The First Run In with Something Terrible

A long time ago, back when films were actually projected onto the screen by shining a light through film, and the illusion of motion created by actually moving the picture in front of that light at a blistering rate of twenty-four frames per second, Stark Tumbstread worked in a movie theater. The film projector, with all its synchronicity and specially designed parts was, to say the least, a marvel of the mechanical age. That being said, the job of actually presenting the films was an easy one, though full of dead ends and subtle tests of one’s ability to eat shit. Stark was always dissatisfied with the present.

When the theater chain that he worked for was bought out by a larger chain, absorbed into the umbrella of the ever consolidating Royal Entertainment Group, the new management thought that they’d test the theater's loyalty by putting the employees under the management of a guy who was as incompetent in his personal life (which I won’t get into here) as he turned out to be at running a theater.

The new boss and Stark were not friends, but sometimes Stark pretended that they were in order to stay on the boss' good side and keep his job. The upside to the new boss’ uselessness was that he needed his employees. He was willing to look the other way on a lot of bad behavior in order to keep the staff around and working.

The theater would not run under his direction. This new boss didn’t understand the little jobs that the ticket takers and ushers and box office attendants did because he had never done these jobs himself. He was simply a manager. He was a Royal Entertainment man, put in place to facilitate the change to new policies that were all about the ushering in of the faster, impersonal digital age of the movie house. It was to be cheaper for the theater and more expensive for the consumer of entertainment. Digital projection would also soon and forever spell the end of Stark's job. The once mighty, important, certified, unionized projectionists would be an unnecessary expense, a thing of the past. Threading film through a trap and gate was Stark's only skill, and it would soon be obsolete.

This eventuality had led Stark to a 'branching out' of sorts. Stark had picked up the trade of acting, another worthless endeavor, and also the bottle.

The new manager’s name was John. That was his real name. I’m not going to sugar coat this and change the names of the innocent in order to protect them, because even if they were innocent, they aren’t safe, so who needs protecting here? He had a last name, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it was. The employees just called him John to his face and ‘The Dough’ behind his back. I wish this was a term of endearment. I wish it was a gentle jibe of a nickname playfully making fun of his only real use in the theater (collecting ‘the dough’), but it wasn’t. It came about more because of his weight, which was substantial, and because of his ego over being the ‘big guy’ at the theater.

For all of the bitching about how stupid The Dough was when it came to anything but collecting the money in a little blue bag and putting it in the safe upstairs, the employees didn’t seem to mind his blindness when it came to other activities. The ushers snuck out to their cars to smoke pot through bongs made of poster rollers. The high school kids behind the popcorn counter lost their virginities in the break room. The box office attendants under-rung tickets to line their own pockets. And Stark built and screened prints in an almost constant state of blackout drunk on nights when he didn’t have an audition in the morning.

It all came to a head one night when Stark had to sneak out of work for a while to go to a pick-up rehearsal for a sketch comedy show that he wasn’t getting paid for. He showed up for work, said hi to the boss, went upstairs and threaded the first round of shows for the evening.

Stark's plan was to enlist the help of an usher who owed him a favor. Stark would have the usher start the shows while he snuck out and went to rehearsal. Starting the movies wasn’t difficult; one just had to push a button and then make sure that the cue on the film opened the douser to let the picture onto the screen. Then check the sound and framing and you’re done. Stark reckoned that he would be back in time to start the late shows and he didn’t bother telling ‘The Dough’. Stark knew that he was the only employee in the building who was trained to actually thread a projector. There was no way that The Dough could have blundered his way through it, so he would have just gotten worried, or mad, at the prospect of Stark leaving, even on a break.

Stark ducked down one of the smaller exit hallways that lead to the front of the theater. This hallway was adjacent to the main lobby, but walled off until just before the exit doors, where there was still a small four foot wall to keep customers from ducking down the exit hall and sneaking into a show.

On his way out, looking over this little wall, Stark spotted Steven O'Brian, the film editor of a local weekly and a man who had an odd power about him. Steven was something of a local celebrity, promoting low budget horror films all over town and even making a few quality flicks of his own. So, for Stark, Steven was a pretty good person to keep on amicable terms with, which for the most part Stark had.  There was one instance where Stark had failed to show up to shoot a small scene in one of Steven's films, but although he had never attempted to use Stark again, Stark thought that Steven had seemed to have let it go.

Steven had ended up playing the role in his film himself, and that was just the way he rolled. He was a reliable, calm, lover of all things film and occult. His hairdo harkened back to the golden age of television and his dress jackets exuded an odd sophistication, even if he wore them over horror-film-themed t-shirts.

Steven was in the theater promoting some midnight movie or other that was screening later in the evening and he was standing at the doorman’s stand talking shop with regulars of the theater. Stark thought about interrupting to say hello, but he was on a pretty tight schedule and didn’t want to draw too much attention to his exit.

After that, Stark didn’t remember very much. He made it to his car and fished out the bottle that he had stowed under the front seat. He took a long pull, grimaced at the taste, and started the engine.

By the time he made it to the rehearsal, Stark had gifted himself several more swigs on the bottle. This wasn't an issue because several of the other performers in the show were already drunker than he was and the director had not shown up at all. The rehearsal had turned into something of a party by the time the troupe of would-be-comedians had run thorough the sketches one sloppy time. Then they resorted to more booze in order to convince themselves that the show was in proper shape for exhibition… then Stark woke up in his apartment with the afternoon sun slapping him in the face.

He had not made it back to the theater. He had no idea what had happened to the last set of shows, including Steven’s late night creature-feature; and the worst part was that Stark had no time to lay low. He was due back for another shift at 5pm, just as the sun was setting.

Stark collected himself as well as could be expected. There was no time to rinse the booze from his breath or wash the uniform that he had slept in, so he decided to try and just slouch into work under the radar and hope that the boss wasn’t insane with anger.

As he entered the theater, Stark saw Steven again. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, cornered to a couple of teenagers who were vehemently explaining something to him. They looked angry, but Steven seemed to be keeping his cool.

Stark did not fail to notice that there was also an attractive woman behind Steven. She was dressed in an almost comic book fashion, with fishnet stockings connecting muscular legs to a pair of tattered combat boots and (on the other end) eventually disappearing into a trench coat. Underneath the coat Stark could only imagine what was happening. The way the woman's purple hair swooped elegantly around her serious, angular face suggested that he would have to go on wondering. She was too much for Stark, but she seemed to be keeping an eye on Steven as he let the kids tell him whatever it was they were telling him. 

When he saw Stark, Steven broke free of the conversation with the film geeks and sauntered over.

“Hey, man,” he began, “what happened to you last night?”

“Had a rehearsal that went long,” Stark tried to save face.

“I ended up threading your shows last night, but only after your boss had a meltdown and made an announcement to the lobby that he needed the help of anyone who had any projectionist experience. He seemed pretty pissed.”

“Wow,” Stark said, unsurprised, “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

Stark patted Steven on the back as he looked over Steven's shoulder. The Dough was lumbering towards them, one of his little blue moneybags under his arm. He did, indeed, look pissed.

“Tumbstread!” The Dough bellowed across the lobby, “Come with me, please!”

Stark raised his eyebrows in goodbye to Steven and followed The Dough towards the stairwell, but at the last minute The Dough veered to the right of the doorway and made his way a little farther down the hall to a storage room.

He opened the door to the storage room with his set of jingling keys. The door opened to a small room that was filled with cups and trays and popcorn tubs. The Dough motioned Stark inside.

“Wait a minute,” Stark tried, “I don’t even get to go upstairs?”

“I don’t want you in my booth,” The Dough proclaimed, his voice full of vindication.

‘Your booth?’ Stark thought. ‘What would you even do if you were left in charge of it, I wonder? Hire Steven?’ Stark stepped into the storage room.

The Dough followed, leaving the door to the storage room wide open behind him. The lights in the space were dim, one of the fluorescents was burned out and one of the others flickered badly. The Dough put his hands on his hips and looked sternly at Stark. After a moment he unzipped his blue bag and pulled out a piece of paper that, from experience, Stark knew to be a ‘Termination Write Up’. The Dough tossed the bag of money onto a box next to the door.

Before The Dough began, Stark looked down to see a stack of projector bulbs that had been improperly placed in this room. This was a dry storage meant for concession supplies, and Stark felt a twinge of annoyance, even faced with his current situation (that would surely involve discipline and humiliation by the very person who had probably mistakenly put these bulbs here), that these bulbs had not made it to the booth. Stark looked back to The Dough.

“Stark Tumbstread, I have been authorized to officially notify you of your termination of employment here at the Crest Ridge 8 Theater,” he sounded like he was enjoying this, “And in addition, I’d like to add that I have long believed you to be the ring leader of a group of insubordinate layabouts who are employed at this theater. Employees that, without your bad example, will straighten up and fly right.”

‘Fat chance of that,’ Stark thought, but kept his mouth shut. His mind was on the bulbs laying quietly on the floor at his feet. Stark was beginning to feel a bit uneasy about them being in this little storage room that was accessible to most of the employees at the theater.

Projector bulbs are fairly dangerous. They are highly pressurized and their glass is thin and easily compromised. Inexperienced projectionists usually wear a facemask, gloves and padding when installing a projector bulb, because even the oils in one's hand can eat through the glass of a bulb and cause it to explode.

“Do you have anything to add before I have you sign your termination?”

“John, I…” Stark tried, but he was interrupted by a new presence in the room.

Like a gaggle of phantoms, suddenly there were three skinny, pale youths in the storage room with Stark and The Dough. Two of them were the kids that had been arguing with Steven.

They very nearly floated in, and they looked confused and unapologetic. As Stark surveyed them for a second time, he assumed that they were high and very lost, just trying to make it to their theater in time to see the coming attractions, looking to obnoxiously giggle their way through a lazy evening. Not one of them looked older than seventeen, just a few years shy of Stark's own age.

It happened fast. The Dough broke his train of thought and Stark was cut off in making any explanation for himself. Two of the kids invaded The Dough’s personal space and began asking him a flurry of slurred questions as he simultaneously tried to usher them out.

The third floating kid, the one Stark had not seen before, grabbed the bag of money.

The thudding of the hangover in Stark's head may have had something to do with the clouded thinking behind Stark's next actions, but whatever the reason, Stark did act. Perhaps it was out of some loyalty to his soon-to-be non-existant job, or perhaps he just didn't like injustice. Or maybe there was some controlling wisdom of the universe at work that had yet to make its intentions known. Whatever the reason behind his decision to give chase to the thief and the stolen bag of money, Stark did just that. He gave chase, but first he picked up a projector bulb.

The thief was not trying to hide. He headed straight for the crowded main lobby and not towards one of the labyrinthine hallways that would have eventually provided a subtle exit. He ran as fast as the herd of theatergoers in his way would allow, pushing and yelling as he went, blue bag clutched in his left hand. Stark pursued him as well as he could, fighting back the lethargy brought on by a night of boozing.

They broke out into the more open space of the lobby, and the thief's pace quickened. Stark followed and, for the first time, he took in the full appearance of the thief. He was dressed in black, one of the remaining 'goth kids' that had been in their hay day when Johnny the Homicidal Maniac was something young people were excited about. The world had moved on since then, and even Johnny's creator had softened into Invader Zim and cultural assimilation. This weird thief that Stark was chasing was, at best, a retro relic of a finished attitude. This kid couldn't even have been old enough to have been aware of a time when Tim Burton was making good movies, so why was he dressed like this? He had complicated looking pants, littered with chains and pockets and pins. On top he was wearing some dreary looking band's promotional teeshirt over what looked to Stark like a thin, pale frame. His hair was greasy and black and flowing out behind him as he ran, and Stark had the thought that if this kid could outrun him, Stark might as well call it a day and just live in a MacDonald's looking at porn on his laptop for the rest of his days because, frankly, this kid looked pathetic.

And then the kid jumped. I happened fast enough that even some of the people in the immediate vicinity didn't see it except, perhaps, out of the corner of their eye. In the front end of the lobby, there was the dividing wall that separated the lobby where patrons entered the theater from the small hallway and exit doors where Stark had made his quiet exit the night before. It would not have been a particularly difficult wall to jump for anyone with any athletic ability, but the thief started his jump from a distance of about ten feet from the wall, as if he was taking to the air to save time. He lifted off the ground effortlessly and hung in the air for a long-jump that would have rivaled olympians on the moon. He cleared the small, four foot wall by three feet and did not quite reach the ground before pounding into the wall of the exit hallway.

When Stark saw this, it stopped him dead. He stood in the middle of the lobby and watched the thief recover from his jump and slam through the exit door and out into the parking lot.

Stark looked to his left and saw Steven and his female companion. They had seen the jump and seemed ready for conflict. They did not seem at all surprised at what they had seen.

Steven looked at Stark and called, "I told them not to try it. They're getting desperate."

Stark didn't fully understand this remark, but he had no time to think about it. At that moment, the other two film fans/teens/acomplices that had come into the storage room emerged in the lobby, also running at full speed. The Dough was following them as best he could, lumbering after them with a face ablaze with anger. The Dough was further hindered by the fact that, for some reason that Stark could not fathom, his pants were around his ankles.

This was all getting too weird too fast. Stark was barely keeping up. Why were The Dough's pants down? Had the thieving teens yanked his trousers down? Again, there was no time to contemplate this situation, because, immediately, there were new strange developments.

As the other teens made their way into the lobby, Steven and his companion turned on them and the woman had drawn a full katana sword from underneath her trench coat. Stark almost felt more interested in catching a glimpse of what she was wearing under the coat as she drew the sword, but he saw nothing.

Now the sword was out, and this woman, this friend of Steven's, seemed ready to use it.

The first guy had nearly flown. Steven knew what was happening. The Dough's pants were around his ankles. A hot babe was about to slice some fools up with a katana sword in the middle of the theater lobby. Stark's brain was overloaded and for that moment, he felt very, very stupid.

"Take care of the other one!" Steven yelled, snapping Stark back to the situation, "We'll deal with these two!"

Stark couldn't help it, he had to do what Steven said. It was the only thing that his brain would allow. As he turned to run out the front doors, Stark saw yet another sight that was beyond his comprehension. The woman slashed one of the teens with her sword, splitting him in two as he ran towards her. The blade cut through the kid like he was built out of butter. She had hit him on his left shoulder just below the neck and had cut all the way through him until her blade came out the other side of him below his right arm.

She stood her ground and his head and right arm exploded over her own left shoulder. The rest of his body went sprawling towards the ground on her right. But before the torso and legs hit the ground, they seemed to reanimate. Little lines of guts and gore started to reach out on their own from the body towards the (still airborne) remainder of its parts. The same thing happened as the head and arm flew through the air. The severed insides of the slaughtered teen reached out for the rest of its body, and before Stark knew it, they had connected with the guts reaching out from their counterpart.

Then, in a snap, the teen that had momentarily been two became one again, pulling his own two severed halves back together with the cut guts and gore inside himself, reconnecting back into a whole person behind the woman with the sword. There was a wet slap as the two pieces of him smacked back together and then Stark saw his face. The life returned to the face immediately and the teen's eyes rolled for a split second and then focused. Stark and the unkillable teen's eyes met.

Then Stark heard Steven again. "Go!" Steven yelled as he moved in to punch the reassembled ruffian.

Stark went. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. If the kid who had stolen the bag was anything like the one who the purple haired ninja lady had cut in half, Stark would be annihilated. He didn't want that, but he also didn't want to be the coward who just stood by in shock and did nothing. So Stark went. He made his way through the final ten yards of the lobby and pushed brushed by a patron who was coming in one of the glass paned doors.

Stark was out in the evening air. He kept his feet moving, if only to gain ground on the thief, and spotted him almost immediately. The thief was struggling over the money bag with another employee of the theater. It was a girl that Stark knew by sight, but he could not remember her name. She worked mostly as an usher and, in Stark's estimation, had always seemed fairly meek. Yet here she was, struggling over a bag of theater cash, that she had no doubt recognized as one of The Dough's precious parcels. A twinge of what could only be described as jealousy jumped through Stark's nervous system. He had barely given chase to this pale monster, and here was this little girl, who had probably been strolling up to work, thinking about stupid boys or her math homework, and now she was fully engaged with some supernatural thief that looked like he belonged at a Marylyn Manson concert.

Stark's want to be included was short lived. The thief broke free of the little theater employee, tossing her hands back, away from the bag. Then, with his free hand, he grabbed her throat. The look of confusion and utter surprise that came across her face was short lived, as in one quick motion, the thief clutched at the soft spots of her throat and ripped outwards.

Blood and gore dripped from the thief's had as he dropped the lump of lifeless meat that used to make up the front part of the poor girl's neck. She staggered for a moment and brought her hand up to the place where her voice box used to be. Then she collapsed.

Stark no longer had the ability to be surprised at what he was seeing. He was already almost on top of the thief by the time the lump of throat hit the ground, but apparently, the thief had only been waiting for his ride.

A black boat of a car that Stark would later identify to the police as a 60's model Caddilac Sedan de Ville scooted up to the thief and rolled down the back window. Stark could not make out any of the shapes inside the car, but he realized that this was the last chance. The thief was going to jump into the window and make his getaway. 

Stark looked down at his hand and saw that he was still holding the projector bulb. Somewhere during the events of the last thirty-seconds, he had relieved the bulb of its case and was now holding it by one of its metal ends.

Stark almost nonchalantly lobbed the bulb at the car. It landed at the feet of the thief, just next to the rear passenger door. When it hit the ground, the bulb exploded, sending a thousands pellet sized rockets of glass into the side of the car and the legs of the thief. 

The thief, just as he was about to leap into his getaway car and be done with this whole nasty business, suddenly found his feet knocked out from under him by the small force of the explosion, his legs and lower torso now littered with shards of glass.

The car's tires squealed and roared as the car made a quick donut and headed to run Stark down. This was it. There was nothing that Stark could do. He was frozen by fear and onsetting shock. He was a deer in the headlights and the car, housing some souped up engine, probably running on the same nasty energy that had allowed the thief to jump like a grasshopper, had picked up enough speed in the tiny space it had traveled in the parking lot to end Stark forever.

Stark felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked to his right to see the purple haired woman. She was holding the bag of money, which she stuffed into Stark's grasp as she picked him up. She lifted him, one handed, and then leapt upwards, over the oncoming hood of the sedan.

As the two of them sprung upward with some odd force that Stark could not identify, the racing car's hood caught them by the feet and Stark could feel himself going head over heels as the rest of the car passed underneath him. Stark landed flat on his face, the bag of cash flattened under his frame.

He saw the woman land on top of the thief, a few feet away. She had drawn her sword again after she had let go of Stark, while she was still in the air. She landed with the sword's point preceding her, pushing it through the immobile body of the thief and pinning him to the concrete.

Stark's brain blasted him with a flurry of thoughts as the Cadillac sped away and before he passed out. One thought was that he was sure that he would not lose his job. Another, and probably the more important thought, was that he had seen things in the last two minutes that he could not understand. He was not going to be able to explain the events of this day in any rational or realistic way, at least not for years. He felt stupid again, as if he had been walking through the world around him with his eyes shut tight, and now he was helpless and unequipped to exist in the world that was his waking reality.

Everyone feels like this to some extent. Like we are missing the boat, or have already missed it. We look back at our accomplishments and forward to the opportunities that they have afforded us, and neither direction (past or future) seems satisfying. But maybe that is for the best. If we were satisfied, we would have nothing left to contribute. And it is for those reasons: his unsatisfied hope to contribute, his own wish for understanding and to be let in on the joke that seemed to be going on all around him, his want to live in a present unhindered by the past and future, that when Stark again opened his eyes and was able to be thankful for another breath, he got up.

Two Men Have a Drink in Paradise

"When I was a newspaper man in Arizona, we all acted as if we owned the world," the young reporter said as he looked across the small cantina table at his company for the evening. This fellow almost looked like a local. His bright, flamboyant shirt and tinted glasses were something that Sam had never seen before, but this was Sam's first trip out of the country and he had already seen quite a few things that he had never seen before.

For some reason, the young man in the flashy shirt seemed an anomaly to Sam. He had an air of military training about him, but his wild, rebellious eyes looked to Sam almost as if he was looking in a mirror. And hell, why not, Sam had technically been a Confederate soldier, for a moment.

Sam lifted his glass of brandy to his lips, savored a taste, and then sopped up the last remaining particles of his drink from the stubble of his incoming mustache. Then he continued, "We had our minds cranked, like the motors of a steamboat. But like the boat, even when we were full ahead, we didn't move very much. We drank, smoked, amused ourselves to no end in the bars and cat houses, but also in our columns. We published just about anything we damn well pleased, mixing interesting fact with outrageous romance of our own design without any regard or responsibility to the readership at all. We very much made ourselves the heroes of our own reporting, until we tried to report on anything of importance. Then we were shown the door."

The man brushed some ash off the table where it had fallen away from the cigarette that he had been laboring over. "That sounds like an amazing trip," the man mumbled through his teeth.

"But it's not like this place," Sam continued quietly, "I can't understand why so many white people are so intent on converting the native islanders to our fearful religion. I guess that they feel bad for all of the people that have perished in this paradise and never knew there was a hell."

The man stood up and shook Sam's hand. He mumbled something about really enjoying their talk, but he had somewhere to be.

No, Sam would later correct his memory. He had said that he had somewhen to be.

The man tossed a crumpled piece of paper on the table, as if in payment. The note looked nothing like any tender that Sam had ever encountered.

"I like that style," the man concluded in his barely decipherable speech, "Truth getting all mixed up in facts isn't any kind of truth at all, is it?"

Sam nodded as the man sauntered towards the door of the lazy cantina. The man was looking at the ceiling.

"Enjoy your stay in Hawaii," the man said as he put his hand on the exit, "Things are going to pick up after this."

Sam finished his drink and looked down at the bill that his company had left on the table. This man with the bowlegged walk and the inarticulate speech was the first time traveler that Sam ever met.

-SB
7-29-14

The Kite

The New York City skyline was beautiful, especially at dusk, and even Andrew could admit that. It wasn’t often that he could actually see the sky or the sunset. Most of the time his view was cluttered with buildings and other people. Tall, cold buildings and other people who looked very much like him. There was no comfort in his conformity.

Now his elevation allowed him the beautiful view. It looked unreal, as if someone had fixed a tourist postcard over his eyes. Somewhere in his confusion he knew that many people, all over the world, would give quite a lot to look at the view that he was now trying to ignore. To Andrew, it was a last look more than anything inspirational or breathtaking.

He wondered why there was always wind when one was this high off the ground. Why did kites pull harder as more string separated them from the person on the other end?

           

Andrew looked down. Quite a few people had stopped on the street. More than likely they had seen the cop cars and officers looking up and found it impossible to quell the curiosity that forced them to break their focus from their own subtle misery. 

It had been fairly difficult to find his way out onto this ledge. Andrew wondered, with the trend of happiness and positivity that he had noted in the general attitude of society of late, why it was still necessary to make it so hard to obtain his current position?

He had gained access to this ledge from the roof, but he had needed a key and a whole slew of excuses to do that. Why was it so difficult to see this view without it being obstructed by a guardrail or double pane security glass or, god forbid, chain link fence? If everyone was so happy and positive, why all the security? There would be no danger against someone with intentions that matched or exceeded Andrew’s, right?

Gone were the days of the rebel, of Kurt Cobain, of the McDonalds ‘Bucket of Fries’ and whiskey chugged from the bottle, the fuck-it-because-everything-is-stupid attitude that had seemed so prevalent during Andrew’s youth. Expanded consciousness, understanding, veggie wraps, slowly sipped mixed drinks and excitement over mundanity had long replaced these things.

Were accidents really so common as to necessitate this much caution? Were people, even happy people, really still so stupid that they would fall off an eighty plus story building if given the chance? Or were they lying? Andrew had been standing here for ten minutes and he had not wavered even a moment. He would not fall until he was ready.

“Hey there, chief,” a voice to Andrew’s right broke his stream of depressed bullshit thought.

Andrew turned his head, “Hey yourself. Is that really how they teach you to start this conversation?”

There was a moment of hesitation, “Um, no, I’d kind of hoped it’d be easier than you’re already making it to convince you to come back inside with me. I’ve, um, never done this before and it’s my kid’s birthday. So, what do you say, come on in?”

Andrew stared in amazement for a moment. Wasn’t this just his luck? “How old is your kid?” He asked with genuine interest.

“Holy shit, it’s fucking windy up here,” the officer leaned forward a bit and looked down before rejoining the course of conversation, “Sorry, six. He’s six. And his birthday party started forty minutes ago.”

“Oh, man, that’s tough,” Andrew shucked, “do you want to talk about it, officer…?”

The cop looked nervous at Andrew’s sarcasm, “Timms. Officer Andrew Timms.  And they just sent me out here to establish contact and until the real guy gets here. He’s stuck in traffic. We don’t get that many jumpers in this part of town anymore.”

Andrew looked at Timms.

Timms shrugged, “It’s mostly just the bridge now. People with a little less folding money. Not so much guys like you, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Guys like me?” Andrew asked as he stroked his shaved chin, “Well, Officer Timms, my name’s Andrew too. So I guess that, in a way, you’re only one degree of separation from the derelicts that you’re talking about over there on the bridge.”

Timms seemed at a loss. After a long, silent moment of neckties fluttering in the mysterious wind like the tails of ill-designed kites, he found some words that were appropriate for the ledge, “So, why are you out here, Andrew? I mean, the market crash was, like, eighty years ago.”

Andrew smiled at Timms’ casual approach and indulged him, “Well, officer, I suppose I’m out here because I fucked up, and I’m not right for the times anymore.”

“How do you mean?”

“I feel very self aware, Timms. I know that I’m not doing things right, and, in fact, I’ve bumbled my hand to the point of not having anything left to bet,” it was a fairly poor metaphor, so Andrew regrouped,  “At one point, I had a lot to offer, you know? Talent, drive, excitement. But it feels like I’ve slowly let all that slip away and now there is no more opportunity for big money or fabulous prizes. If I want to play the game now, I have to start over. Sure, I’m a little bit wiser for the experience, but I don’t have the power that I started off with. If I was to keep trying now, I’d have to be happy with merely dealing with consequences for the first few rounds. Building back the to a point where I naturally was not so long ago. And it would take work to even get back there. That just doesn’t seem very appealing to me.”

Timms sat for a moment, thinking about his son, “Um,” he started, unsteady, “That’s life, Andrew. We build up, we fuck up, we rebuild. All but a select few. You’re not the only person who’s ever fucked up. And you’re not the only person that’s ever felt unsatisfied. So, why don’t you quit the crybaby shit and the moping around and just get on with what you have to do, you know? Quit thinking about how hard it is and just do it.”

“Because,” Andrew smiled, “There isn’t any sympathy for the old, selfish bastard anymore. Everyone’s so concerned with projecting this air of positivity that if you can’t force yourself to do it, you can’t even have a spot in the conversation.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Timms was starting to feel cold, “most people are great, if you give them a chance. They’ll understand, they’ll come back, they’ll forgive if they really are as okay as they want to say they are…”

“Bottom line, Timms,” Andrew could feel his frustration starting to build, “the best one can hope for is to be ignored. Will people that I’ve argued with pick up the phone when I call? They haven’t yet. Will they accept my ‘re-friend-request’ online after they’ve de-friended me? I doubt it. Will YOU not arrest me if I come off this ledge right now?”

Timms was out.

“That’s what I thought,” Andrew all but yelled, “No, Timms, I’m sorry. But I still think that I’m too fucking angry for any of that. And I’m not getting any better. Not really. And change is too big to worry about at this stage. At one point I might have had something to offer, some grand gesture that would have let my heart sing. Something quotable or beautiful. Something that everyone could be happy about and get behind. But not anymore.  Now I’m just looking up at the forced smiles that I used to think were repulsive, wishing that I had the strength to even do that. Sorry Timms, but a flash in the pan of greatness may have been all I was capable of, because trying for any length of time is too much. I’d rather be brave enough to jump once than strong enough to get out of bed every day for another fifty years.”

And with that, Andrew jumped.

In a final act of misguided beauty, he decided to do a double flip into a swan dive on his way down. It was something for Timms to tell his boy about, when he got a little older.

For those last few moments, free in the air and experiencing something he never had, Andrew was happy and excited. He kind of wished there were more moments like this in his future; but, because of his final quick and careless final decision, there was not.

-SB

7-15-2014

Blank Space

Hey, look at me, I was a drunk in a blank space

and then the space was filling up with things.

Suddenly I looked around me and noticed my surroundings

Were filled with ghosts, monsters, hipsters and disease.

  And even when the flashlight's working

the darkness seemed to have a plan.

 The gallery decided that blindness was the way to go

but as for me I guess I'm not a fan.

Because you're not a demon and I'm not a bottle,

we're just shadows at our 8th grade dance.

When life moves us farther from

what we thought we could become

then we never really give ourselves a chance...

 To consider,

That maybe,

our minds are filled with vicious lies

and black clouds that we put above our heads are there 

to distract us from the beauty of the sky.

-SB

7/18/2014

Doctor Weirddrip Takes a Seat

When Doctor Weirddrip, the evil wizard, appeared in King Doodad's court, a hush fell over the revelers.

Weirddrip walked slowly through the hall, allowing the guests of the night's interrupted festivities to drink in the overwhelming horror that was Doctor Weirddrip as he approached the king. With every step Weirddrip took, his soaked moccasins made a wet squish on the marble floor. The sound in the silent hall echoed to the ceiling and struck an almost musical minor chord.

King Doodad rose as Weirddrip approached, "Weirddrip!" The king bellowed in anger, "Why have you brought your foulness here tonight! Speak, I beg you!"

"You beg?" Weirddrip growled back, his voice full of malice, "Oh, that is well worded, your highness! I shall expect a great deal of that from you in the coming season!"

Weirddrip stopped. He threateningly leaned the staff he carried towards the throne. Some of the courage seemed to drain from Doodad's face at this gesture.

Suddenly the formalities fell away.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be unwelcoming or defensive with you, Mr. Weirddrip..."

"MR. Weirddrip?!" the wizard bellowed, "Your disrespect is overwhelming, Doodad! For I am both a powerful wizard and a doctor! Now, I don't know if there's an official title for a wizard, but I did complete the required coursework and residency for you to at least address me as Dr."

"Again, I apologize, Doctor Weirddrip," the king held out a calming hand, "Now, what is it that you want? As you can see, I am entertaining."

"Yeah," Weirddrip threw up his arms in exasperation, "and what's the deal with that? You don't ever even call me when you're having a big ass masquerade ball. That's why I'm kinda pissed, Dood, you know?"

"Weirddrip," the king cooed, "Come on, man. You're not into this kind of stuff. Plus I don't even know what you're doing anymore. Where do you even live, on some stormy mountain or something?"

"Yeah, well," Weirddrip mumbled to himself, "but you're always down here doing all kinds of fun stuff and I'm just, you know, sitting up there and I want to hang with you guys!"

"That's just it, Weirddrip," the king sounded almost sympathetic now, "you're just up there hanging around. You live off other's generosity and kinda always just want a hand out, ya know? We don't just party down here, we've got stuff to do. We plow fields and build stuff and even my court has to, like, sign documents and stuff."

"You don't think I could sign documents?" Weirddrip tried.

"You don't get to just start out at signing documents, Weirddrip. You kinda have to work your way up to that, and that's what you don't seem to understand. The work is the important part."

"Oh, whatever!" Weirddrip was getting angry now, "I see that you're effing wife's family all gets to be here! And they're wolves! That's just gross, Doodad! You married a girl who was raised by wolves! And now they get to be guests at your party."

Weirddrip motioned to the pack of wolves to his left. They were done up in rather elegant costumes and now seemed embarrassed about it.

"My wife's adopted parentage is well known and accepted, Weirddrip," at this, everyone tried not to look up at the little queen as she continued to rip apart a rack of lamb, undisturbed by the commotion in the hall. The collective thought was always centered on what must go on in the king's bedroom.

"Okay fine," Weirddrip yelled, "All of that's just fine. I just came by to tell you that because of your insolence, and treating me like a dick, I've kidnapped the greatest gymnast in the land. He is quite safe in my secret hiding place, but until you give me a whole bunch of money or a document signing job or something, there will be no Still Rings or Pommel Horse in this kingdom!"

A cry of terror rose from the crowd. This was, indeed a dastardly trick!

The king stood his ground. He raised his ever-calming hand once again until the room was quiet (save the queen's chewing and Weirddrip's... weird... drip).

"It seems that you have us by the curlies, Doctor wizard, since we all think that gymnastics is so awesome," the king said, "Please, allow me to bring out a special seat for you to rest in until we can decide on your new position."

Weirddrip nodded approvingly and the king motioned to his servants. Weirddrip did not see the king give his men the slightest of winks.

In a moment, three men brought out a large chair that was almost the size of the throne. Weirddrip looked it over for a moment, then threw his staff aside as he began to sit.

But as Weirddrip's posterior lowered towards the chair, a curious thing happened. A secret, hidden vacuum that King Doodad had installed within the chair roared to life. This vacuum performed its intended purpose and provided just enough suction to pull Weirddrip's testicles slightly backwards and downwards.

Before he could do anything at all to prevent it, Weirddrip sat square on his balls.

Doctor Weirddrip screamed in agony as he landed with all his weight equally on both nuts. He toppled to his left, clutching at his crotch.

As his robes fluttered away from the floor, a small puddle that had been created by whatever Weirddrip's weird drip was revealed itself.

The puddle was beautiful. It swirled and shone and reflected all that was glorious about life. Several of the nearby subjects of the king immediately dove headlong into the puddle, which proved to be magically deep. All of the people who splashed happily into the puddle's water disappeared into it with fond hopes of understanding the wonders of existence and retrieving the kidnapped gymnast.

Weirddrip was apprehended, his testicles were treated, and he was smacked around a little.

The gymnast was found in the puddle. Neither the gymnast nor his rescuers wanted to come out of the puddle, but eventually they did and someone wiped the puddle up.

Mike Tyson stood quietly at the back of the room and recorded King Doodad's bravery and quick thinking. He wrote the night's events into a small notebook that he kept in his breast pocket. When the time came, Iron Mike did not want to forget this day.

As for King Doodad, he finished his merrymaking before trotting off to bed with his feral bride.

-SB
6/13/14 (Friday the 13th AND a full moon)

Modern Monsters

Dracula's fingers tightened around The Wolfman's throat. His ancient nails dug into the skin just above the veins in The Wolfman's neck. Dracula could feel the blood in The Wolfman's veins pump faster as The Wolfman's heart began to speed up. Dracula wondered what it might be like to drink The Wolfman's blood, and for a moment he considered it.

"You know this is pointless," The Wolfman barked out through his razor sharp teeth and extended snout, "you can't choke me to death."

"Well," Dracula mused, "maybe not, but it would be fun to try."

Dracula loosened his grip on The Wolfman's throat, but continued, "And it's a big castle, Wolfy-baby, there's bound to be some priceless silver artifact or other that I wouldn't mind tarnishing in order to rid myself of you!"

Dracula chuckled as he let The Wolfman out of his grasp. As The Wolfman regained his composure, Dracula sauntered over to the bar, where Frankenstein was bent over a small pile of cocaine.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon stood there as well, wet and silent. He was obviously trying to squeeze out a fart.

Dracula patted the Creature on the shoulder and he heard the slimy, moist gas slither out of the Creature's insides. Dracula doubted that anyone else heard the fart, for the hounds of hell were being particularly rambunctious tonight.

"This is crazy," Frankenstein('s Monster) observed, as he stared down into his little hill of magic white dust, "the muscle memory, I mean. I mean, like, I've been alive for almost two hundred years in this state. You know, all patched together or whatever. But different parts of me still react differently to different substances, even though the one crazy brain is trying to drive this train."

Dracula raised his pointy eyebrows in curiosity.

"It's like this," The Monster continued, "I'm my own man, right? I make my own decisions based on my own experiences, which are pretty crazy, you know? But genetics play a big part in a person's predisposition to certain ailments, habits, addictions, whatever. And since every part of my body has already experienced a whole life already, I've got some pretty solid and mixed feelings about how to go about all of this, you know?! Like, I think my left leg was a morphine addict. And my arms, they don't work right. Like, I got the right arm of a left handed person and the left arm of a right handed person and the brain of someone who, for all his faults, was ambidextrous. And I'm pretty sure that my right arm belonged to a clergyman of some kind because it feels really wrong when I use it to..."

"Okay, we get it!" Dracula was really not in the mood to let the conversation go down that road.

"Right," Frankenstein looked at Dracula, "I'm just saying, when I do drugs, I really feel conflicted. I've got a lot of different pieces trying to give their input here."

"You're just high," The Wolfman had finally gotten to his feet, "that's how everyone feels."

The rest of the monsters turned to look at The Wolfman.

"Look, can we just calm down here, guys," The Wolfman held his paws out in front of him in a gesture of submission that looked odd coming from such a vicious beast, "Dracula, I'm sorry, okay?"

Dracula straightened up and stared at The Wolfman, waiting for him to continue.

"I didn't mean to delete Breaking Bad off the DVR. I thought we were all done with it. I should have checked with you first."

"Yeah," Dracula shrugged his shoulders and barred his fangs, "fat lot of good 'sorry' does me. Now how am I going to see the last 8 episodes? Netflix? Good luck! The wireless service in the Carpathian Mountains is abysmal!"

"Look Dracula," The Wolfman tried, but Dracula cut him off.

"No," Dracula said, and rolled his eyes, "it's fine. Whatever. I just, you know, I've got the immortality and everything, but I've got to suck blood in order to keep that going, you know? So both of those are huge saps on my good energy. So I try and do good things with all the money and stuff. Like letting you guys stay here..."

There was a general humble grumble from around the room.

"And the charity work and everything," Dracula sighed, "but, you know, sometimes I just want something for me. I just want to come home after a long century of fighting the fight and put my feet up and watch some Bryan Cranston."

Frankenstein looked up. One of his eyes was dilated, probably having never experienced cocaine before, the other seemed to be an old pro, "Hey, man," he quipped, "Why are you getting all pouty? You're f***ing Dracula!"

The Wolfman quickly took the cue, "Yeah, Dracula! Quit being a downer! If the big D can't even be happy, if you get your garlic in a bunch over a stupid show, then what are the rest of us supposed to do, you know? You're the king! If you ain't happy, then what chance do the rest of us have?"

"Yeah, I guess," Dracula still seemed mopey, "I just miss Mina, you know?"

"Dude," Frankenstein was now, indeed, high, "that was, like, a hundred years ago. You're still slouching around over that!?"

"Come on, Dracula!" Wolfman shouted, "let's get out of here and go raise hell like the old days. You know, the all or nothing days. The Monster Squad days! Let's go kill some people! Then on Monday I'll buy you the last 8 episodes, Frankenstein will go cold turkey, I'll get out and go running again. Come on, man. Monday. We'll do it on Monday. For now, let's be monsters."

"I just feel so old and I don't know what to do. How many ways can you kill a virgin, you know?" Dracula let The Wolfman usher him towards the window.

Just then, Nikola Tesla poked his head in the window, which gave everyone a jolt because Tesla is supposed to be dead.

"Hey, dudes," Tesla greeted them like a bolt of lightning, "I hope you're not thinking about going out and messing with the villagers, because that shit ain't cool anymore."

All of the monsters looked at the floor.

Tesla continued, "I know that it was kind of your thing, but you're just going to have to find something else to occupy your time. Do some yoga, read some non-fiction, eat a tomato. Any of you guys into science or positivity? Because that's what's in right now."

Dracula, still looking at the floor, mumbled, "Yeah, I'm just still kind of mad, you know?"

"Dude, I get it, I'm Tesla," everyone noticed that he did not say 'the ghost of Tesla'. "But no one thinks it's cool for you to go around freaking people out anymore. 'Kay?"

Dracula looked at The Wolfman and pointed at Tesla, "See?" he asked.

The Wolfman was at a loss.

"Geez," Tesla broke the silence, "it smells like Lagoon farts in here."

SB
5-30-14

Write a Story in Which You Are the Villain: Enjoy These Roses

Enjoy These Roses

The day that the rosebush fell in love with the mailbox across the road was warm and ordinary.

The wind came up with the sun and the petals of the newly opened roses moved slowly and silently as if to celebrate the bush's origin of feelings connected to a larger consciousness. The bush had never felt anything like this before. Up until now, it had only existed in a state of perpetual forward motion. The bush had always drawn life from the sky and the ground. It had always (for as long as it had existed) opened its flowers in the spring and shed the pedals by the end of the summer.

Other than that, the bush had not given much thought to its surroundings or the state of life (its own or otherwise) at all.

But now, quite suddenly and without any perceptible reason, the bush felt drawn with significant force to the mailbox across the road.

The feeling of love, as glorious as it is on its own, was even more mind-blowing (for, to feel love, we must possess a mind, if not a brain) to the rosebush. Almost immediately, the feeling of love also opened up several other new emotions and perceptions in the bush.

Because of the love that the rosebush now felt, it also began to feel longing, separation, and its very own sense of place in the world.

The bush could see that the mailbox was out of reach. There was a long, dusty road separating the two potential lovers. In fact, the rosebush quickly noticed that the mailbox was most likely not even on the same farm as the bush. The bush could tell that the country road was also a property division. It was an odd setting for very everyday occurrences.

There were two houses, almost directly across from each other, with farmland stretching out behind them. As far as the bush could tell from its position at the edge of the road and in front of the house on its side of the road, these were the only two structures built between the rosebush and the horizon.

The reality was that rosebush was on one plot of land, and the mailbox was fated to receive post for the residents on the other side of the road. This may not seem (to the mobile, conscious, free beings that we are) to be a considerable distance. But to the rosebush, stationary and inexperienced in the ways of love and travel, it seemed nothing short of insurmountable.

On the rosebush's side of the road (for the bush was now beginning to feel the sense of ownership that many times accompanies feelings of romantic love) there was a small ramshackle house, kept up to the best of the abilities of its resident. Beyond that, there was farmland that did not seem, to the rosebush's newfound sense of judgment, to be very fruitful. The land seemed good. The rosebush, who was fairly self-sufficient, had done just fine after all. There was some other trouble with the lack of productivity evident in the other crops of the rosebush's farm.

On the mailbox's side of the world, there was a similar house and farmland. The land and crops on the mailbox's side seemed greener, more lush, and ready for harvest, even at this early time in the spring.

The rosebush wondered what the mailbox was like. The bush wanted to know everything about this noble receptacle of American post! Where had it been made? Who had made it? How many different postmen had the mailbox known and what stories could it tell? Did it know the contents of the letters that it sheltered in the correspondence's travel from sender to receiver? This was indeed an exciting world...

Then there was a man.

The rosebush had certainly never noticed this man before the unexpected feeling of love had awakened it, but now that the bush saw (for love opens our eyes) the man, it understood why the farm on this side of the road had fallen into neglect.

This man was unconcerned with his own homestead. He carried a bottle in his worn and unwashed hands. He periodically lifted the bottle to his lips as he paced back and forth on his porch. He stared with longing, a longing that the bush was now becoming familiar with, at the house opposite his own.

The man was not unattractive or incapable, but the bush could feel his discontent. The man had allowed almost all in his life to fall into disrepair as he stared across the road.

Then the bush was even further distracted from its love as a young girl emerged from the other house, the house where the mailbox stood guard. The girl was young and pretty, full of life and energy that the rosebush had not witnessed before. She moved freely and glowed in an imperceptible way that made the rosebush experience another new emotion: envy.

The man perked up. He lowered his bottle and fixed his attention on the girl. The rosebush and the man watched intently as the girl trotted happily to the mailbox and yanked it open.

The rosebush's symbolic feeling of a heart leapt suddenly into its metaphorical throat to see such brutality inflicted on the object (for it was only an object) of the rosebush's affection.

The girl seemed excited at what she found in the mailbox and she returned to the shelter of her house even more quickly than she had come. As the rosebush turned its attention back to the man, it could feel an eruption bubbling to the surface of the man's ability of control.

Then, to the rosebush's horror, the man was striding forcefully in the rosebush's direction.

The man tossed his bottle to one side as he bent over the helpless bush and ripped it easily out of the soil. The bush felt pain as it had not in this lifetime, but more than that, the bush felt confusion. Why would this being destroy one of the last remaining pieces of evidence that proved that he was at all concerned with the world around him? Why was he willing to give up what he had (a beautiful rosebush that was thriving in soil that was his) for something else? For something intangible and very possibly unattainable? Where was this motivation coming from?

After the man yanked the bush from its home, he ripped it to shreds.

He tore several of the longest branches of the bush from its body, bloodying his hands has he did so. Then he tossed the tattered remains of the bush to one side and strode across the road as he arranged the flowers into a clumsy bouquet.

Then the bush (or, rather, the still conscious limbs of the bush) realized the end result of the man's misguided plan. The man intended to take what was his and (for all practical purposes) destroy it in the hopes of gaining affection from the object of his attention: the girl that dwelt across the road. And his means for doing this was, by some heavenly design, to bring together the rosebush and the object of its affection!

The man jerked the mailbox open and drunkenly stuffed the roses inside. He then shut the mailbox and the rosebush knew no more of him.

This was right. The rosebush now understood that this was supposed to have happened this way. For all the savagery, for all the confused feelings that had inspired this chain of events, for all of the violence that had been the means to this end, the end was correct. The man had no choice but to rip his world to shreds in order to deliver a thing of beauty to the world that existed outside of himself. He simply did not know any other way. True creation or change always means sacrifice, but what is that, in the end? What does it matter how the rosebush ends up in the mailbox, as long as it does?

Everything was as it should be for the tattered remains of the rosebush, contained blissfully inside the metal framework of the mailbox.

As for the fate of the man and the girl across the road, the rosebush cared not one bit.

SB
5/29/14

A Moment on the Beach

Sitting on the beach at midday. The water is too cold to swim and the buildings behind me tower above in a wall of intentionally overwhelming beauty.

The people that pass by don't say hello. They don't nod. They keep their minds on their own affairs, both for their own saftey and their ability to achieve whatever it is this day's activities demand of them.

If they were to wander too far into the landscape or the affairs of those around them,
it would be too much. All would be lost.

And here I sit, swyping every word, choosing carefully, trying to capture a moment that may otherwise be lost. Should I stay here and type? Should I concern myself with the task of recording a moment at the risk of missing one myself? Or should I put the phone away? Should I...

SB
5/27

The Breakup

Loretta led the way and I strolled silently behind her. In our years of marriage, the two of us had made this very same trip hundreds of times. She would walk confidently out in front, list in hand, the business of product acquisition firmly planted in her mind.

I would bring up the rear. My only real duty was not to bang the cart into her heals.

Occasionally, she would turn and ask me a question about what I preferred. She would raise her eyebrows while holding a loaf of bread or a certain kind of yogurt (which I would never have eaten on my own decision) and ask me my opinion.

My opinion was always the same. I didn’t care. I had long since made up my mind which type of bread I would not eat (very few) and which type of yogurt I would stomach to avoid conflict (all of them). More times than not I would shrug my shoulders and say something to the effect of, “Whatever you think is best, dear.”

This would usually satisfy her and she would put her choice, the choice she would have made anyway, into the cart. Then she would continue. Her concern for my opinion was, at this point, merely a formality.

If I had spoken up and suggested something that she didn’t approve of or some out-of-the-blue option (that maybe I actually wanted to try) it would have just ended poorly for me. I would have had to deal with an afternoon of bad vibrations and belittlement over other matters.

So I stayed quiet. I did my part. I pushed the cart and agreed with her and I did not bang the cart into her heels.

I would occupy myself with other things. Today I was actively looking at the items on the shelves. I was searching for sale prices that ended in 5 instead of 9. To my surprise, there were quite a few.

Loretta walked in front of me. She chose the groceries. She put them in the basket. She calculated the cost in order to stay within our meager budget.

I counted fives and tried not to let my arthritis get the best of me.

A girl wearing workout clothes trotted past me. She was walking the other direction, so I only had a moment to take her in. She was young and peppy and full of things I didn’t know about or have any way of finding out. Her blond hair was up in a playful ponytail and her basket contained soy milk and wine.

I nodded and kept my eyes forward.

We were in the kitchen supply aisle. This was a place that we rarely stopped unless Loretta was cooking something special or different.

“Do you mind,” she began tentatively, “if I get this knife?”

I looked up and saw her holding a kitchen knife that I would never need. The most I ever cut these days was the occasional block of cheese. I shrugged in my usual non-committal way.

“If you need it,” I said.

She tossed it into the cart. It was an extra eleven dollars that, in the end, would probably come out of my 'hard candy' budget.

It was okay. I could do without. Hard candy was a small price to pay for quiet.

At home, we put away the groceries and then I relaxed into my recliner. I let out a sigh of relief because I suspected that Loretta would now go into the bedroom and read from some romance novel or other. This would give me an hour or so to sit quietly and run down the clock.

But Loretta came briskly from the kitchen as I heard the last cabinet door slam closed.

I barely had time to turn my head before I felt an awful pain in the lower part of my ribcage.

I looked down and saw the kitchen knife that Loretta had just bought (no, had asked to buy) buried in my torso. I followed the trail of its path to Loretta’s pale hand, then up her arm to her stern face.

I realized in that moment that I had not looked directly at her in some time. She was still quite beautiful; even with her gray hair pulled back had her lips pursed.

I brought my hands to the knife in a feeble attempt to draw it from my body. I did not have the strength. So I looked at her again, this time for explanation.

She stood for a moment, somehow triumphant. Then she spoke.

“Edgar,” she began, as if she were going to scold me, “I’ve been planning this for weeks.”

I felt my eyes widen.

“My hope,” she actually looked a little sad, “was that you’d notice. I dropped hints. Things I said. Shows I was watching. Do you remember when I asked you how you hoped you would die?”

I didn’t remember. I had not been paying attention. I didn’t remember that at all.

“My hope was that you would have some plan in place to stop me,” she continued, “that I wouldn’t be able to do it and that we would just…”

She faltered for a moment and then found her strength again.

“My hope was that we would be able to continue with the life that has always seemed so acceptable to me. But you’re so distant. You’re not here and you don’t want to be. Now we both know it and you don’t have to.”

My wife stood over me and watched me bleed to death. In a very too-little-too-late moment, I wondered who would help her dispose of my selfish corpse.

The Writer and the Boxer

This was the best coupling I've seen on a shelf in quite a while. Look at them. Sitting there, as equals.

If Mark Twain and Mike Tyson got into a heated debate,
Twain would win.
If Mark Twain and Mike Tyson got into a fight,
Tyson would win.
And if Mark Twain and Mike Tyson teamed up...
The World would win.

Twain stood there on the bow of the steamer as if he had been standing there for his entire life. For all Mike knew, he had. As Tyson approached the author, Twain puffed on a cigar. The smoke from his exhale belted out and around his head, leaping and dispersing into the air, telling of the direction of the wind and the slow forward motion of the craft under their feet.

Tyson walked slowly, hoping not to draw any more attention than he already had. His ascension through the lower decks had been a bit more conspicuous than he had hoped for, but he supposed it was a foolish hope to begin with. What else had he expected? He was a well dressed, enormous, confident man of color and he was parading confidently through the dining hall and the gambling rooms of a steamer in the deep south.

Tyson had known the risk, but it couldn't be helped. He was looking for the only man in this time (that Mike could think of) who had the mental capacity to understand the stakes. He was not interested in these simple folks and their predjudices. His only thought was for humanity. He did not care that they stared or leaned over to their wives and whispered something disparaging. He did not care, any more than was necessary, what they thought of him, or what they would make of the tattoo.

Mike had heard that Twain wanted a bit of privacy and had cleared the top observation deck of the ship for his own personal use. Tyson also knew that this was likely his only opportunity to be alone with the writer, so he had acted quickly. He had bribed one man and sucker punched another and now he found himself alone with the greatest satirist of all time, and the only man that could help. Mike had to be quick.

"Hello Mistah Mahk Twain," Tyson began in his signature lisp, "I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I'd beg a moment of your time." Mike was trying to be as sophisticated as possible. Maybe it was the fact that he had never read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and did not want the conversation to veer in that direction, or maybe it was the itchy tightness of his tailored 1890s suit. Either way, he felt that a formal tone would be best.

Twain did not turn to look a him, but kept his gaze on the darkness beyond the railing. Somewhere out there was the answer, covered by the darkness and the low rumble of the river.

"Do you know, Mr. Tyson, how much trouble you are in?" Twain made no pleasantries. He was aware, probably even more than Iron Mike, how much danger there was to be had on this ship.

"I'm sawee," Mike said, taken aback. He put his hand on the railing to steady himself, "But I've wisked a gweat deal to find you. I need your help, sir."

"I am aware, Mr. Tyson, of your predicament. I did not become the man I am today by being unobservant of my surroundings. But you can hardly expect me to just be at the beck and call of the fates every time the fabric of space and time is on the verge of collapse."

"Mr. Twain, please," this is not what Mike had expected, "I've come here from..."

"I know why you're here and what we must do, Mr. Tyson," Twain spoke calmly, even though he could feel the vibrations of the thugs climbing the stairs underneath his feet. He took one more puff of his twenty dollar cigar and then chucked it overboard, "I was merely having a moment of self pity. I was wondering where the fates were while my publishing company failed? Where they were when my critics roared for my head? Where they were when my son fell ill, and where they will be when the very power that I posses to understand space and time the way that I do causes my daughter to convulse and not understand why?"

The writer turned to the boxer and continued, "But none of that matters now. I'll fight along side you just like I did with Joan when here need was dire. Just don't expect me to be pleased about it."

Mike Tyson grinned. The gap in his teeth caused the older man to smile as well.

"Thanks Mark," Mike had done his duty without speaking five sentences, "Mr. Bradley Cooper will be relieved."

"And that is what's really important, isn't it?"

The two men chuckled softly together as the door to the upper deck was kicked open.

"Now," Twain almost mused, "you take care of these ruffians and I'll prepare for the jump."

"Jump?" Mike didn't like the idea of leaping from anywhere.

"Yes, Mr. Tyson," Mark Twain turned back to the river as three large men spilled out onto the deck behind him, "Any great adventure must first begin with a risky leap."

Tyson moved quickly in the swaying lamplight on the deck. He gut punched the first man, leaving him unable to breath, broke the wrist of the second, and turned a knife that the third man pulled back upon its owner.

When the three men were lying helpless on the wooden ground, Tyson turned back to see Twain standing on the top bar of the guard railing. Mike lumbered up next to the old gentleman in the white suite and, as softly as he could manage with his giant, powerful hands, held on to Twain's shoulders.

Twain could sense the boxer's apprehension, "Don't worry, Mike, if it doesn't work, we've got at least a mark twain of water underneath us to cushion our fall."

This didn't seem to comfort Mike. In truth, he didn't really know what that meant. But he was brave and ready. The pair leapt from the railing together and as they fell, about ten feet from the water, a small rip in the night air opened up and swallowed them. There was no excessive light or sound, it looked mostly like the onset of the visual blur one gets when experiencing a migraine. Just a little eraser mark on the eye, but Twain and Tyson disappeared into it without a trace. They were off on their adventure, and the steam ship with its 42 passengers was scarcely aware that anything had happened at all.

A moment later, the wounded men on the deck flashed out of existence as well. Then, a beat after that, Twain reappeared where he had been standing before. He looked weary and hardened as if he had not slept or ate for quite some time.

Scott Bryan
5-15-2014