Love Letter

Love Letter­­­­­

by Jade Bové

You were perfect. Almost too perfect. Like a porcelain angel with black wings. You were one of those girls who seemed like she was one of the guys but still retained your femininity and sexuality. You would cuss and drink whiskey, fart and smoke cigarettes, and laugh at the kind of jokes I would only tell around my work buddies at the hog plant. I used to watch you from the sidelines, till I decided that I had had enough of all the other drunk asshole-douche bags hitting on you, taking advantage of you and your generosity. I was tired of you getting eyeballed and groped by these fat hairy truckers who stopped at this lonesome tittie bar out on the inter-state. Sure you had your faults just as the rest of us do, like your meth habit and the baby at home, (thanks for letting me take care of him by the way. It was a real treat) but you were something else. Long raven hair, full, pouty, strawberry red lips, and skin the color of bleached bone. I loved tracing patterns, with my eyes, in the small scars that criss-crossed your calves and forearms, the older ones more haphazard and rugged than the fresher pink ones. The craterous cigarette burns that dotted your torso were so artfully placed that they served only to enhance your beauty. There was an elegance and a precision about their placement that told me you knew how to handle pain and maybe even liked it.

I remember the first Halloween show that you did that Snow White routine. That really drove all the guys wild. Like a bunch of hogs during feeding time, or just before they went to slaughter. I remember you had a thing for the Disney princesses. For each month’s holiday you’d dress up like one of the little strumpets and do a routine for the beer guzzling truckers, and give a few free dances to some of your regular customers. I was always too shy to go up to you when you put on these shows. I liked to watch from the bar. I was never one to bring much attention to myself, unlike the swine that drifted in here night to night or week-to-week depending on where their freight was going.

I loved to watch you. I could see in your face that you didn’t like your job. But it was a living and we all have to work. Never smiling until the last minute when some fat fuck caught your eye. You were always looking away from the guys on sniffers row. I knew that you were looking for me. Whenever you looked at me I’d give a wink and a nod, like my granddad taught me, and raise my glass to you. You’d flash a toothy grin at me, one that would touch your eyes, and then let your face droop back to that look of dull boredom. When you weren’t looking at them you were looking at the floor or at me. I got the real smiles, they got disdain stretched across your face. That’s how I knew that we were destined to be together. I could see it in your face that you didn’t care for the kind of swine that came in here and paid for your attention.

I remember a couple of times you were not in a good mood. One time stands out in particular. A bachelor party had come in, remember? The groom was wearing a pink wedding dress as part of a prank or some weird city boy hazing ritual. I could see Jezebel’s fire behind your eyes that night. I never asked why you were so angry that night but you sure let that city boy have it. When his friend put him up on the stage tied to the chair in front of the pole, I had no idea what was in store. That poor boy didn’t either. I remember that you were on an Iron Maiden kick. You started dancing for this city boy. And were getting caught up in the music and the tempo. This is what I will never forget, the way you did that poor dog. You got up on the chair, grasping the pole above his head and began smashing your crotch in his face and his head snapped back slamming into the pole. At first it was kind of funny, even a little erotic, but then when the song was over and you didn’t stop and started screaming at him. The bouncers rushed in to drag you off. You clawed one of them in the face pretty bad. The city boy’s friends were terrified. They grabbed him down from the stage. The back of his head was busted up pretty bad. Looked like when Big Roy takes the bolt gun to a pig at the plant. You fucked that boy up good. I slunk out side to help those boys get their friend to the hospital. I put their friend in my van and took care of him while they went back to the city with the party bus. I remember thinking that night that you were going to be perfect. There was no doubt in my mind that you would love me for who I was and that wee were going to be very, very happy together forever.

Another night, I remember, a couple of the truckers got a little too grabby. You didn’t like the rough hands touching your smooth as butter skin. I didn’t appreciate it either. They didn’t know it yet, but you were mine, and mine alone. You started shrieking like a harpy at them and calling them all sorts of colorful names that should never have to pass over such gorgeous lips. You even tried to toss a bar stool at them. Your throw was limp at best and the stool landed on a table sending a cascade of broken glass twinkling and tinkling to the floor. When the bouncers got the two animals out into the parking lot, I went out to watch and wait. The bouncers gave the two a good roughing up, but I didn’t think it was enough. They had touched my porcelain angle, they had scuffed the lacquer smooth finish with their oafish paws. I couldn’t let that stand. I was going to show them that there were consequences that were much worse than a light thrashing for guys who get too grabby with the girls. Later, when I was washing the blood and hair from my hands and forearms, I found one of the guy’s teeth in the rolled up sleeve of my button-up denim shirt. I was proud of what I did, I felt chivalrous. I got a nice big rig and rusted out Ford pick-up that I could sell for about ten grand. That’s how I paid for your ring. Remember when I told you that story? We were driving away from Reno just after our wedding night. You had asked where I got my money from. I told you not to worry about it, but you were persistent. Kept bugging me the whole drive south to Death Valley National Park. I didn’t want you to be worrying about money because it’s not the wife’s responsibility, it’s the husband’s. Then you gave me those puppy dog eyes and I new I couldn’t keep the truth from you. When I told, you said that it was very romantic and that I was a regular Bossa Nova. Sometimes you could be so stupid it was cute, but I knew what you meant. I always kinda saw myself as more of a Don Juan though.

The night I introduced myself to you was a magical night. Do you remember? It was a few weeks after I sold the pick-up and big rig. The moon was full, the size and color of a sow’s ass. I could smell the electricity in the air over the tire fire that was raging over on the other side of the inter-state. When I walked through the parking lot that night, with the tire fire raging, the noxious smoke roiling into my breathing space and the neon lights of Clovis’s Truck Stop and Family Eatery spilling eerie half light onto the asphalt, I thought briefly that this is what hell must be like; stinky and oddly lit with a tittie bar full of fat hairy swine. I let the thought slip away because I had other, more important things to think about and do that would take all of my concentration and bravery. There was no need to dwell on it further, I knew that I would be seeing it again soon enough. You can’t live forever.

I lit up a cigarette to calm my shaking hands. I always get anxious before it starts. You know that. I pushed open the plastic padded double doors to the strip joint and made a beeline for the bar. The cigarette wasn’t doing the job. This was going to require some Canadian Club. I felt the comforting warm and fuzzy feeling wrap its arms around my brain numbing some of the more fantastical and deranged thoughts, as I placed the empty shot glass on the bar. The butterflies in my stomach were letting out their death rattles as they drowned in the sickly sweet Canadian brown water. Taking long and confident strides towards sniffer’s row I noticed that you were entertaining an older gentleman. He was pudgy and pink and balding. He was soft. I could tell that he never had to work hard for his money. His type was one of three on the top of my list. Fat rich guys who haven’t done an honest day’s hard labor, getting rich off the sweat of someone else’s back. Then there are the arrogant college boys with white baseball hats, collared tee-shirts, and those flippy-floppy sandals who think they’re better than me ‘cause they use fancy ten-dollar words and drink imported beer from green bottles. And then there are hitchhikers. Bunch of goddamned hippies who need to get jobs, buy cars, eat meat and be real Americans and drive every damn where. Besides, nobody cares who they are or where they’re going.

But this is about you and us and I have gotten away from the point, I told you all of this before, when we were headed out of Utah and towards Roswell. (I never did quite get your obsession with the aliens. I always figured if they could get past the fence and The Minute Men, good for them)

The fat, pink man dressed well, dark blue sports jacket, gold watch, gold cuff links, gold tie clip, a rich C.E.O type with a white collar on a cornflower blue shirt. Why the hell was he in this sty? I remember thinking. It didn’t really matter though. I left you alone so you could make your money, but I took note of this man. I had plans for him.

I lingered around some of the other dancers; all the while I never let my gaze drift from you for too long. I kept a mental list of all five of the boorish prigs that paid for your company that night. Enjoy it pigs. Enjoy it, you slop wallowing, bottom feeding swine. I remember thinking, getting angrier and angrier. This is the last time you’ll ever get this kind of attention from her again. The last time you can pay for her kindness. After tonight, you’ll just be a memory and she’ll be all mine. I had worked myself into a curious fever, my brain felt like the smoke choked parking lot outside and I realized that it was going to be a very busy night. I needed to relax so I let myself drift through thoughts of us living a happily married life and lost track of time. You had moved over to talk to one of the other dancers. I signaled for another whiskey, downed it and got up to make my move. I had taken two steps when I noticed the CEO walking out the door. His face was shiny and he had sweat circles under his arms. I could smell his fear, Old Spice and cheap scotch. I knew that he knew that he wasn’t supposed to be here. I followed him out to his car.

Twenty minutes later I was in the bathroom dabbing the sweat from my brow, trying to pretty up for you. That one hadn’t exerted me as much as the last few had. I was still in great shape for a 38 year-old. It’s comforting to know that my high school wrestling had stuck. I was feeling pretty good. I even had a little chubby growing. I went back out to the lounge and saw you standing alone by the bar. Perfect. You were perfect. The night was perfect. Nothing could possibly spoil it. I signaled for two drinks and slid up next to you and introduced myself. Your eyes sparkled like green pond water on a sunny day. I remember you asked me to buy you a drink. I remember the coy smile you gave me when you turned around and saw your Jack and Coke already sitting there. I was clearly more than you had expected. You knew that I was a catch and that you would be a fool to ignore me. I was and still am a gentleman after all.

The old man who sold roses out of a five-gallon plastic bucket came in. When you had turned away to talk to one of your friends I bought one of the roses and stuck it in your empty glass of ice. Then I ordered another round. When you turned back around and saw the rose your smile could have killed me dead and I’d have died happy. You were radiant, especially when the spotlight bounced off the baby-oil slick that covered your body. Your perfect toothpaste-commercial smile could have lit up the whole dank and dark bar. Imagine my surprise when I found out they were dentures. You were always good at making me laugh with your jokes and little pranks. Like when you left your dentures in my water glass that one night on our honeymoon. Sorry you had to wear sunglasses after that for so long by the way. You were falling in love with me, I could tell. I knew that it was going to be a wonderful honeymoon. Absolutely nothing was going to ruin this for us now. It was destiny, it was fate, we were meant to be together. You asked me if I wanted a dance. I declined. I told you that there would be plenty of dancing later, then I asked you when you’d get done working. You winked at me and said that you aren’t supposed to tell. But we both knew that I knew that you knew that I knew you’d be done at three. I knew that you wanted me to come back, your winks and light touches on my legs had told me so. Each time you brushed your tits against my arm betrayed your feelings for me. I told you I had to run some errands but that I’d be back and we’d party some more later and make some sweet sweet love. You laughed and said “I don’t think so” a little sarcastically and went into the back dressing room, shaking that sweet fanny from side to side for me. You had a light sarcastic streak, which was part of your charm. God I loved you. I still love you, which is why writing this hurts so much.

As you walked away, I saw two of your other customers headed towards the door. They had white hats and flippy-floppy sandals. Round two was upon me. I needed to get up and move around a bit anyway. I had a few too many Canadian Clubs and my head was feeling a little cloudy. Some fresh air was all I needed. Besides, I needed to get my wedding gift and the van ready for you. I walked out the door about a minute after the two jackals who were howling with laughter. One of them was talking about how badly you had wanted him. The other one was a slobbering mess, his sentences punctuated with gibbery laughter. I knew they weren’t your type and that you were just being polite. They were easy to find through the oily smoke and strange half lighting of the parking lot. Drunks are suckers for helping out with changing a spare tire. Two at a time was little difficult but my love for you was my strength and let me handle the two of them. Three down, just two more and then your wedding present would be ready.

I went back inside and freshened up in the men’s room. The cologne dispenser was empty so I used the air freshener cake hanging on the wall. It wouldn’t do to greet my future wife smelling of sweat, booze and someone else’s cologne. Lighting a cigarette as I walked back out to the lounge I took a survey of who was still there. It was getting near 2:30 in the morning and it was a Tuesday so the herd had thinned itself out a bit. That was fine by me, the fewer swine in here hogging your attention the better. There were just the three closing dancers and you, the two bouncers, the bartender, the D.J and seven or eight fat truckers. I couldn’t see the other two vermin on my mental list and the truckers were looking at the other girls.

I got another drink to take the edge off. I was still feeling the rush of anticipation. I couldn’t wait to show you your gift. I waited at the bar for you to come to me or for the two vultures to show their scaly faces. When you showed up first. I decided that three would be good. It’s a magical number. In all the old fairytales everything happens in threes. And I wanted us to have a fairytale life together. When you saw me you sidled up just like a dog who knows that it is doing something that it isn’t supposed to, but acts like it isn’t doing anything wrong, while keeping one eye half on its owner. That was good. You knew how I liked my women already. Coy and aware of who was in charge. That would save a lot of time I would have had to spend on training you. What a wonderful woman you were already. We were going to be so happy. I couldn’t wait for three o’clock to roll around. You asked if I wanted to buy you a drink and asked me my name again. As if you didn’t know. What a cutie pie you were, trying to play hard to get and pretending that you didn’t know me.

We chatted for a while longer. You kept “accidentally” rubbing your boobs against my arm and touching my inner thigh. “Oops…” you’d say, and flash a grin when your hand got too close to my junk. So god damned adorable the way you played the innocent. You were really good at flirting with me, you knew just how to get my engine roaring. Then the D.J. called you up to the booth. You requested some bands I hadn’t heard of. I remember how perfect the songs had been though. One was about a perfect day and the other had a haunting chorus that just chanted the word voodoo over and over. I will remember and cherish the sounds of those two songs forever. They will always remind me of our first night together. This night was getting more perfect by the minute. I couldn’t wait to show you your wedding present.

When you came back over to me I looked at you sheepishly and told you I had a present for you in my van. I asked you if you wanted to come back to my place for some drinks and some fun. I felt like the devil was in me. It felt good. It’s the hot part I like best. The hot waves that beat with my pulse. You hesitated, but I flashed you my award winning smile and I assured you that it was going to be magical, that you would love it as much as me. You glanced at the bartender. He said something like he’d walk you to your car if you wanted, but I think he was just jealous that you were obviously in love with me and not him. It only took one more please to seal the deal. I always told you that it was fate. You gathered your things from the back and we walked out into the hellish night. It was really hot. I remember you saying so and that the summer heat made you hot. I read between the lines and got your meaning. I’m no dummy. I hope you remember how fantastic a time we had that night.

There was a storm brewing off in the distance. The sticky southern air made your hair frizz and curl. Adorable. I pointed out the lightning flickers to you off to the west. You said it was pretty and asked if I had some coke. I did but it was in the back of my van along with your wedding present. You gave me a funny look when I said wedding present. It was a long walk to the van and I told you that I had been watching you for a long time. I told you that I was falling in love with you and that soon enough you would love me too. I started walking faster pulling you along. Sometimes I wish my hobbies didn’t require me to park at the very ass end of the parking lot in the shadows behind the idling big rigs. Your stripper heels didn’t help get us there any faster. I remember you whispering under your breath that I had better have some damn good drugs and a wad of cash ready. Ever the optimist you were. I said I did and that I also had something better.

You were shivering, despite the heat, when we walked up to the van. You asked why I parked so far away and I told you it was so I could have a nice walk to clear my head after too many drinks. I asked if you were ready for your present. “There better be some fantastic drugs in there, and big wad of cash” you said again. I told you to relax.

I pulled open the sliding door to reveal three of your customers hogtied and gagged. Their eyes were rolling wildly in their skulls with fear. The CEO was squirming to get loose and failing. I never forgot the knot tying lessons from boy-scouts. One of the college boys was passed out in a puddle of his own vomit. The other one was staring straight at me, frozen like a deer in headlights. I giggled, excited for you to open your presents. I looked over at you and you were trembling. I asked you if you were okay. Then I realized that you probably wanted the drugs I promised. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my special cocktail, part Meth, part L.S.D. and a touch of testosterone. I gave you the pill and then handed you the hunting knife. I told you that these swine were for you to butcher. I told you I had seen the glares that you wore and how you only smiled at me. I reminded you of your past assaults on the swine and that now was your chance to get even. I told you that this is who you were and that you could do this, you had been preparing for this moment for your whole life with the little cuts and burns, and the assaults on customers. You could take control and take it all out on them instead of your self. The look of bewilderment on your face eased into acceptance and then something I had never seen before, something I still cant put my finger on.

I’m not sure what I expected. I knew that you would be delighted with your present, but I hadn’t anticipated your reaction. I thought you would have been timid about it even shy and ask for help. I thought that we would maybe share a tender moment before things became considerably less tender. What I did not expect was for you to lunge at them in a rage unrivaled by any of hell’s furies. The knife was a silver blur in your hand as you stabbed and slashed and sprayed arterial fluid all over the interior of my van. I was so happy. We could finally be together. This was perfect. This was true love. You had exceeded any and all of my expectations. We were able to share everything together. You were so beautiful that night. I will never forget how the blood collected in the faint, fine lines of your face, turning it into some visage of demonic beauty.

You stopped after awhile, after your fury had subsided. There was not much left that resembled the animals. You had chopped the hell out of them and even jointed one of them. You told me, then, that your daddy took you out hunting when you were young and had to learn how to dress the animals. I was in awe. You wiped the blood from your face. I lead you towards the front seat and buckled you in. You were exhausted and now it was time for me to take care of you. I went to the driver’s side and hopped in. We went home and made love on the floor of, what was then, our home. After that I bathed you and gave you a baptism for the damned. Then we made beautiful love again.

We disposed of the bodies later that morning and left town after that. Remember what you said when I asked where we should go first? It was the perfect choice. Reno. We had to get married. It was our destiny. We had to go there and have a proper shotgun wedding. Just before we got to the chapel I told you I had another surprise for you. I could see the devilish glint in your eye when I said surprise. I pulled over on the side of the street and popped the trunk and followed you around to show you what I had. You looked confused when all you saw was the beginning of our collection, our shared trophies. “Look under the mason jars”, I told you. I saw your big doe eyes go all weepy when you saw the strip of pink cloth. You crushed the wedding dress to your chest and started crying. It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever given you you told me. We sauntered into the chapel as if we owned the world. You asked the dolly pardon look-a-like for the dressing room to change while I set up our Elvis Presley wedding. We celebrated by collecting a runt from a heard of Elvi that night. We had to keep a low profile after all.

The following two and half years were amazing. Going wherever the wind and a full tank of gas took us. I will never forget the bond that grew between us while roaming the county’s various truck stops and tittie bars. Our collection grew and grew.

I guess I let it get a little out of hand. We started getting sloppy. It was when you started going out on your own collecting runs that I knew the honeymoon was over. It was my fault really. I failed you in our relationship and I am so incredibly sorry. I have always had trouble with communication. Communication with women in particular. I never fully explained the rules to you. There are a set of rules that govern the chaos that we succumb to when we go collecting. The first rule is don’t shit where you eat. No collecting where you or your family lives. The second is never make the next collection within 150-miles of the last one. The third, and probably the most important, the one that you broke, the one that broke my heart. Two as one was acceptable, but two separate collectors in the same state was against the rules. You got the bloodlust in you and started going out without me. We were a team. You called me your partner in crime and that felt so good. It felt natural and true. When I discovered that you had started your own collection I knew that the honeymoon was over. A two-year honeymoon is a long time by anyone’s standards, but you fucked up. I fucked up. But my survival instinct kicked in. I’m only human after all.

That’s why I surprised you in the shower yesterday. I wanted to see you as you are, natural, not all dolled up in your princess costumes. The piano wire cut my hands pretty badly but I wanted to see your face one last time. The hunting knife would have been the wrong tool for you. You deserved better. Something cleaner. Something poetic and musical.

Now before I start filling in your grave Denice, I want you to know that I love you and that I will never ever love another as much as I love you. Nobody will be able to share with me what we shared. I know that you are a little scared and that you are probably in a dark place now, and that is a frightening place to be. I’ve watched many others go there. If you are still near, if your soul is still near by, don’t watch. Just head into the tunnel, after the darkness you will see the ruddy glow of the fires of passion that my love has created for you, on the other side, to keep you company till I can be with you again. I’m burying this letter to you with you so that you will always remember the day we met and how much I love you.

damn. i need to either stop posting things when i'm drunk or get a copy editor. sorry for all the typos folks. i'll fix them soon.

untitled

EDITORS NOTE: this is a second draft. i think it still needs work but i thought you all might to have a look anyway. hope you like it. oh, one other thing. i cant think of a good title. help a brotha out if you feel so inclined.

****

Sometimes walking, often times stumbling down the wind swept streets of old Chicago he pulls his coat tight around him. Ancient memories of Minneapolis flood his mind and he thinks quietly and aloud “this ain’t so bad, I’ve lived through worse.” The wind has a bitter sting to it as it slices through his threadbare over coat.

Recalling the last four or five hours is a bit of a struggle for him. All he can remember is a few shots of Jameson, blocking some one’s head with his fist, and blood that wasn’t his pooling on the concrete. He shakes his head to regain his composure, not sure if he even had any in the first place. All that does is make the spinning and nausea worse. He tries to keep it in but it’s too late. Through clenched teeth and fingers across his mouth, he ads his own graffiti to the wall tinted with hues of amber, red and brown.

He still had the knife clutched in his hand. “Where did this come from?” he wonders silently. The handle was slippery but he couldn’t remember why. Memories kept flashing by his eyes like headlights on a freeway. Faces and yelling, booze and a girl, nothing would solidify in his minds eye long enough for him to completely recall what had transpired. He kept walking positive that the exercise would help sober him up and he could remember every thing in the morning when he wakes up safe snug in his bed. His right arm was warm despite the cold, and his jacket clung to him, damp, in places. It felt heavy and tired. When he tried to lift it, it hurt just enough to remind him not to try and lift it again.

Where were his friends? He had asked them to keep an eye on him. They had a train to catch. They were all supposed to meet at the LaSalle stop and take the blue line to…somewhere; or, was it the green line. It doesn’t matter now, he’s lost and confused with a knife in his hand and blood soaked coat sleeve. He stops and wonders if they’ll let him in at Cal’s bar any more. He liked that bar. He doesn’t even notice the sudden clarity of where he had been. No time to ponder that now, he continues walking.

Stumbling down the sidewalk, he narrowly misses overturning some old bag ladies cart full of cans and garbage bags holding her various treasures found in the alleyways and gutters. “Watch where yer goin’ assh hole!” she croaks and tries to navigate her cumbersome cart around him.

“This isn’t my knife.” He tries to tell her. He feels the intense urge to be given absolution for having this large and apparently deadly knife. He flashes it at her and the streetlight reflects off of the now dull brown sap that has clung and crusted onto the blade. She knows then that it is time to leave and soaks back into the shadows of the alley.

A flash of memory zips across his whiskey fogged brain like a lightning bolt shattering the darkness of a storm: There was a man in a leather motorcycle jacket and his biker bitch humping in an alley they both saw him, the man grinned while the lady looked disgusted. Weather the disgust was directed at him for accidentally observing the coitus or at her self for letting this guy put his dick in her so she could score some H he could not say. He was distracted from the scene by a bum asking for change. His breath reeked of vodka and his cloths contained that special uric sting that the homeless seem to wear like cheap cologne. Further down the alley he could see some under age kids passing a brown paper bag around their huddled circle. His eyes glanced up at the street sign but it was obscured by a halo of light and leaves. Then the memory is gone.

But who did I stab? He asks him self. Did he stab any of the people from the memory? Or had his depression progressed so far that he had started cutting himself during his increasingly frequent black outs? Could it be that he tried severing his own arm at the shoulder? And for that matter where did he get this knife? Too many questions were prancing around his head as if there were a group of whirling dervishes doing their sword dance in the middle of a sand storm. His head was starting to ache and the pain and heaviness in his arm was getting worse.

Wandering through the twisted alleyways he finds an antique lamppost that had probably been around since Capone ran the city of Chicago. Leaning on the building just on the dark side of the halo of margarine colored light he examines the knife for any clues. Its about six inches long and of a military style, like a miniature Rambo knife. There is a spike on the hilt for cracking skulls, a skull cracker.

He suddenly felt eyes on him. The fight or flight panic was starting to kick in now and the intense urge to hide was flooding through him. Panicked eyes rolled around his eye sockets looking for a place to escape the ever-watchful eye of “them”. There was no telling who could see what he was doing and where those watchers might be watching from.

As panicked induced adrenaline began coursing through his muscles, he sprints blindly in the direction his whiskey-addled brain thinks of as home; north.

His mom will save him he thought. She’ll make every thing okay again. His mom lived In Minneapolis, and he was in Chicago blacked-out drunk. This was one of those classic moments that you stumble across in life; where the only thing that could possibly make it any better was for your mom to shush you and tell you everything was going to be alright while rubbing your back.

With out looking where he was going and knowing only the direction he wanted to go, he dashed into the street confident that he was going home to mother and everything would be fine in the morning.

He never felt the semi smash into him and pulverize his chest and spine. He didn’t feel the eight or nine bounces followed by a long skid that tore off his face and shredded his already tattered clothing to little more that rags. He was already unconscious and dreaming when the brick wall of a building brought him to a knee popping halt which ironically sent his knee caps flying off into the night to be dinner for a family of stray kittens.

The knife had flown from his hand and made its home, buried to the hilt, in the head of the bag lady who had called him an ass hole only minutes before. She died instantly. Such is karma.

And the man dreamed. In those last few moments of life when the human mind is at its most creative and functioning at he highest levels to keep the body alive, he dreams, unaware that his body lies crumpled, in a heap at the foot of the mercantile exchange in Chicago.

He was lost in a fantastic world of his own design and had no idea what the rules were, for he had yet to decree them. Flying through the misty white void he zooms past trees of titanic height, half created angels, various bits of flotsam and jetsam of galaxies waiting to be born, a model t ford, and a three year old wearing a cute little sailors outfit clutching and oversized loli-pop and riding a faded and rusted tricycle. He thinks he has been falling for hours possibly even days, if falling is what he is actually doing. For all he knew he was standing still and this myriad of seemingly random objects is just hurtling past him. The epiphany of relative time and space and motion reveals its self to him in that moment. Watching an antique cash register glide past a pink elephant that was surrounded by bubbles, he wonders if this parade of random nouns will ever stop.

Eventually he mist becomes thinner and field full of flowers materializes around him stretching off towards the horizon and beyond. It’s a veritable sea of shifting colors that answers only to the whims of the wind. Perhaps he had been standing still.

This Elysian field was filled with a multitude of colors. All shades and varieties of reds, blues, oranges, and violets and pinks went on as far as the eye could see. All of them dancing in the wind under the watchful gaze of the random sunflower.

With nothing else to do he starts walking across the field, stepping through patches of petunias the color of seawater on a clam day, feeling the sunshine warmly on his face. Warm, he discards his threadbare trench coat and walks on under the towering sunflowers that create pools of shadow in this sea of sunlight. He crests the small rise in the field that was obstructing his view and sees the tree line. Mighty oaks, and elms, and other hardwoods, keep the flowers corralled in the field. He notices clarity to his vision that he had never had before. From this distance, which he guessed was at lest three hundred yards or more, he could see each and every individual leaf on any tree that he was looking at as if the branch were right in front of his face. The leaves flickered and danced in the wind and sunshine like a school of fish darting through a wave trying to escape a predator. The image is so powerful that he thinks for a moment that he really is seeing fish.

He started walking towards the tree line, noticing that there were a lot more sunflowers on this side of the ridge. There was an animal path for him to walk on. The further down the path he got, the taller and larger the sunflowers got. Where once the heads made only pools of shadow, these were creating entire ponds. He stopped to look at these massive stalks and found more than a few that were thicker than his wrist, and one that was as wide as his hand. Looking up, the sunflowers themselves were the size of umbrellas. Enjoying the shade he continued on his way toward the tree line.

After what felt like fifteen minutes that could have just as easily been fifteen hours, he came out of the sunflowers he was still several hundred yards away from the tree line. The deer path he was on led him from the edge of the sunflowers straight into a very large rose patch. Roses the color of fresh blood bloomed as far as the eye could see. Here the deer path stopped abruptly. He looked around for any sign of a path going around or through the roses but alas there were none.

‘This can’t be any worse than Chicago’ he thinks to himself. Then he tries to remember what was so important about Chicago. He wades carefully into the sea of blood red roses in front of him, not wanting to scratch his legs too badly. After fifty yard or so his legs feel warm and damp. Stooping over and parting the bushes, he finds that his trousers have been completely shredded and snagged on a hundred thousand thorny stems, and that his legs are cris-crossed with hundreds of tiny scratches, each letting out a few drops of crimson. With no other choice he continues on through the field of spiny beauty while the phrase ‘death from a thousand paper cuts’ alternates with a visual image of him walking out of the rose patch with no flesh on his legs between ankle and knee. As he walks through the roses, his blood spills on several flowers each step. The blood dripping from the flowers looks as if all color were draining their own color to quench the thirst of the cracked and dry soil that their roots were sleeping under.

Finally after what seemed like hours but could have been days he emerged from this bloody field and much to his surprise, there was no meat left on his shins, Just the pearly white gleam of the tibia and the fibula. His knees were there and his feet and ankles were there but not anything in between. Finding this odd but still able to walk, he figured that he would just keep going for lack of any thing better to do. Looking ahead at the trees he realized that he was hungry. He sets off into the woods in hopes of finding a scrumptious meal. As soon as he stepped into the woods it was apparent that he was no longer in Kansas any more, or Chicago as this case may be. Looking at the trees he discovers that they are completely two-dimensional, flat as a piece of paper. Shaking his head to clear his vision in an attempt to restore his surroundings to their normal three dimensions, he discovers that it is to no avail. The trees are still flat. Hoping that there might be an apple or some other fruit-bearing tree in this weird forest he sets off again.

“I’ve been walking for hours…” he says out loud to himself half hoping some one else would answer. He looked at his watch. The face had been cracked and the hands had stopped at 11:23. “Well is it morning or night?” he remembers leaving somewhere and it was nighttime, but that seemed so long ago, and besides it was daylight here. Wasn’t it? Come to think of it the light just seemed to be everywhere, he looked up to see if he could peer through the leaves. For the most part the branches blocked his view, but when the wind moved them just right he could see the sky, which from this limited viewpoint yielded glimpses of a whitish overcast tone to the sky. But despite the overcast sky and the fact that he was under a lush canopy of branches that have both length and width but no depth and should be enclosing him in near total blackness, the light just seemed to be there. It was if everything was giving of its own light, just enough to see by. He was starting to tire of this surrealist landscape. He briefly pondered if he had wandered into Salvador Dali’s dreams but discarded the idea after not having come across any pocket watches dripping off of tree limbs.

His belly rumbled. His hunger pains were getting worse. He could feel his stomach eating its self. He had to get food and soon. He started jogging along, then stopped when he felt his lower leg bones flexing uncomfortably under the extra strain of jogging. The sensation sent shivers up his spine. Starving now he decided to eat some leaves just to have something in his belly. He plucked one off an oak tree and bit into it. He chewed for a full thirty seconds before he realized that there was nothing in his mouth. He looked at the leaf and saw that there was no bite taken out of it. Apparently in a two-dimensional forest you cant eat any thing because it is lacking depth. That is to say that there isn’t any thing to bite into. Frustrated, he tossed away the inedible leaf. And continued his trek through this bizarre landscape.

Some time later he came out of the woods behind a gas station. It was an old gas station from the 40’s. The bell line was a serpentine stripe across the driveway. There was a huge oil stain in the middle of the concrete that made it look like there was a bottomless pit leading straight to hell or china or some other place that bottomless pits are supposed to go. The red gas pump looked like a rocket ship preparing to take off as soon as the electrical umbilicus and scaffolding were removed. The wind blew for a moment and pushed the requisite tumbleweed passed the antique building.

He rounds the corner of this soberingly familiar city block and is confronted with a horrifying car accident. There is blood everywhere and at least two dead bodies. One of them looks to have been killed with a knife stuck in its head. People are starting to gather around the scene. A greasy motorcycle couple and a few bums poke their heads around the corner to see what had happened. A group of teenagers had seen the whole thing and were passing around a brown paper bag, each one taking a larger gulp than the previous round wishing to make this seem as un-real as possible.

He never stops to think this was not right, never realizes how familiar the faces in the ever increasing crowd are. He believes that he is still dreaming, or at least on some really good drugs. After a few moments the EMT’s arrive and begin disbursing the crowd. As he moves on to find out what he should do next he glances at the truck driver bending over his crumpled and torn body bursting into tears and weeping bitterly long into the night. Suddenly things begin to loose focus as understanding takes the place of confusion and a great shining light shines down on him. The source seems to be somewhere out on lake Michigan. He shrugs and heads off towards the light.

ATTENTION

underneath the stone,

there's more than just them bones,

underneath the stone,

there's a story to be told

underneath the stone

-Bob Wayne

a new and original tale that only i can provide will be posted here tomorrow. keep an eye out.

the first installment

This is the first installment of this story. Please criticize and critique as you feel is necessary. part 2 will appear in a few days.

In the Wake

We had been adrift for about two weeks when I decided to try and document these events. We had been shipwrecked in a maelstrom that came whipping up out of the south without warning. It was night time and we had all believed we were safe. Around 2am I noticed the swells bobbing the boat up nad down like a cork in a bathtub. I ventured up to the helm to see if I could help. the captain had gone as white as sea foam. That frightened me. I tried not to panic because panic spreads like disease among bilge rats. Fighting the pitch and roll of the ship I staggered back to my bunk and started collecting my small amount of valuables. You can’t own too many things when you are a sailor for the very reason of storms and possible shipwrecks. I laoded a small plastic bag with my journal, a few pens, a silver lighter I stole from a man in Singapore, a folding knife that I had won in a card game in Sydney, and my glasses. I tied the small satchel to me with a length of twine that I prayed would hold if worst came to worst.

I roused the rest of the men in the bunk and suggested they prepare for the worst. Some told me I was being paranoid, others took me a little more seriously and went to gathere their own belongings. As I was making my way up the stairs to the deck a colossal wave smashed over the side and slammed my head against the railing. I wont mix words here, it fucking hurt and I panicked as my feet wer pulled from under me. my field of vision had become a velvet background pin pricked with tiny stars flashing in and out of existence. Luckily I was swept below decks and slammed into the wall. The water cascaded over me in a torrential roar and woke the rest of the sailors. Shouts of alarm and panic erupted. I wanted to shout “I told you so” but at that moment another ocean swell rocked the oat and sent people flying to the floor or the wall or whatever hard surface happened to be near.

Swearing like the sailors they were they began to push past me to get above deck and try to secure the ship. I knew by the brittle chill deep in the marrow of my bones that the ship would not last the night. Perhaps, if we were lucky, we would be swallowed by the sinking ships rip tide and spared an agonizing death. Since you are reading this I can say for certain that that was not the case. Fighting against the heaving main I struggled to get up the awkwardly vertical ladder and pulled myself up onto the deck.

The wind was raging, trying to take as many people with it as it could. It sounded like a freight train was moving at full bore while being whipped around by an unseen giants hand. The rain pelted my face like grains of sand. I was scarred and my head was throbbing. I wanted to pray, but I think that perhaps because I didn’t my life may have been spared. Suddenly the water from under the boat had dropped away and we were literally floating in the air, an impossible airship. I felt my stomach trying to catch up to thhe rest of me as we sailed the mini gulf stream back to violent cradle of the sea. Lightning flashed and as I looked around it was impossible to tell sky from water, but there was what appeared to be a wall of water hurdleing towards us. There were sharks in that wall. I held on to the railing and dug my ankles into som coils of rope hoping that it would be enough to keep me on the boat. The wave crashed over us. The grind and squeel of twisting metal was echoed byu not so distant thunder. Whe the water had receeded I was still on board staring intho the grinning maw of a ridiculously large shark. Thrashing about it snapped at me trying to get in one last meal before it suffocated. The shipped rooled to the port side and I was launced over the struggleing beast and landed in a tangle of cargo nets. Not knowing what else to do I searched for a life preserver.

Up near the helm I saw a flash of yellow near a drainage hole. I dove for it, ignoring the pounding of my head and the ache in my body. As it slipped out of the drain and tumbled to the unforgiving sea below I managed to snag a strap and heroically saving my only means of surviving this maelstrom. I hurredly flung it over my head and sanpped the clasp shut, sinching it as tight as I possibly could. I had decided that I was going to survive the night at least.

I left the helm and began searching for a life boat or any one who might have still been on board. The sea felt like it was beginning to calm and the wind was dieng down. Lightning flashed of in the distance and I felt as if I was the only soul left on a bleak and lifeless ocean. In the silence I heard voices and the tinkling of bells. People were shouting to hurry and abandon ship. I ran to the starboard side and saw the rest of the crew frantically lowering the life boats. “jump!” someone shouted. I hesitated. They were a good fifteen feet below the deck and still about ten feet above the water. I weighed my options. If I jump it would be a hard landing in the boat, if I missed it would be an even harder landing on the water. I was suddenly reminded of a video I had seen in a high school physics class of a car that had been dropped from fifty feet into a twenty foot deep pool. The image wans less than encouraging. I looked around in an adrenaline fueled calm. Where was the captain? I saw him standing stoicly on the deck. He seemed to be entranced and was wrapping rope around his waist and lashing it to ladder rung. He had decided to go down with the ship. Whatever. I wasn’t going to die here. I hesitated one last time and the gale force of the tempest was upon me again. I flung myself over the ledge.

The fall was an eternity wrapped in an instant. The waves rushed up to meet me and embraced me in briny darkness. I fought to orient my self and tried to swim upwards. It was almost impossible. I went limp with shock and fear. I had no direction, no way to know whether I was sinking or rising to the surface. I opened my eyes and let the salt water burn on my retina. I looked for the bubles and let the life preserver do the work. I started kicking and found my head breaking the water. Wildly I looked around for any one of the life boats. They were a few dozen yards off to my left. The waves were swelling, getting ready for another strike. I swam madly towards the nearest boat, sure that I wouldn’t make it and be pushed under to meet with davey jones.

Something hit me in the face and splashed water in my eyes. Blindly grasping I found that it was a rope and held n for dear life. I was being towed towards the boat and began kicking to expedite the process. Lightning flared all around and the wind picked up speed, close on the heals of the last peel of thunder. Hands grabbed atme and pulled me into the lifeboat. We all spent the next several hours fearing that we were already in hell as the storm batted us across the waves, trying to bring us down to Poseidon’s palace.

I woke in the boat some time after mid morning. I could feel the sour stenche of salt anf fear crusting on my skin. Some one was moaning, another voice howled in madness. I looked to the east and could see the tail end of the storm fading over the horizon. A pang of pity tugged at my stomach. Then I vomited. What felt like gallons of seawater spilled over my teeth and mixed in with the rest of the vast ocean that had failed to claim our lives that night.

I looked around to survey the damage left in the wake of the storm. There were numerous items floating languidly in the sea. As we floated by some of the survivors reached out to see if any of the flotsam was usefull. Remembering my hastily packed bag I checked around my waist. It was still there. I almost cried upon seeing the knife and lighter. I knew tht there was some semblance of hope now. We would be able to eat. Water was going to be the big issue. Smiling like a fool I fell back into the cradling prow of the boat and dozed, too exhausted to do anything else.

When I woke I counted the remaining crew members in the life boat. Fourteen had managed to find salvation on our mobile island. Two of them were arguing about what to do now.

“we need to paddle east, back towards senegal. That’s our only hope!” shouted the one called Murphey. He was in shock and could only think about moving in a direction. He was arguing with Edwin. Edwin is a big burley Africaner from cape town. he was the first mates right hand man which made him third in command after the captain. But the captain was gone, following his ship to the abyssal plane three miles below us. The first mate was nowhere to be seen. Edwin was not used to taking orders from deckhands.

“No, we can not paddle. We have only one oar. What we need to do is try and see if any of the other boats or crew survived. It is our duty not to let them suffer an agonizing death alone.” With that the argument was over. Edwin had won the pissing contest and was now the alpha dog. Murphey went to sulk at the stern. Edwin came over to where I was hunched down trying to find some relief from the blazing ball of fire hanging over us. I started thinking of everything that could go wrong; dehydration, hunger, sunstroke, heat stroke, sunburn, hunger, thirst, another storm, sharks. I was working myself inrto a panic and wasabbout to jump over board when Edwin spoke.

“it is going to be alright friend, just do not panic.” He paused and looked me in the eye and grinned. “Did you remember your towel?” was he joking? No I didn’t remember to bring my towel. A towel was the last thing on my mind last night. I couldn’t tell. It took me a few days to get the joke. “you have been sitting up here for a while, have you seen anything?” he asked calmly, soothingly, like I was a rabid dog trying to decide if I should rip his throat out or bolt for the nearest alleyway. I lifted my head till I could see over the stern and surveyed the

Fourteen people had found each other out in the liquid desert that is the open sea. Some in inflatable rafts, others clinging to debris, some swimming till they couldn’t swim any longer. The raft had been put together piece meal from various bits of flotsam and jetsam that floated by. Over the course of three days the little raft had become a floating refuge set adrift in an unforgiving sea. This tiny four-man vessel had swelled like the wave into a small barge-like thing that could accommodate the fourteen damned souls.

On man, Davidson, had on the third day, found a length of plastic tarpulin. He was an engineer back on dry land, or so he said. He rigged the tarp to act as a sail and as a water collector. He explained that the sun would evaporate the sea water all around them and the tarp would capture that moisture. It wouldn’t be much, but it would give them some time. Nobody much cared.

After the third day, Ulrich, the self appointed captian of this ill fated boat, took stock of their supplies. Some varying lengths of rope, about twelve days worth of food scavenged from the deep blue waters of the equatorial atlantic, several knives, and a water jug. There was little to no hope for this ragtag crew. There only real hope was a steamer passing by chance. He told every one to be calm. He knew the truth. The truth was that there was not any real chance of survival.

the universe is certainly testing me today. its -4 with a -20 wind chill. meh. i can handle that. i woke up just a little too late to dig my car out of the snow that has drifted up around it over the last two days, so i'm biking. i have french oral exam. shouldn't be a problem but test anxiety has ben worming its way into my bones for the last week or so. then i spend the remainder of the day locked in the dank basement of the library finishing off a paper. it a long, cold and dusty wind swept road i walk today. the universe is throwing up road blocks but i will cross them like an olympic hurdle runner being chased by a bear.

under neath the stone

there's more than just them bones

underneath the stone

there's a story to be told

underneath the stone

just a reminder to you all top stay tuned. a story is shaping itself in my brain and will soon be appearing on this blog thingy shortly.

underneath the stone,

there's more than just them bones,

underneath the stone,

there's a story to be told

underneath the stone

there is a story brewing and will be posted in edited increments.

murder, revenge, sharks and cannibalism... stay tuned.