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Short Story: Bloody Wednesday

 

 

Jack walks into the office. Nothing fancy; just twenty-ish cubicles organized into a large square on the 28th floor of a New York-style high rise. Jack is late. Jack is always late. Jack lumbers passed one row of cubicles and turns into the small closet-like break-room located at the rear of the office. He notices to his discontent, that there is only an ounce or-so left of coffee. Jack sighs, gulps it down straight from the pot, and grimaces from the bitter shock of slightly cold, black brew. Spinning on his heel, he turns quickly to exit the closet and knocks his forehead into something with a soft but sharp, smack. It is the forehead of the C.O.O’s personal assistant, Elaine.

Elaine is a quaint woman, with black bob-cut hair, buddy holly glasses, and no particularly note-able features, but to Jack she is every bit as beautiful as the moon; every bit as elegant as its slow dance to peel back the night.

Jack grunts loudly and turns a deep shade of crimson. Elaine shoves her face into her hands and lets out a small animal-like noise, melting Jack’s heart and accentuating his guilt.

“Oh no…I am so fuckin’ sorry, Elaine! I really should pay more attention, huh?”

Elaine looks up with watery eyes that shoot rusty steak knives in Jack’s direction. “You show up twenty minutes late every day, and half the time you cause physical harm to yourself or someone else before you leave. Do us all a favor and admit yourself into one of those triple-locked white padded institutions.”

Jack looks to his feet for a moment and chuckles before returning his gaze to Elaine, projecting a crooked grin. “You know, I have been to a place just like that? Although it was only to visit a close relative.”

“That answers a question or two.” Elaine mutters under her breath.

Jack twitches at the comment but quickly regains composure. “Also, may I say you look absolutely awe-inspiring today? Truly and marvelously mesmerizing!

Elaine begins toward the exit at the words, “you look—”; apparently abandoning whatever venture that had brought her there. She stops and glances back over her shoulder. “Get something done for once today. You’ll be fired before too long.”

Jack looks down again and turns the opposite direction out of the minuscule doorway toward his cubicle. “I knew she cared,” He whispers as he hooks around the corner, plopping into his faded black computer chair. The cubicle and the desk within are quite plain, minus a lightsaber key-chain that hangs from the handle of the top desk drawer, and a wrinkled poster of John Lennon wearing a New York t-shirt tacked to the left cubicle wall. He presses the small square power button on his monitor, but not his computer, and habitually fingers at the key-chain as he waits. The tiny purple lightsaber and wrinkled poster are perfect physical representations of Jack’s fleeting dreams, and often spur tedious trains of thought dedicated to failed attempts at failed passions he had long-since abandoned; how he should’ve-could’ve-would’ve done something differently. He stares deeply into the glossy black screen. “Perhaps it’s finally died on me?” Jack wonders. But, something flips the railroad switch and Jack’s thoughts give way to Elaine, and the way her legs seemed to go on for miles before ending at the yearning curve of her hips; flips again to a cripplingly-traumatic family experience, of which he had blocked out for years (he quickly forgets again moments later); flips then to something funny he read in the post; and flips back to the lightsaber that dances at his fingertips.

Black screen.

Jack thinks about the movie The Indian in the Cupboard. What if such a wonderful fixture like that cupboard existed? Could he use it to turn the tiny purple lightsaber into a very real and very dangerous glowing beam of death? A very cute and miniature dangerous glowing beam of death? He ponders this for some time. What would the thugs that wander his complex think of his miniature-dangerous-glowing-beam-of-death; his very-cute-miniature-dangerous-glowing-beam-of-death? Although, it may not feel much worse than a thumbtack or an accidental touch of the stove. Painful, certainly, but not lethal, or even much of a deterrent.

Black screen.

Jack feels his soul plummet back into his body from atop a mountain peak of thought as two meaty fingers adjourned in gold rings snap in front of his face. He is greeted by what appears to be a pale, wrinkly, and grossly over-sized bulldog. Large freckled jowls fold at the sides of Mr. Mammon’s swollen face. Thick wrinkles hold themselves delicately over his brows, beneath a thin crown of orange tuft; and the bags under his eyes droop down to just above his nostrils. He looks vividly like Droopy Dog from the old Saturday cartoons.

“How’s it going, son? Get much done today, Champ?”

“Well actually Mr. Mammo-,” Jack begins to speak but is interrupted.

“You know what Jack—lately I have been trying to figure out just what it is that makes you so damn useless.” Mammon chuckles, “How late were you today, Jack?”

“Well Mr. Ma-Mammon sir, I was only twe-” Jack is cut short again, but this time it is by the thunderous bang of meat and metal as a thick paw crashes down against his desk. Jack jumps, and he directs his gaze to his feet as Mr. Mammon’s voice rises to just-short of a scream; the booming voice of a football coach mixed with the muddled gravel of a heavy smoker flood the room.

“What in Satan’s bloody name gives you the right to slack off on a company salary you sniveling-bitch? I pay you handsomely to do what? To sit with a thick thumb planted firmly up your rear, son? Is that what gets you off, my boy? Like some sort of fucking faggot?”

Jack grimaces at the remark and notices that the normal cricket-like chatter of twenty-ish keyboards has come to a deafening halt. Jack glances up for just a moment and notices Elaine as the red of her silky flats disappears behind the bathroom door behind Mammon. A crooked and sinister grin raises the jowls of Mammon’s face like the rose-y red curtain of a Broadway tragedy.

“Ah, my boy! My boy, my boy, my boy—” Mr. Mammon’s voice trails off and his eyes dart from side to side. He leans in close to Jack’s face and Jack can smell his secrets on his breath. The staleness of cheap cigar smoke, the acidity of cheap whiskey, and the sour scent of cheap women singe the hair in Jack’s nostrils. Mammon speaks in a harsh whisper.

“So that’s what has my boy acting like a space cadet. You have exquisite taste, son!”

Jack’s head jerks upward, bringing him face to face with the bulldog. He feels the muscles in his forearms strain against themselves as he squeezes the arms of his chair, and a pressure begins to well behind his eyes as he feels the blood in them boil. The grin on the bulldog strains wider, pushing hard at the fleshy freckled curtains that hang at his lips.

“You know, sometimes I think it gets to me too, son. All this work to get done and yet I find myself daydreaming about the ass on that one. What I wouldn’t give to have a taste of that cherry pie. Right my boy? Like an elegant Pan Tres Leches. On the top she’s all prickly and sour fruit, but underneath you can be certain there’s a thick sponge-y cream begging to be lapped up. What I wouldn’t do to let my tongue dance around those curves for a night; let me tell ya, lad.”

Jack begins to tremble and the leather of the arm rests wrinkles and cracks beneath his fingertips. Mammon continues; his nose only a hair’s breadth from Jack’s.

“What do you suppose we do about our tight, little, problem, son? I think I just might be able to reign myself in, but I’m worried about you, my boy! You really do have that twinkle in your eye when you look her way. Don’t think I don’t see it!” Mammon looks down for a moment and chuckles. “On one hand I suppose I could let her go. It’s a hassle finding someone qualified to hold such a prestigious title as yours, Mr. Creative Director; however, Elaine knows my schedule inside and out and finding another secretary that’s as easy on the eyes would be a miracle. What to do, what to do?”

Jack begins to rise and another meaty paw lands with a thud on his shoulder, forcing him back down into his seat. Mammon’s grin falls, and the curtains descend into a furious scowl.

“Let me tell you what we are going to do today, Jack. You’re going to take the day off! In fact, you’re going to take the entire week off, and the next too; to relax and get your head straight.” Mammon pulls a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket and forces it into Jack’s breast pocket. “Here is this week’s check in advance. Buy yourself a bottle and a woman that can bring herself to touch the shriveled gherkin you call a cock and come back with a sense of urgency, or you and your favorite piece of workplace-ass can have fun searching for new jobs together in some other miserable fucking city where I wont have to look at the miserable black hole that sits in this miserable cubicle every miserable fucking day. Do I make myself clear?”

Jack shakes uncontrollably now and his eyes dart from mammon, to the bathroom where Elaine has yet to emerge, to his feet, and back around again. He forces himself to release his grip from the arm rests, but his body is reluctant and does so with a pop as his knuckles crack themselves. Jack has already decided that he must take whatever mercy the bulldog has to offer and did so from the moment she had become a bargaining tool. Mr. Mammon pulls back from Jack’s shoulder and just barely steps aside. Jack passes slowly and holds eye-contact almost to the point of walking backwards to do so, but eventually straightens to exit the room. Mr. Mammon’s jowls furl once again into a crooked, flabby, grin. He reaches to the John Lennon poster tacked to the cubicle wall and crumples it between two thick paws, like a dog with a tennis ball; and tosses it with gentle dexterity at the back of Jack’s head. The small crumpled mass bounces off Jack’s black disheveled hair and falls to the ground.

“Take that with you to whatever dump you call ho—” Mr. Mammon freezes. The room freezes. Time freezes.

Jack stands still and erect, as the light shadow he casts on the carpet beneath him, begins to morph in shape and color; first turning to a deep crimson and then slowly creeping its way outward from Jack’s feet, engulfing the room. All but the skin of Jack’s coworkers becomes tinted in a deep, bloody, red. Red cubicles, red clocks, red tin waste bins, and deep red water in the cooler. Everything is shrouded in a veil of crimson, and everything perfectly still; minus Jack. A pair of acidic yellow eyes peer at Jack from between red plastic Philodendron leaves, and Franky cackles a low breath-y laugh akin to the crackle of a campfire. Jack turns to face him, but Franky is already gone from the spot. Jack feels an uncomfortably hot breath against the back of his neck and forces himself to stand at attention. “Please, just go away” Jack’s voice strains.

You’re making us look bad here, Jackie! What am I supposed to do? We share a face and I don’t very much enjoy watching myself be condescended to and belittled by some saggy bag of bones like the pedo-bulldog over there.”

            Jack feels something like a breeze go through his body and Franky’s head pops up from behind a cubicle to his left; only revealing the bridge of the nose up, it looks like Jack with identically disheveled hair although the skin is a dark grey color, webbed with dark black veins, and the eyes a neon shade of yellow with the pupils of a goat, and red sclera.

“I said stay the fuck out of it!” Jack barks at Franky who’s head ducks down and pops back up at different cubicles in short intervals.

Jackie, listen, listen—you can’t go on being a push over like this forever, ya know?”

            Franky appears with a lunge at Jack’s side, but Jack does not flinch. Franky frowns for a moment and continues, talking in a slow, gravely timbre. Franky speaks like Sinatra sang.

Listen here kid, that ugly little cockroach of a man just insulted you—insulted us! I saw you begin to act before you let him sit you back down like a child. I saw everything you wanted to do, kiddo. Saw it all inside that malicious head of yours. The way you wanted to seal his fat trap with a few well-placed staples; gouge his eyes with the staple-remover; slash his wrists with the paper cutter; jam the hose of the fire extinguisher down his gullet and release the valve; peel his finger nails off with Tina from financing’s dull letter opener. I gotta say, that last one made me giddy like a school girl. Why not just pull the trigger, champ?”

Jack turns to face Franky and meets his electric gaze. “Maybe because you never call me by my real name and still talk to me like I’m a child. Maybe because you’re a fucking psychopath! What the fucking-fuck are you anyway? Satan? No, you probably aren’t that high on the food-chain if you are in fact demonic. You’re just a waste of my fucking time, Frankie!”

Franky disappears again and then pops up behind Jack, resting his chin on Jack’s shoulder.

Watch it, Jackie. No need to say something we’ll regret, to someone that’s just trying to help, am-I-right?”

            “You’re only out to help yourself. Go fuck off with Mr. Mammon.”

Jack steps forward letting Franky’s chin drop from his shoulder and heads for the door. Something like thunder cracks through the room and seems to shake the building to its foundation, as Franky’s body manifests in front of the exit; his body upside down, feet against the ceiling, and his fingers puncturing deep into the walls on either side of the doorway, back against it, blocking the passage. Franky’s voice echoes through the room like wind and his vocal-tone changes drastically from word to word; oscillating from gravely Sinatra, Jack’s own voice, a voice like a woman’s, and a child’s. At times Franky’s voice is reminiscent of an orchestra finding their C-note.

You’re a weak, minuscule little maggot and if it weren’t for me, where would you be, huh kid? Who got you laid for the first time? Who showed you how to steal and cheat your way into an ivy-league school and who gave you the cut-throat edge to work your way up this far in this miserable firm? Everything you have and everything you are is thanks to me, kid, and I never get so much as a “thank you” from that whiny mouth of yours.”

Jack continues toward the door and reaches for the handle. “Whatever you say Franky. Thanks for everything All-Mighty Demon King. If that’s all you needed, can we be done now?”

Franky is breathing heavily, letting out small puffs of black smoke as he gasps. His mouth droops for a moment in dumbfounded-shock and his eyes scan every inch of Jack’s lanky build. Some time passes, and Franky’s lips begin creeping back slowly into a deep, malicious, grin. “Okay, okay kid, I suppose all I wanted was a little recognition. You did indeed, deliver. I told you when we first met that eventually I will give you the world, and I just need you to help me, help you, sometimes. Ya know, kid? I know we can grow to be great pals again, you and I! I gotta’ say Jackie, I think we are getting close.”

Franky’s grin creeps larger and larger until the corners of his mouth begin to pop and crack and bleed. His cheeks tear with a moistened rip and his eyes widen with ecstasy.

“Bye, Franky.” Jack whispers as he swings open the door, the grinning Franky fastened to it. It hits the wall with the sharp smack of wood against plaster, and a small puff of smoke fades into the fluorescent lighting. Jack’s shadow snaps back to its proper place beneath his feet and the door closes itself behind him as he exits. Mr. Mammon breathes in sharply and stares at the empty spot where Jack had just stood. Confused and still seething, he yells for Elaine to bring coffee and storms off to his personal office.

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As the Leaf Leaves

Detached from the tree and

momentarily from the world;

what does the leaf witness?

 

One already so dead, dry, devoid;

is resentful?

One would think not.

One does not need resentment.

 

One falling leaf needs not,

the cries of man and his children below.

One falling leaf needs not,

the chirping fowl above.

 

Detached from limb and life and

momentarily the world;

One needs only

a longer eternity not to need.

Prickly Pear

Languid prickly pear.
Ashen, voracious sky lay waste.
bruise Earth.

Prickly languid pear.
Hold fast against the wilted branch.

Thank the tree for its regard;
the limb that decayed the least.
O’ how my will hangs
as I do above the death
who brought us this rot.
Pear, languid and prickly.
Tenacious pride claws and bites
at morbid despair and lonesome longing;
neither victorious.

Ashen sky dust and burn the peel.

Languid pear.
Pain felt from
the dying of the limb that had more than
you in the end.

Resentment tucked between the anguish.
Who brought us this rot?
O’ how this will fades
unable to deliver
the cut that will end
The branch snaps.

Languid.
World devoid;
the will of which persists.

Rare Poetry Moment: “The New Ten”

Sugar of the island;

crystalline.

Seclude thyself from

the fingers of the men of The World.

 

Birds of flight;

softened against the earth; hardened against the sky.

Avoid rest beneath

the head of the men of The World.

 

Fresh water of the brook;

serene.

Bubble, toil, and rush away from

The mouths of the men of The World.

 

Trees of the forest;

magnanimous.

Stand tenacious before the frailty of them;

fortify the earth as it is gouged by the men of The World.

 

Mountains that challenge the heavens;

stoic.

Hold thyself between them

the men, and The World.

 

Salt-water of the sea;

viscous.

Run thyself down the gullet

of the men of The World.

 

Cattle of the fields;

naive.

Hold thy tongue and stomach;

do not slave to the men of The World.

 

Fangs of the exiled hunters;

voracious.

Bare thy teeth against them;

consume the meat of the men of The World.

 

Children of men;

ambiguous.

Remain at play; thy memory will wither of

the men of The World.

 

Men of The World;

insolent; gluttonous.

Sit idle and fat;

thy follies shall decay beneath the history of The World.

 

Short Story Excerpt: Bloody Wednesday: Jack and Franky’s Office

Bloody Wednesday: Jack and Franky’s Office

Jack walks into the office. Nothing fancy; twenty-ish cubicles organized into a large square in the conference hall on the 28th floor of a New York-style high rise. Jack is late. Jack is always late. Jack lumbers slowly passed one row of cubicles and turns into the small closet-like break room located at the rear of the office. He notices to his discontent that there is only an ounce, or so left of coffee. Jack sighs, gulps it down straight from the pot, and grimaces from the bitter shock of slightly cold black coffee. Spinning on his heel, he turns quickly to exit the closet and knocks his forehead into something with a soft but sharp, smack. It is the C.O.O’s personal assistant, Elaine.

Elaine is small, with black bob-cut hair, buddy holly glasses and no particularly note-able features; but to Jack she is every bit as beautiful as the moon; every bit as elegant as its slow dance to bring the sky asunder.

Jack grunts loudly and turns a deep shade of crimson. Elaine shoves her face into her hands aggressively and lets out a small animal-like noise which melts Jack’s heart but does not ease his guilt.

Oh no, no, no…I am so, so, sorry, Elaine. I really should pay more attention, huh?

Elaine looks up with watery eyes that shoot rusty, jagged, steak knives in Jack’s direction. “You show up twenty minutes late every day, and half the time you cause physical harm to yourself or someone else before you leave. Do us all a favor and admit yourself into one of those triple-locked white padded institutions.”

Jack looks to his feet for a moment and chuckles before returning his gaze to Elaine wearing a large, crooked grin on his face. “Did you know I have been to a place just like that? Although it was to visit a close relative. Also, may I say you look absolutely awe-inspiring today? Truly and magnanimously mesmerizing!

Elaine is already exiting the breakroom at the sound of the first compliment, apparently abandoning whatever venture brought her there. She stops and glances back over her shoulder. “Get something done for once today. You’ll get fired before too long.”

Jack turns the opposite direction out of the miniscule doorway toward his cubicle. “I knew she cared,” Jack whispers under his breath as he hooks around the corner and plops into his black leather computer chair.

Beginning to a story I’m hesitant about.

Venom.

 

CHAPTER ONE: This is The Hand.

Every day you wake up in this house is like waking up in a World War Two trench. Often, one is sprung into consciousness by an explosion of dishes hitting the metal sink, the cries of boys threatening to kill each other over the largest pancake, or by a brother’s tight grip, shaking you to end your slumber. That brother would be Desmond; anxious to inform me of the coming barrage of hellish young boy’s taunts and pranks, or of the verbal abuse of Madam Rugg the campus director, however we considered her more of a warden.

Our tiny “war-ravaged battleground” was an all-boys military school by the name of Helping Hands School for Wayward Boys, or The Hand as we had taken to calling it.

After driving three hours south of Reno, Nevada on interstate-395, you came to a small exit that quickly turned from wide asphalt freeway to vague desert dirt-road; marked only by its slight elevation of about a half-foot off the desert floor. The road, which resembled a long and winding burial mound, was the only route to The Hand’s campus; four white rectangular buildings that formed a corner-less square, centered around a large glass dome-building roughly two school bus-widths in circumference we called, The Nipple. The domed headquarters served as The Warden’s primary office and sleeping quarters. As well as the church where we attended Sunday mass. The four surrounding-buildings were named for the direction they represented on a compass, N Bldg., E Bldg., etc., and each served as a hub for the vital aspects of our existence.

N Building served as the multitude of classrooms where the boys and young men pursued a basic High School degree, with dusty and torn textbooks and sitting upon splintered and worn over-used school desks. The western-building housed the mess hall where one could get their fill of an oatmeal and bowls of “mystery meat stew”. S-Building was used as a recreation center where the young men could work out with a limited variety weights, outdated lifting-based machines, and creaky old treadmills that could barely withstand the weight of the smallest of the boys; and the eastern-building was made into an incredibly cramped array of halls and small rooms holding 4 bunk beds to a unit.

Thirty years ago, the facility was a military base used to train marines due to its high altitude and harsh climate. Now, its purpose was to house, educate, and discipline juvenile delinquents and orphaned male-youth. At one point I think The Hand may have looked like a strong, and impenetrable military establishment, garnered with bombs the size of sedans and polluted by the sounds of gunfire and drill commands. Now, it was a desert-ghost of its former self; over-ran with angsty young men and boys resembling a more militant and civilized scene from “Lord of The Flies”.

This particularly morning I wake to Des’s piercing sky-blue gaze situated inches from my own crusty face as he violently pulls me into the waking-world.

“Get the fuck up, Daemon.”

“The other seniors are up Hunter’s ass again.”

I wiped away the dust that had caked under my eyes during the night and stood up shakily before Des.

“Where are they?” I inquire, sheepishly.

“They’re in the mess hall on the other side of campus, so fucking move your ass!”

Des sounds like a barking dog, the way the rasp of his voice crackles slightly over his baritone pitch.

As he barks, Des pulls me by the already stretched collar of the white Hanes under-shirt we were all given to sleep in at night. I struggle to keep pace with him as he forces me forward through the narrow white door of Bunk Unit 9, and into the almost equally narrow hallway outside. Our bunk unit is in the first hallway to the left after entering the thick-grey-armored door that served as the only entrance or exit to the decrepit barracks.

In what feels like only three short strides we barrel out into the court-yard; greeted by the harsh reflection of the desert-Sun against the boundless dry white terrain.

The distance from E Bldg. to W Bldg. was more-or-less the length of 2 football fields, and in seconds Des’s long strides turn to a full sprint with me still forcibly in-tow. A cloud of dust trails behind us as Des’s feet glide effortlessly over white-sand, and my own tumble over each other, struggling more now to keep pace.

Des was always much more athletic than I, despite the similarity in our tall and lanky physiques.

“What’s happened this time?” I manage to choke the words out between gasps for air.

“Same thing as always; those sadist motherfuckers got bored and needed a toy to entertain themselves.” Des barks ferociously as if calling-out the perpetrators to their faces.

We come to the thick armored door that served as the identical entrance to the western-building. Des near rips the hinges from the frame as he pulls and throws-aside the heavy mass of metal. He proceeds into the dimly lit expanse of long tables and plastic blue chairs that made up the mess-hall; my self being drug behind like a child’s ragdoll. In the left the corner, near the beginning of the assembly line where the boys would line up for their daily “meal”, is a group of The Hand’s more malicious senior-boys standing in a half-circle around what sounds like an injured animal’s whimpers.

The whimpers belonged to Hunter, a junior at The Hand whose sensitivity was overshadowed only by his weight. Hunter was a portly, rosy-cheeked boy of around five and a half feet tall and of Irish decent. His dusty red hair sat haphazardly in a bowl-cut atop his round, freckle-spattered face, and two small green eyes peered out from behind the crests of his cheeks as they swelled under his eyelids like pink Hostess Sno-Balls. He was crouched in the fetal position, encircled by Gary, Dominic, and Jake. Three acne-ridden, yet tall and muscular young men, each adjourned with dark brown high-and-tight military fades. Each had brown eyes; aside from Dominic whose eyes were a similar piercing blue color to Desmond’s.

The worst part about being bullied by the three adolescent and hormonal nightmares that made up Dom and his gang, was that it was like being bullied by three clones of the same angsty prick.

“The hell do you think you’re doing Domonique!” Des Shouts, releasing my collar and stomping heavily towards the boys. Fists balled and trembling.

“That squealing pig belongs to me, and I’ll kill the man that lays a hand on my bacon!”

Hunter looks up and smiles with relief at the sight of us, despite Des’s insult.

Dominic, Gary, and Jake look in unison in the direction of the taunt, fists clenching as they turn. Ready at a moments’ notice to fight, as we had all grown accustomed.

Gary spoke first. “Funny, I don’t see your name writte-“. Gary’s words are cut short as Desmond’s first punch crashes against the bridge of Gary’s pimple-crusted nose.

Des stepped back and looked at his swelling fist, then at me with a crooked grin.

“Uh-oh. What have I done Dae?”

I grin back at him.

“You fucking prick.” I whisper exasperatedly.

Jake and Dom pounce like lions on Desmond, quickly bringing him down to the linoleum floor with a hard smack. A mass of swinging arms and loud grunts erupted as Des fights back fiercely against the stronger two boys. I take a step toward the fray and feel a hard, blunt-mass dig into my side lifting me nearly a foot from the ground, breaking my center-of-gravity, and sending me crashing against one of the long white mess hall tables. I look up just in time to see Gary charging at me once more; face and teeth covered in blood as it flows from both nostrils and drips from the cleft of his chin. He lands with a hard thud atop my diaphragm forcing every ounce of air from my lungs and brings his right fist down squarely between my eyes. Blood splatters against my cheeks and lips as he exhales hard and strikes again with his left fist. The blow glances my right eye socket and a flash of light overtakes my vision as the blood pouring down the back of my throat chokes off any attempt at reflating my lungs with precious air. I fall to the floor as Gary lifts his weight from me and I feel the hard steel of the toe of his boot dig into my ribs. I give up on breathing and lie still. The sharp bite of the boot returns to my side several times before receding to a dull thud as my consciousness began slip away from me. My vision of the surrounding room grows foggy and the grunts and taunts being spat by the boys continuing to fight sound as if they were coming from the inside of a bank-vault. I look lazily up to my right to see Des with his back pinned to the ground, kicking violently as Jake holds his shoulders and arms against the hard linoleum. Dom straddles his torso showering him with a barrage of hard jabs.

Joining the Conversation

cropped-20170510_231314.jpg      So many people have mentioned to me lately how important it is for an aspiring writer to keep a blog and to be “part of the conversation”, as one of my professors put it. For some odd reason I always considered blogging to be a bit of a cliche, something the cute writer-girl does on an MTV teen drama, but in hindsight I see how incredibly naive that way of thinking was. I feel as though I owe the blogging community some sort of apology for kind of being a prick and neglecting to take advantage of such an expressive and free outlet. I want to sharpen my teeth, and to learn to be “part of the conversation”. If anyone happens to read this or anything else I choose to blab about, I truly hope I can add something to your day, whether it be joy or annoyance. Thank you, and hello!

Elder D. Anthony