Fiction For The Revolution

As a kid I spent three quarters of my time on restriction.  My mother came home from work and rested her tired hand on the television to see if it was warm from me watching it.  But I had given up on sneaking in television time.  I had found books.  Books that was much dirtier and meaner than television.

When I reached my late teens and early twenties I got hooked up with a group of writers and we started talking about the books that shaped us as humans, and I was appalled by their recommendations.  I had read those books, but found them very over rated and outdated.  On the Road by Jack Kerouac was a terrible piece of writing along with all of Kerouac's other books.  Catcher in the Rye inspired not even a twitch in me.  Sometimes when I see the name of a bad writer like Saul Bellow in a great writers list I gag.

I understand I am eccentric to most people, so my recommendations of dead Russians and liver wasted fools fall on deaf ears.  But there are great books out there.  Books that are so rowdy they pick up their own pitchfork.  In a world were books multiply faster than bacteria I fear the next generations will be lost with the Harry Potters and the Sookie Stackhouses.  I fear the books that fuel the angsty rebellion are falling by the wayside.  Here are a few bruisers that I plan to give to my kid, and I welcome everyone to suggest more.

Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal by Christopher Moore

This book may not get the fire started, but it does put the reader into a thinking state.  After years of having religion shoved down your throat, this book explains why Jesus said that you can't become a messiah in your hometown.  The half man part of Jesus bumbles around through his missing years trying to find himself.  Moore pulls in a good portion of the Gnostic Gospels along with his own interesting connectors.  If you're not laughing then you're not reading it right.

Eat the Document by Dana Spiota

Flipping around between two old lovers, Eat the Document gives us a look at radicals decades in hiding for the crimes of their youth.  They are different people now, and their ideals aren't what they used to be. 

Survivor by Chuck Palahniuk

Tender Branson is the last of his religious cult/ pyramid scheme.  He is barreling toward the ocean near Australia and hopefully he will get his story finished before the plane goes down.  This is the best Palahniuk book ever written.  It makes you want to mock life and spit on it.  Tender Branson has been told what to do his entire life and don't know how to think for himself.  In fact Survivor shows all readers how they never really think for themselves.

Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski

Henry Chinaski (Bukowski's pseudonym) grows up in depression era California riddled with boils and an asshole for a father.  He finds his way through drinking and fighting.  This book is a must for any boy.

What books would you add?

How to Take a Punch, Literary

I wish I could tell you I got drunk and yelled at the customers.  I wish I could say I kissed the hostess and knocked over a few chairs as I walked out.  But that would be another story, a story were I wasn't so humiliated.

That night the audience clapped for the winner and I squeezed my huge crossed arms into my chest.  My nostrils flared out like fox ears and I would have burned them all alive like Jesus, as a child, in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas.

I was robbed and humiliated in the worst way.  Every week this downtown bar & grill hosted a poetry competition.  Each Monday a cook from the kitchen would call us into a corner of the room they called a stage. 

The first week I was there on a whim.  A friend told me the B&G paid fifty bucks to the weekly winners, and she and I promptly drank the purse once it was placed into my hands.

I should have seen the signs that things were going to go bad on the night of the final competition.  By the time I found out about the contest half of the ten weeks was already over.  I won four of the competitions in a row, and on the last open round the bartender wiped off his bar with a dirty rag and told me I could not compete.  He shrugged.

"Sorry, that's what the manager told me."

So I showed up the night of the finals, where I was four of the ten winners, when the cook came out and called two of us into the corner.  Only one of the other winners showed.  She was one of those nasty Phish hippies with her hair bound up in dreads like matted dog hair.  I knew I was a chinch. 

When she took the stage her hands shook.  When she started reading her voice cracked and she could barely speak above a whisper.  I was planning on giving the final prize, two tickets to merlefest, to my parents for their anniversary.  Then I took the stage.

My delivery was perfect.  The boom in my voice carried to the back of the restaurant.  All the patrons stopped eating and watched as I delivered my sermon.  When it was over everyone clapped like it was their child on the stage.  The cook came back up.  He told the audience to applause for their favorite piece.  A mild applause broke out when he called my name.  Then it happened. All the dishwashers and staff came out of their hiding places and it sounded like a riot when the cook called up the hippie.  My jaw dropped at the injustice.  I knew none of these people could hear her poem because I could barely hear it when I stood behind her.

I walked out without the prize, but with one of the best lessons I have ever had as a writer.  Talent gets you nothing but a punch in the face from time to time.  If I were to show people my files of rejection slips as thick as volumes of A Remembrance of Things Past they would ask me why I still bother.  But I am a hard headed old fool.  You have to be if you're going to write fiction.  If you want to write great fiction you make the same mistakes over and over.

When people ask me about my writing I tell them I am the best writer they will ever know.  This statement may never be true, but maybe I am.  The reasons I say it is because when you learn to take a punch you learn how to throw a few back.

A Quiet House

A heavy sigh whistled over Tammy’s lips. She closed the car door and stared up at the stillness of the stars. She knew Paul was in some dark corner waiting to pounce. His Camaro was parked under the pecan tree toward the back of the house. The high glossy shine smeared the reflection of the moon.

Tammy rubbed her bare arms and felt the snap of a late southern fall raise goosebumps. Leaves had fallen off the trees and left gaps big enough to pick out the little dipper between the branches. A red light on a radio tower blinked from the field in the distance. Trucks down on the main road grumbled enough to block out the silence.

She wasted a minute before walking up the steps. This night would a bad night, as bad as the worst of nights. The nights where he didn’t accept she was shopping with friends and she was too tired to deny it. She didn’t know why she dangled the Old Navy bags in his face anymore. Nothing less than being submerged in gasoline would have dulled the musty smell of other men.

Usually Paul yelled at her through the shower curtain. “What fucking Nigger was it tonight Tammy? Who will it be next; some nasty Mexicans?” He deflated when she turned on the hair dryer. The whir muffled out his rampage and caused him to cry in frustration. Each loud sob sounded like a hiccup, and his shoulders bounced as he pulled for air. Once he was gathered in her fleshy arms she would question if she slept with men he didn’t like to spite him, or if she slept with men he didn’t like because they were men. She rubbed his back until he stopped crying then his hand traveled into her robe.

Tonight she wanted to avoid this scene. She was tired and the cool sheets were calling out to her, alone. At this point she voted for a slap or some type of physical abuse over the crying and unwanted sex. The whole mess was embarrassing.

She placed her key in the lock and heard the deadbolt click in the door. When she pushed it open she dropped her bags off by the pile of shoes lined up along the wall. She wished he would just leave. There seemed to be no way to get rid of him. He wouldn't get a job or go out of the house long enough to be locked out. His mother wouldn't take him back and he had no friends to go to.

The hum of the furnace kicked on when Tammy sat on the couch. Calling out to him would be considered an invitation, so she waited. When the heater finished it’s cycle she began to worry. She stood and gained her strength with a clench of her fists. She turned to go through the dark hallway, and after a click of the bathroom switch Tammy saw the clump of the covers piled in the middle of the bed

The top of Paul's head peaked out of the blob. Tammy closed the bathroom door and unbuttoned her blouse. In the mirror spots of aggravated skin looked like bug bites at the top of her breast. Other beard burns trailed down to her hips. As she lowered her jeans the half circle of a deep crimson hickey peeked out at her panty line. Tammy leaned her head to the left and brushed her hair over her left shoulder.

She thought about how the sound of the water would wake him. She undressed while it warmed and stepped into steam that immediately relaxed her. After fifteen minutes he still hadn’t woke up and the joy that he may truly be asleep entered Tammy’s mind. Then the floor popped and she stopped moving. She squinted her eyes and turned her ear to the door. She stood still a while, waiting for another sound.

When she stepped onto the bath mat she didn’t bother with her robe. Tammy wrapped herself in a towel and crept into the bedroom balanced on the pads of her toes. The air chilled her body in the moist crevices the towel missed, and Paul lay in the same position as when she first went into the bathroom. The loud creek of the chest of drawers did not disturb him. She was surprised he was not snoring.

As she slid her foot through the hole of her panties she caught her toe on a hem and hopped back to the edge of the bed for support. She made a mental calculation of how much weight she had gained since being a prisoner in this relationship. Her clothing sizes inched up faster than dog years, and she thought she could change that pattern if she could get Paul out of the house.

The coolness of the fitted sheet felt comforting to Tammy. She wanted a little more of the bed to stretch out on, and more covers, but she didn’t want to be too greedy with her luck. She teetered at the edge of the mattress, laying straight as a board, with not enough room to bend her legs. Exhaustion itself wasn’t enough to push her into sleep. She nudged Paul with her arm to try and gain more room, but he didn’t move or twitch. She thought about it and realized she couldn’t hear the heavy breathing of sleep. Paul should be making some sound.

Tammy turned over to face the lump of bed sheets that cocooned Paul and almost fell into the floor. Pretending sleep, after getting situated, she kicked Paul, but wasn't sure which part. When he didn't move she kicked again hard enough to hurt her foot and he still didn't budge. Annoyed, Tammy shoved her hand between Paul and the covers to try and get more of the blanket to cover herself. When her fingers tracked a wet spot she rubbed it for a second until she realized Paul wet the bed. She sat up, and looked down at the mattress.

“Paul, wake up. Your short dick pissed all in the bed. Paul Goddammit wake up.”

Tammy's feet stomped the floor when she rose from the bed.

“Paul wake up. If I wanted piss all over the house I would have got a dog.”

She turned on the bedside lamp and waited for her eyes to adjust to the washed out colors. She had to tug and pull at the bed sheets to get them untucked from under Paul's body. He had rolled himself in into it like a sleeping bag. When his face was visible she could tell his color was off. Tammy touched his nose and he didn't twitch.

“Paul. Paul.” She poked his forehead. “Are you okay?”

His skin didn't have the white poke mark when she moved her finger away. It took a minute to find his pulse. His wrists were still around his hips, in the thickest part of the covers. The lower part of his body was encased in a floral blob from the comforter, and Paul's chest jutted out like the stamen in a withered plant.

Tammy stepped away from the bed and hugged her sides. She couldn't find a heart beat, and when she began to pace the dull amber pill bottle was visible on the floor. She crouched and picked it up by inserting the tip of her finger into the mouth of the canister. The prescription was in his mother's name; sixty Valium. A Mountain Dew bottle sat on his nightstand. The cap was screwed back on even though the bottle empty.

Tammy dropped the pill bottle back on the ground. If Paul was alive his pale appearance wasn't far from the pastiness of a corpse. Tammy wasn't sure how long a drug overdose took, but now it felt like she was running out of time. She retrieved her robe and her phone then paced in front of the bed. If she called an ambulance they might also send the cops. Paul wasn't very big but he was too big for Tammy to carry. Either way she would have to get dressed.

She was buttoning her jeans when Paul coughed. She situated the underwire of her ragged bra, and peeked around the corner of the closet door. Paul jerked to his side. He didn't look like he was rolling over, but instead resembled a boat floundering from too much water. He finally settled with his back arched across pillows. The back of his head and neck nestled in the space between the headboard and mattress.

When Paul puked it didn't project, but flowed out like an overfilled swimming pool. The smell tinged her nostrils, and made her spit thick. Tammy grabbed on to his arms to turn him back on his side. Before she could get one good jerk Paul coughed and splattered puke on his face, and her hand. The nasty wetness looked like thousand island dressing, and Tammy's first instinct was to rub it back on him.

Paul tried to cough again but the effect sounded like a groan. His Adam's apple swelled up at the bottom of his bloated neck. Tammy stopped herself. If Paul lived he would never leave. His weird patterns of verbal abuse then retreat would be continued forever. She stepped away from him when his body began to shiver. Tonight would be a long night in the hospital, and tomorrow, who knew?

She walked into the living room and slipped on her sandals. She continued to feel the shake of Paul's body, like a kid's jaw in cold temperatures. She grabbed her purse and Paul's Clemson hoodie.

“Hey. Jerrod.” Tammy whispered into her phone. “Can I come over?”

She left the door unlocked and walked to her car. Her ears felt full as if walking in high altitude. The buttons on her cell phone glowed on her face, and the inside of the scratchy hoodie rubbed her skin like a peeled blanket.

“I'll sleep on the couch, it's no big deal. I just need a place to crash.”

The seat belt light blinked on the dashboard.

“We can do what we did last night.” The base in his voice just sounded like a grumble.

“Okay. Will you give me a call tomorrow? I have to find some place to stay.”

The Dalí Theatre-Museum

I was tired from the warm rocking of the train.  I stood at the station in Figueres waiting on my wife to come out of the bathroom and a short story idea was running through my head.  I was inspired.  I had walked the streets Jean Genet had walked when he wrote The Thief's Journal.  I knew at the top of the hill another treasure waited.

We got lost, asked for directions, and ended up at some small café.  But finally the eggs from the top of the building pointed toward the sky.

 . 

Kids hanging out during a field trip.  

Through the glass in the courtyard.

The tomb under the stage of the main gallery.

The close up artwork of tiles.  As you back away you can see the face of Abraham Lincoln.

The Mae West room viewed through the curved glass on the stairs.  Then viewed from the side of the room.

Stories You Wouldn't Tell Your Mother Episode 5: Insurance Fraud

     Dirty Dick had the tips of his fingers taped up like some type of serial killer.  The steering wheel pressed against his palm and the masking tape that covered his flared out fingers formed bent cones like Bugles corn chips.  Glass from the busted window dug into my jeans and t shirt with every twist I made or bump the car went over.  The sun had barely been stolen on the other side of Easley before we took this car, and for two hours we had to drive around with the Saturday dinner traffic before it could be disposed of.

            “Now I’m going to have to use all of my money from this job to buy band-aids.  Remind me again why you had to break the window out since you had the key?”  I asked.

            “We had to make it look real.  You can’t say a car has been stolen if you see two guys walk up to it with a key, unlock it, and drive away.”  Dirty Dick said.

            “Couldn’t we have brought a towel, or he could have left the window down.  This glass is like sitting in a basket of chiggers.”

Officially, we had stolen the car.  A friend of Dirty Dicks couldn’t afford to make the payments on his overpriced Mustang, and if he sold it he would still be upside down on the loan.  His next logical step was to have someone steal it, destroy it, and let the insurance company work out the details.  It didn't think it was a bad plan since I got half of the thousand dollars he was willing to pay to be rid of the thing. 

The real problem was who shared the thousand dollars with me.  Dirty Dick’s eagerness was overshadowed by his lack of planning.  The Mustang man had barely been in Characters night club twenty minutes before Dick busted the driver's window with the claw end of a hammer.  The last rays of sunlight were still holding on to the tall buildings, and the parking lot was almost empty.  If we would have got to see the security tapes it would have shown two idiots in ski masks in the middle of July.

After that we had to ride around for a couple of hours.  Dirty Dick was all geared up for starting the destruction at nine o’clock.  I wasn’t comfortable with that since more people would be out and we were more than likely going to be seen if we set the car on fire this early in the night.

Dirty Dick tried to lay his arm in the busted window but the broken glass kept scratching him, and then he would put his hand back on the steering wheel.  It was dark enough to suit me at eleven, so we exited the highway on the lower side of Fountain Inn.  A few cars still passed us as we turned toward the small town, and we barreled down the road with the fumes of anticipation giving us a high. 

“I was thinking we could start us a very lucrative business doing this.”  Dirty Dick said.  He chewed on the filter of a cigarette.  The unlit tip bobbed up and down like an abandoned fishing rod caught on the hungriest fish. 

“I don’t know how we would advertise.  Can we put an ad in the IWANNA for insurance fraud?”

Dirty Dick zipped through town faster than I liked.  We blew through a yellow light before it was about to change then followed the crumbling road on up to Van Patten’s bridge.  Dirty Dick eased the car down the side of the bridge, on to the rocks, next to the Reedy River.  The water didn’t move fast enough to make a rushing sound.    Instead it was more like the tinkling of a toilet that leaked.  It was completely dark under the shadow of the bridge once the car’s interior light turned off.  Although I couldn’t see the water, I could see patches of moonlight were the water tried to wash it away.

Dirty Dick threw the butt of his finished cigarette in the back seat and flipped a flash light on underneath his chin.  His long thin fingers curled around the handle like a grapevine on a trellis.  His narrow face split the beam, and the discoloration of his teeth looked more like special effects than the rot it actually was. 

“So what do you want to do?  Do you want to spray paint it first, stab the tires, or pee on the seats?”

A car passed over the top of us.  The drone of the tires on the concrete of the bridge was as loud as a jet passing by.  I kept looking over my shoulder.  This place was popular for teenagers who wanted to drink beer and smoke pot.

“I want to get it over with, and get out of here.  If we get caught we will be in real trouble.”

“Okay, okay.”  He said.

He popped the trunk latch and jumped out of the car.  When I stepped out to the river's edge the soft ground sank an inch under the weight of my foot.  Dick threw the cap to the can of gas on the ground and started splashing the car liberally like it was oil on a salad.  I had to back up to make sure none of it hit me.  I stepped away and fired up a cigarette but I was still close enough to smell the fumes.    On the trunk lid he shook out the last drops of the gallon and threw the empty can into the grass. 

I wasn't really thinking when I did it.  I flicked the butt of my smoke toward the car and the flames reared up from the ground like summoned demons.

"What the hell are you doing?  The key is still in there."  Dirty Dick said.

The flames from the hood tickled the canopy of live trees above us.  Ashes from burned leaves snowed into my hair and the ground, and the singed branches of the tree sizzled as the moisture burned out of it.  Dick ducked into the driver's door and reached for the key.  The flames covered the area and I could feel my skin tighten like it was sunburned. 

"Hot!  God dammit."

His armpit caught fire from reaching over the burning door and his hair singed away from his tank top.  He grabbed the key and rolled away from the car.  I tried to help him up but he lay there, rolling back and forth, like a clean dog in a pile of dung.  When he stood up he waved his hand in the air like he recognized someone.  I could see patches of the remaining curled hairs and the blush of burned skin.  He wasn't burned bad, but a red blotch welted up from his rib cage to just below his elbow.  He danced a minute in the fire light before one of the tires exploded and I ducked to the ground.

"Let's get out of here."  Dick yelled

We ran up the embankment toward the church parking lot where we had Dirty Dick's car stashed.  I got winded and prayed to fate that no cars would pass us fleeing from the scene.  Dick was faster than me.  He made it to his car a good minute before I walked up and he stood jerking on the door handle of his Camaro.

"I left my keys in the other car.  Why in the hell did you light the damn thing?  I had some new CDs in there still."  Dick said.

"You don't have a spare any where?  In your wallet?  Who takes their keys out of their pockets in a stolen car?"

The black smoke billowed into the sky.  It formed a black cloud over us and blocked out the stars.  Dirty Dick tugged on the door handle a few more times and I watched as the bridge disappeared.

"We have got to go back and get'em."  Dirty Dick said. 

"We don't have time.  Someone's going to call the fire department or the cops."

"Well, we can wait here for them to arrive or we can figure out something."

A set of headlights was dulled by the smoke.  The car slowly drove over the bridge, toward us, when Dick and I ran to the bushes.  I laid flat on the ground and tried to get myself as low as possible.  Dick took a knee in the bushes and wedged his bony body into the thickest part of the shrubs.

I raised my head after they passed.  The car was going slow and I heard the engine idle as they drove by, and then it sped off after they had a good look at the car parked at the church.  I felt something wiggle on my face.  I wasn't sure if it was a bug or stray hair, but I slapped at my face trying to get it away from me.

"We've got to figure out something man.  We got to get out of here."  I said.

"I might have a key in the glove box."  Dirty Dick said.

He didn't tell me his plan again.  I picked myself up and brushed my clothes off with my hands.  Dick picked up a small rock and walked back to the car.  I heard the window crack when he hit it, and the sound of the pellets hitting the parking lot was like quarters dropping from a change machine. 

After Dick walked over to the driver's seat I jogged back to the car.  The engine revved up when it started and, again, I sat in a pile of glass.  When we drove through the cloud I could taste the thick smoke.  It was chalky with a strong dose of sulfur.  The headlights were useless until we got to the other side.  Dirty Dick rolled down his window and held his right hand against the roof to let the cool air blow over his burn.  The tape that rose above the tips of his fingers had charred black and flaked off.

"My burned up CDs are coming out of you half."  He said as the fire trucks screamed toward us.

UNT

The smell of my peach boutique body lotion didn't mesh with stench of stale piss.  I pulled the baggy coveralls over my shoulders and steamed over the fact that I spent all day finding the perfect pair of jeans to make my butt appear smaller and tighter, like an apricot, only to have the camouflage form my body into a shapeless blob like a paper doll.  I pulled up the zipper and breathed through my mouth to block out the olfactory attack of leftover doe scent.

Keith didn't pick up on my frustration.  Every forced sigh and huff I pushed had to compete with the low noted braying of the hounds.  Keith had his back turned to me.  The top part of his coveralls hung loose around his hips; as if he were shedding his skin.  He pumped his shotgun with the barrel aimed at the huge moon. 

“When you go coon huntin' you only have to find one good tree.”  Keith said.  “Then the problem is getting them down.”

Keith's Toyota truck was parked by a dirt path.  We were at the back end of a pasture that the path encircled like a lasso.  I was apprehensive about going into the tree line since the moonlight appeared to stop there.  Keith jumped on the tailgate of the truck.  His tight muscular body bent no more than the thick handle of a rawhide whip.  The defined line between his bicep and tricep was the perfect place for shadows to gather.  This detail stirred my juices and it reminded me that this wasn't what I meant by coon hunting.  When I met Keith at some backwoods party my drunken mind leaped to sex.  His tight white t shirt could have been another layer of skin with its soft crevices and its warmth from body heat.  His khaki carpenter's pants held a bulge as big as a baby's elbow, and his hips were as thick as the pummel horses I saw on the Olympics.

Of course his conversation about guns and hunting was completely boring.  My mind amused itself as he jabbered on about 'coon' hunting.  The word evoked some dirty sexual connotation in me.  The smoothness of the word like the inside of an oyster shell, and the synonyms seemed to fit my mood after a long relationship of bad sex.  Coon...Poon...Cunt...Clit.  Words so dirty I couldn't even say them in the dark without blushing.  My hands found reasons to crawl over him during the party.  I should have known we were not on the same level when we made this date to go 'coon' hunting instead of a backseat romp at the time of my drunken stupor. 

Keith tugged on the collar of his overalls to loosen the wedges.

“Grab that shotgun in the seat.  It's a four-ten so it won't hurt ya too bad.  Once I let these dogs out they gonna spit fire into those woods so we have to be ready to go.”

I had never shot a gun in my life.  When I picked it up the weight surprised me.  It was much heavier than the BB guns my brother stockpiled in his closet when we were kids.  The cool oily barrel smelled like my father when he came home from work at the machine shop.  I couldn't associate the thing with death.  The wood on it was polished as shiny as antique furniture, and it seemed like a clunky thing to carry into the woods.

The dog's barking ceased for a few seconds when Keith opened the cage door.  Their nails clicked on the diamond plate of the truck bed and their jump into the woods rattled the dead fall leaves.  Keith took off after them.

“Come on.  Let's go.”

The flashlight attached to his gun belt kept time to the crash of his high steps.  I tried to follow but my clogs constantly slipped off my feet.  Keith turned back and motioned for me to keep up.  My feet moved with short choppy steps, but I had to maneuver around fallen trees and brush instead of going over it.  By the time I got within twenty yards from Keith he took off again to the diminishing sound of the dogs.

The report of Kieth's shotgun rang out when I caught up.  The dogs circled the trees and tried to run up the trunks.  A branch cracked and a raccoon scurried and jumped to a limb the next tree over.  The dogs took off, and their tails wagged so hard it caused their back end to waddle. 

“Head down some and try to catch him before he taps the next tree.”

Keith shot again and my ears began to ring.  I wasn't sure what to do so I just followed the dogs.  My feet drug on the ground and a leaf stem poked through my sock.  The raccoon scampered higher up the tree, and I wasn't sure what part he would try to tap or what tapping was.  I swung my gun up and laid my check into the grove of the stained wood.  I wanted to make a good impression on Keith and become part of his hunter's prey.  My legs were spread wide, and I held my back as stiff as I could.  I tried to line up the raccoon's butt with the notch in the metal tab.

Squeeze slowly.

“Fuckin' dick sniffer.”  I screamed

The searing heat cut through my eye immediately.  I could feel a knot on my cheek swell and tighten like a water blister.  A little blood ran down my face like heavy tears, and a hill of flesh formed in front of my eye.  The shotgun clattered to the ground.  Keith ran up to me and stared at me like I was an animal giving birth. 

“You okay?”  He asked.  “Take your hands from your face and let me see.”

I leaned back and grabbed the coveralls where the pockets should be.  Keith bit his upper lip then turned to look at my profile.

“That ain't gonna look good for a couple'a weeks.  Somebody’s goin'ta think I beat on you.”

His angle didn't really matter to me at the moment.  I wanted to roll my eyes, but I was afraid of the consequences.  I knew I would sound like a baby if I suggested we leave.  My bad eye cried alone.

“We gotta keep moving.  If we don't catch up to the dogs then we will have to sit here all night until they come back.”  Keith said.

“Go ahead.  I'm right behind you.”

His run had a slight march to it.  I traced the bump on my cheek and it felt like lightning run through me.  I picked up the shotgun and walked in the direction Keith had trotted.  The dog's barks echoed from another county, and moonlight leaked through the branches. 

I walked for twenty minutes before I realized I didn't know where I was going.  Keith's shotgun boomed like a transformer exploding, and I switched directions toward the sound.  Eventually I just stopped.  Every tree I passed looked like the one before and after it.  The moon's light only illuminated my next step, and I feared if I went in any farther I would be totally lost.  As I headed back Keith's shotgun rang out twice more.  The sound of the dogs faded away as I made my way, hopefully, to the truck.

After walking a while, I worried when I hadn't reached the field.  My check pulsed with its own heartbeat, and the coveralls caught in the briars.  The sound of the hunt died away when I found a break in the trees.  I wasn't sure what part of the pasture I would end up in, but it wasn't where we had come in at.  A deep gully separated me from the tree line.  It wasn't wide, but decayed limbs, half-rotted couches, and old rusty appliances lined the bottom, making a maze for small critters.  I scanned to see if there was a better way to cross because it looked like the dam had burst at the trash dump and a river of junk flowed through the trees.

A couch shored itself up to the red clay of the embankment.  I nudged it with my foot to test the sturdiness, and it didn't move with a few good kicks.  The cushion on its far end was just a couple of feet away from the other edge.  When I stepped on the first cushion I eased my weight onto it like an Eskimo checking the spring ice.  The fabric ripped when I had both feet planted in the center.  I baby-stepped to the middle with a quicker pace and the couch began to teeter.

My plan was to jump off the arm rest safely on the other side, but as I tried to compensate from the rocking the couch rolled and dumped me in the ditch.  I landed on a pile of brush that cracked after each movement.  As I was about to gain footing something furry stroked my ankle and a rat scurried away to a washing machine.  One of my shoes was missing in the dark brush pile and I ripped the coveralls on a branch when I tried to get up. 

The edge of the embankment was up to my eyes, and I looked out like a soldier from a foxhole.  The moonlight gave the grass blades a blue tinge and something wet absorbed into my sock.  With the shotgun thrown over the ledge, I tried to pull myself up.  The heads of tree roots ducked into the earth like giant worms. Each toe hold I found crumbled at the slightest pressure, and I struggled like a fat kid trying to crawl out of the deep end of a swimming pool.

My breath was labored when I leaned back against the tree on the bank.  I wanted my shoe but I wasn't going back in there to get it.  When I stood up the shotgun's heft was useless in my arms.  The opening for the pasture was just ahead of me, and I limped toward the finish line feeling beaten and abandoned. 

The sound of crashing leaves broke me from my stupor.  Whatever it was that came after me was low and quick as it zigzagged through the brush.  I raised my gun, but this time I aimed by approximation.  The kick of the butt landed on my shoulder like a solid punch.  My shot was meant as a warning, but the brush rattled and then waved to the side as the animal's head slid to a stop.  It took me a minute to figure out what it was.  The face was torn open, and an ear looked ripped from the seam of the head.  The wheezing sounded like a broken kazoo.  My heart thumped hard enough to hit the wall of my chest.  I wasn't sure if I should shoot the dog again or try to find Keith.  Then I wasn't sure how Keith would react if he found out I shot his dog.  We still had a long ride home.

I sat the gun down and walked around the spot for a minute.  The dogs wheeze passed in fainter shallow breaths.  To any onlooker I would have appeared as a witch getting loosened up to cast some spell as I circled the hound’s body.  The looming conflict played itself out over and over in my head.  I pictured the crease in Keith’s forehead as he pushed his eyebrows together, and then I drew a blank.  I hadn't known him long enough to judge whether he would swallow it in silent disgust, or blow up and yell at me like a hurt parent.

The dog’s tail felt slick in my hand.  It didn't work well as a rope to pull his weight.  The back legs caught on every stick and stone, and as I crouched my head pounded from the effort.  When I got him to the side of the ditch I had to push him in with my grip on his belly.  His head lulled as I let go of his collar.  Then he slid slowly down the wall of the ravine and rested against the door of a refrigerator.

When I finally stepped into the tree line I was walking backwards.  My shotgun barrel bobbed at the dark woods in case something else came for me. 

“Deandre.”  Keith yelled.

He waved like a survivor of a plane crash at the truck on the far side of the field.  When I cleared the distance Keith pointed the flashlight in my face.  Black spots floated in my eyes like helium balloons, and the pressure I put on my eye by closing it too tight opened the cut like wet tissue paper. 

“Have you seen Rusty?”  Keith asked.

“You mean your dog?”

“Yeah.  That one is Biscuit and the missing one is Rusty.  Rusty got'ta tracking a deer and runoff.”

I couldn't tell him the way the tail felt oily like a duck's feather.  The way the body formed on a rock, limp, like a hot water bottle.  I didn't even know the dog's name, but I never forgot the way the dirt caked up in the blood-matted wounds as I drug him to the gully. 

I unzipped my coveralls to my belly button, and freed my hair from the clasp.  My top, undamaged, bellied under the soft curves of my bra.  I wanted to feel somewhat sexy as the heel of my only shoe drug the ground.  When I placed the shotgun in the seat of the truck I felt a burden lift from me as my killing rampage finished.

“No, I haven't seen him.  It's been tree after tree, and then the damn gully I had to pass through to get out of the woods.”

“He'll come around in the morning when some of his energy wears off.  What happened to your shoe?”  Keith asked.

.  Keith held the shotgun like he was escorting it, and the tip of his eyebrow placed emphasis on my slowness like a tilde over a Spanish O.  The wood of the gun wedged under his armpit and the barrel lay over his forearm like a date's spindly appendage.  He threw a sack onto the tailgate as the surviving dog sniffed the blood around his shoes.  The soft dead flesh from the bag caused a thud.  The tip of a raccoon’s black tail flopped out of the mouth of the burlap bag, and the thought of eating the poor creature made my stomach roil.  Keith whipped out a knife and the locking mechanism ticked.  Light flashed as the blade tilted in his hand.

“Hold the light for me.”  Keith said.

“What are you going to do?”

The tip of the knife punctured the fur around the raccoon’s neck like an embryonic sac.  The blood started with a drop, deep as a ruby, then flowed out of the skin black.  Keith's fingers soon became coated with it.  I turned my head as the acid built in my throat, but the bouncing flashlight beam warranted disapproving grunts.  Rivulets of blood splintered into different streams as it trickled through the diamond plate of the truck bed.  The raccoon’s skin curled away from its body when the knife filleted it from the muscle.  Around the hard cartilage and skinny bones the metal blade scrapped with the sound of a file.  Once the back hide was removed the rest of the red lump looked rotted with the patches of skin and fur as mold.

Keith flipped the creature over.  The buck knife whittled away between the poor animals legs.  The black circles around its eyes like a mask placed on it before being tortured.  I wasn't hip on animal anatomy but I knew the general area Keith was cutting.

“What are you doing?”  I asked.

“I'm gonna cut the pecker bone out and put it with my collection.”

Keith's rough hands wouldn't do for a successful Mohel.  He twisted the knife handle like he was coring an apple.  The sick glow of the flashlight gave the slick blood on his hands the hue of iodine.  When he pulled the desired piece of meat away from the carcass the sound had a suck to it like opening a jar of pickles.  Wet flakes stuck to the top of the knife hilt.  I swallowed trying to push my stomach down.

“You collect dick bones?  As a hobby?”

“Well.  I keep what I can.  Tomorrow I'll nail the hide on the side of barn to let it cure and dry.”

It took a few minutes for it all to process.  Keith shoved the animal carcass into a bucket, and then carved away at another.  Blood had gotten on my top and I stared at the pile of guts thinking of Keith running through the woods, neutering all the animals.  When he finished he had to drag the other dog away from the mess.  It whined as he stuck his nose to the closed cage door.

“Let's go.  I'll drive back in the morning to pick up Rusty.”  Keith said as he wiped his hand on a rag.

When I sat in the seat my body throbbed like one mass pinched nerve.  Keith handed me a beer from the cooler, and the cold beads of water stung the cut on my cheek as I pressed it to my swollen eye.  He clicked the tab, drained it in one long gulp, and threw the empty into the grass with all the other leftovers from his kills.

“Do you mind taking your coveralls off so no blood gets on the seats?”  He asked.

My feet wobbled as they touched the ground.  The cool air drew goosebumps across my arms as I peeled off the coveralls, but I felt relieved to be rid of it.  The ammonia smell of doe scent hung to my clothes like cigarette smoke.

“Here.”  Keith said as we shut the doors.  “This is the raccoon pecker I keep in my wallet.”

The porous thing felt like it was made of ceramic and chalk.  I twirled it in my fingers as we made our way to the main road.  Near the tip it curved, and the slenderness of it reminded me of a melted birthday candle.  The thicker end looked like the clasp of a hinge, or the unlucky end of a wishbone.  I laughed and laid my head into the seat.  At the start of the night all I wanted was a little bit of dick, and now it lay in my hand.  My body was sore, but not the way I wanted it to be.  I realized I handled this whole situation wrong, and gutless prey is all I ended up being. 

Fiction that brings you to your knees

Great writing leaves me devastated at the end of a book.  I think about it and want to hyperventilate, and then I can't write for days.  Charles Bukowski mentions in one of his books that a young hungry writer often compares himself to his heroes to judge how good he may be.  I agree with that.  The current piece I am writing is always my best piece.  Everything before it is just practice.  Over the course of years I found books that are heartbreaking to any writer because the quality and level of craftsmanship will make you want to quit.

These are the books I struggle to become equal with.

The Risk Pool by Richard Russo

I started reading Richard Russo after the movie Nobody's Fool came out in 1995.  Paul Newman played Sunny.  He reminded me so much of my grandfather and once I found the book name in the credits I went out and bought it.  Since I have a habit of reading everything an author writes, I consumed the rest of his library.  When I finished this book the world paused for a minute, and I abandoned the story I was writing. 

Ned Hall, the narrator, wonders when his father may stop by to harass him and his mother again.  Ned's father is a constant nuisance to his mother and somewhat of a mystery to his son.  As the years progress Ned's mother slips into a deep depression and Ned is faced with the challenge of living with a father he hardly knows anything about.  Sam Hall, the father, is not what most people would call a good influence.  He moves the boy in with him above a small department store, teaches him how to shoot pool, and teaches him how to get by.

Each loving touch Russo puts into the details give me the feeling I woke up on the Hall's couch and watched their lives as their voices passed through the room.  By the end, when Ned comes home from college to take care of his father, the book ends and I don't want to leave.  I reread this book every few years.  Russo's other books are great.  In fact his newest That Old Cape Magic is one of his best.  But no book stabs me in the heart more than Risk Pool.

The Death of Sweet Mister by Daniel Woodrell

 Fat Shug Atkins wants something different from life.  He and his mother live in a graveyard, and his mother's boyfriend makes him crawl into people's windows to steal their prescription drugs.  Shug's mother needs someone to take care of her, and will sway at any alpha male or resemblance of security.  As Shug comes of age his affections for his mother tighten as he watches her give up all resemblance of self respect to whatever man comes calling.

Most people know Daniel Woodrell's work from watching the movie Winter's Bone, even though that movie sucked compared to the book.  I love most of Woodrell's southern tales.  The man can lay down a line, and when I finished this book my head shook slowly in disbelief.  If you watch No Reservations, the Anthony Bourdain travel show, then you may have seen Woodrell break his shoulder in the Ozarks episode.  Luckily he can write better than he can take a hit.

The Book of Illusions by Paul Auster

Many people will say the New York trilogy, or Leviathan, are better Auster novels.  I love those books as well, but The Book of Illusions makes a writer stop what he is doing and tell himself not to even try.

David Zimmer is drinking himself to death.  His wife and kids were killed in an airplane crash and now Zimmer can't find a reason for his existence.  The only thing that gives him relief is watching old black and white comedies.  He begins to study the films of Hector Mann and obsesses over the disappearance of the movie star.  After he gathers his research and starts to write a book about Mann, a letter comes from Mann's wife.  Zimmer is sure it is some kind of hoax.  Hector Mann is thought of as being deceased.  When Zimmer goes to meet Hector a whole host of other problems come up.

This is a great novel for writers to study at any level.  The interwoven sub plots and masterful story structure will send you back to articles about plot points, and wondering how to map this book.

Stories You Wouldn't Tell Your Mother Episode 2: Built Like a Brick Shithouse

Episode 2: Built Like a Brick Shithouse

Moonlight glinted of the head of the Bic lighter. The tight hinges of the portable toilet held pressure of the molded plastic door against my back. The smell of lighter fluid burned out the odor of waste sitting days in the sun, and I wanted my money's worth. I wanted to see the whole unit melt like a plastic bucket. The fumes of the lighter fluid made me light headed. I stood back to let in more fresh air. My hands slicked with sweat, and my thumb didn't want to flick the bic's wheel the right way.

“Come on lets go.” Gerald yelled from the window of the SUV.

“Not until I see it burn.” I whispered to myself.

I felt the ridges of the lighter embed in my thumb. When I tried to spark it again it slipped from my hand, skipped of the rim, and dropped like a rock. I heard the gurgle of the water as it was accepted with the sewage.

“Shit.” Literally.

I sulked from the tree line back to the Blazer. Dense pine trees stood around like skinny people after a U2 concert.

“Does anybody have another lighter. I dropped that one.”

Gerald and Sonny glanced at each other and laughed. The dim interior light looked smog covered at the last of sunset. The bass of a rap song drowned out the lyrics, and Gerald held up his hands open-palmed.

“That was the only one.”

They looked at each other and started snickering again. I tore into the console and started digging through loose CDs and empty cigarette packs. The speakers buzzed when I pushed in the dash lighter.

“What are you doing?” Sonny asked.

A lock of brown hair touched his eyebrow. His hallowed face broke through the shadows of the backseat like a diver coming out of water. He looked at me with a grin of amusement. A belittling grin where the corners of the mouth don't rise above the top lip. I found a piece of paper and wrapped Gerald's registration in it.

“I am going to try and catch this paper on fire with the car lighter.” Bass came back to the speakers after the button of the lighter popped out. When I jammed the tear shaped end of the paper into the coils the thin line of fire moved up the crinkles slowly without producing a flame. I blew above the ash like a mother blowing on a child's cut.

“I think I got it.” I said and moved back toward the plastic toilet. No one stole from me and got away with it.

With my left hand I cupped the fire to shield it from the stream of wind I would create from walking. Part of a flame rose when the fire hit the twisted knot that looked like an oak root. I rubbed the paper on the walls in the pattern of the cross, and nothing caught. I picked the can of lighter fluid off the floor, but it doused out the flame. I threw the paper into the pit. It might as well have that too.

When I ducked into the passenger seat Gerald turned the radio down. They wouldn't want to do what I was going to tell them to do.

“Well?” Gerald asked. His cheeks hung low on his face and drooped below his jaw line.

“Drive to the store. We're going to get a lighter and some matches.”

“That didn't work either?”

“No.”

They both laughed as Gerald put the car in drive and we did a three point turn to the street. Anger built in me like a Pepsi bottle that has been shaken too much. My finger nails dug into my palm as I clinched my fist.

“Your going to make us late for the movie.” Sonny said. His arms rested on his knees and his head poked through the seats.

“Fuck the movie. It will be playing every night this month.”

“Why are you so hellbent on setting this thing on fire?” Gerald asked.

“I told you he owed me money. I don't work for free. That son-of-a-bitch owes me one hundred and sixty four dollars, and I am going to get it one way or another.”

“Is it worth a hundred and sixty-four dollars to go through all this trouble?” Gerald asked.

“I tell you what, you give me the money if it isn't worth all the trouble. Then we can go to your faggy Beavis and Butthead movie without another word said.”

Streetlights flitted across the hood as we made our way into Ingles' parking lot. Empty rows were painted on the concrete slanted like dried fish bones.

“Didn't you bust the back axle of his truck then abandon it in Inman? Sounds to me like you might owe him some money.” Sonny said.

The car pulled up into the fire lane, and I had the door open before we stopped.

“When you become the magistrate then you can make your own fucking ruling. Until then lend me five bucks since I didn't get a paycheck this week.”

I held my hand up in the silence. Sonny huffed, and the back seat made raspberry sounds from the friction of his jeans as he moved. The bill landed in my hand with a hard slap, and I slammed the door of the car on my way into the store.

I knew my actions appeared illogical as the large box of kitchen matches and a two pack of Bics trundled down the conveyer belt. I was owed for the twenty hours of work, and I didn't ask for that job. The cashier smiled at me like she was trying to remember my face. As she handed me the receipt I snatched up the bag. Closer to the exit I heard the boom and vibrations from Gerald's car like a whale singing for company.

“All right. Let's go, let's get this over with.” I said

I thought they didn't hear me. There heads bobbed to Tupac's new disc, and their hair created static with the drooping headliner. Gerald rolled through the parking lot then peeled his tires into the street. I let my window down and the smell of honeysuckle wafted by me like the passing of a pretty girl. I hoped the music would carry us to the deed. With my cohorts lost in the emptiness I could get it over with without any more questions. A mile or two before the pull off, Gerald turned the volume down with his remote control.

“You sure you want to do this? You haven't committed arson yet? This is new for even you.” Sonny said.

“If I could get a little help this would go much more quickly. You know, like I helped you catch your step-mom cheating on your dad. And I helped you break the back window out of Jeremy Bergoins car for stealing your stuff. Co-operation. Teamwork”

They were almost finished laughing by the time we pulled into the construction site.

“You act like we haven't been in this same situation with you a hundred times already.” Gerald said

“Egging the police station after you got that ticket.” Sonny said

“Stealing from The Pantry when they wouldn't sell you a pack of cigarettes.” Gerald said.

“Destroying Jamie Brooks house while I screwed his chubby sister. He just beat you gambling.”

“So what you are telling me is that you guys are used to stuff like this. So this shouldn't be much of a problem?” I asked

“Alright. I will help you out. Turn the car around so we can get out of here quicker.” Sonny said.

He crawled out into the sound of crickets fast and shrill. I held the front seat up and gripped the block of matches in my hand. The gravel was new and hadn't washed away yet. Our footsteps crunched like we were walking in light snow.

“What do you want me to do?” Sonny asked

“Hold the door open while I try to light it on fire.”  I said

Sonny didn't watch me. His face was pointed toward the ground like a hostage who fell asleep tied to a chair. One of his feet faced the car, and he was crouched like he was ready to run. I lit the kitchen matches and laid them near the rim of the seat. Their flames wafted from the draft before dying. I rubbed them on the walls, threw them in places where lighter fluid had pooled, but everything had evaporated. What was left in the can dripped out onto the seat when I turned it upside down. When I put a match to it it burned off quickly and barely singed the plastic.

“Dammit.” I yelled as I threw the matches to the ground.

“Come on. Speed it up.” Sonny said.

“The lighter fluid evaporated. What am I supposed to do.”

Sonny let go of the door and it thwacked me in the back. I lit another match and set the whole box on fire. It produced a good flame, but died out as well. Tension crawled up to the base of my neck. I punched the wall and stomped out to the ground.

“Well?” Sonny asked.

With all of my weight I ran into the door. The two by four base resisted like a tackle dummy. I charged again and the toilet rocked back, and when I moved away for another wind up the portable toilet lurched forward, and fell on the door.

“There. Are you happy?” Sonny asked.

My heart pumped and my hands shook. I didn't feel relieved at all. I kicked the roof and didn't even make a dent. Then the smell caught me. It stuck in the back of my throat, and when I exhaled it was like a burp I could taste. I stepped away and my shoes felt slick as they scraped across the ground.

“God dammit.”

“Don't tell me you got it on you. Shitfoot. All these months you been goin round cleaning up other people's shit, and now you get it on you. I told you Shitfoot. I told you when you started this stupid job you would get somebody else's shit on you. And now your Shitfoot. Hoppin round like it was a surprise.”