’s barking. The trail was a narrow maze of forks and dead ends.
I tried to navigate the trail as best I could with my pounding head, but I kept running in circles and ending up on the same path that ran along the edge of the quarry. One slip and a 30 foot fall to the limestone rock bed below would fuck up an 8 year old’s chances of ever seeing 9 in about as many seconds. A few times, I had to resort to ducking behind a sticker bush to avoid various Cooper boys. Eventually, however, I found the street that ran toward my house.
Upon reaching my porch I was greeted by a bouncing, grumbling Boston Terrier, licking my face and knocking me backwards down the stairs, “I love you Elphie! I’m so glad you’re ok! You’re such a brave dog outsmarting those stupid assholes…”
Elphie and I enjoyed the afternoon in our own backyard sitting under the sun until my headache drove me to the couch. When my father came home, he took one look at me, shook his head, threw me a washcloth and called me a pussy for not fighting back against the boys that outnumbered me 4 to 1 and were all twice my size… Like I said, Cocksucker.
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The sun sporadically smacks me in my face through the branches as the trail flies by beneath my churning pedals. The Cooper boys are only feet behind me, screaming and shouting my nickname. If I slow and they catch me, the nose that was still bleeding when I got up this morning will surely end up being the least of my problems.
As if to read my mind, Elphie takes the fork to the left as I take the path to the right. “Meet you at the porch Elphie!” I yell to my brave little partner in crime. She barks her approval.
This morning, Elphie and I had decided the Cooper boys needed to pay for stealing my bike. We got up and rode my old Schwinn directly to the police station. After explaining the situation, Elphie and I were introduced to Detective Jones who took my statement but hardly believed that the Cooper brothers would ever do anything like that. An hour later, we were on our way to the park, hopeful we’d eventually get my new bicycle back.
Our fun and games were stopped short when Fred Cooper rode up on my Huffy. “So Squeal… try to get me arrested, huh? My Dad’s the Sheriff dumbass.”
I looked up just as Elphie’s ears dropped back and a low deadly growl started in her throat. Fred just stood there laughing as I grabbed my old Schwinn and started for the park. As I got close to the entrance, I was cut off by the remaining Cooper brothers. The next few minutes they’d corralled us and herded Elphie and I into the woods, heading straight for the quarry.
“Meet you at the porch Elphie!” I shout once more as her barks fade off in the distance. Her idea to divide and conquer had obviously worked as I pop out onto my street without a single Cooper chasing. I make my way home and plop down in the afternoon sun, waiting for Elphie to arrive.
After an hour and no snorting Boston Terrier, I decide I’d better go back just in case she was hiding or lost. Making my way cautiously through the woods I spend what seems like a lifetime calling her name and looking up and down each and every trail. Not a Cooper brother in sight.
I finally find her, curled up under a bush near the edge of the quarry cliff. I bend down to see if she’s sleeping, but as I get close, Elphie turns and snaps my hand. Her tiny little teeth break the skin and the blood starts to trickle down my fingers. “What the hell Elphie? It’s me, Mikey.”
Elphie’s breathing slows and she tenderly rolls her head back toward me. It’s at this moment I see what’s wrong. Elphie’s front leg is covered in blood and matted fur reveals a paw twisted unnaturally skyward. Tears start to flow freely as she rolls over and I see the tiny tree branch sticking out of her innocent face where her left eye used to be.
“Oh God… Elphie…” I whisper between sobs as my crying completely takes over. Elphie crawls on her good paw, dragging herself toward me, whimpering with every inch. I reach down and carefully draw her body close to mine. Her breathing is shallow, ragged and slowing further as she puts her head in my lap. I pet her brow, my lip quivering and my hand shaking. With one last exhaled breath, Elphie’s head relaxes against my thigh and I feel her body go limp. I look into her eye and the spark of life that was there just a moment before vanishes behind a glossy haze.
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A month ago, Fred Cooper and his brothers tortured and killed my best friend. Today I exact my revenge.
I ride through the park toward the elementary school where the Cooper boys are sure to be beating up 6th graders for fun. The bag on my shoulder full of eggs bounces with every shift of my body as I pedal hard left, then right and back again. Slowing to keep the eggs from cracking, I muster every bit of courage I have left. “This is for you Elphie.” I think to myself. It drives me forward.
I park my old dusty Schwinn at the entrance to the woods and make my way on foot to the bike rack where my metallic blue Huffy rests, mocking me among the broken and smashed pieces of shit belonging to the rest of the Cooper boys. I open my bag and start smashing eggs on all of their seats.
“Hey! It’s Squeal! What the fuck is he doin to our bikes!?!” Fred yells.
“Get him!” someone else shouts.
“You’re so fucking dead Squeal!”
I smile.
Looking up from my work, I see the gang running at me like stampeding buffalo. I stand and hurl the remaining eggs their way, connecting with half. It slows them enough to see me grab my crotch with my left hand and flip them the bird with my right. “Fuck you Cooper! Your mother takes it in the ass like the cum guzzling queen she is for a fucking quarter behind the 7-11 you pieces of shit!” I scream at the top of my lungs, throwing more gasoline on the fire.
With that I turn and run as fast as I can for my old bike chanting, “FUCK YOU!” with every stride. The eggs on their bikes slow them enough that I get a free break into the woods. I pedal as fast as I can putting some distance between us, making my way effortlessly through the familiar maze of trails…
As soon as I can see Fred catching up on the trail behind me, I speed up. Left at the first fork. Right at the second fork. Looking over my shoulder, they’re still right behind me. Right at the big boulder. Right at the next fork. Left at the oak stump.
I see the end of the trail ahead, coming up fast. I take a sharp right at the last second onto the narrow trail I’d been riding up and down every day the last three weeks. Looking back, Fred nearly misses the corner. His first brother does and runs into a sticker bush. One more glance back and the whole gang has corrected and is right behind me in a conga line of angry adolescent testosterone.
Time slows in my mind and I think back to the day Elphie broke off and went left while I ventured right. If she hadn’t lead them away, I would have surely received the worst beating of my life. Maybe they would have shoved a stick in my eye instead of hers. I miss her more and more every day. The thought of her never again curling up in the crook of my leg under the covers as I drift off to sleep starts a fresh stream of tears down my cheeks and brings me back to the mission at hand.
Just in time I might add. I make a hard left at the giant oak tree and see the large sticker bush approaching fast. I brace, and leap off my bike into the bush. Hundreds of thorns poke through my flesh and pin me into the roots as my bike continues up the path between the bush edge and over the small dirt mound. I pull myself tighter into the bush and duck my head as bicycle after bicycle passes by… up the path I’d carved in the woods… over the mound… and out of sight.
My sobs slowly turn to shakes and the tears turn to giggles as I hear blood curdling scream after torturous cry as one by one, each of the Cooper boys launch off the dirt mound, into the blue July heat and fall to the quarry bed below with a thudding crash of metal and snap of limbs… My crying stops and turns to full fledged laughter as I realize, no matter what I’m never getting my Huffy back in one piece now.
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My name’s Michael but everyone calls me Squeal. I fucking hate it, so please call me Mikey. I just turned 8 years old… physically. I’m much older mentally. I have to be, otherwise I’d be dead by now, like my mother. My dad killed her. He’s a fucking asshole. Oh, he’s still around, he didn’t go to jail or anything. It’s not like he killed her with his own hands or a gun or anything. No, he made her do it herself like he did everything else. It kind of makes sense if you really think about it. He made her do everything for him, even cut up his god damn steak. Only fitting that his constant mental abuse drove her to parking her car in the garage, turning on the key, and turning off her life.
Dear, Michael.
Mommy loves you. I’m sorry I have to leave you but I think it’s best. Don’t hate me. I know you’re stronger than me and much smarter. I know you’ll find your own way out.
Love,
Mom.
It could have said the same thing in as few as three words, “Fuck You Michael”.
She did leave me a note. At least.
How can an 8 year old possibly talk like this? you’re probably asking yourself right now. I’m sort of a genius with an abusive cocksucker of a father who only ever taught me one thing… excessive alcohol consumption leads to vomit on his 8 year old’s bedroom floor and subsequently the before mentioned 8 year old son cleaning it all up the next morning. Like I said, Cocksucker.
Squeal was the nickname given to me by Fred Cooper the first day of 7th grade. Yep, genius, remember? He said I looked like a tiny little piglet compared to everyone else. From that moment forth, everyone squeals and oinks like a little pig when I come into a classroom. The name stuck, unfortunately, and I was forever dubbed, “Squeal” by my peers.
Being so young compared to everyone else, I don’t have many friends. In fact, my only friend is Elphie, my Boston Terrier. Elphie’s 8 years old and never leaves my side. She’s the best dog in the whole wide world and has gotten me through the toughest moments of my life. Without Elphie, my existence would be pointless.
My birthday was yesterday. My father forgot. My grandma did not.
When I woke up I was first reminded that it was in fact my birthday by the brand new metallic blue 3-speed Huffy on the front porch, wrapped in a big red bow. A note hanging from the handlebar read, “I love you Michael! Happy Birthday - Nanny”. Immediately Elphie and I left my rundown 20 year old Schwinn behind the barn and took off, breaking in the new bicycle, cutting through the farmland and saying our good mornings to the neighboring cows. We took the long way around, partly to enjoy my birthday preset.
As we came into town, I rounded the corner and went though the park to avoid the woods that lead to the gravel quarry. The Cooper brothers hung out in those woods making forts and playing commando. Yes, you read that right, playing commando. They’re in middle school and still role playing. It’s sad really. Kinda pathetic too. Even though it was a straight shot to the school through those woods, I avoided them like the plague. The quarry was scary as hell and the Cooper brothers were mean as shit. Besides the fact that they seemed to get such great joy in kicking my ass.
Steering clear and following the bike path through the park instead, I popped out in front of the elementary school where Elphie and I planned on checking out the playground. I parked my new Huffy at the bike rack and started skipping toward the monkey bars.
“Hey guys, lookie here… if it isn’t Squeal and his lil’ mutt…” floated to my ear, carried on the breeze behind me, tip toeing up my shoulder and biting my ear.
I turned around just in time to see the dirt crusted to his knuckles before Fred’s fist connected with the soft flesh on the bridge of my nose, bringing water to my eyes, pain to fucking everything and me, crashing to my knees. Elphie started barking and growling as another Cooper’s fist followed, connected with my left temple. Immediately the world drained away, spinning down a black tunnel until the ground came rushing upward… smashing into my bleeding face.
When I finally came to, my bike was gone, along with Elphie. I rolled over, blinking up to the sky through dried blood. What happened? I started playing the last few moments back through my mind’s eye… gound, black hole, temple, nose, barking Elphie….
I jumped up and hobbled back toward the park entrance.
Not 10 yards from the entrance and I heard shouting coming from the park. Instinctively, my legs rushed me the last few steps and diverted the direction of my sprint toward the woods entrance. Running as fast as I could with a pounding head and still bleeding nose, I followed the dirt path toward the sound of Elphie’s barking. The trail was a narrow maze of forks and dead ends.
I tried to navigate the trail as best I could with my pounding head, but I kept running in circles and ending up on the same path that ran along the edge of the quarry. One slip and a 30 foot fall to the limestone rock bed below would fuck up an 8 year old’s chances of ever seeing 9 in about as many seconds. A few times, I had to resort to ducking behind a sticker bush to avoid various Cooper boys. Eventually, however, I found the street that ran toward my house.
Upon reaching my porch I was greeted by a bouncing, grumbling Boston Terrier, licking my face and knocking me backwards down the stairs, “I love you Elphie! I’m so glad you’re ok! You’re such a brave dog outsmarting those stupid assholes…”
Elphie and I enjoyed the afternoon in our own backyard sitting under the sun until my headache drove me to the couch. When my father came home, he took one look at me, shook his head, threw me a washcloth and called me a pussy for not fighting back against the boys that outnumbered me 4 to 1 and were all twice my size… Like I said, Cocksucker.
—————————-
The sun sporadically smacks me in my face through the branches as the trail flies by beneath my churning pedals. The Cooper boys are only feet behind me, screaming and shouting my nickname. If I slow and they catch me, the nose that was still bleeding when I got up this morning will surely end up being the least of my problems.
As if to read my mind, Elphie takes the fork to the left as I take the path to the right. “Meet you at the porch Elphie!” I yell to my brave little partner in crime. She barks her approval.
This morning, Elphie and I had decided the Cooper boys needed to pay for stealing my bike. We got up and rode my old Schwinn directly to the police station. After explaining the situation, Elphie and I were introduced to Detective Jones who took my statement but hardly believed that the Cooper brothers would ever do anything like that. An hour later, we were on our way to the park, hopeful we’d eventually get my new bicycle back.
Our fun and games were stopped short when Fred Cooper rode up on my Huffy. “So Squeal… try to get me arrested, huh? My Dad’s the Sheriff dumbass.”
I looked up just as Elphie’s ears dropped back and a low deadly growl started in her throat. Fred just stood there laughing as I grabbed my old Schwinn and started for the park. As I got close to the entrance, I was cut off by the remaining Cooper brothers. The next few minutes they’d corralled us and herded Elphie and I into the woods, heading straight for the quarry.
“Meet you at the porch Elphie!” I shout once more as her barks fade off in the distance. Her idea to divide and conquer had obviously worked as I pop out onto my street without a single Cooper chasing. I make my way home and plop down in the afternoon sun, waiting for Elphie to arrive.
After an hour and no snorting Boston Terrier, I decide I’d better go back just in case she was hiding or lost. Making my way cautiously through the woods I spend what seems like a lifetime calling her name and looking up and down each and every trail. Not a Cooper brother in sight.
I finally find her, curled up under a bush near the edge of the quarry cliff. I bend down to see if she’s sleeping, but as I get close, Elphie turns and snaps my hand. Her tiny little teeth break the skin and the blood starts to trickle down my fingers. “What the hell Elphie? It’s me, Mikey.”
Elphie’s breathing slows and she tenderly rolls her head back toward me. It’s at this moment I see what’s wrong. Elphie’s front leg is covered in blood and matted fur reveals a paw twisted unnaturally skyward. Tears start to flow freely as she rolls over and I see the tiny tree branch sticking out of her innocent face where her left eye used to be.
“Oh God… Elphie…” I whisper between sobs as my crying completely takes over. Elphie crawls on her good paw, dragging herself toward me, whimpering with every inch. I reach down and carefully draw her body close to mine. Her breathing is shallow, ragged and slowing further as she puts her head in my lap. I pet her brow, my lip quivering and my hand shaking. With one last exhaled breath, Elphie’s head relaxes against my thigh and I feel her body go limp. I look into her eye and the spark of life that was there just a moment before vanishes behind a glossy haze.
—————————-
A month ago, Fred Cooper and his brothers tortured and killed my best friend. Today I exact my revenge.
I ride through the park toward the elementary school where the Cooper boys are sure to be beating up 6th graders for fun. The bag on my shoulder full of eggs bounces with every shift of my body as I pedal hard left, then right and back again. Slowing to keep the eggs from cracking, I muster every bit of courage I have left. “This is for you Elphie.” I think to myself. It drives me forward.
I park my old dusty Schwinn at the entrance to the woods and make my way on foot to the bike rack where my metallic blue Huffy rests, mocking me among the broken and smashed pieces of shit belonging to the rest of the Cooper boys. I open my bag and start smashing eggs on all of their seats.
“Hey! It’s Squeal! What the fuck is he doin to our bikes!?!” Fred yells.
“Get him!” someone else shouts.
“You’re so fucking dead Squeal!”
I smile.
Looking up from my work, I see the gang running at me like stampeding buffalo. I stand and hurl the remaining eggs their way, connecting with half. It slows them enough to see me grab my crotch with my left hand and flip them the bird with my right. “Fuck you Cooper! Your mother takes it in the ass like the cum guzzling queen she is for a fucking quarter behind the 7-11 you pieces of shit!” I scream at the top of my lungs, throwing more gasoline on the fire.
With that I turn and run as fast as I can for my old bike chanting, “FUCK YOU!” with every stride. The eggs on their bikes slow them enough that I get a free break into the woods. I pedal as fast as I can putting some distance between us, making my way effortlessly through the familiar maze of trails…
As soon as I can see Fred catching up on the trail behind me, I speed up. Left at the first fork. Right at the second fork. Looking over my shoulder, they’re still right behind me. Right at the big boulder. Right at the next fork. Left at the oak stump.
I see the end of the trail ahead, coming up fast. I take a sharp right at the last second onto the narrow trail I’d been riding up and down every day the last three weeks. Looking back, Fred nearly misses the corner. His first brother does and runs into a sticker bush. One more glance back and the whole gang has corrected and is right behind me in a conga line of angry adolescent testosterone.
Time slows in my mind and I think back to the day Elphie broke off and went left while I ventured right. If she hadn’t lead them away, I would have surely received the worst beating of my life. Maybe they would have shoved a stick in my eye instead of hers. I miss her more and more every day. The thought of her never again curling up in the crook of my leg under the covers as I drift off to sleep starts a fresh stream of tears down my cheeks and brings me back to the mission at hand.
Just in time I might add. I make a hard left at the giant oak tree and see the large sticker bush approaching fast. I brace, and leap off my bike into the bush. Hundreds of thorns poke through my flesh and pin me into the roots as my bike continues up the path between the bush edge and over the small dirt mound. I pull myself tighter into the bush and duck my head as bicycle after bicycle passes by… up the path I’d carved in the woods… over the mound… and out of sight.
My sobs slowly turn to shakes and the tears turn to giggles as I hear blood curdling scream after torturous cry as one by one, each of the Cooper boys launch off the dirt mound, into the blue July heat and fall to the quarry bed below with a thudding crash of metal and snap of limbs… My crying stops and turns to full fledged laughter as I realize, no matter what I’m never getting my Huffy back in one piece now.
April 13, 2012
Lost in Infinity - an excerpt
For reasons, I'm posting this excerpt from Lost in Infinity today. Enjoy.
Lost in Infinity
If you’re still reading, you’ve figured out by now that there are a lot of strange things rattling around up in my head. I have a plethora of issues. Scratch that. I have a plethora of problems. The truth is, I’m not the only one in my family like this. When I was nine a close relative succumbed to her own fears and was diagnosed schizophrenic. Institutionalized at age 35 of her own accord, she would eventually be considered stable, put on a cocktail of meds and shipped out to live on her own among the normal folks making up the rest of society.
I need to make it very clear, she has always been one of the most important people in my life. As far back as I can remember, she is in almost every one of my most vivid memories. Most people have that one influential grownup from their childhood who treated them like the adult they were going to become instead of the kid they were. For some it was an older brother or sister, for others it was a young aunt or uncle. Sometimes it was a neighbor or a stepparent. She has always been there for me and I hope that one day, if needed, I can be there for her.
A few years later, while living on her own, she was traumatized outside her apartment. The incident sent her spiraling back into the confines of her head. A few weeks later she was in the middle of her shift at work, turned to her boss and asked for someone to replace her. She admitted not feeling good, went to her locker, grabbed her purse and drove straight to the hospital. I remember my parents coming into my bedroom that night and telling me that she had checked herself back into the hospital. “It was a good thing though,” they’d told me, “because it meant that she was well enough to recognize the problem.”
I was allowed to visit her just once while she was in residence at the clinic. We walked through the front doors and were met by an invisible wall of antiseptic cleaner and bleach, the quintessential smell of hospital. My dad escorted me to the visitor’s area where she would be waiting for us. The smell is what I remember most. It wasn’t that it was “dirty” as much as it was “too clean”. The kind of clean that smells like its purpose is to hide something much more offensive. All around were other patients, shuffling to and fro harmlessly, in a narcotic haze. We’ve all seen psych wards in films and on television. I’m here to report that in my hometown, the psych ward did not disappoint. Instead it was as if it was designed specifically to keep up the accepted appearances set forth by “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”.
We were directed to a table in the middle of a sunlit room. The tables were filled with loved ones there to see drooling family members, wish them well and then get up and get the fuck out. It was a roomful of necessary obligations. I had a hard time focusing on the visit with the drama commencing all around me.
“Hi little man,” she greeted me as she stood up and accepted a hug from my dad.
“Hi,” I answered shyly.
“How are you doing?” my Dad asked.
She pulled my chair around the table nearest hers. “I’m glad you came to see me. I wanted to explain some things to you.” My father seemed very nervous. He gave her a look that reminded her that she was talking to an eleven year old. She considered for a moment, and then continued. “Do you know why I’m in here?”
I looked at my dad, not wanting to upset her with an incorrect answer. “Go ahead, Travis.” He encouraged my response having discussed the situation with me on the way to the hospital.
I answered tentatively, “You’re in here because you’re hearing voices again?”
“That’s right. You’re so smart.” She spoke slow and deliberate. Thinking back on it now, it was more likely whatever medication they had her on more so than her condescension toward my adolescent age. “The voices in my head are not my own. Sometimes they are nice and don’t bother me. Sometimes they help me. Sometimes they tell me to do bad things. That’s how I knew it was time to get some help.”
“Are they helping you?” My dad asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “I think I’m doing much better already.”
“What kind of bad things do the voices tell you to do?” I asked before I was able to stop myself.
She never answered the question, instead she showed me the ashtray she’d made earlier that day and showed us the bedroom she was in. Because she was a voluntary resident, her accommodations were pretty nice. Shortly after, my Dad and I left. The ride home was silent until we reached our driveway.
“She’s going to be fine ya know.” He stared out the windshield at the garage door in front of us. “They’re taking good care of her.” He was talking to me, but the words were meant for his own benefit.
It didn’t take long for her to come home from the hospital. She’s been living with relatives ever since. I assume she continues to have bouts with her issues, but to look into her eyes and see her smile, you’d never know. She is, and always has been, one of my heroes. I still remember that day, visiting her in the hospital as a kid. The courage that she had to have to first admit there was a problem and second, to seek the necessary help to deal with it has always inspired me. She’s an amazing woman both despite her issues and because of them.
I fear that as I get older, I’ll start to follow in her footsteps. I am now 35, the age she was when she was first hospitalized. It’s a heavy weight to bear. Then, I look at my boys, both of whom are testing in the 150+ IQ range, and I wonder if I make it through this life unscathed, will they?
Whenever I’m seen for my issues or we’re filling out paperwork for my kids there is a question about family history, mental illness and hereditary disorders. I hate that box. I don’t hear voices. Yet. I hear one. My own. I think. He’s my companion; my co-pilot; my conscious.
It’s not so much that I talk to him, as it is that he talks to me. He is me… or so I think. I’m not sure if what I experience is out of the ordinary or if it’s completely normal and I’m just looking into something too deep. How do you ask someone to explain how he or she thinks and what their inner dialogue is like without coming across as totally nuts?
During the summer of my tenth birthday, I became self aware of the conversations that went on within my own head. I don’t know any other way to describe it. One day, I was a normal kid (normal with insomnia, apeirophobia and an antagonistic imaginary accomplice known as The Shadow Man… ok, not so normal). The next day, I had an inner monologue. I think it had always been there but I was too hyper or too preoccupied to recognize it for what it was. It wasn’t until I sat across the table in that sterile hospital and heard the words, “the voices in my head are not my own,” that I started to worry that there may be more going on than I was able to comprehend.
Sigmund Freud’s structural model of the psyche says there are three parts of the psychic apparatus: the Id, ego and super-ego. The Id is the dark, inaccessible part of our personality that drives us toward our instinctual desires. The ego is the mediator between Id and reality. It drives our life through common sense and reason. The super-ego aims for perfection through morality and the influence of the world around it. The super-ego is the portion of the psyche that acts as the father, the patriarch and the decision maker.
After discovering my co-pilot, I began to rethink Freud’s concept of the psyche as it had been previously explained to me by my set of Encyclopedia Britannica. Freud did address the aspects of the psyche in terms of a power struggle between pleasure, morality and order. How do other people wage this war within their own life? Maybe I’m not different than the next guy, only more aware.
I have Rene Descartes’ “I Think Therefore I Am” tattooed down my left arm. The meaning of this quote is very important to me. It keeps me sane. It reminds me that no matter what, my co-pilot is with me. He is me. I am me. Whether or not you all exist is irrelevant to the world I have in my head.
And believe me, the world in my head is a fantastic place.
Lost in Infinity
April 12, 2012
April 11, 2012
New Reviews up at Amazon!
Thank you to everyone who has read the...
New Reviews up at Amazon!
Thank you to everyone who has read the book and offered up their opinion. I appreciate each and every one.
This was so cute until I imagined she was a zombie.
This was so cute until I imagined she was a zombie.
S.G. Browne - Shooting Monkeys in a Barrel
I am going to go ahead and assume you all know how much I loved "Breathers" by S.G. Browne… He has a new collection of short stories out which I plan on reading as soon as I'm finished with Daryl Gregory's "Devil's Alphabet". Check this out from S.G. Browne's website and try not to put it on your list.
Shooting Monkeys in a Barrel
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Shooting Monkeys in a Barrel
An original ebook collection of ten dark and humorous tales that includes: a family of luck poachers; extraterrestrial sex toys; a group of professional guinea pigs; a reality TV show starring the Seven Deadly Sins; and a zombie gigolo.
Just to name a few.
Several of the stories have appeared in other print collections or anthologies and others are brand-new tales that have never been published. Two of the stories included, "A Zombie's Lament" and "Softland," are the predecessors to my novels, Breathers and Lucky Bastard, while "The Sodom and Gomorrah Shore" incorporates several characters that appeared in my second novel, Fated. And after each tale you'll find author notes as to how the story originated.
Here's a brief description of the stories you'll find inside this original ebook collection of Ten Twisted Tales:
"A Zombie's Lament" – A newly reanimated corpse attends Undead Anonymous meetings with other zombies and comes to terms with the reality of his new existence.
"Softland" – A family of luck poachers living in central California attempts to turn around its fortunes from a deal gone bad.
"My Ego Is Bigger than Yours" – A new designer drug reinvents role-playing games by allowing its users to temporarily become dead celebrities and fictional characters.
"Dream Girls" – A futuristic tale of sexual obsession, extraterrestrial intelligence, the death of Marilyn Monroe, and the assassination of JFK.
"Shooting Monkeys in a Barrel" – A writer suffering from writer's block becomes addicted to the words he purchases from a drug dealer.
"Captivity" – A lonely and terrified prisoner is held captive in a bizarre and mysterious place.
"The Sodom and Gomorrah Shore" – The Seven Deadly Sins star in the original reality television show, set back during the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.
"Homer's Reprise" – A modern day story of Odysseus that blends Greek mythology with Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster, and Herman Melville'sMoby-Dick.
"Dr. Lullaby" – A panhandler and professional guinea pig discovers that the pharmaceutical drugs he's been testing have given him unusual side effects.
"Zombie Gigolo" – A day in the life of a living corpse who provides a unique service for lonely and desperate female zombies.
Apocalypse Coming
When I die, I want my tombstone to read, "Finally, he sleeps."
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