Crippled Short Stories

On The Day After

2007-02-18T20:25:00.000-05:00

Enthusiastically, the pastor continued, "The wonderful Lord our savior has put you to the ultimate test!" "But on this wonderful day!" he shouted, "this wonderful glorious day! The Lord will set you free." And just when his so-called message couldn't get anymore meaningless, "God is good all the time. All the time?" In response, in full outright rage, Mama slapped his silly smile off his face.

We couldn't believe it! Mama had slapped the pastor. And she did it hard! His cheeks had to be on fire! "God made a big mistake," she said. And then she ordered him out of the house.

We didn't go to church on Sunday. Instead, we stayed home and quietly watched T.V. And the next Sunday, we didn't go to church either. I think we never going to church again.

Alleluia, amen.

Forward Thinking

2006-08-31T21:28:00.000-05:00

stuck in the police department
pulling gum out of my hair
drawing what looks like a landscape
finding out what all i had

i put together a contraption
a time machine with forward dials
turbo jets with carburators
getting old and dying fast

to bad it just looks good on paper
analzing fantasizing
holding on to promises
silly slugs slicky snot

A Twentieth Century Rebellution

2006-03-17T20:35:00.000-05:00

A thousand people marching under the bright sun. Proudly holding cardboard signs they made in technicolor. Would someone tell them. Please guide them where to go.

A hundred people marching under the heavy sun. Sweat blood faces hopelessly drag on, wearing brittle and thin. Would someone ask them. Where are they going with those signs?

A dozen or so, zombies under the stars. Wondering when to walk the miles back home. Couldn't have done it better myself. Where were they going? What every happened to all those signs?

Two Long Pills and Three Round Ones

2006-03-17T20:31:00.000-05:00

Has anyone said that your too heavy? I will find a solution to obesity. And when I do I'll tell you. It's got you in a head lock. By the way, can you keep your chin up? Too late to start long excercises. Does it hurt when your gas builds up?

Three Years and No Children

2006-01-13T23:26:00.000-05:00

I started to proofread, but... I hate that part. So, whatever/

On the way to his office at home, Jeremy stops by the kitchen to land a kiss somewhere on the face of his wife. Rushing along the short hallway leading to the second bedroom, he suddenly halts the the open door, and carefully walks inside. Two large boxes are waiting at the right side of the room, an area which on a normal day would be vacant. But he doesn't even acknowledge their presence. Not even the universally recognizable four characters printed on the side in blue, Dell, make an impression. Being as cautious as possible, he continues to walk toward the glass-topped desk which rests on the left side of the room. The only side of the room that has been put to any use. Near the left edge of the desk top, two rows of glass enamel paint containers are lined in parallel with the edge of the desk, while two paint brushes lie to the right of the paint resting on a torn piece of the weekly newspaper. But neither of these items receive any attention at the moment. What does receive attention is the chassis mounted on a disposable plastic cup. And attention it certainly needs.
During the occasional evening throughout the last several weeks, Jeremy has been constructing his dream car: the Audi TT Quattro. The roadster's interior, engine, and the exterior had been pieced together with much consideration for the details. The various engine components were painted to match the colors of the actual very much real vehicle. The same attention to detail was applied to the interior components. Jeremy went all out on the seats. By using a fine mesh, he was able to simulate the seating's fabric to an amazing realism. The exterior body was painted in a glossy royal blue. One of the remaining steps is one that always manages to give Jeremy a good trip. He has to accurately mount the wheel and tire units to the axle on the chassis.
More often than not, the wheels appear to be mounted perpendicular to the ground the vehicle rests on. But when turned at an odd angle, their misalignment stands out like a Latino playing Gulf. If the adhesive is allowed to dry while the weight of the chassis rests on wheels, the result resembles a futuristic flying car with retractable wheels. If the chassis is hoisted on its side while the wheels set, like a baby with feet needing alignment boots, they warp inwards. The most successful technique to this day has been to balance the chassis on a plastic cup open end down and letting the plastic cement dry while the wheels are attached with nothing under the rubber. The wheel job on the Audi looks astounding. No blunt misalignments or excessive adhesive residue. Mentally patting himself on the back, Jeremy steps back to take a distant look. Satisfied, he approaches the wheel work again for a second look. But he nearly falls over into it when wifie yells food!
His wife Trisha -who prefers to be called Annie, an extended variation of her middle name-- is a petite curvaceous black woman. At only 4'-10", she's small enough to fit in a carry on and get a free ride wherever she dreams to go. But the once embarrassingly outgoing Annie was a victim of a vehicle collision and lost her year-old Ford Focus along with her ability to drive. Every bone in her frame remained untouched by the event, but what is often referred to as the soul was severely damaged. She withdrew from her well paying job as a claims adjuster and settled for a permanent lock down in their small but not yet overcrowded two-bedroom apartment. Which due to the income reduction, may soon become a one-bedroom. When asked of her occupation, Annie insists she's a housewife. But if one were to ask Jeremy the same question, if complete honesty were socially acceptable, he would announce that she's busy being the excellent wife she is. And even such a statement would not be genuinely honest.
Annie's vision of a housewife is defective. Her new life as a housewife revolves around the lives of Bo and Hope. Like many other viewers, Annie wonders if their love will survive. In other words, she hopes that they will get the opportunity to have loads of sex, because according to the tube, sex and love are indistinguishable. Which is why at the end of any given episode, Annie cries her glands desert dry. Jeremy and herself have been lacking in this department, which must mean he no longer loves her.
No one knows how it happened, but Jeremy and Annie developed an odd eating habit. He always eats at the small circular dinner table, and she eats standing up in the kitchen. When he does step in the kitchen its to either pickup a plastic plate with a mound of bland food or to drop off the empty dirty plate in the sink. Their foreheads have magnets affixed to them. This keeps their eyes from ever crossing paths. And this way, things in the Rogers' home have been for way too long.

The old Corolla is no Audi, but it has something no Audi --or any other car for that matter-- has: The old high school smell. The Corolla took him and an unlucky teenage blonde to the movies. Unlucky because she was under the spell of a bet, and was requested to score. The only problem standing in the way of the bet's execution was that at the moment, Jeremy, the nervous wreck, forgot he had a penis. Later beneficiaries were much luckier, and Jeremy quickly learned the good moves. The only other locations where he has whipped it out were in front of the mirror during his lonesome years prior to the Corolla, and at the apartment after he married Annie. Fate destined their honeymoon to occur in his Corolla because it broke down on the way to their reserved room. So Jeremy is not surprised when he gets a hard one as he drives in a car begging for retirement. But for the meantime, the car takes him where he needs to go. And on this particular evening, like most others, where he needs to go is Sharky's. A place where the pool balls have intellectual conversations, and the dear wretched Annie is not around.
As he parks the car directly in front of the entrance -which is an unusual benefit-- Jeremy instinctively switches off the head lights. But noting that he has seen something of interest, he immediately turns them back on, forgetting the action may be misinterpreted as an attention-demanding gesture. The object now flooded with light stares back with a hand over her brow, and after unsuccessfully making out an image, turns to face away from the light and walks inside. He knows her. Her name escapes him, but he knows her for sure. The way her head rests on her broad shoulders, her stocky hips and lightly muscular legs are distinctive. Such features are always distinctive when you know someone. Just as one may know who is watching from behind by taking note of the distinctive breathing pattern. He then realizes he's giving it too much thought, and aborts the search in his mental database of body figures, and leaves the car behind and heads for the door.
As Jeremy stretches his hand towards the door handle, the door comes to life and reaches out towards him. So he quickly backs off to the left and gets out of the way. A flashback immediately stabs his memory. A similar situation occurred about a year ago, and his failure to stand back quickly resulted in bloody nose and broken spectacles. Nowadays he wears eye contacts and has slowly begun to develop a sixth sense for dangerous doors. The nameless female walks out of the door and instinctively turns her head to see who is standing there. She simply nods and continues walking. But her mental database is quickly able to put a name to his eyes. She turns around and stares back, detaching her jaw in the process.
"Jeremy!"
Still not able to discover her name, he lamely replies, "Hey!"
"How are you? Gosh, I... I haven't seen you in forever! Gosh, how's everything?"
"Fine."
The gosh-girl is Wanda. A stocky and stunningly beautiful Mexican-American who was well known in high school for her perkiness and for obsessively using the word gosh because it was a sin against her religion to use the slang adverb God. She was found to talk to anything that had a mouth and even to things that didn't. To the hormone-driven males, it was their assumption that she was easy. As it turned out, she was easy in another fashion. Easy to misunderstand. When the bra strap pulling fad began early in the 9th grade fall semester, a boy at the time much to short for her pulled her strap. She said ouch and for a moment appeared to begin to cry. But sadness quickly morphed into rage and she slapped the boy in the face with enough force to not only leave a red impression on his face and knock him down on his side, but to make his mouth bleed. After that incident, only the occasional new student would approach her hoping for an easy catch. Another Sparky's regular steps outside and blocks her view, so when he moves away, she steps closer to Jeremy.
"So... what have you been up to?" she asks.
"Nothing really, just working and stuff. Trying to survive."
And to this statement they both laugh. It's not surprising they are both short of words. They never talked to each other much during high school. They don't know anything about each other, besides characteristics that are easy interpreted during normal interactions. But the strangest thing happens when high school is dumped in the can. It's one of those many things that are hard to express in a verbal or written format because of it's complexity. But if one word could describe the phenomena, it would likely by adulthood. And this adulthood has the ability to bring out qualities in one that were hidden during the years of clicks. One of these qualities is the ability to develop conversations out of the thin air. Often good ones.
"Yeah, I know what you mean." she replies, adding a little giggle to the end. "I just moved out and I had enough money, but my car broke down."
"Mine brakes down all the time. It broke down during my honeymoon."
"Ahh, that sucks." and then realized the honeymoon part, "oh, you got married?"
"Yeah, three years ago. Our anniversary is a few months away."
"That's neat. I haven't gotten that far yet, hehe." and as if talking to a child "Gosh, I need to do something about that!" and they both join in laughter. And the unavoidable question comes up.
"So, where did you guys meet?"
The question is not a bare to answer, but it does generate a bit too much googoo gaagaa. Regardless, Jeremy tells about his summer trip to France with his family, and how it was the family's second vacation in its entire lifetime and how overall it was interesting, and simultaneously boring. And then one evening, they ate at an authentic restaurant and he remembered thinking the waitress was pretty. He always mentions the fact his hormones were not working yet, so he didn't feel a connection at the moment, and it always gets a laugh. Of course, this fact is false. His hormones were fine, he just didn't understand them. And to make a long story short, they met back in college back in the states after she completed her high school foreign exchange program, and within three months they were married. It was actually five months, but for story-telling purposes, Jeremy considers his proposal the start of their marriage.
"Aaaah! That's so sweet."
And every time, he has not been able to determine the appropriate response, besides blushing. And every time, it reminds him of his love for his wife. Every single time.
"Gosh. I need a maaaannnn, that makes good money! Hehe," she says, and they lifts her right hand in a forget-what-I-just-said gesture. "It's just so hard to find a decent guy. Most guys are jerks."
"That's very true." Jeremy agrees. And he's honest about this fact. He himself is perfect proof.
"The day will come. Some day, hehe," and drastically changing the subject, "So, what do you do?"
"I work at BestBuy, fixing computers."
"Oh, that's cool. Gosh, I want a cool job like that. I work at Target, doing returns. Loads of fun, hehe!"
"Yeah, customers suck."
"Tell me about it! They always want what they can't have. I don't have too many problems now that I work at returns, but when I worked at the register, gosh. They can get annoying. Big time."
Trying to find a reasonable conclusion, "Yeah, it gives us something to do."
"Yeah," she agrees, "but I wish I could do something else."
"It takes time to get what you want. Well, some of it anyway."
"Yeah."
After the customary goodbyes, Wanda walked away to her car, and Jeremy just stood outside, momentarily stunned.

Annie is watching Entertainment Tonight as the deadbolt on their front door unlocks. Knowing who it is, she ignores it. And so what if it's a stranger who so happens to have a key to their apartment. If a stranger comes in and shoots her, it would be just fine. If a stranger comes in and attempts to rape her, no muscle in her body would resist, making it consensual and morally acceptable. But the distinctive jingle of keys discloses the intruder as her once loving husband. The keys do not continue to jingle as expected, and although the pregnancy of Katie Holmes is... entertaining -for lack of a better word--- something is just not right. So she slowly turns her head all the way around to take a look behind her. She eyes, moving even slower, follow the same course.
The keys being to jingle as he walks to the sofa she's sitting on, and their eyes meet for the first time in ages, and refuse of wonder elsewhere. He approaches her and stands between her and the television, blocking her view, though the television ceased to exist. She stares up at him, not knowing what to expect, and he stares down, unsure of what to do next. And a thought suddenly appears so vividly, he swears he can actually see the thought. What he sees in his mind, rather than realizes is that Annie's face sits directly in front of his genitals. This thought illustrates to him what he wants, and what needs to be done to get it. And in case the mind is in a state of confusion, the brain sends a message to the vessel down south to fill up the ballasts.
Jeremy cautiously gets to his needs and plants his face on her upper legs right above the knee, and begins to sob. Genuinely. Annie is not moved. Coldly, her eyes drift to the television, which is not visible.
Jeremy is not the same person Annie first met. Once a reserved, but occasionally adventurous man became a man who spends much of his time secluded in his world of perfection. Where things always work as they should, and cars always shine. Cars. Those stupid plastic model cars are more appealing to Jeremy than a set of breasts. She has tried. Many evenings she wore seductive attire while she cooked so that when he arrived home from work, he would become exited and do her. But he always came up with an excuse to go at it later, and later never came. Annie was under the impression men were always a notch away from becoming horny. That if you said the right words, or touched the right places, any man would immediately go bonkers and want to go at it. Either this is not true, or it's only half true. It's possible than all men would go bonkers if placed in the proper situation, but it may also be that, once a man reaches a particular age, they simply cease to respond to erotic stimulations. Or, it may simply be that Jeremy is an exception to the rule.
A sudden discomfort yanks Annie out of her thoughts, and brings her back to the living room sofa. What seems to be a childhood accident, is actually Jeremy's tears inching down through her shorts and steadily moving in. This is one of those situations where discomfort can bring happiness. Annie wants to. She's due for a good doing.
Annie places her hands on the sides of his chin and lifts up his head. Once at eye level, they close their eyes and begin to kiss passionately. The kiss refuses to come to a close continuing long enough to bring headaches due to the reduction of oxygen. When their mouths part, they smile their saliva-soaked lips, and stare with teary eyes. They now remember the most important thing. They love each other.
With a mission in mind, Annie leans forward, grabs the bottom of Jeremy's t-shirt, and yanks it upward, only it gets stuck at his shoulder. They laugh their heads of, and he finishes the job for her. In response, he yanks of her t-shirt right off, and admires the darkness of her skin. He approaches her face and kisses it all over. Once done, he begins to kiss her neck, and her breasts, and her belly, which tickles her to death. "Do me! Please, Jay, do me!" she yells, and this brings forth an idea.

During one of their dates, Jeremy and Annie almost did it. After a movie, on the way to her place, they stopped at a gas station to fill the tank. Jeremy was going to leave the car running while he ran the pump because the Corolla was so difficult to start. But as soon as he stopped at the tank, the car fell asleep. Miraculously, it started up again, but once on the road, it got the shivers and died once pulled of the road. The scenario struck up a conversation about bad cars. Annie had a junker while in France, Jeremy's dad had a truck that sometimes did not turn off, Annie's cousin had an automatic Mustang that did not let go of first gear until the RPMs were kept sky-high for roughly twenty seconds. And on and on it went. One thing led to the next, and before they new it, they were playing Strip Rock Paper Scissors in the back seat. They were both down to their undies, but laughter got a tight hold on them. Hers were pink with blue flowers and his were green ball huggers. But for an unknown reason, all they could do is laugh at each other's undies. And for the longest time, that's all they did. They were on the last round of the game, and who ever ended up nude, was the looser. Although they both knew that before retreating for the night, they each would end up not wearing anything at all.
The first try ended in a draw, which sent their hearts racing with anticipation. The second made Annie the winner. Jeremy, not particularly bummed out, got on his knees, and slapped his hands to his sides. "Here we go!" he had said, but at that moment, a police officer pulled off the road behind them, coming to the rescue.
Jeremy's idea was to recreate a similar situation. If he was going to give her head, and do her in well, he wanted to take it to the extreme. It was due time. Nude as a newborn, they ran down the well-lighted stairway of their apartment complex, got inside the Corolla, and drove off. As he drove, Annie gave Jeremy a rough handjob. And in return, he gave her a few breast squeezes when the driving permitted. Unsure of the exact destination, Annie decided for the both of them by pointing to the mall. "There's an unused lot at the old Wal-Mart," she had said, so that's where they drove.
In the back seat of the Corolla, they find various ways to show their love. Some things are in good fun, some erotic, and some peaceful. Each take their turn and each deserve to be acknowledged. The following day, they may eat dinner on the sofa next to each other, or at a good restaurant, or even completely separate from each other. And the day after that may be the same. But they love each other, and this fact is sure to never change.

Business Reply Mail

2005-07-02T13:28:00.000-05:00

Five poems, written on a letter. A letter once destined to the sender. A letter destined nowhere.

Exhibitionist
Twirling your hair, inside
Outside without a shirt
Old man looks
Outside without pants
Old man looks
Outside without everything
Old man looks
Twirling your hair, inside

Just Thinking Again
Does she love me?
She loves me not
Does she like me?
She likes me not
Does she want me?
She wants me not
Does she hate me?

How Wrong They Were
Speak what I think, that you not want
Speak what I feel, that you not want
Speak what I wish, that you not want

Speak what you think, that I not want
Speak what you feel, that I not want
Speak what you wish, that I not want

Business Reply Mail
What the hell?
Nothing to read
Nothing to eat
Inside is a name
Inside is a game
A point to be made
A point thrown away
What the hell

Someone, Anyone
Just someone, anyone
Someone to stand near
Someone to stand far
Someone to touch
Someone to call
Someone to hear
Someone to hush
Just someone, anyone

Why I Hang On This Tree Limb Above The Floor And Under The Sun

2005-06-05T16:39:00.000-05:00

Why?
I'm afraid I cannot answer that question. But how, I may get away with some form of an explanation.

It's all in the history of man kind. It has happened perpetually, like the seasons, and like a lunar eclipse. It has been said many times, that two people have... a cord stringing them together. A cord that with time tightens, contracts, and shortens to the point that there's no longer a cord and two people pulling against it. Once the cord is gone, a strange-looking creature is left behind. Two become one and a third. Two heads, but still two arms. Three legs, but still one hip. The way it has been written, the way it has been said, is that the strange-looking creature is more of a human that each one could ever become on its own. That the strange creature is all there is to become.

But what hasn't been written, and what hasn't been said, is the truth. The distressing truth that sometimes this so-called cord gets attached to a multiple people. Why this happens, I do not have the knowledge to explain. But let everyone in the heavens be my witness, the mistake happens.

The rulers of the cords occasionally latch the same person more that once, and leave us, the unknowing fools to figure it out in hopes of fixing their mistakes. Some of the fools never become the strange creature. They disguise themselves as one, because it has been written, and it has been said, that's what all should do. These fools never become more that themselves, but to say the least, they maintain a self.

Regardless of my prior disbelief, some of the fools do become strange creatures. And they eat, play, and sleep like the others like them. And that's what they do until the other cord tugs hard. And as it tugs two arms become four, and one leg becomes two. And one hip becomes one and a third. The strange creature dies and becomes two even stranger creatures, each with a different cord.

The two new even stranger creatures have cords attached to either a person, or another even stranger creature. But regardless, two arms can never disappear quite the same, and two legs cannot become one the same way, and two hips will never become a strange creature the way it has been written, and the way it has been said. The cord never disappears like before and the even stranger creatures may get tugged once again. Or they may not.

So if you wondered why I hang on this tree limb above the floor and under the sun, may you not wonder any longer. For what I have said is nothing new, but it's as far as I can go. Out of the way of the people, and the strange creatures, and the even stranger creatures, is where I have to be. I must stay under the sun because heaven to high it is to reach. So over the rush and under the peace I stay, until the cord tries to tug again.

News: Printer-friendly View

2005-05-07T18:20:00.000-05:00

I would like to eliminate the printer-friendly PDFs and use a printer-friendly view instead. It's work in progress, but it seems to work... decently. I may have to play with the fonts a bit, but it's available now.

To use it, just visit the page for the post you would like to print (Note: there's not printer-friendly view available for the main page. Well, there is...) Then, just click on the printer-friendly view link.

Although the background still displays incorrectly (it's supposed to be white) it prints white, like it should.

Note, this feature is JavaScript-based, not server-based, so you will need a browser that supports JavaScript and DOM. It's been tested on FireFox, and I think it will work with IE 6. I don't know about Opera and Safari.

The Woman From The Lake

2005-03-26T12:31:00.000-05:00

Warning: This story contains material of a sexual nature which may be offensive to some readers. Read at your own risk.

View printer-friendly PDF (146KB)
Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

~1~

I bet if I showed you my scars, my medical records, or even took you to where it happened, you still wouldn't believe me. But that's all swell. I know that someone out there will. It's not like I would dwell on your sympathy. The damage has been done, and can never be reversed. It's been said, that if you can't figure out where to begin, that you should just start at the beginning. So with the beginning, I shall commence.

I'd had enough for one day. It was Friday, and I supposed it would go as smooth as a baby's bottom. But someone --most likely Jake-- had to screw everything up. The numbers were way off, and even though it wasn't my doing, who gets the ax? Me, of course. Me! How could they! I practically run that circus! I'd been there since day numero uno. Witnessed more but-kissing than anyone else on the planet. And always worked while the rest of those... those... jerks --to put it nicely-- sang carols and ate pumpkin pies with their families. How fair is that? Oh, maybe I should explain one more thing, before I forget. Jake is the CEO's crybaby grandson. Get the picture?

I got laid off --though it seemed more like I was fired-- at the end of my shift. But to their convenience, only after the day was done. With the usual overtime and everything. It was about a quarter till 8PM when I took out my things and dumped them --more like threw them-- in the car. I then peeled out of the sandy parking lot. On the way out to Studdard Ave, which was one of the few multi-lane roads in town, I accidentally hit the corner of the curb. It was one of those cement fixtures used to keep a hill of grass off the sidewalk. I had gained some serious speed by the time I had reached the curb, so the front of the car caught some air before reaching the delta leading into the avenue. I almost gripped ground in the avenue. So I wasn't shocked when I noticed I had taken a large piece of the curb with me. I knew I didn't break it, but rather loosed the umbilical cord it was holding on to.

It was a struggle but I managed to lift my work of art and set it in the passenger-side floor. Then, I snapped the stick into reverse, and stirred up some more dirt. Curious Jake poked his head over his fish tank to see what I was up to. Let him watch, I thought. I hurled the curb-piece up to my waist, and then waddled up to his window. I lifted as hard as I could, but couldn't get the rock past my belly button. His puzzled look excited me further. Yeah, wait till you see what I've got waiting for ya! Then, with no reason I could comprehend, he pulled up his right arm, and started smiling, and waving! Oh, that did it alright. My adrenaline shot up like a rocket, and I was able to lift poor-man's crowbar up to my chin. I then pushed with all the strength I had left --even got rid of some abdominal pain while I was at it-- and launched the payload through the tainted window. The glass didn't shatter like I'd hoped, but it sure made hell out of that old fish tank. In my sweetest of dreams, I can still see his expression. He made a large O' with his lips. His jaw dropped like an anvil on Looney Toons. Far enough to where I could see his tonsils. Oh, how sweet it was.

~2~

I dialed my own number to inhale the latest voice messages. I set it in the empty cup holder with the speaker-phone enabled. All three messages were from my nagging wife, surprise. She nags about everything. I get it for driving and talking on the phone simultaneously. She lacks trust in my driving technique. Few can manage a wheel, a stick, three pedals, and an annoying wife while in mid-afternoon traffic. If I didn't listen to my messages, I would get nagged about that too. So, I hoped that if the messages were from my wife --which I was sure they would be-- that they would at least say something sexy. Something to drag this old fart of a dog home. But each message featured a request that required stopping, not what I had in mind at this late hour.

Honey, could you get some Tyson® boneless chicken and some grape juice on the way home? Oh, but get the good juice. That last one you got was extremely bitter...
Oh, don't forget. We need to schedule a dentist appointment for Andy. That tooth is still aching...
Just one more thing baby. I need some... you know... I ran out.

I just love it when she calls me baby. She should have used baby instead of honey from the start. Then maybe I would have actually listened. Tyson® boneless chicken... the good juice. Did I forget to mention she loves to nag? Oh, by we, she means me. I just wasn't in the mood that afternoon. I had no intentions of going home anytime soon. Not after getting the ax. Not to mention the hell of a day I went through. I wanted to relax for a while and sleep this off. Maybe even get drunk, something I haven't done in a while, and unfortunately, I miss it.

If I were to obey my wife, I would have made a U-turn on Sypheed St. Then, head back, passing the mortar with the broken window. Then, made a right on Hooper St. and made the Dentist appointment. Then, I would have gotten back on Studdard Ave. past my past employer again, and made a right into the new Walgreens which inhabited the corner of Studdard Ave and Ruth St. And then... well, you get the point. It would not have been what I'd call on the way home. I just wasn't in the mood. It's not like she would be thankful if I did as she pleased. She always managed to find something wrong with her order. I just wasn't in the mood, so instead, I followed Studdard Ave. until I reached downtown. I was due to be naughty.

~3~

I only had one drink. Only one that I could remember. I do remember that first drink was the best I've ever had. It felt like I had rubbed a piece of ice over every inch of skin. My body embraced the liquor I so eagerly craved leaving me freshed and surprisingly calm. If I was to die right then and there, so be it. I hadn't felt so fulfilled in the past several years. Sure, my wife would kill me if she ever found out about my drinking. But how could she have found out if I barely remembered it. I wasn't completely drunk, so I must have only had about three drinks. And I clearly remember the name of the bar: Yo' Mama's Bar. The owner was definitely stoned when he came up with that clever name. I say clever because that's exactly what it is. I've heard many conversations like this:
¿Have you seen 'Yo Mama's?¿
¿My what! Don't talk 'bout my Mama...¿
¿No, no! Have you seen Yo' Mama's Bar?¿
¿My Mama's... I said don't talk 'bout my...¿
¿No, no! I meant have you been to Yo' Mama's Bar? It's a bar at Lake Orie in downtown?¿
That's how the word gets around about Yo' Mama's.

The bar I was in is one of the many mom-and-pop shops that surround Lake Orie. Together, they make up downtown. The lake is quite beautiful. I've heard it's a man-made lake. I've also heard it was a real lake, but the early inhabitants of this town dumped garbage in it and it partially dried out. So it was later restored to what it is now. There was always someone walking, or jogging, or skating around the lake. Believe it or not, bicycles are not too common.
I was never interested in any of that. I liked lake Orie not because of the health freaks, but because of the many lonely women. Many of them come to the lake to take their mind of the relationship that had fallen apart earlier that day. That's not usually the best time to approach one of them, obviously. But you can approach them a week or two later! Here's how it's done. First, you approach one who is coated in tears. You pretend you just want to make sure she's O.K. Then, find out if your suspicions are true. If she has just been given the boot. If so, back off and give her the space she needs. Two weeks or so later, come back and look for the same woman. If you're lucky enough to find her, she'll be ready for you. She would be all yours from then on simply because you were comforting in her time of need. But beware, if you wait any longer than two weeks, it would be too late. Chances are she would have already met another bonehead.

I didn't feel too drunk. But boy was I horny! My state of mind, combined with the multitude of women out by the lake feeling the same way, was destined to result in a good time. At that moment, I don't think I had realized I was even married. I only wore my ring when my lady was around, so there was nothing to worry about. That's when I looked out the front window and saw her. She was standing almost directly under a lamp post, staring out into the lake. Under dim light all I could make out was her silhouette, but from it I could tell she was beautiful. There was a street filled with parallel parked cars, some small sidewalks, and a fairly large landscape between us, but I was still able to make her out. I could tell she had long hair and it was tied up into a bun. She was a bit shorter than me even with her high-heels. The wore a dress that laid loosely on her, and strangely, she wasn't holding a purse. Her arms were placed in front of her and most likely her hands were holding each other. From these things I figured she was a business woman, and she wasn't going over a breakup. She just stood there as calm as can be. I usually ignore such women because few give me the time of day. They often settle for the finger, and are not easy fooled into bed. But, if you succeed, they will give you the time of your life!

I stumbled a little bit at first, but I managed to get off my stool without making a fool of myself, and headed out towards the lovely woman. I had a strong feeling this woman was special. I didn't want to foul up, so I prepared as best I could before approaching her. First, when I stepped out of the bar, I tried to walk as normal as I could. There were about a dozen people up and about along the sidewalk just outside the bar. I was concerned about making a fool of myself at first, but then realized: Who better to judge my performance than people who aren't drunk yet? My first try was a failure. A couple found my shaky legs humorous. I tried again with a family of four as my judges. It was actually worse! I nearly tripped over my left foot. The parents placed themselves between me and their two little ones as they passed me by. After getting myself together, I tried a third time. Another couple observed, and they didn't seem to notice any awkwardness. This meant either I passed --which is what I hoped-- or that they were used to watching drunk people, and classified my behavior as normal. I figured, hell with it! I'm bound to screw up regardless. If I would hurry, I would still have had enough time to find another woman --one of those easy air heads would suffice-- if the one I was aiming for gave me nothing but a hard one.

I stepped over the curb and walked along the street in front of a parked red brand-new Mustang. It had one of those small foreign flags hanging on the rear view mirror. After standing there staring at the flag, I realized I really wasn't looking at the flag, but rather at the windshield right in front of it. It wasn't the windshield that caught my eye though, it was the reflection of a woman that was walking pass me along the sidewalk. She was obviously a hooker, although she looked awfully young. I just couldn't help watching her cute little butt checks alternate. They were beating to a song I was quite familiar with. Rub me, rub me were the only words. It wasn't till she was out of sight that I had realized I'd been standing there, staring at that, flag.

I was taking longer than it normally would to cross the street. It was just a simple two-way brick road, but what seemed like an endless supply of cars were tailgating at exactly the spot where I wanted to cross. If the traffic would have actually stopped, crossing wouldn't have been dangerous. But those drivers were of the vicious breed. In a failing attempt to control those racing party-loving teens, the city placed those yellow bumps on the road --but only after a 4-year-old boy was hit and killed--, ruining the mood of downtown. I bet the murderer was still partying around, since he was never caught. So I wasn't about to walk into the path of certain death. But what about the woman? I had to have her! A lousy plot was emerging in my mind. Like one of those cop movies, I could pull out my wallet, and wave it at the driver of the blue Accent that was blocking my way. I thought that if I waved it quickly and signaled the driver to stop, I could play an undercover cop, and get by the traffic. The performance didn't have to be worthy of an Academy Award, I just needed to chock the drivers of both lanes long enough to make a run for it.

As it turns out, there wasn't a need for me to put on a show. As I reached into my rear right pocket in search for my wallet, several loud cracking sounds came from my left, and the blue Accent jerked forward. That sound of breaking fiber-glass and bending metal was also very familiar. Accidents happened very few minutes on Studdard Ave. on Friday evenings. That was the start of a weekend filled with parties. The slow traffic around Lake Orie wasn't what I would consider a breeding farm for accidents, but that didn't matter. The other lane had stopped to watch both drivers, hoping for a fight, and I simply minded my own business and walked across the street.

As soon as I stepped over the curb and onto the pasture, all I saw was her. I knew other pedestrians were near by, and I was surprised that none of them had walked up to the woman yet. But I didn't see anyone else but her. The only thing that stood between us was about twenty feet of pasture. So I walked like I had practiced and headed towards my reward. But my steps were increasing in weight, slowing me down. It was because I didn't have a plan of approach. Normally by the time I could smell a woman's perfume, I had developed a pickup line. Those first words always came naturally to me, but this time was different. My mind was blank, and I only had about five steps go to. I aimed to her left side, since I'm a righty, and still without a single word on my tongue. As if she sensed my approach, she turned her head to her left, and spotted me with her eye. She tried to hide her grin and pretend she was just turning because she heard something of interest off in the distance. Then she casually turned her attention back to the lake. With only one step to go, and nothing in mind, I just hoped for the best. Her back was still to me, but then it swelled.

"Don't bother with a pickup line." she interrupted. Relieved, I released the breath I had prepared for the moment. She then turned her head to face me, and then her body followed. "I know what you really want." she continued. I struggled to cook something up. Her green eyes were staring right into mine. It was more like right through them. I stood speechless. Though my jaw was hanging open, nothing came out. My tongue was glued down, and a brain freeze grew in my noggin.

I vaguely remember her asking me if I was coming. At the moment, I was lost to the world. It felt like waking up in a hospital bed and not knowing how you got there. I turned towards her eyes and noticed they still stared through me. And all we did was stare. To this day, I don't have the slightest clue how long we stood there staring ¿who can keep time during moments like these-- but it seemed to last longer than what's socially acceptable. A cold breeze interrupted and set the clocks in motion, and it was then her impatience became obvious. I don't know when it happened, but some time between her first words and the breeze she had placed her hands on her nearly non-existent hips and looked at me as if I was twelve and was caught playing with myself. It's the same posture my wife used after going out of her way to describe something she claimed as well worth talking about and noticing she had been ignored the whole time. But my wife wasn't on my mind at the time.

Another breeze came through, grabbing hold of her black dress and wrapping it around her like a blanket. The thin straps overlapping her shoulders loosened up a bit and shook violently in the wind, up and down like the sea. The part covering her breasts danced to the wind in a similar fashion, stretching towards the sky and covering more than they were designed to. Her eyes widened ¿as if in shock-- as they continued to stare, and the breeze pickup some momentum, nearly pushing me into her. The dress responded be wrapping even tighter around her owner revealing the center of her rib cage and two protruding nipples. At this the center of my chest grew cold, almost frozen, and it was impossible to breathe. Naturally, my eyes followed the road to another city. I wanted to know if I was right. If the only thing between my skin and hers was this thin black cloth. There was a darker spot on the dress marking her navel. A gust of wind pushed the dress further into it's shallow surface. Proof was thinner than I first thought. There wasn't much of a road left to travel. And I felt her stare encourage me, so I walked on.
The sun was dropping out of the sky leaving behind a pink glow like it always does. And the shadows it formed were tiny and many were among them. Dozens upon dozens of what appeared to be tree stumps. The remains of trees possibly mowed down to allow all to see the mountains ahead. And with the two mountains and the valley between them in sight, I completely understood. I just hoped I could get there before I died. My heart was warning me. Hurry, run! RUN! Then I heard laughter in the distance.

But the laughter wasn't coming from the mountains. It was from behind her, coming from two boneheads. At first I figured they were laughing at me. But it turned they were simply enjoying the view. Obviously I couldn't see, but I knew they were laughing because her dress no longer concealed her butt. But I had her not them. Sorry guys, but you don't have the age.
Back in reality, I noticed she wasn't the only one protruding something. So casually I placed both hands in my pocket and began to fumble around until I had my things in order. The breeze subsided and she turned away knowing I would follow. And I did. I would follow her anywhere.

~4~

Something was missing. And I searched the crevices in my head for the answer as I jogged to catch up. Her name old man. Get her stupid name! Of course, that was it. Once I reached her side out shoulders met and she was hot to the touch. Not hot enough to fry an egg, but hot enough to be noticeable. She also carried a strange scent. I don't think it was perfume because it was similar to the smell of freshly-cut grass. It wasn't bad bad smell, and compared to the usual melons and strawberries it was actually comforting. But I was still in need of her name. If there's one thing I can remember it's a name. Especially the names of women who've brought me pleasure. As I prepare to pop the question, she jumped in ahead of me.
"For a moment there, I thought you weren't coming."

And at this she laughed somewhat sarcastically. I took it for the joke it was and laughed as well. Of course she knew I was coming. But I guess that's what made her icebreaker funny. But I didn't like her laughter. It was unusual, and to this day I can't describe it in a way that would do it justice. Sarcastic. That's the best I could do.

I was giggling, but at first didn't know why. Then she continued.
"You're pretty shy aren't you." only it wasn't in the form of a question.
"What's you name?"
"Uh... Dan." I lied. I didn't want to, but for some reason I didn't want this one to know more than was necessary.
"Oh, you don't look like a Dan. But, Dan it is." she replied.
As I felt her hand brush against my butt and later settle at her side, I realized why I had been giggling a moment ago. She had been tickling my butt! Ooh, nice. I quickly excited and had to tug my pants up a notch. If she had tickled both cheeks I may have exploded all over myself.
"Dan Auger." I said revealing my real last name, as I placed my right hand on her hip and brought her close.
"It's not much, but it sure beats Snoop."
She got a good one out of that. Maybe to good. Humor me.
An Unnerving feeling crawled through my skin like an army of ants. It was a feeling that can be adequately described in one word: fear.
What I didn't comprehend at first glance, was why I felt this way. I was holding the most beautiful woman on earth on my arms, and we were going to do it. Know doubt about that. But it wasn't her I was afraid of, it was the town.

I had followed her along the lake for about a quarter mile. Then we crossed the street and headed down a valley. There were no tree stumps, gorgeous hills, or a pink sky to light the way. Instead there was trash, two scrawny buildings, and the sun was ashamed to show its face. I had seen such a place in movies. You know, the ones where thugs and other low life are the heroes. But in person it was... different.

I then decided to gather the bit of info I would surely remember. And her name was Joy. I laughed thinking how her name related to the current situation. We both laughed. And the thought rekindled the hardness that had mellowed. Before I knew it, we were playing with each other's cushions and laughing. I started to seek her panties so I could tug at them a bit, and later realized that was pointless. So settled for grabbing and tickling instead.
Joy had displaced my fear.

~5~

When the door opened, she invited me in, and I did so. Her apartment was clean. That was the first thing I noticed. But maybe that was because she had just moved in. Boxes were neatly pilled along the walls adding to the insulation, and clothing was spread over the love seat and the recliner, mostly dresses and blouses. The center table was decorated like a Victoria's Secret catalog. All kinds of little strips of clothing, and all were black. And now that I think of it, so was the rest of her clothing.

As I admired her things, hoping she would put one on so I could have the joy of taking it off, as she excused herself. I picked up a pair of pantie-shorts and raised it up to my face. I imagined her butt filling it in, and how I could tickle curiously along the laces, and it suddenly got jerky down there. Projecting my voice down the hall I asked if she was going to put on one of the treats, but she said there was no point and started giggling. The ambiance in her voice suggested she was in the bathroom and the door was open. She then insisted I should try one on. That would have been a bucket-load of fun, if only I could get one past my thigh. Besides, very man knows he's supposed to wear cotton.

What came next nearly spoiled the evening. I heard the sound of a guy taking a leak. I knew the source of the liquid was suspended high above the bowl because the sound of the stream resonated loudly. I've heard my wife pee, I know. But it was impossible. If she was a... he, how did he hide his... I saw the valley clearly through the black dress. You can't hide manlies in the valley. With anger only starting to consume me, I walked cautiously towards the sound source. Once there, my heart raced as I took a peek. If a manly was hanging out I was going to pound him to a pile of blue hideousness. But to my surprise, it was Joy with her dress raised just passed her waist, standing over the bowl relieving herself.

My heart stopped for a second or two as this all sunk in. I got the same view those guys at the lake had enjoyed. And at that moment I joined in their laughter. Even from around the bend the valley was clearly visible. But this time a river flowed through it. And as my eyes followed her back to her head, I caught a glimpse of her eyes staring back. They starred as they had before, through me, and I grew cold. Then, as she exchanged the frown for a smile, I grew warm again and noticed I was leaking a bit too.

As I waited impatiently, I heard what sounded like the bathtub faucet come on, and then some splashes. I was hoping it would be a quick one and that she wasn't taking a shower. I was horny and wanted to take advantage of it. But the water quit running as soon as it had started, and Joy rushed back and and her dress had a hard time keeping up. As she approached me, she slowed down and gently laid her arms around my neck. A large breath escaped from her and it smelled like bubble gun. She gathered another one wanting to recite and opening statement, but decided not to. She correctly assumed it wasn't necessary and wet my lips.

By the time out tongues had tied a knot we were feeling privates. I explored the valley with my fingers while she pulled on my carry-on through my pants and made them ache. Then, she slowed down and eventually cane to a rest. But before I could get concerned, I felt her tug at my belt as she fumbled with it. Before I knew it, my pants were gone and she was caressing my manly and removing what was left of coverage. After noticing the darkened areas and the cause of it she spoke.

"I see you've started without me."

And we both giggled seductively as she finished. Naked and leaking some, Joy mentioned something about a tare on her dress, at the bosom. I tugged at it a bit and the entire piece practically fell apart in my hands. Maybe it was a disposable dress, but now that we were bare, it made no difference. She grabbed my manly tightly and lured me onto the love seat, where we used it as the name implies. When the door opened, she invited me in, and I did so.

~6~

I don't know how long we engaged in love, but it seemed like the moon and sun traded places enough times to flood the beaches. I doubt it lasted much more than an hour. And that's due to a flaw in the male. If it wasn't that sex tires the male more that weight lifting, we would never stop doing it.

Barely inside, I exploded, exhausting myself, and if it wasn't for the bit of strength I had left in my arms, I would have crushed her, closing the book before reading the preface. I kissed and licked what I could without having to pull away, as I drained myself inside her. She laughed hysterically as I knew she would when I lightly gnawed on her shoulders, arms, and neck. I tried the nipples but she laughed so hard at this it was too risky, so I stopped and started to suck on them instead. She had quit laughing but I continued assuming things were hunky-dory. But out of curiosity I looked up at her and came to a halt. She was looking through me again. After several are you okays she snapped back to reality and smiled. Then as if speaking to a child asked if I was hungry. I wanted to say that I was hungry for her, but it sounded corny even in my head. So I told her I was, but that it could wait, and picked up thrusting again.

Then, her hand brushed my side, and later appeared at my face. I jerked back in confusion and withdrew as she brought her fingers to my lips. She wanted to feed me my own juice, but I refused. She then said it was harmless and demonstrated by having some. When she tried a second time I accepted.

After rolling off the love seat when attempting to roll over and trade places, we tried out different areas of the living room. The love seat hand rests, the center table, the bare floor, and a set of empty boxes we managed to crush flat. We made a great deal of a mess. Well, I did.

By this time my balls were calling it quits, but I wanted to go on. Remember the flaw? I sat on the love seat with Joy on my lap who then decided to break the seal we had made. I wanted to keep going even though I physically couldn't go another round. So I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her back towards me, but she told me to hold on.

I watched her knees rise and pass my field of vision and her feet take their place. And before I could figure out what she was up to, I was shoved into the love seat and presented with something new.

Approximately eight inches from by face stood the valley, drenched and pulsating. It appeared to have a life of it's own as it moved in on me wanting a kiss. Using my middle finger I tested the environment and tried to remove the sticky coating. What I managed to scoop up I smothered on her back as the rest continued to drip and fall near to where it came from. Then I shook my hands hoping to rinse them off but the ooze had begun to settle. Giving up the clean up effort, I grabbed her from the behind and urged her forward. It wasn't clear to me how to handle the situation, being the first time it had presented itself. So I logically assumed to kiss them as if they were lips. I thought of cocking my head at a near 90 degrees but before the message arrived at my neck muscles, I realized I was in severe pain.

My face was burning up and my vision was distorted. It could feel a warm fluid pouring over my head and dripping off my shin and as my head jerked back and forth fiercely. Heat puffed against my face with each jerk to the point all I could smell was the scent of freshly-cut grass. What sounded like a large pig snoring accompanied the smell.

That's when I registered something was wrong. And in an effort to push away from the heat, the smell, and the noise, I placed my hands in front of my face and pushed as hard as I could. But my efforts only resulted in an immense increase in pain. Which I was able to narrow down to the top of my head and beneath my shin. I placed my hands at the approximate locations of the source of pain and found two sets of cylindrical objects. Two at each pain source. I tugged at them trying to remove them from my head but it was impossible with all the simultaneous jerking around.

After many failed attempts, I gave it one last try. By this time, I felt exhausted beyond recognition, but that extra strength kicked in. The kind that allows people to do unbelievable things, like lifting cars and other heavy objects when encountered with an emergency. This last attempt redeemed itself as I launched that thing on my face clear across the living room. I struggled to clear my vision with my hands but it was no use. It was blurry and dark. Then without even realizing it, I extended my right arm and brought a love seat cushion to my face. Once I was able see, I wished I hadn't.

What I saw on the floor past the center table which was covered in blood was the body of Joy. But it was assembled differently. Her legs served as the front legs of a beast and between them was a large set of sideways-mounted lips with four bloody silvery fangs branching out. Her arms served as hind legs and her head along with the hair attached simply trailed behind. Her beautiful eyes were replaced by black holes. A trail of blood connected us and blindfolded she could trace it towards me. I wanted to run.

I promptly stood up but to no avail. My weakening body gave up and I toppled over to what I was sure would be the end.

~7~

Beep, beep, beep, baby, beep beep baby. That's all I was aware of. All I could hear. All I could see. But I was running. I could feel concrete underneath my feet. But I tripped on something and fell...

That's when I woke up out of a nightmare and scared my wife near to death. Once awake she placed her hand on my forehead and gently stroked it while she recited oh baby. I looked for the painting of the girl on a swing. The one my grandmother passed on to me and I placed on the wall nearest to the foot of the best. But I couldn't move my head in that direction. I turned my head towards my wife, Anita, and noticed I wasn't home. Anita murmured continuously without taking a breath as she stroked my forehead. A white figure appeared behind her but I paid no attention to it.

I watched Anita as she soothed me and stared into her eyes. They stared right back at mine and didn't sway left or right. They were overwhelmed by the tears that flowed from them and took on a watery glow. I wanted to touch her but afraid I wasn't able to move. As I thought of this I found my hand was underneath her chin, but not close enough to touch it. I caught a tear and realized it was as close as I could get for the time being. So I continued to catch them.

In her eyes I saw something. She knew. She knew why I was here. And I drowned in shame. How could I have done the things I promised I would never do. But then I didn't care. I was still whole-heartedly ashamed. But I wanted her to know. I was glad she already did, that way I didn't have to explain and be tempted to lie. But I wanted to tell her anyway. And once she had heard my excuse pour out of my own lips, I wanted her to leave me. I wanted her to forget the impossible and move on. My desire was to hold her and this time never let go. But I had shamed her.

Wrapped up in these thoughts, Anita placed her hand in mine and lightly squeezed it. Then she stood up and walked backwards out the door, never loosing eye contact. The man in white, which turned out to be the doc, looked down at my hand before walking out. Then I cried. I cried until my eyes ached, but I wanted to cry more.

I heard someone come in so naturally I raised my hand and brought it to my face struggling to wipe off the tears. A female voice excused herself and walked away. Then I felt a tickle on my chest and lowered my hand onto it. When I raised my hand, in it was a shiny object. My first reaction was to bring it close to inspect it, but I didn't have to fully understanding what it was. I place the object on the hand where my equivalent should have been, and closed my eyes.

I'm just glad I got this completed. I'm so tired. I didn't use my original ending because it would have required another chapter or so, and I just wanted to get this story out of the way. And on top of that, I couldn't decide whether Joy was not human or if "Dan" was just hallucinating. The original ending suggested she was an alien. That's why her original name as Neila. When you fool around bad things happen (unwanted children, STDs, etc). So I simply built on that. If you enjoyed this story, I recommend you read the novel American Psycho by Brett Easton Ellis. If you've only seen the movie, you're missing out. You can order the book from Amazon.com. For now, I'm going to watch Law & Order.

Guilty

2005-03-23T21:18:00.000-05:00

The room didn't smell nearly as sweet as it had just minutes ago. For the sake of the argument, it was empty and smelled of wood lathered with commercial detergents. Clean and inviting. But now the room has been commissioned --for the time being-- to hold the pre-trial Johnson vs. Muharram. So now the room reeks of nothing but filth.

The plaintiff has just presented evidence of possible fraud. But there really wasn't any so-called evidence. And it appears Muharram, who had decided to appear pro se as well, may not have to say a single word, which is good. An argument has developed between Mr. Johnson and the judge surrounding the fact that there was no evidence. But Mr. Johnson isn't taking no for an answer.

Miss Muharram has focused her efforts in keeping a straight face and fighting back tears. All she wanted was a life of her own. No little spoiled brothers, and no high school classmates to look back on. But she dearly misses mommy and daddy. She wants to go home.

Mr. Johnson still claims Miss Muharram --that girl right there is what he calls her-- neglected to pay her rent for three months. He's suing for eight-hundred dollars, which includes the rent for the three months, plus an extra two-hundred for what he referred to as an inconvenience. But when prompted to present evidence of neglected payment, he presents a theory instead.

The judge had enough of this foolishness and has already made up his mind, but hands the conch over to the defendant anyway. She takes a few seconds to gather her thoughts and align them in a way that would make sense when spoken in English, and then proceeds. As stated in her demurrer, Miss Muharram repeats herself stating that Miss Boy, Constance Boy, and herself share a property owned by Mr. Johnson and had agreed to pay Mr. Johnson two-hundred dollars a month for the rent. Naturally, this meant Miss Boy and Miss Muharram paid one-hundred dollars each. But because Miss Muharram often struggled with English, she and Miss Boy had agreed that Miss Muharram would give Miss Boy her half of the rent, and Miss Boy would hand the cash over to Mr. Johnson. But as it turned out, Miss Boy kept three months worth of the rent and hasn't been seen since the start of summer break.

Mr. Johnson claims he never received the payment. Both parties agree to this. But the reasoning varies dramatically. Mr. Johnson insists that girl right there is the one that kept the money. He describes Miss Boy as an intelligent student seeking a degree in medicine and Miss Muharram as a feeble-minded immigrant who according to him can't speak properly. Miss Muharram is a member of a group of rebels who kill in the name of God, and are planning another attack on the nation. This doesn't explain the missing money and doesn't have anything to do with the case. The judge is outraged and Miss Muharram can't help but cry.

And she continues to cry as Mr. Johnson gives her dirty looks and walks --more like stomps-- out of the room. The judges leaves. The guard leaves. And Miss Muharram still cries. She cries as her vision blurs making wood look like mud. As her temples ache and her nose leaks. As her legs continue to weaken and her hope drowns in the place where justice is served. Proven innocent but still guilty. She's a rebel who kills in the name of God.

I kept this one short because I want you to fill in the missing pieces. Well... actually, I'm lying. I just wanted to post something in order to stall while I get The Woman From The Lake finished. I'm so stinkin' close! My original idea for Guilty starts with a man who gets hit by a car. The story revolves around the same theme as the one above. So maybe when I'm done with The Woman From The Lake I'll write it as intended. If there was only a machine that could write down one's thoughts. Stories come faster than I can dissect them.

Preview: The Woman From the Lake

2005-03-20T09:17:00.000-05:00

Below is a preview from a story I'm working on. I've got several on the table, but currently this one is the closest to completion. The text below is an excerpt of chapter 3 (one hell of a long chapter compared to the others.) Please keep in mind this story is not recommended for minors, and that females may be offended. Don't take it personally.

I'm debating whether I should finish this story because I'm afraid it will give people the wrong impression of me. But if you do read it, please leave a comment and let me know what you think.

I stepped over the curb and walked along the street in front of a parked red brand-new Mustang. It had one of those small foreign flags hanging on the rear view mirror. After standing there staring at the flag, I realized I really wasn't looking at the flag, but rather at the windshield right in front of it. It wasn't the windshield that caught my eye though, it was the reflection of a woman that was walking pass me along the sidewalk. She was obviously a hooker, although she looked awfully young. I just couldn't help watching her cute little butt checks alternate. They were beating to a song I was quite familiar with. Rub me, rub me were the only words. It wasn't till she was out of sight that I had realized I'd been standing there, staring at that, flag.

I was taking longer than it normally would to cross the street. It was just a simple two-way brick road, but what seemed like an endless supply of cars were tailgating at exactly the spot where I wanted to cross. If the traffic would have actually stopped, crossing wouldn't have been dangerous. But those drivers were of the vicious breed. In a failing attempt to control those racing party-loving teens, the city placed those yellow bumps on the road --but only after a 4-year-old boy was hit and killed--, ruining the mood of downtown. I bet the murderer was still partying around, since he was never caught. So I wasn't about to walk into the path of certain death. But what about the woman? I had to have her! A lousy plot was emerging in my mind. Like one of those cop movies, I could pull out my wallet, and wave it at the driver of the blue Accent that was blocking my way. I thought that if I waved it quickly and signaled the driver to stop, I could play an undercover cop, and get by the traffic. The performance didn't have to be worthy of an Academy Award, I just needed to chock the drivers of both lanes long enough to make a run for it.

As it turns out, there wasn't a need for me to put on a show. As I reached into my rear right pocket in search for my wallet, several loud cracking sounds came from my left, and the blue Accent jerked forward. That sound of breaking fiber-glass and bending metal was also very familiar. Accidents happened very few minutes on Studdard Ave. on Friday evenings. That was the start of a weekend filled with parties. The slow traffic around Lake Orie wasn't what I would consider a breeding farm for accidents, but that didn't matter. The other lane had stopped to watch both drivers, hoping for a fight, and I simply minded my own business and walked across the street.

As soon as I stepped over the curb and onto the pasture, all I saw was her. I knew other pedestrians were near by, and I was surprised that none of them had walked up to the woman yet. But I didn't see anyone else but her. The only thing that stood between us was about twenty feet of pasture. So I walked like I had practiced and headed towards my reward. But my steps were increasing in weight, slowing me down. It was because I didn't have a plan of approach. Normally by the time I could smell a woman's perfume, I had developed a pickup line. Those first words always came naturally to me, but this time was different. My mind was blank, and I only had about five steps go to. I aimed to her left side, since I'm a righty, and still without a single word on my tongue. As if she sensed my approach, she turned her head to her left, and spotted me with her eye. She tried to hide her grin and pretend she was just turning because she heard something of interest off in the distance. Then she casually turned her attention back to the lake. With only one step to go, and nothing in mind, I just hoped for the best. Her back was still to me, but then it swelled.

"Don't bother with a pickup line." she interrupted. Relieved, I released the breath I had prepared for the moment. She then turned her head to face me, and then her body followed. "I know what you really want." she continued. I struggled to cook something up. Her green eyes were staring right into mine. It was more like right through them. I stood speechless. Though my jaw was hanging open, nothing came out. My tongue was glued down, and a brain freeze grew in my noggin.

I vaguely remember her asking me if I was coming. At the moment, I was lost to the world. It felt like waking up in a hospital bed and not knowing how you got there. I turned towards her eyes and noticed they still stared through me. And all we did was stare. To this day, I don't have the slightest clue how long we stood there staring --who can keep time during moments like these-- but it seemed to last longer than what's socially acceptable. A cold breeze interrupted and set the clocks in motion, and it was then her impatience became obvious. I don't know when it happened, but some time between her first words and the breeze she had placed her hands on her nearly non-existent hips and looked at me as if I was twelve and was caught playing with myself. It's the same posture my wife used after going out of her way to describe something she claimed as well worth talking about and noticing she had been ignored the whole time. But my wife wasn't on my mind at the time.

Another breeze came through, grabbing hold of her black dress and wrapping it around her like a blanket. The thin straps overlapping her shoulders loosened up a bit and shook violently in the wind, up and down like the sea. The part covering her breasts danced to the wind in a similar fashion, stretching towards the sky and covering more than they were designed to. Her eyes widened ¿as if in shock-- as they continued to stare, and the breeze pickup some momentum, nearly pushing me into her. The dress responded be wrapping even tighter around her owner revealing the center of her rib cage and two protruding nipples. At this the center of my chest grew cold, almost frozen, and it was impossible to breathe. Naturally, my eyes followed the road to another city. I wanted to know if I was right. If the only thing between my skin and hers was this thin black cloth. There was a darker spot on the dress marking her navel. A gust of wind pushed the dress further into it's shallow surface. Proof was thinner than I first thought. There wasn't much of a road left to travel. And I felt her stare encourage me, so I walked on.

The sun was dropping out of the sky leaving behind a pink glow like it always does. And the shadows it formed were tiny and many were among them. Dozens upon dozens of what appeared to be tree stumps. The remains of trees possibly mowed down to allow all to see the mountains ahead. And with the two mountains and the valley between them in sight, I completely understood. I just hoped I could get there before I died. My heart was warning me. Hurry, run! RUN! Then I heard laughter in the distance.

But the laughter wasn't coming from the mountains. It was from behind her, coming from two boneheads. At first I figured they were laughing at me. But it turned they were simply enjoying the view. Obviously I couldn't see, but I knew they were laughing because her dress no longer concealed her butt. But I had her not them. Sorry guys, but you don't have the age.

Back in reality, I noticed she wasn't the only one protruding something. So casually I placed both hands in my pocket and began to fumble around until I had my things in order. The breeze subsided and she turned away knowing I would follow. And I did. I would follow her anywhere.

When It Rains on 1477 La Piña

2005-03-17T20:42:00.000-05:00

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Chapters: I II III IV V VI

There's nothing like the feeling the rain brings during those hot summer nights. It wasn't quite night-time yet, but the rain had, as it seemed, smothered the rays emitted by the sun. In fact, the droplets drowned the sun. How hard to believe it was just 4:45 PM. He didn't want to leave his hammock so early. It was actually nice out, even before the rain. The tree holding his weight blocked most of the sun with its branches anyway. The rain was not needed nor wanted. But it wasn't like he had a choice in the matter. As with most humans, a warm shower without clothing is always preferred. The only logical choice was to move. The canopy above would soon give in anyway.

Accompanied by a grunt, he, Clemente Soto, hulled his right leg and threw it beyond the hammock's edge. The limb helplessly swung in the rain. Another grunt. Lift, then a 90° twist and he was sitting upright, both legs hanging. His bare back and arms facing the neighbor on his left, were painted with small red squares. The hammock's threads had dug into his skin. A third grunt. Followed by the thrust that slid the hammock from underneath his buttocks and planted his naked feet into the watered soil. The feeling was actually satisfying. It brought back memories of camping exhibitions -in the acres of rain forests still available- with his Father and older Brother. Both who now lived in another dimension. It never failed to rain during those trips. But the scent produced was well worth it. So what if the tent failed to keep heaven's tears out of our sleeping bags. It smelled good. It felt even better.

With this thought in mind, Clemente sailed across his front yard and unto the concrete carport in search for cover. He hadn't realized he had even lifted a heal. But now he stood under the carport. Wall on the left, car on the right, kitchen side door ahead, also on the left. The grin that had resurfaced upon recalling his camping days slowly turned into a frown. It was no longer the unwanted rain that dragged him off the sweet-spot in the hammock that disturbed him. It was those ugly creatures from hell that blocked his path to the kitchen side door. "¡Arg, las mascotas del Diablo!1" he murmured. Under dim light, they resembled soggy grass clippings. They were scattered throughout the carport. One found its way into a groove in the left-rear tire. Three facts supported the theory that the dark curls on the concrete were not grass clippings:

I.It had been at least three weeks since he last mowed the lawn.
II.The curls were moving.
III.Worms always evacuated onto the concrete carport floor when water flooded their so-called territory.

Although it was dark out and the shadows were more visible than the worms themselves, Clemente knew exactly how they looked. Their bodies were blood-red, shiny, and averaged at about three inches in length. Darker-red rings segmented their armor-like skin into about two dozen lumps. Both ends appeared to be the same. As if the thing could walk in either direction. But upon closer inspection, one can see two pin-head-sized dots horizontally aligned. Were those really eyes? And then there were the little legs. Like the hair on his scalp, uncountable black tiny things. They tickled the most sensitive parts of the body. Ugly, but Harmless.

He wasn't about to place his bare feet on those creatures. A grunt. He walked around the right perimeter of his parked car, feet trampled on the soaked grass, in search for his trusty old broom. There it was. Exactly where he had left it, in front of the right headlight, leaning against the wall of the washer-dryer room. On the trip back, he dipped the brush end of the broom into the lawn, soaking it. A technique he learned that discouraged the worms from sticking to the broom. As he inched toward the side door, he swiped the creatures under the car as fast as he could. Knowing if he took too long they would be on his feet before he could make it inside. He left the broom along the right side of the door frame, parallel to it by the way, and then walked in.

It was peaceful now. The closed door acted as nature's volume knob. The chants produced by the rain seemed to cease. The complaints resonating from the leaves, the grass, the concrete, the wooden roof, the windows, all now melted together. Just like radio white noise. Just as soothing. Besides forcing him in early, the rain had not changed much else. The daily plan remained much the same. Take a shower, cook dinner, watch a sitcom or two (the nightly news ignored as always), and go to bed. He had come to believe that keeping to himself was the best way to live life. A diploma could not be found in his residence, but life had taught him well.
His feet were wet, but not enough for him to loose ground. The old wooden floor complained of his weight, reminding him it needed replacing, badly. With destination in mind, he walked through the kitchen, then down to the end of the short hall to his right, and into the bathroom on the left. Hot and cold taps existed, but only cold water passed. He picked a tap, any old one, and got it running, failing to notice the pool of water already in the tub. There was no real reason for this. The temperature would never change. And he wasn't about to have a bubble bath. But it did help with the next task. Urination.

The seat was already up, like always. No need for it to ever be down. He prepared, aimed, and then looked elsewhere. To his left, out the window, and into the rain. How much cooler it was out. But he was not invited. Unconsciously, he relaxed his lower muscles and began to release a tense day. But a strange feeling, down there, alerted him. As if he had withdrawn this privilege to his bladder too long. Way too long. He looked down to observe, expecting the recoil to cause a mess he wasn't in the mood to clean. Unfortunately he was right about the mess. But then spotted something not expected. Slowly sinking to the bottom of the bowl, suspended for the moment, was a worm. Unlike the visitors waiting on the carport, this one was much slimmer and slightly shorter. The yellow body was segmented by red rings. The legs too small to see, if it even had any. When it finally reached the bottom of the pit, it immediately curled up. "Nah, no puede ser2". Having to painfully stop the stream to observe, he thought. Toma esto. ¡Es muy rico!3 A grin formed on his face, and with a sense of pride, he provided his unwanted visitor with a nice warm beer.

III

Plans changed. But only slightly. The shower would be saved for the end, right before bed. It often helped him sleep and was becoming a common practice. A bath that is, instead of a shower. It was now time to make a meal. His feet weren't wet any longer, so it felt much warmer. Though the temperature inside had not changed. It was just plain hot. On the way to the kitchen, the worm incident was on its merry way to the bottomless pit in the mind. The black-hole that sucked in thoughts that weren't given enough attention. The black-hole came without an off switch, so any important thoughts not given the appropriate immediate attention would be lost forever.

The kitchen was modest. A thin eight-foot hall. Plenty for one man. Not in much of a cooking mood, -which happened often- standing in front of the stove, he pulled out a can of Chef Boyardee® from the cabinet on the upper right. It was the same cabinet door that never closed. It was mounted crooked so the door would hang open. If it were not for masking tape, that is. He never promised himself to fix it, therefore he hasn't. Ravioli with meat and cheese. That's what he dumped into a small cooking pan. At first he was frightened, for as he dumped the canned meal into the pan, he saw two worms. Both holding on to the same piece of pasta as it surfed down the waterfall of sauce and into the pan. Startled, he jumped and backed into the sink behind him. Almost loosing the can, he had bent his arms at the elbow, fingers pointing up, as if being taken under arrest. What he did loose was the leftover sauce. It sprinkled on the stove, cabinets, refrigerator, hell, on everything! An additional mess to clean, later. Following a much longer grunt, he peeked into the can in search for more creatures. There were none. He then slammed the can into the garbage can, and withdrew a large plastic spoon from the cabinet who's handle had validated his left butt cheek. Furiously, he searched for worms in his unheated meal. Lift, look, dump. Cycling through every square inch. None were found. Pues, mas carne para mi4, He thought.

He had to admit, he was worried. Maybe the worms were actually there. He ate it regardless, and figured that even if this was true, it wasn't going to hurt him any. He swallowed dust daily at work. A job he's had since he turned fifteen. But he couldn't help but feel two long, things, travel down towards the stomach. He never felt a crunching sensation, or felt anything crawling on the tongue. Those hairy legs would never have been able to bypass anyone's tongue. Such a sensitive piece of machinery. If so, he would have spit hard enough to kill someone. But, as sure as he knew he had a dick, he knew he felt those two... things!

The T.V. sitcoms could wait for another day. He was too irritated to sit comfortably. Worried about those two worms that may have sneaked into his digestive system, spoiling his meal. They would never make it out alive. The stomach acid would burn them for good. That's what he assumed anyway. As he cleaned up the mess in the kitchen he though about a fib he was told when he was young. Too young to know any better. If you eat the seeds, apples, oranges, grapes, it didn't matter. They would grow in your stomach. As stupid as that may sound, the tree-in-the-stomach tale kept Clemente from choking in the early years.

The creatures refused to retaliate. It was a battle. Clemente vs. The Worms of the Carport. A light-red one on the dining table. Two on the stove, one which was stupid enough to crawl onto the hot coils he had used. It hissed and sizzled to death, leaving a partially-burned arc. Part of it still hung in the air uncooked. The other, a short, fat, black one, crawling over the temperature knob. The one for the same coil! Frustrated, he turned around to pick a napkin from the holder that stood on the kitchen counter. Although in a hurry to remove the knob-hugging worm, he carefully slid the very first napkin out of the holder. He didn't want all of them. Like a book, he separated the flaps to reveal the inside, and there it was. An orange worm. The kind with about a dozen legs in the front, none in the middle, and a dozen more in the back. It was completely orange, no segmenting rings, and the middle rose and fell as it moved. The side that appeared to be the front had what looked like claws for a mouth. He immediately released the napkin and it floated down towards the counter taking the creature on a smooth undeserved ride. A moving object in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned slightly and noticed another worm. This one was quickly emerging from the sink. It raced along the counter's edge and headed downwards toward the cabinet door beneath the sink. Quickly, he scanned the kitchen for more worms. Searching left, then right, then left again. It seemed he spotted one every time his head stopped moving long enough for his eyes to focus. On the counters, microwave, and the dishes resting on the plastic drying rack! Multiplying in numbers by the second. Enough was enough. He pointed at the one resting on his favorite plate, which was dry by then, and warned them all, "¡Los voy a matar! ¡A todos!5"

He stormed out of the kitchen and into the utility closet where he located a can of Raid®. It was designed for roaches, but that was no matter. He rushed back to the kitchen but paused at the entrance. ¿Donde empieso?6 he thought, although he certainly knew the answer. Pacing back and forth, he coated the entire kitchen with the poison. Even inside the cabinets, but skipping the insides of the refrigerator, oven, and microwave. The worms didn't freak out and flip over on their backs like roaches do. Instead, they just slowed down to a stop. And so did Clemente as he reached exhaustion. Everything would have to be cleaned eventually. But that was a job for tomorrow. A cold bath was in store.

Everything of cloth went into the hamper. Any worms in there? That wasn't of importance. Neither was the door, or his night clothes. Why hide behind something when there's no one to hide from? He was accustomed to pacing in underwear, or as usual, naked, after a shower. Anything that touched the skin would swell with sweat in no time under such heat. The refreshing cold water called him in. It wanted the chance to wash away the day, joining it with the days of his neighbors and taking them all on a ride. Anywhere would be fine, just as long as it was far.

Lately, Clemente had been falling asleep during his bath. After a near-death experience the first time it happened, he settled for much less of a water level. He would lay inside, knees up, and let the water rise till his ear lobes were partially dipped. His chest and legs surfaced, but enough of him was submerged, cooling him instantly. There were two advantages to taking a bath instead of a shower:

I.He could remain cool much longer.
II.Additional dirt would be lifted from his skin.

Once, he took a shower prior to a bath, and later noticed the deposits of dirt on the bottom or his water bed. So he figured a bath was always better, and felt dirty otherwise.

As the water soothed him, his mind still pondered regarding the visitors. ¿Como entráron? ¿Y porque tantos?7 He was above and beyond neat, but a mere two-star in cleanness. But in the years he had walked the same halls, he'd never been terrorized by the creepy crawlers. They simply paraded the carport when the grass soaked. And that was all there was to it. ¿Y porque despues de tantos años?8 It made absolutely no logical sense. And logical was Clemente. He didn't get the time to formulate the perfect solution before falling asleep. No time to turn off the tap either.

He awakened a new man. Not a clean one. Or even an enlightened one -he still had no real plan- but a paranoid one. It wasn't water-in-the-nose that killed the peaceful scenery playing inside. But rather a clot in the nose. Like a chunk of hard snot ready to exit the womb. He slit open his eating organ, not enough to bare teeth, and inhaled. He puffed at it. Two nice ones were enough. And it rushed out at terminal velocity! Long, yellow with red stripes, and hairy tickling legs. It emerged from the right nostril, tickled over the outer lip, and then headed towards the inner lip. Shocked, his mouth hanged open, but he was not stupid. He clamped the thing between his lips, biting his tongue in the same motion. The creature tried to grab hold of the upper gum to pull itself in. But Clemente put up a fight. He grabbed its body, which was mostly outside, with the end still in the nostril, and carefully slid it out. Once pinched between his finger tips, he dumped it into the toilet bowl. Very similar in fashion to the way basketball players score layups. He knew then, it was far from over.

He had to look out the window and see if it was true. And it was. A two-foot stone in front of his favorite tree in the backyard. ... descansa9 ... Clemen... 198... A string of thoughts zipped through his mind. They had to be sorted to make any sense of it. He remembered the nose-worm during the bath. The worms in the kitchen. Now a bed? How did he make it to the bed? He ran like hell! That's how.

A cut in his thigh. Carved by a pocket knife. A blood-red worm, very skinny, hurried out, grabbing hold of the knife. Flicked onto the wall forming a red stream. Blood dripped down, and the worm followed it.

An over-flowing bathtub with a man floating inside. The weight of his gut had tipped him butt-up. Gringo-like skin. And a violet worm sailing on his back, tanning under an incandescent bulb.

Running and twirling within the perimeter of his home. Like a madman. Worms crawling out of every corner of him. The ears, the anus, tangling in the arm pits. His body temperature quickly rising. Fever like. An incredible weakness came over him. Worms continuously rushed out. Mostly from the anus.

Enclosed in a dark box. It was moving. And so were the worms. Out the corners of the eye, the anus, the mouth. A creative one existed through the belly button. Several broke through the thin carry-on that used to hold testicles. His... thingy wasn't much of anything. Light in weight. Not much of any substance left.

In the T.V. under the eye lids, a creature swam. All kinds of somersaults. A heart-warming display, for a worm. It was all white, and only the shadow was visible. It grew, and then crawled out and onto the outer surface of the eye. Mr. Eye-worm was out of sight. And then, the static came on.

Footnotes:

Arg, the Devil's pets.
It can't be.
Drink this. It's quite delicious.
Well, more meat for me.
I'm going to kill you! All of you!
Where should I start?
How did they get in? And why so many?
And why after all these years?
rests.

This is one of those stories that started out one way, and sort of, mutated by the time it reached the end. Now that I think of it, what story doesn't do that. Originally, the main character Clemente was going to be placed in such discomfort that he would go insane and commit suicide. All because if his fear of crawlers, specifically worms. My goal was to creep myself out, being that like Clemente, I dislike worms. But I didn't write it well enough to do so. So instead of him running out into the street naked, and them running back in the burning house to off himself. I opted to a technique similar to Stephen King's That Feeling You Can Only Say What It Is In French. You can find this story in the book Everything's Eventual. You can find it at Amazon.com . Oh, if you're wondering why the main character speaks spanish, it's because the story is set in Puerto Rico. I figured tropical islands and rain go together like mud and your sister's face. I also thought it would just be cool.

It Happened to Me

2005-03-17T19:09:00.000-05:00

"Look! One is higher than the other!", I yelled across the room, "I told you!" I anxiously waited for a response, and just like always, she temporarily purposely forgot about my existence. Then her delayed response arrived, "Shut up! Mom and Dad are still sleeping you know." "But look at this!" I replied as I stumbled along the side of my bed towards the bathroom where my sister stood decorating herself with mascara. I was quite tired because of the lack of sleep and nearly tripped over my own big feet. But that didn't stop me. "See, this one is too low", I complained as I showed her what she has many times seen before, which explained the careless expression she placed in my direction. "Shh, put some clothing on or you're walking" she replied. "But isn't--" "Hey," she interrupted, "if I wanted to see some boobs, all I would need to do is flip up my shirt." I could tell she was annoyed by unwillingness to let it go. Then she added, "you really ought to stop walking around the room topless." She then flickered her eyelashes at the mirror so she could admire them, and then continued, "When you have your own place you can mow the lawn topless for all I care, but I don't want to see them."

Grumpiness took over so I walked away. She was right though. I should at least put a shirt on like she does. And I used wear a shirt, but my elephant-like body would then overheat. Sister can wear anything and it would look as if it were made specifically for her. She has one of those bikini bodies. Although I'm only slightly larger I feel four times her size. I can wear most of her clothing but she never let's me. They're all to skimpy anyway. That's why I only cover the bare minimum, the bottom. It wasn't even five minutes that I laid on my bed, just thinking when I heard the daily rooster call. Only it wasn't a rooster but my sister's friend's old belongs-in-a-junk-yard car. The car's horn is like no other. It sounds like a whining seal with a cough. The entire car sounds like it's ill. Sister must really like the pathetic looser, although she claims she doesn't, to ride in it. She jumped out of bed just as she finished tying her shoes and left behind the cue I was waiting for, "you're walking."

I don't care if I'm the only sophomore who walks to school. I really don't. It's not that far anyway. If you were to see us all, you would laugh. I mean about how we walk to school. I live on one of the few streets that actually has a sidewalk. And a sidewalk on both sides of the street. For as long as I could remember, elementary students would walk on the prettier side. The side that had houses decorated with flowers, and no fences or anything. The high school side, my side, had the uglier houses. No flowers, most had fences, each with a pair of dogs who would love to bark at you at the top of their lungs as you casually walk along their territory. And about three-quarters on the way to the school, stood an abandoned dump. Yes, it stunk. The funny ones are those in middle school. They never seem to decide which side they belong in. So you see them constantly crossing the street, back and forth.

But this day was different. It had rained overnight so it was still dark, and I was all alone. I was really running late. I really didn't care though. It never mattered what time I arrived, the results would always be the same. I would walk late into class, the same Jack, the most annoying boy in the universe, would call me a dwarf. Then he would say something about getting my boobs straightened. Then Mrs. Snort, who everyone referred to as Mrs. Snot, would say, "that's enough Jack." Then class would proceed.

While in the middle of this internal dilemma, I heard a sharp scream, one that faded as soon as it began. I looked ahead, and saw the crime scene played before my eyes about two blocks away. A middle-aged man had his arm around some girl and was waking with her towards a car parked right along the sidewalk. There was a brand new tree in the way so I picked up the pace to get a better look. It was Sandra, the new girl! She just moved here from Georgia over during the Winter. It was stunned. I stood there motionless. I grabbed my left ear, looking for the cut. It was a one-inch cut that has permanently divided my upper and lower part of the ear. Then with my other hand I found the four-inch scar left behind by the stitches. I knew neither of the remains would ever heal. Especially if I had to keep watching this movie replay the rest of my life.

This is my very first story (besides the ones I had to write in Elementary school). It's more of a passage rather than a story, and is designed to lead to another story. With television shows such as Law & Order SVU, it's hard to develop a story based on this passage without mauling the same ground. Who knows, maybe I'll use this later.