Archives Under "fiction" (RSS)
Empty Wallet Theif.
4 April 2009 | fiction, writing | 2 Responses
Lamp post says “the walk signal is on” my head snaps up, I’m crossing. Glancing down my mind wanders; remembering when the crossing signal was birds, chirping. On the other side now, approaching Denver and the two story Paul Bunyan, the Max Station. There she was; haircut with too many angles, nape of neck suggesting the geometry of a larger object. Perched precarious with dangling limbs in an impossible position; an awkward grace, a calculated nonchallance. I want to believe she just landed that way; crooked provocative balanced on the circular metal bike-rack. Legs crossing she notices me as I approach, an exclamation point in body language.
“The yellow line to city center is expected to arrive in six minutes,” a disembodied female robot voice announced. I square up with the ticket machine and I feel her watching. As I fumble out my card I sense her movement, the chains on her jeans jangling. The next few moments pass in a flash; a single breath, inhale…exhale.
“Hey,” she says in a small voice, I turn. Her right hand comes up, palm down, as if to slap me five. Too late I notice my wallet open in front of me like a book, her black-nailed hand coming down. I barely have time to register the quiet “smeck” sound of it being stolen before she’s gone. Across the tracks in three gawky, too-long strides. Over the fence on the far side and out of sight before I can open my mouth to shout. Behind me, the ticket machine spits out my card, tauntingly flashing and beeping. Grabbing my plastic and paper I turn and smile into the sounds of the approaching train. I had just witnessed a desperate act, however useless. She’ll be disappointed with my cheap camo-colored bill-fold; nothing but sweaty business cards and yellowing old receipts.
*this is a work of fiction; as in I made it up, it didn’t happen.
February?
21 February 2009 | fiction, writing | 1 Response
February but warm and sunny as hell, the mingling sounds of screeching children and tires. A hot rod roaring up a side street, tee shirts in the park hanging out in sun. The evergreens tower, sentinels at the edge of the ball field basking. I toss a stick repeatedly for Jelly; she scrambles for it with dog ethic. Jam lopes silly about her, clueless to the simple game. I pause and palm my phone and put on some music, ear-buds with a swinging cord. Selecting tunes I find a fave and flick it on, smiling. Sensing a waiting dog-with-stick I bend knees and exhale reaching. She snaps and snarls as I pull back, then turns and burns as I fling it end-over-end outward. A roiling ball of fur exuding gratification. The dogs grin and run; but sit still, smelling the air when I grab a bench. A chill breeze lifts my head and I spot a knit-capped mom pushing a tricycle style carriage. We all sit and watch a dog poop in the distance. Jelly, turning quizzically, her eyes asking: February? I wander into the trees and am followed by a close pack panting. I pull out my phone and start typing, words flowing with a rambling lyricism, a randomized algolrithm, thumbs pounding with deliberate grace. Popping pics and emailing them, I shake my head, blogging in the park on a warm winter day.
Transit Ride.
7 February 2009 | fiction, writing | No Responses
In between songs I hear music from a nearby iPod, undulating saxaphones and trumpets bumping hips with tumbling bass lines. Afloat in a sea of thousand mile stares, a brief recognition in a second glance; a false summit to a subtle stretching tension. My music breaks, again the disconnected samba sax, incoming text on the one device with uncanny timing: ping! The next verse crashes. Email in my pants again but no wifi, it can wait. The train soldiers on, somehow perferable to the somehow different jerky charge of the bus. Dude drops his burrito in the corner of my eye and I smell it. He’s thinking 5 seconds but I don’t wait to see him go for it, thumbing the wheel of my board. The gritty bearings sing for concrete. The wheels catch snugly against the window as I prop my ride up on its tiny molded plastic ledge. I fumble my book out of my pack but don’t open it. Images fleeting flow by through the glass as they do around me inside the trains womb-like warmth. Sharply in my eye for just a second, then my vision slides to the next slipping scene. Down into a passing car; steaming coffee, texting fingers. Around to a shuffling in front of me, dude ruffles his paper. Out to the girl on the corner, bending to retrieve her headphones dangling. Inside now, a sound turns my head. Lips smack, a burrito consumed with a darting glance. Maybe I will read.