The . . . → Read More: The Space In Between #fridayflash]]> My hands are hot. Really hot like accidentally touching an iron, or an element on the stove. The sting as the flesh of my cheek is grated away makes my eyes water, and the vibrations of the asphalt against my cheekbone is conducted through every bone in my skull. It cracks like thunder in my ears.

The back of my neck pinches as my torso pushes up into it. I know what the wishbone feels like just before it snaps. It’s  difficult to breathe and I panic, but not so much I miss the nutcracker sensation of my pelvis folding, arching my spine towards my head and the heel of my right foot grazing my shoulder before my leg snaps back and down, flat and hard against the road.

That light, effervescent feeling people call butterflies in the stomach? I feel it all over. Stomach, the roof of my mouth, nostrils, behind my eyes, earlobes, the bottom of my feet and behind my knees. It feels great. The feeling lifts me up, up above the sirens and the sobs.

Somersaults! I can do somersaults now. Just tuck my chin and roll, like they said in gym class, except it works now. While the paramedics do their thing and the driver cries and pukes, I tumble flawlessly up and down the street. Cartwheels, even.

So, this is what it’s like. I thought it would be colder, and sadder. Truth be told, I feel pretty good. I’m like the footprints left in the sand when the walker has walked away. I feel better without all those atoms. I’m just the space that existed in between them, and that suits me just fine.

The lunch room was a sketch of muttering and rustling papers as the other players upped their game, rushing . . . → Read More: Death Inc. #fridayflash]]> Darien put a hurried red ‘X’ through an old ladies picture. Deftly swapping his pencil for his cigarette, he called out to no one in particular: ” Three in a row, New York Times. Getting close, getting close”

The lunch room was a sketch of muttering and rustling papers as the other players upped their game, rushing to fill their own obituary bingo cards.

“This world needs more drinking on the job,” said someone from the Industrial sector.

“And school bus crashes,” Mal, from Juvie chimed in.”How come those things never go off of bridges as often as they do on TV? I can never catch a damn break.” He tossed his WSJ in the trash and snapped his blue pencil. “Screw it,” he said. “We all know oncology has the inside track here. What’s the point for the rest of us?”

“Bingo, my funky be-yotches,” Alistair called out, as if on cue. Three weeks straight for the oncology department. “Two lines anyway, courtesy of Mr. M. Beller, 1930 – 2009.” He folded his LA Times and grinned.

The buzzer went off. The Reapers shrugged their cloaks back on, grabbed their scythes, and trudged off to work. Mr. Hanley was at the door, handing out  afternoon assignments as they filed out.

“Just one measly little bus crash. That’s all I ask.”

Darien put an arm around Mal’s boney shoulders. “Chin up,” he said. “I have a good feeling about the Midwest. Those farm kids are getting bored and mean faster and faster these days.”

When your crouched in an aisle in the back of the poorly lit corner of the university library, surrounded by 2 years worth of the Journal of Pop Music, you’ll know. You’ll know because you will look . . . → Read More: How you’ll know. #fridayflash]]> Another from the Six Sentences Archive to finish off National Novel Writing Month. This was originally shared January of 2009.

When your crouched in an aisle in the back of the poorly lit corner of the university library, surrounded by 2 years worth of the Journal of Pop Music, you’ll know. You’ll know because you will look up and see a woman in a simple paisley peasant skirt and a mom-knit sweater, her frizzy red hair corralled by a sky blue hair band. She’ll hike up her skirt, sit in the middle of the aisle three feet away, and pull her own year’s worth of journals off the shelf. She’ll tell you she’s researching the influence of Latvian bugle calls on house music, and asks what your searching for. You tell her Indonesian punk rock, circa 1992 and she raises an eyebrow. Then she smiles, pushing her constellation of freckles into new patterns. Pulling her backpack to her side, she removes a tupperware container of home made cookies, pops the lid and offers you one.

I notice the orange cones that mark a ladder sticking out of a manhole cover, and I look because I am the curious sort.

A head and shoulders emerge, the eyes . . . → Read More: Some Folks. #fridayflash]]> During National Novel Writing Month, I am highlighting a selection of my contributions to the 6 Sentences Social Network. This was originally posted in March of  2009.

I notice the orange cones that mark a ladder sticking out of a manhole cover, and I look because I am the curious sort.

A head and shoulders emerge, the eyes darting about like a rabbit at the mouth of a well hidden hutch. The worker sees me and calls out “Hey mac – you got a screwdriver on ya? maybe a dime or a jack knife? Something, anything to turn a small screw and make an adjustment to the gear ratio before this city  starts losing time . We might miss the next generation by almost a month.”

I pull the lining of my pockets out, signaling my lack of relevant tools, and pose my own question: “Are there really alligators down there?” The city worker looks at me and shakes his oil smudged head in bewilderment.

“Some folks will believe anything,” he mutters  descending the ladder.

It used to be a nice place Somehow, without anyone noticing It became a soap opera with a good wine list.

Double shifting . . . → Read More: Fifteen Percent #fridayflash.]]> During National Novel Writing Month, I am highlighting a selection of my contributions to the 6 Sentences Social Network. This was originally posted in March of  2009. It was in response to a prompt from Anthony Venutolo

It used to be a nice place
Somehow, without anyone noticing
It became a soap opera with a good wine list.

Double shifting due to the new kid
double fisting at the bar after his first paycheck,
My aching feet and complaining knees support an
invisible willingness to clear plates and fill
water glasses with a smile.

In the few quiet moments while
they chew, sip, and nod I lean
against the oak bar and observe
eyes bounce from table to table like errant
ping pong balls.

Some put on their church clothes
Spend too much on food they can’t pronounce and don’t appreciate,
trying to convince themselves they aren’t Ralph and Alice.
But they are. Even quality tailoring
can’t hide that.

Some travel in packs, teeth glistening
armoured in tafeta, rousching, designer denim, and satin pumps
convinced they are doing battle with someone other than themselves.
They arrive as warriors, and
go home slaves.

Table, booth, or bar
it makes no difference.
Everyone that walks through the door
feels like a movie star because
it’s our job to make them feel that way.

When the chairs are up,  the floors
glisten with mop streaks and the bleach
in the air stings my eyes.
I will go fetch Lisa the sous chef, from the kitchen.
Hand in hand, we catch the last train home
Our pockets fat with 15% of the dreams
the dreamers dreamed tonight.

The clouds rolled and churned in the sky, each revolution darker than the last, until the sun was gone entirely and the air grew heavy and damp. Little Charles was . . . → Read More: Weatherman #fridayflash]]> During National Novel Writing Month, I am highlighting a selection of my contributions to the 6 Sentences Social Network. This was originally posted in May of  2009.

The clouds rolled and churned in the sky, each revolution darker than the last, until the sun was gone entirely and the air grew heavy and damp. Little Charles was restless, his wrinkled 2 month old body kicking and wriggling, his face scrunching in preparation for some serious bawling.
Emma put him down, hoping to preempt a fit, and he calmed and snuggled into his blankets. The clouds grew thinner and whiter and began to part, the sun peaking around their edges. Playing on a mother’s hunch, she picked Charles up again and the clouds went gray, and a cold wind came out of the East as he fussed and mewled.
The doctor said he though it might be autism, but Emma suspected something much worse.

My faulty spine and my grin I get from my father, and the freckles . . . → Read More: How I learned to curse. #fridayflash]]> I’ve been knee deep in National Novel Writing Month prep work the last week or so, and as such I offer you a little something from my past. This piece was originally posted over at the Six Sentences social network in December 2008.

My faulty spine and my grin I get from my father, and the freckles and knobby knees come from mom’s side. I absorbed foul language assisting dad with tractor repairs and woodworking projects. The fine art of cursing, of personal and specific verbal attack, I learned playing Scrabble with my mother.

Legend has it, as soon as I showed even passing recognition of letters and words, a Scrabble board was put in front of me. Y’see, mom loves the game and dad doesn’t. This was her way of ensuring someone to play with as the years went by, and it has worked marvelously. But, back to the cursing.

In order to level the playing field, she would spot me 50 points. This lasted up to the age of 15, when we played the fateful game that signified I had adult vocabulary powers. Incidentally, it is also the day I heard the story of my birth.

It was just another game of scrabble on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Mom had a glass of wine, I a can of cola, and we shared a bowl of Hawkins Cheezies as we played. One of us, not sure who, had placed the word ‘log’ smack dab between the triple word squares at the top of the board. I had been sitting on the Z tile for a couple of rounds, and had finally gotten some vowels to go with it. In what family history recorded as the best scrabble move ever, I placed ‘zoo’ on one side of log, and ‘ical’ on the other to spell zoological. Two triple words and a bonus for using all seven tiles. This is as close to a royal flush as Scrabble gets. It was also as close to a stroke as I ever want my mother get. She tallied the points, slammed the pen down and tells me:

“Jesus Christ! TWO triple word scores and a goddamn bingo! Two weeks late, 14 hours of labour, 23 inches long and shoulders damn near as wide as they are now and THIS is what you do to me?!?!? I brought you into this world, and BY JESUS I am NOT afraid to take you out!!!!”

I think that’s the proudest she has ever been of me.