Like Kris Kringle - a short story

Like Kris Kringle (Fiction 101 Series)

Love is like a Kris Kringle gift exchange at Christmas time.

“Let’s just open these damn presents!” An angry Calvin plopped himself on his mother’s red velvet sofa.

“Can’t you just be civil for once.” A frustrated Lorraine chastised as she sat next to her younger brother.

Mom, joined by aunts and uncles and cousins sat around the tree. They opened their gifts. Each one filled with Love. Some shared their gift. Others didn’t want to part with their gift.

Calvin opened his, “What’s this? I got Crazy!”

Mom peeked at the open package, “No it’s not. You also got Love.”

~

"When it's hard and you are doubtful, give more." - Francis Chan

The Art of Procrastination - a short story

The Art of Procrastination (Fiction 101 Series)

Aaron stood from his chair. He made another pot of coffee. He poured a little whiskey in the coffee. He stared out the window. He poked at the fire. He sat down again. He examined the blank page. He stared through the fibers. He set his pen down and picked up his laptop. He stared through the blank pixels. He stood from his chair and stared out the window and poked at the fire. He did everything and anything other than the one thing he should be doing. Or he did nothing. And he thought of nothing. And nothing was done.

~

The phrase “Procrastination is the thief of time” was coined by the English poet Edward Young in his 1742-45 work Night Thoughts (or The Complaint), though Charles Dickens later popularized a similar sentiment in David Copperfield: “Never do tomorrow what you can do today. Procrastination is the thief of time.”

 

Scoundrels - a short story

Scoundrels (Fiction 101 Series)

One scoundrel met another on a deserted western street. The other scoundrel – the one-armed pistoleer – raised his left hand over his head. But not out of defeat. The first scoundrel wasn’t going to fall for that old trick. He pulled his pneumatic puff-canon on him with a sinister stare. With a wry grin, the second scoundrel slowly lowered his hand as a diversion while his mechanical right arm raised a brass light-beam caster from its holster. Both scoundrels were at a stalemate. Neither said a word 'til one fired. And the battle was on – until mom called them in for dinner.

Chore - an animated short (Screenplay)

    While exploring career options in my 20s, I took a Screenwriting class at San Francisco State University, Fall Semester of 1989. Recently, while rummaging through some old files, I discovered a typed screenplay I wrote entitled “‘Chore’ – An Animated Short based on a short story," dated 8 NOV 1989. The short story has yet to be found – if there ever was one. I also received an "A" in the class. Whether believable or not, I actually had envisioned 3-dimensional animation similar to Pixar. Please enjoy this early piece of work.

~

Chore – an animated short

Legend

INT: Interior

POV: Point of view

EXT: Exterior

VO: Voice over

ZI: Zoom in

CU: Close up

ZO: Zoom out

1.      INT. BEDROOM. SHORT ZOOM TO BUNK BED. PAN AROUND ROOM. Various pennants and posters. Paraphernalia consisting of: STAR WARS, E.T., Sherlock Holmes and Batman. Bookshelves: C.S. Lewis, Frank Herbert, H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King. Clothes on floor and draped on bunk-bed. CU to pocket pinball machine on dresser.

MATCH CUT TO:

2.      INT. OVERHEAD. Boy jumps from top bunk to floor – rummages for clothes. Discover 501s, Tie-die T-shirt, and jacket. Stuffs jacket pockets with baseball cards, gum, keys, Swiss Army knife, and other junk. As he leaves the bedroom room, CU behind his head.

3.      POV INT. peaks around kitchen corner, no one in sight. Moves to front door.

a.       EXT. Runs outside to beautiful sunny day; slams door by accident.

4.      EXT.  Doorway view. Boy runs across the street.

5.      INT. Door opens – POV female VO.

(calling)

Timothy!

            Timothy stops in his tracks and slowly turns.

                                                MOM

            What about your chores? I want the lawn mowed, the garbage taken out…

Muffle Mom’s voice and ZI to Timothy who has a horror look on his face.

Continue muffled chore list until…

                                                MOM

            …and I’ve asked you to do these things all summer!

                                                TIMOTHY (CU)

                                    (whining, yelling across street)

But Mom, this is the last Saturday of the Summer, can’t I –

                                                MOM

                                    (CU of feet tapping)

No! Now get your butt in here now!

6.      EXT CONT’D Timothy stands in shock. Blurred frame. Montague of a lawn-mower coming after him – brooms and mops pushing him to do his work – the dishwasher speaking to him in a deep voice – the washer and dryer are laughing and dancing – his room looking as if a hurricane is going on (things flying in the air), a G.I. Joe stops mid-flight and orders him to clean his room. The fence rocking and the chimney puffing with smoke – a tree next to the house acts as an arm, it grabs the chimney and puffs it like a cigar, the house becomes a “foreman” type character and bellows.

7.      TIMOTHY POV of house.

HOUSE

(deeply)

            Now get to work!

DISSOLVE TO:

8.      EXT. TIMOTHY washing dad’s white Jeep. Mom standing in garage doorway glaring at Timothy.

MOM

                                    (beginning to walk back into house)

            If you’d only started at the beginning of the summer –

                                                TIMOTHY

                                    (slight tongue and cheek)

            Yeah – I know –

9.      Aerial View ZO, neighborhood (a court) of houses snickering with each other as other boys in the neighborhood are outside washing their dads’ car.

MATCH CUT TO:

10.  The Earth (with female persona) satellites orbiting.

EARTH

                                         (authoritatively)

            And you drink your milk!

                                               (laughs)

The Other Ship - a short story

The Other Ship – a short story

Translation was deemed too difficult. Instead, they had established a rudimentary shared language. Mostly, it consisted of hand-waving and pointing. One of the Visitors pointed at the red light in the night sky when the Human asked about their origin. They didn’t have a written language. More and more they learned from each other. It took several weeks, but they came to an understanding of what each group wanted and their respective tasks. Both were patient with each other. But the Watchers, who were tasked with the heavy lifting, were not so patient. They had left shortly after the Visitors arrived. The Visitor seemed to provide an elementary level of understanding. The Human reached out his hand to the Visitor, something the latter had not seen before. The Human shook the hand of the Visitor and smiled. The smile confirmed to the Visitor the agreement was solidified.

The next step was to assist the Human and his family in building their ship of wood in exchange for something the Visitors deemed of great value. The Human told them a great storm was coming. He was instructed to build a great ship to save his family and two of each animal and all creeping creatures. Somehow the Human was able to relay that the outside Humans had once mocked him for such a foolish endeavor. When the Visitor captain heard this story, he said that he had heard ancient stories of a similar cataclysmic event. This caused a curious notion to shade his face. He was exceptionally curious about the large reptiles. But the Human assured the captain that only their eggs would be taken aboard.

It took years upon years to finally complete the ship. The Humans and the Visitors stood back, far enough away from the ship to admire their accomplishment. Both teams inspected the seals and the only opening into the ship. As they examined the ship, two of each animal from all over the Earth arrived in pairs. From elephants to mice, from lions to sheep, they arrived and boarded the giant wood ship. Food and other provisions were loaded as well. But there was only one pair of each animal. The Visitors had yet to see what they came to collect. The Humans had their “great value.” But the Visitors needed to repopulate their planet with Earth’s abundance of animals and select vegetation. The animals on the red planet were mostly extinct. An influx of new animals would need a food source. A slight rain began to fall. The Visitors looked up into the wet sky with tears of hope. They spoke to the Human something he could not understand. At first the Human was frightened. The Visitors could steal his ship and take every animal on board. But instead, the Visitor lifted his hand with his people’s gesture of assurance. He had another idea.

And another next step. To coordinate herding another set of animals aboard the visitors’ ship. This was a task unlike the Human had ever seen. He had already seen beyond his imagination. And when the Visitors opened up their ship on all four sides – from the stern, the bow, the port, and starboard – multiple smaller ships emerged and flew off like birds without wings into the four horizons. For the next four days, they returned with pairs and pairs of all the animals and creeping creatures. They loaded the large animals onto the massive ship and kept the smaller animals on the recovery ships. The smaller ships docked into their respective ports and the doors closed.

All of the Visitors were on board aside from their captain. He stood in front of the Human and his family. He held out his hand as the Human had done during those first days. The Human shook his hand with one hand over the other. They exchanged what they both considered gratitude. There was also a primary agreement, not to relay in written nor in oral tradition what had taken place. And the Visitor turned to board his ship. The metallic craft lifted effortlessly. Quietly, with a slight whisp of wind just as it had done when first contact was made with the Humans. Within seconds the other ship vanished from their sight.

As the rain increased and the springs of the earth began to release her waters, the Human boarded his ship – the lifeboat of all lifeboats. And he joined his family. For forty days and nights, the water fell from the sky and poured out of the earth. Six months later, the huge ship rested on a high mountain.  He and his family disembarked to find the sun was shining. The animals, in pairs, left and went to various places throughout the earth. The Humans were glad. It was a new start.

The Human captain planted a vineyard. Two years later, he crushed the grapes into wine. One evening, he and his wife drank the wine to their fill. So much so, they were passed out drunk until they awoke the next morning.

The Visitors’ ship traveled through space. Passed by the earth’s moon. Eventually, they orbited one of their moons before altering their trajectory for the red planet. A journey of seven months and ten days. With each of the four smaller ships they landed in order to deposit the animals in ecologically suitable locations. Since the animals were not indigenous to their planet, it would take time for them to adapt. Scientists of their world would oversee such delicate adjustment.

The captain planted a vineyard, and two years later he made wine just as the Human had taught him. He and his mate sat out on their balcony with a telescope and gazed at the stars as they drank the wine. They admired the blue planet he had once visited. And reveled in his accomplishment – the thriving animals and vegetation. They continued to drink the wine. So much so, they were drunk and did not wake up the next morning. 

Fueled By Antisocial - a short story

Fueled by Antisocial - As Opposed to Antimatter (Fiction 101 Series)

It was quiet valued by most. Most of the time it fueled the asteroid belt Dysfunction ships. Ships with a passenger manifest filled with anyone diagnosed with antisocial behavior. Behavior that led to such isolation most everyone was alone. Alone and contained for their respective destinations. Destinations that decreased with each delivery. Deliveries that decreased the quantity of antisocial for any chance of a return trip back to Earth. Earth, the place where antisocial became scarce and travel no longer of interest to anyone. Anyone and everyone lost the curiosity of exploration and discovery once antisocial was exhausted. Exhausted by everyone. 

Bookmarks - a short story (Special Edition)

Bookmarks – a short story

She reached for her bookmark, but it wasn’t where she left it. She asked her husband, “Have you seen my bookmark? I know I left it on the end table,”

“I’m reading the same book,” he responded. “Remember, the library only had one copy. Maybe you left it in your favorite chapter,” he pointed at the book.

She turned back several pages for the most recent bookmark and held it in her hand. But there were more – more bookmarks sticking out of her mystery novel. She flipped back through the pages and stopped at every bookmark. She reread those pages and smiled in fond memory. She looked around her family room at the many photographs of grandchildren and great-grandchildren and smiled again. Then, as she continued, she realized that many of the pages had been erased. Mysteriously, this also made her smile since these were the pages with errors. She looked up at the cross on the wall with a tear and closed her thankful eyes.

Then she turned back to where she left off that morning and turned the page to continue. But it was blank. Not erased. It was just blank. So were the remaining pages of the novel. She appeared a bit perplexed – at first.

“What is it, my dear?” Her husband asked.

Her smile was her answer. She set the bookmark down and picked up a pen. She gazed out the window, at the photographs and at the cross on the wall, and then back into her husband’s eyes – and began to write.

 

The Reform Club - a short story

The Reform Club (Fiction 101 Series)

Arthur rocked back with a deep gasp. His eyes appeared like someone else was behind them. Startled, Herbert reached for his shoulder. Jules reacted in a similar fashion.

“What is it, my friend?” Herbert asked.

“Your mustache is thicker than I had imagined,” Arthur examined him.

“‘Thicker!’ What the devil do you mean? We’ve know each other for years.”

Jules suddenly mirrored Arthur’s gasp. He nodded at Arthur as if they had a prearranged assignment. “You need to write about the future,” he implored.

“It’s imperative you write about what we’ve seen,” Arthur urged.

Herbert examined them closely, “Perhaps, another drink?”

~

(Click here to read the story from the other side of time.)

Time Traveling Tattoo - a short story

Time Traveling Tattoo (Fiction 101 Series)

When she first applied the needle at the base of my neck, the tingling of her artwork filled my mind. An empty Victorian seat, a spinning disc, a set of glowing controls and a long brass lever appeared over the course of the next few hours. Every few minutes she blew on the ink. Finally, she flashed the image to me with a mirror. Her soft breath sent a shiver down my spine and back into my skull. Suddenly, I sat before two gentlemen discussing their work.

Startled, Jules swore in French.

Herbert exclaimed, “Arthur, you don’t seem to be yourself!”

~

(Click here to read the story from the other side of time.)

Flying Dead - a short story

Flying Dead - 1940

Another order. Another mission. Each time Captain Barton received his orders, all of him died. The Colonel told him years back – he should consider himself as dead while on a mission. In a mysterious and sick way, it motivated him. But that didn’t make it any easier to write a dead man’s letter to his mom and dad back home. Before he wrote the letter he thought about what he’d write as he packed. Although he saved all the other letters, he wrote a new one before each mission. It was his way of living. Even though he had several kills, he knew he was saving lives – the brave men on the ground at the front lines. Even though he died with each mission, a fresh new letter was the only thing that kept him alive.

He pulled out his worn leather suitcase from under his bunk with his equally worn hands. He carefully opened the case and gazed at the purple velvet lining. He took a deep breath and started to pack. He folded his civilian trousers and placed them in first. They were his legs that walked him to the recruiting office just as the war broke out. Next, his dress shirt. It had once covered his innocent heart which gave him the courage to leave home. A blue tie followed which reminded him of the civility and freedom for which he fought. Important to him, like the details in planning, he placed the smaller items in next. Brass cufflinks. Shaving kit. Toothbrush. Comb. A library edition of Ernest Hemingway's short stories. And a framed photo of his mom and dad. All the items he couldn’t take with him. And then he sat with pen and paper:

    Dear Mom and Dad,

    I can’t tell you how many times I’ve written this letter. Since it is in your hands now, I have gone to a better place. I pray that my death meant something. By the strength that you taught me I persevered. When I joined, I was only a young man – truly just a boy. The Royal Air Force taught me to be a man. Please know that I thought of you each time I went up in the air – the seemingly infinite air. And in the presence of the Infinite God, I will pray for you. I didn’t have much time to write this letter as my orders required immediate attention. Continue to give each other the attention and love I experienced and admired in both of you.

    Your endearing son,

    Ian

He sealed the letter and carefully placed it on top of his dress shirt. He turned and walked toward the window to gaze at his plane – a Hawker Tempest with Flying Dead emblazed on the cowl. Along with his wingman, she was his best friend and ally. He closed his suitcase as if he were closing the lid on his casket. He closed his eyes and imagined the letter inside the darkness of his suitcase. He walked out to his plane in a disciplined manner. And then, with an eruption of smoke, he brought the engine to life.

 

Game Over - a short story

 Game Over (Fiction 101 Series)

With pockets full of quarters, the boys filled their imaginations with decorated pixels. It was 1983. The girls were there to watch the boys, mostly. Ali was there to watch them all. To observe. She always had a few boys watch her play. One boy brought her a Hershey bar. She took her eyes off the screen for a second and her last space ship blew up. It was the first time she needed a second quarter. She walked outside. The boy followed. Something caught her attention. She looked up and through a rogue cloud she saw the words, Game Over.

 ~

[Click here to read Part 1]

Ali - a short story

 Ali (Fiction 101 Series)

She sat in the dark.

In the arcade after hours, she powered down to recharge. During this time, she traveled around the world and saw all the advancements of mankind. And wars. And unification. And famine. And the first landing on Mars and then Titan. She traveled to her home planet and beyond – eventually to another galaxy. She witnessed the rise and fall of many kingdoms. Then her recharge cycle ended.

Saturday morning came and the arcade opened. Boys and girls flooded inside. It was time to insert coin and play again. The Coors calendar on the wall read, August 1982. 

~

[Click here to read Part 1]

[Click here to read Part 3]

25¢ - INSERT COIN TO PLAY - a short story

 25¢ - INSERT COIN TO PLAY (Fiction 101 Series)

It was 1981. Ali and her friends played video games at the arcade on the boulevard. The room was illuminated by the lights from the screens of ghosts, race cars, ostriches, fireballs and space ships. Her favorite game was Galaga since she preferred the space ships. She was the first to play the game. The boys always thought they could beat her. But with just one quarter she would play all afternoon. Her high score was unreachable, except by her. It was nearly dinner, and her friends needed to leave. The subdermal screen on her left wrist illuminated.

Game Over – Insert Coin!

~

[Click here to read Part 2]

T-Minus - a short story

T-Minus (Fiction 101 Series)

Cape Canaveral.

“T-minus 10 and counting,” the AI announced. Gender neutral voice. “Nine. Eight.”

Everyone in the capsule and the Control Room heard it. Six astronauts. No humans. Six overseers. No humans. “Seven.” No one heard it at the Main Visitor Complex. “Six.” No one heard it at the Banana Creek Launch Viewing Area. “Five.” No one heard it at the LC-39 Observatory Gantry. “Four.” No one heard it at the Exploration Tower. “Three.” No one heard it at the Westgate Cocoa Beach Pier. “Two.” Nor at any of the other nearby smooth beaches.

Because no one was there to watch. 

Darker Shades of Black - POEM of the MONTH!

Darker Shades of Black
 
Questions in the dark
And falling off the cliff
A child caught by chaos
Abandoning the pontiff
 
Handing out balloons
Shepherds lose their sheep
A child asks for hope
Collapsed into the deep
 
Donning the devil’s shoes
All the rocks cry out
A child stepped upon
Bleeding with a shout
 
Mars in the morning
I swallowed the sunrise
A child opens a vanity
And they dehumanize
 
Nothing left to write
Lost between the lines
A child without a page
Until everyone resigns
 
There’s a clock on the wall
And nothing left to imagine
A child is not recycled dust
But desperate for adoption
 
Surfing on an atomic bomb
What’s written on our plaque
Shadowlands into twilight
With darker shades of black
 
Until…

 

Silence of Memory - a short story from Hawktown

Silence of Memory (Fiction 101 Series)

A hawk flew in silence over the river. Upstream, she soared with the lift of a thermal against the jagged bluff. Over the green valley she turned her head toward the blue. Higher and higher, the warm air carried her until she was out of sight.

Along the bank of the river a boy and his older brother stood with a smooth stone in his hand. He shared fond thoughts of their lost father and kissed the stone. He skipped it across the lazy river until the stone sank into the silence of memory.

Until one cool day, the hawk returned. 

~

This story is credited to Devon Ellis, a 14-year old character in the novel Hawktown. Devon and his family appear in chapter three. They are searching for his lost father. 

Also, please see the haiku from the novel.

On a High Desert Road - a chapter from Hawktown

The following piece was inspired by a photograph I took on Keeney Pass in Oregon while on a lengthy bicycle ride. This is known as Ekphrasis, which defined by Merriam-Webster is "a literary description of a visual work of art." It is also known as a "talking painting" by the use of a poem or prose work of art. 

~

On a High Desert Road – chapter one from Hawktown, The Blank - 2055

A little girl sat at her desk. The desk her Daddy and Mommy bought for her birthday – before Mommy died. Her coloring pencils in the pink cubby drawer emerged from the grip of her delicate hand. She filled the page with a hawk on a telephone pole – and with fallen lines draped over the shoulder of the road. In the background, green mountains with a sunrise that beamed from her eyes filled the page. But the beam turned to screams from outside her window. Daddy rushed into her room. He scooped her up, but she resisted his plea to leave. He grabbed a duffel bag to fill with as many of her clothes as he could find. She stole a peek out the window and gulped. He urged her to step away. She stood like one of her dolls in the corner – unable to move. Eyes widened – unable to blink. She carried the same plain stare when her daddy buckled her seatbelt. He placed her favorite bright green backpack next to her. The garage door opened like a veil lifted, revealing the madness. She cried. Not out of fear. Daddy was there. She pointed at the bed of the pickup and cried about her pink cubby filled with her drawing pencils. The chair and pink drawer were not in the back of the truck. But the screams in the streets screeched. Cars and trucks swerved and dodged each other. Others collided into fences and into each other. Some nameless men and women pounded on their truck as they emerged from the driveway. The people begged. And screamed. Many suddenly and mysteriously went silent and walked quietly away. Down the street, thousands and thousands seemed to roam mindlessly.

Daddy saw his little girl in the mirror. She gasped whenever someone lunged for the truck. She screamed. Something stung her in the neck. She smacked it like swatting a mosquito. Daddy smacked his neck as well. More and more of those running suddenly stopped and held their respective necks. And then more and more people simply turned around and started walking in the other direction. Their faces expressionless. Their eyes blank.

Daddy peered into his rearview and asked, “Baby, you okay?”

“Don’t ask,” she held her chest.

“Just breathe, baby. Slowly, in and out,” he said as calmly as he could.

His little girl closed her eyes and breathed in slowly, and out slowly.

Daddy weaved his way out of the neighborhood. To the left on unfamiliar streets. Bright, multi-blue hues glowed and mixed with unnerving lightning strikes from the direction of Portland International Airport. Daddy drove and drove past the city limits – east on Highway 84. The little girl had calmed enough to take a peek into her daddy’s rearview mirror. He drove all morning and all afternoon until they were in the rolling high-desert, off the main highway. Before them, the mountains stood off in the distance.

Before them, a place to pull over. They had driven without a break. Daddy slowed his truck and took a peek at his little girl. Asleep. Not a soul in front or behind on the long rolling road. Time to stop. He gently woke is little girl. Her brown curls were a touch matted, but a subtle breeze blew her hair back when she hopped out of the truck. He encouraged her not to wander. But across the highway was a curious shape. It was a broken chair. A wood chair like hers – but not. And behind it, in the thicket of dry grass, was a pink cubby drawer. Shadows draped on the dusty earth from the broken chair and the drawer on the rocky shoulder of the road. Tears fell from a nearby wounded storm cloud. She looked into her daddy’s eyes and asked to take a picture. She started to cross the highway but was immediately reprimanded. Her steps returned to her truck. Daddy took the picture. He then looked at the pavement filled with tire marks. Perhaps yahoos had been burning rubber in the middle of nowhere. Without giving it further thought, he placed his little girl back into the pickup that was too tall for her. Slowly, they rolled back onto the highway.

But the next rise in the road at Keeney Summit revealed another pickup truck. It had rolled off the highway. One tire still spun from the recent accident or the effects of the desert wind. Daddy continued to drive. Focused on the road as fatigue began to take its toll. Through the rain-spotted window, the little girl saw two figures off to the side of the road. One of the figures was a woman. She frantically waved at them as she ran and limped toward the highway. Her coarse hair was dramatically affected by the rain. Though the little girl and her daddy could not hear the woman, it was apparent that her shouts were a plea for help. The woman continued to approach the road. She waved her arms. Her limp lessened with determination. The little girl looked at the back of her daddy’s head. Her eyes widened. Before her mouth opened, she looked at the woman, who clearly bled from her face and onto her jacket. With each step, her feet carved a slice into the soft earth as she limped. The woman reached the edge of the road, and to the little girl’s surprise, another little girl. The rain subsided. The woman closed her eyes and took a deep breath. A lightning strike flashed off in the distance. Her black face glimmered with tears and hair damp from the rain. The other little girl looked up and held a piece of paper above her head in an appeal of desperation. It was obscured by the rain-distorted window. Daddy slowed down. Closer and closer. Now, it was clear, the paper was filled with a drawing of a hawk flying away over distant mountains with a setting sun – slightly blurred from the light rain.

“Stop!” Daddy’s little girl screamed, “Please, Daddy – stop.”

Their truck came to an abrupt halt. Daddy examined the eyes of his little girl. She returned his with a smile. He rolled down the passenger window as the woman and her little girl approached. An everlasting gratitude washed over their faces as they carried three bags between them – and a backpack by the little girl. As twilight passed, glimmering lights in the distance behind them flashed and darted over the horizon of the road. Daddy urged them to get into his truck immediately. The woman secured her little girl in the back seat next to daddy’s little girl. Her limp prevented her from hopping into the truck. Daddy reached across the cab and pulled the woman into the passenger seat. Now the truck was filled with four. Daddy started the truck and glanced at the woman. Her bleeding had stopped, but Daddy provided her with napkins and water from the glovebox. Daddy’s little girl looked square into the other little girl’s eyes. She reached into her backpack and pulled out her latest drawing of the hawk and mountains. The other little girl’s tears dried to reveal a hesitant yet everlasting smile.

“My name is Ellie. What’s yours?” Daddy’s little girl asked.

The other little girl held her drawing tightly, “Ruth.”

Daddy held out his right hand to the woman.

She shook his hand with her left and quickly pulled it away.  

“Josh,” he introduced himself.

“Hannah,” she replied – reserved and cautious as she looked up the road.

~

In literature, the hawk is a metaphor for a grasp on reality. Sometimes, we lose that grasp. And other times, we find others to help us. Also, please enjoy a haiku from the novel, Hawktown.

~

Please click the following link to read more of Hawktown, The Blank - 2055 on Fan Fiction. 

Hawktown – a haiku

Hawktown – a haiku

 

Look at the hawk soar

It landed where I once stood

I take a sidestep

~

In literature, the hawk is a metaphor for a grasp on reality.

Also, please enjoy a chapter from Hawktown.

Second Step - a short story

Second Step (Fiction 101 Series)

It seems reasonable Adam had to learn how to walk. The Father held his outstretched hands while taking his first steps in the Garden. I wonder if it took him years to learn or only a day like a lamb. I wonder if he taught the same to Eve. If they walked hand in hand on a warm afternoon. If it was years or just a day before they both stumbled and fell.

Whether it took years or a day, their Father gave them the ability to do all these things. It is up to us to take the second step. 

Bleak Street, 2109 – a short story

(Contains course language and intense violence.)

Bleak Street, 2109 – a short story

“Oakland Police! Open up!” Detective Wright shouted as he pounded his fist against the apartment door. “Mr. Lopez, we have a warrant. Open up!”

Trashed lined the corners of the corridor. Graffiti decorated the walls. Shadows of the barred windows spilled down the hallway. Syringes stacked like popsicle sticks by what little innocence remained in front of the opposite door. Light peaked around his partner, Detective Shepherd, and their uniformed officers – there for backup. Four badges in all. POLICE blazoned on their dark blue vests. Hyper-weapons activated and raised, each held close to their chests. Hearts pounded. But all were at the ready.

Detective Shepherd stood opposite of her partner who returned the gesture, “Javier Lopez. Police! We have a warrant!” Shepherd scanned the eyes of the uniformed officers. Then back at Wright. She whispered, “Activate body-shields. We have thirty seconds.” Another nod from each officer and Detective Wright. The confirmation to proceed with the next action.

Wright took a step back and loaded power into his foot. He was always the favored one to kick in doors since he was gifted with size thirteen feet. He launched his leg forward and smashed the door down. Splinters from the door frame scattered across the entry. Wright was first to take the charge. Shepherd behind him. The uniforms followed. Wright turned to his left with his weapon ready to take aim. Shepherd turned to the right. She scanned the nearby kitchen with her weapon in hand. They fanned out. The uniforms spread throughout the apartment. Wright continued to announce their presence, “Javier Lopez!” No one was in the living room. Lines of blow textured the coffee table. A red sofa with ancient bullet holes laid rotting like a corpse.

One of the uniforms cleared the kitchen. The other cleared the balcony. They continued their search. The lead officer backed by his partner. Shepherd now backed by Wright.

Shepherd approached one of the bedrooms with Wright in tow. Same strategy applied when they entered. The door was ajar. Shepherd slowly opened the door with her foot. A Hispanic man fitting their suspect’s description. He was halfway out the window. He looked back inside. He lifted his gun in their direction. The glare from behind the suspect pierced Shepherd’s eyes.

She shouted, “Put the gun down!” Her powerful Creole voice pounded across the room.

The suspect began to raise his weapon. She fired once. Javier’s shoulder flung back. Bone cracked. Blood gushed from the mouth of a tattoo skull.

Another shot rang out from behind Wright and Shepherd. A second suspect. The shot caused Shepherd to swivel in agony toward the door frame. Blood splattered across Wright’s face.

A shot from their prime suspect zinged passed Wright’s left ear. The mini-shockwave was deafening. Without hesitation, Wright took precise aim and fired twice. Javier fell backward from two chest wounds – away from his heart, if he had one. Blood drained down his white tank-top and covered more of his tattoos. The look of shock filled his eyes. The look of regret filled his face. Not from guilt. From getting caught. Wright kicked Javier’s gun away – toward his partner.

At the same time the detectives were preoccupied, the uniforms had one more door to open before heading down the opposite hallway. Again, the same strategy applied. One officer at the ready to open the door. The other stood like his training at the range. Door opened. A second suspect fired several rounds. All missed the uniforms or absorbed by their shields and deadened.

One shot echoed from behind Wright. Another shot hit Shepherd. Instead of absorbing the shot, the shield only slowed down the inevitable for a fraction of a second. And then the shot found a path above Shepherd’s vest.

Both uniforms fired upon the second suspect. Multiple shots to the chest. Blood fountained from his mouth as he fell. His body spilled blood on the floor like a squeezed sponge.

Shepherd had slid down the door frame. Her shield deactivated. She clutched her shoulder. Applied pressure to the wound. She managed to switch her weapon to her injured arm.

Wright shouted at one of the uniforms, “Call it in! Officer down! Two suspects injured!”

One officer complied but reported, “Make that one suspect injured.”

The other uniform took point at the entrance to the opposite hallway. And waited for orders.

The first suspect was in no condition to retaliate.

Wright leaned down to his partner, “Help is on the way.”

She briefly gazed at her wedding ring. And then returned her focus on the assailant. “I’m alright,” she pointed her weapon at Javier. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

A muffled scream came from the second bedroom, opposite from where Wright and the other uniform stood. Wright redirected his weapon down the hallway. He nodded at the uniform. The officer mirrored in acknowledgement and aimed his weapon at the cracked door. The second officer covered Shepherd. Just in case there were others unaccounted. Wright kicked the door open but remained back. “Show yourself!”

“Not a chance, pig!” A third suspect shouted. The muffled scream became a grunt. Female.

Wright looked over at the uniform. His face. He read his face. The uniform did the same. He nodded. Wright rushed the room with the uniform at his back. The uniform turned to the left then to the right. The detective was now faced with a dilemma. And all shields were down.

The third suspect held his hand firmly over the mouth of a little girl. His gun pressed into her skull, “I kill her!” He snarled. “Let me go, or she dies.” He gave him the evil eye.

“Let her go,” Wright ordered. “You don’t want to hurt anyone,” he calmly added.

A faint voice from the master bedroom barely made it into the second bedroom, “No las lastimes,” Javier repeated. “Diego, don’t hurt her.” His voice faded.

“Who is she? Diego. Is this Javier’s little girl? He wouldn’t be too happy if you killed her. After the doctor’s patch him up – well, you may find a shank in your gut once you get to Folsom, or worse, Quentin.”

From the doorway, the uniform had a clear bead on the third suspect’s head.

Wright stole a quick glance at the uniform and shook his head and quickly redirected his attention on Diego, “Hey! You’re looking at three to five for the coke. Don’t add murder to the charge.” He stared at him with a glare of finality.

“Comer mierda!” Diego sneered. A look greater than hate – indifference.

He slowly moved to his right. Closer to the third suspect. The third suspect followed him with his eyes. His head did not move. The uniform shuffled to the left, further into the bedroom. Wright had a decision. Risk the little girl’s life. Or further diplomacy. He attempted the latter one more time, “Release the girl. Tell me where Esposito is, and I’ll tell the D.A. you cooperated. Get your sentence reduced. What do you say?”

“No deals, pig!” He increased the pressure of his gun into the little girl’s head. She winced in pain and muffled a cry for help. A bleak cry for help.

“Let her go! Or I'll take you down. How’s that for a deal?”

The scream of sirens filled the streets outside. Hyper-gun smoke filled the air. The little girl tried to scream. The sunset began to peer through the blinds. It reflected off of the uniform’s badge. The beam of light glared into the third suspect’s eyes and blinded him. He removed his hand from the little girl’s mouth and reached for his eyes. Wright took action. He lunged for the little girl and snatched her from the clutches of the snake. The snake recoiled as he lunged his gun in the direction of the uniform. The officer instinctively fired two shots. One to the head. The other to the chest. The snake’s head was crushed. Blood and brains spewed onto the wall behind him.

The little girl clutched Wright’s legs and cried a stream of fear and relief. The light from the sunset shown upon his chest like the spotlight of a performing stage.

He gave the little girl to the uniform to watch her. The uniform took her away from the bleak horror that continued to spill onto the bedroom floor. She continued to thank them both as they waited in the kitchen.

Back in the master bedroom Wright double-checked his partner who confirmed she was alright. He knelt down next to Javier and applied pressure to his wounds, “EMTs are almost here. Should I have them attend my partner first or you?”

Javier attempted to spit at the detective, “You can’t do that. I have rights.” He muttered.

“I’m thinking, you tell me where I can find Esposito and – the EMTs attend to you first.”

Shepherd added, “He’ll do it too.” She went along with his bluff.

“Go piss yourself,” Javier blurted with blood spewing through his teeth.

Wright turned to his partner, “What is it with these assholes? They all have some sick fascination with shit and piss.”

Before Wright could grill Javier again, the EMTs arrived. Four of them. Two immediately attended to Shepherd. The other two to Javier. Within minutes they were able to stabilize both. Javier took a bit longer. 

Wright turned toward the backup officers, “Read him his rights.”

Shepherd declined a gurney as Javier was wheeled out to the hallway toward the elevator.

Someone from Social Services arrived moments later. Before they took the little girl away, Wright knelt down beside her, “¿Como te llamas?”

“Gracia,” she softly replied.

He smiled at her. The kind of smile he’d give his own daughter.

Out in the parking lot, the ambulance with Javier drove off. The Crime Scene Unit arrived with other uniformed officers and headed upstairs. Just before a second ambulance drove Shepherd to the hospital, she asked Wright, “Think he’ll talk?”

“After he’s patched up, we’ll question him in the box. Sooner or later, he’ll talk.”

And with that, the ambulance doors shut and drove off. As they stood on the corner of Bleak Street and 7^th Avenue, the media had gathered. Drone cameras circled the neighborhood.  A crowd had gathered behind the marked and unmarked cruisers that whispered while parked. Some of the crowd taunted the police. One demonstrator slammed his fist into one of the cruisers. The vehicle’s defense system shocked the man into compliance and ran off in fear of arrest.

One of the uniforms guffawed and quickly returned to his job.

Wright caught the attention of the officer who shot Diego, “Good job up there.”

“Just doing my job, sir.” By now, the officer had removed his vest.

The detective took a closer look at his shiny name badge, “Officer Davis. Thanks for having my back. By the way, your first shot – did you miss?”

“Sir?” Davis tilted his head back as a realization, “I didn’t intend to—” he stopped.

“It’s understandable. In the heat of the moment—”

“I didn’t have time to – the girl was all I could think about.”

“And – you saved her life,” he firmly placed his hand on the officer’s shoulder.

Officer Davis quickly looked up at the twilight sky, the flickering street light, and then back at Detective Wright, “Sir, I believe we had help from above today.”

With a deep exhale, Wright nodded, “I think you’re right. I think – you are right.”

~

Sincere thanks to Retired Oakland Police Officer Kenneth Douglas as a special consultant. 

Born Six Feet Under - POEM of the MONTH!

Born Six Feet Under
 
Pacific Heights or Park Ave.,
She was born six feet under;
Loved by the local temple,
Now loving with a temper.
 
A misplaced fire roared down the street,
Her drunken husband pushed to attack;
So she decorated her house in white lace
And painted her wedding dress black.

We’re born six feet under,

Though not meant to wander.
 
Hell's Kitchen or Mission St.,
He was born six feet under;
Hated by the local population,
But he loves with a thunder.
 
A fire set in his soul roars down the street,
His brothers at the mission learn to serve;
So he put aside all desires for decoration,
And painted a cross for all to observe.
 
We are born six feet under,
Kiss the ground and wonder.

One-Eyed White Rabbit - POEM of the MONTH!

 One-Eyed White Rabbit

 

I don’t see the man in the moon

But a one-eyed white rabbit

Hopping across the dark sky

Into the deep blue of imagination

With a raven at a writing desk

Flying on the back of a cow

Who stopped counting sheep

On hills of green and gold

 

Who leaps across creeks

Of dancing fish and frogs

And tip their hats my way

Taking granted for nothing

 

They all wink with approval

Like a sunrise on a new road

As I grin out the window

Across the country of dreams

 

Daydreams shift by illusion

Once again, then gradually gone

Until all the clouds magically

Appear like the man in the moon

 

And the one-eyed white rabbit

Even on cold winter nights

With a bounty of endless dreams

Fills another early morning

 

A morning of snow angels

Who kissed my lips

When I was born

Born to dream

Lantern Rouge - a short story

Based upon true events. Some artistic license was used to accomplish the theme. Written permission obtained by two of the persons to use their real names. This story is dedicated to you, Darryl and Maurice (also known as "Mo" or "Cricket"). 

Thank you!

~

Lantern Rouge – a short story

The 20^th century novelist William Saroyan once said, “The bicycle is the noblest invention of mankind.” Though a humble machine, the bicycle screams of being noble. It is simple in design. A frame. Two wheels. A chain and gears. Handlebars and a saddle for the rider to guide the machine through the air on the many paths that provide the euphoria of freedom.

Bicycle racing is a team sport with individual glory. The lantern rouge is a term used in bicycle races that references the last rider or last group of riders in the field. Many times, it’s a result of working for the team leader until all is exhausted. This is one story of many about an avid cyclist named Aaron who began his amateur career of racing in his mid-30s. The podium inspired him. And winning was the ultimate goal, as it was for most riders.

One afternoon, after a long bike ride with friends on his 67^th birthday, they listened to a young man in his 20s carry on about his goals to win races. His stories laced with “dude.” Winning was like calories; he had to have them. He ranted to the point that it soured everyone’s beer. It was difficult to find a pause in the young man’s stories like a respite in a fiery criterium. But finally one of Aaron’s friends interjected. Maurice, or Mo – also known as Cricket, relayed a story of a past race.

Cricket told them about a teammate who sacrificed his own ambitions so he could reach the podium. You see, in amateur racing, at the lower Categories, a high majority of riders sought only the win. Even though riders were on teams, it wasn’t like the Pros. But Cricket had a teammate who raced with that attitude – albeit not at first.

Early on in his amateur career, Cricket’s teammate sought individual glory, but gravity was not his friend. Even at his lowest weight he was not able to reach the podium when climbs were his obstacle. So, he focused on races with a typical sprint finish. Before many races, he’d hammer on about tactics that would get him a win. But, when the final kilometer of a race quickly approached, he had difficulty maintaining or finding the right position. When the last 200 meters came, he could not find that sprinter’s edge. Season after season resulted in several top-10 finishes and countless top-20s. But never the win nor a podium finish.

Cricket continued to tell them about one sunny afternoon on a training ride over several rollers, Cricket’s teammate was talking with a mutual friend named Darryl. They had raced together, but Darryl quickly upgraded to a Category-2, and they no longer raced in the same field. Cricket overheard Darryl give his teammate some wisdom. Of course, at 25 mph it was difficult to understand what another rider was saying in the wind. So, when the ride was over they stopped for a pint downtown.

Darryl pointed out that they all enjoyed the thrill of cycling, of racing, and the comradery they shared. There was something singular about suffering together for hours on two wheels. Aaron listened. For the first time it appeared something clicked. A new edge appeared in his eyes. Darryl had a way of filling the gaps for others including those on the road.

The next season, Cricket and team awaited the Official to start the race. It was a 60 mile road race with flats and rollers. After the two-mile promenade, one of Cricket’s teammates went to the front and hammered it. He strung out the field for the first 25 miles which caused half of the riders to fall off the back. The field was now down to around 25 riders. His teammate was exhausted. He settled into the peloton. His work was complete. Cricket’s other teammates sheltered him from the wind and kept him near the front to minimize the chance of a crash. Over rollers and through tight corners they protected their leader. Cricket was known by his nickname because in a sprint he could jump like a cricket.

With two miles to go, to his surprise Cricket saw his exhausted teammate come up alongside him – he appeared recovered. He looked at Cricket through his mirror-shaded sunglasses and said in a deep – and almost commanding voice, “Yo Mo. Get on!”

Cricket knew exactly what to do. Immediately, he grabbed Aaron’s wheel and used his draft. Another of his teammates joined the lead-out. Over the roughest section of the course and into a strong headwind, his teammates hammered it. The other teammate and Cricket on his wheel. For over a mile his exhausted teammate held the fast pace until 200 meters to the final corner. Then he peeled off and Cricket’s other teammate took over. As they exited the final corner, Cricket launched into his sprint for the last 200 meters for the win! His exhausted teammate came in at the end of the pack – nearly last place.

The young rider had listened intently. But then, to the disappointment of those around him, he said, “I can do that without teammates!” He laughed as he took his last sip of beer.

Cricket said, “Aaron, please tell our young friend what ‘clicked.’”

The young boastful rider’s eyes widen in surprise.

Aaron waved off the request.

Cricket insisted.

“Dude! Let’s hear it.”

Aaron quietly looked down at the ground and then up at his friends until his eyes settled upon the young rider, “I found my place in the peloton.” He gently nodded with satisfaction.

The young rider was quiet. A blank stare came over his face – like that of an empty road. A road that needed to be filled with a noble machine and a humble word. Perplexed, he asked Aaron, “You never won a race?”

Aaron shook his head— “But I did.”

“Dude, I don’t understand!” He stood abruptly.

Aaron looked at Cricket with a reminiscent smile, “When my teammate won the race.”

Haiku Acre Wood - Special Edition

 Haiku Acre Wood

 

Don’t be an Eeyore

It’s better to be a Pooh

And hard to be Owl

Original Artist, E.H. Shepard
Public Domain Since Jan. 1, 2022

In honor of A.A. Milne's birthday.

No One Says “Alas!” - POEM of the MONTH!

 No One Says “Alas!”
 
No one says “Alas!” anymore
Not since, I can’t remember
Not that I was, we were alive
When people, books used it
When poems rhymed, smelled
Of jasmine on a hot afternoon
When mommy shouted, “Iced tea!”
And grandpa rocked back, “Alas!”
 
But it was further back than that,
Grandpa just mocked an old novel
And he didn’t use the word right
Though rewarded with a shot
To numb the pain in his back
His claim held up the world
With ideals slowly crumbling
“Alas!” He lifted his hand
 
Then great grandad awakened
Just long enough to whisper
As a few listened but most …
Most missed his last words,
“What fell should have remained
What remained should have fallen
And rain fell on every generation,
Alas! Even on those before its use.”